THE CHILDREN OF HAMLIN

by Carmen Carter

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

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  ISBN: 0-7434-1215-X

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  Dedicated to MDK,

  who has put up with this madness of mine

  for the past twelve years and is resigned

  to the fact that it may never go away.

  Acknowledgments

  I wrote Dreams of the Raven over the course of two years, with no thought of publication until the manuscript was finished. In a moment of absolute insanity, I volunteered to write The Children of Hamlin in three months. Writing to the demands of a deadline was an entirely new experience, and I could never have succeeded without the help of the following people:

  Daphne Kutzer, who knew I could do it and exhibited great patience as I continually told her why I couldn’t. She read every word and kept asking for more.

  Pat Hoffmann, who held my hand long-distance and got me over the rough spots.

  Dave Stern, who asked me to write a Star Trek: The Next Generation novel and let me change my mind after I said no.

  Denise Tathwell, who knows the crew of the NCC-1701D better than I do and made sure I got them right.

  And special thanks to Apple Computer for developing the Macintosh. (If you have to ask, you wouldn’t understand.)

  Chapter One

  Day is a concept born of planets spinning captive about a sun. In deep space, far removed from the light and heat of flaming stars, the kingdom of perpetual night reigns . . .

  “CAPTAIN, WHAT ARE you doing awake at this hour?”

  The words pricked the fragile bubble of thought that carried Jean-Luc Picard through space. He pulled back from the void, back inside the protective shell of the ship’s hull. His gaze focused on the clear glass of the port window and met his own reflection: dark, piercing eyes set in a lean face, its strong features heightened by a high forehead and closely cropped fringe of gray hair. The fingers of his hands, resting lightly on the clear glass of the port window, were stiff with cold, their warmth drained into space. He lifted his palms from the chill surface, and turned to face the woman who had entered the observation room.

  “I might ask the same of you, Dr. Crusher,” he said.

  Beverly Crusher walked up beside him and peered out the window. The captain continued to look at her.

  “It’s all in the title. I’m a doctor; we’re always awake when everyone else—almost everyone else—is asleep.” She yawned and ran a smoothing hand back over her long and somewhat tousled red hair. “What’s your excuse, insomnia or ship’s duty?”

  “Philosophy.” But the formless, almost mystical emotion that had welled within him had slipped away, and he had no desire to call it back now that she was here. “How serious was the medical call?”

  “Not serious enough to warrant a report to the ship’s captain, if that’s what you’re asking.” She shivered and wrapped the blue medical jacket more tightly around her slender frame.

  Picard stepped away from the chilled air lining the port wall, and out of the lounge into the corridor beyond. Crusher, her easy stride matching his own, kept pace beside him. The curving passageway was empty and still; the soft glow of deck lights tracked a path for their boots. “Nevertheless,” he said, “I’m always concerned about the welfare of the crew.”

  “Then you’ll be relieved to know that Lieutenant T’sala’s firstborn is resting quietly after a somewhat nasty bout of colic.”

  “Ah, colic.” Picard arranged his features to convey what he hoped was sympathetic interest. “I didn’t think Vulcan infants were prone to colic.”

  “Well, strictly speaking, Surell’s condition involves a circulatory rather than gastric distress, but the result is a baby that cries very loudly for hours on end. It might as well be colic.” Crusher threw him a quick glance and smiled. “But these aren’t the usual concerns of a ship’s captain, are they?”

  “Perhaps not,” he conceded with an answering smile. Even in the subdued light of the corridor he could detect the glint of amusement in her eyes. Such very blue eyes.

  Picard cleared his throat with a self-conscious cough. “How have our new passengers taken to life aboard the Enterprise?”

  “The Oregon Farmers?” The doctor sighed. “Well, of course, Starfleet certifies that all emigrant populations are medically fit. And it’s to be expected that there will be some emotional adjustments when faced with such a different environment as a starship . . . ”

  “Dr. Crusher,” broke in the captain. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “No problem yet,” she said. “But Troi reports that one of the young Farmers seems to be unusually fascinated by starship technology. He’s been severely reprimanded by the community for exploring the ship.”

  “I see.” Picard pondered the implications. “Poor young man. I gather the Oregonians are rather suspicious of modern technology. Still, I dare say it’s not too serious. In another day they’ll all be on their new planet, safe from the corrupting influence of—” He stopped suddenly in the corridor, his prediction unfinished.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Can’t you feel it?” Picard balanced the weight of his body on both feet, reading the subtle movements of the deck. “The Enterprise just changed course . . . and increased warp speed.” His right hand flew up to the silver emblem pinned to his chest, activating his communications link with the ship. “Picard to bridge . . . ”

  “Riker here, Captain. We’ve received a priority distress call from a Federation starship. They’re under attack”

  “Who is attacking them?” demanded the captain. “The Ferengi?”

  “Unknown. It’s an automatic signal, probably from an ejected buoy. We’re still trying to raise a response from the ship itself.”

  “Very well, Number One. I’m on my way.” Picard broke contact and erupted into a fast-paced walk.

  “Good night, Captain,” Crusher called after him.

  “Oh, yes,” Picard paused in mid-stride and looked back over his shoulder.

  “Don’t wait for me,” she said without changing the pace of her leisurely stroll. “The Enterprise is your patient, not mine.”

  Picard managed a parting wave, then walked on, duty wiping all thought of Beverly Crusher from his mind.

  Wesley Crusher had been creeping silently through the cabin day area when the beep of an emergency medical call pulled his mother out of her bed. Ducking back into his room, he listened to the muffled sounds of her conversation with T’sala and the accompanying shrieks of a Vulcan infant who was too young to control pain or distress. His mother left their quarters a few minutes later.

  After counting to thirty, Wesley peered out of the cabin and checked to see if she w
as still in the vicinity. To his relief, she was gone—nevertheless, his heart was beating faster than normal when he stepped out into the corridor and headed toward the turbolift. He surely felt old enough to manage his own time without having to account to his mother, but she might not agree. So the easiest course was to keep her from finding out he was leaving their quarters.

  The ship was quiet this late at night, but there were still people moving from one section to another. No one he passed was bothered to see him—despite his youth, Wesley was as tall as many of the adults and his striped cadet shirt emphasized his connection with the crew. His reputation as an earnest, precocious student helped lull any remaining suspicions.

  Dnnys was waiting at the appointed place, a deserted crew lounge on Deck 21. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

  “I was delayed,” said Wesley.

  A knowing grin broke out over the other boy’s face. “Yeah, I almost got caught, too. But after the last whipping Tomas gave me, nobody believes I’d try to leave the passengers’ quarters again.” He snapped to mock attention. “So where do we start, Mr. Crusher?”

  “Engineering,” said Wesley. He had mapped out their course while lying in bed, passing the time until the rendezvous. “I can get you into certain nonrestricted areas, but you’ve got to be on your best behavior because you’re going to be noticed.”

  “Who me?” asked Dnnys with wide-eyed innocence. He looked down at his traditional Farmer clothing of faded blue pants of roughly sewn cotton and a wool overshirt with a red and black patchwork pattern.

  “I would have brought a change of clothes, but I don’t think it would have made much difference.” Wesley pointed to the Farmer boy’s shaggy brown hair. “You’d need a haircut, too.”

  Dnnys shrugged off his appearance. “Can we visit the bridge?”

  “No way,” said Wesley emphatically. “The captain has declared it off limits to all kids. Before I was an acting ensign, he yelled at me for even looking at the bridge from the turbolift.” He paused, then continued. “I didn’t mean to boast. About being an ensign, I mean.”

  “You didn’t,” said Dnnys. “Not much, anyway. If I could work on a starship’s control center, I’d crow like a morning cock.” He paced to the threshold of the lounge. “Come on, let’s get going. I haven’t got much time before I’m missed.”

  Wesley lagged behind. “Are you sure you want to go through with this? You could get into a lot of trouble.”

  “Oh, I’m always in trouble for one thing or another,” sighed Dnnys. “I’ve gotten used to it.”

  Wesley shrugged—and, since Dnnys showed no signs of backing down, led the way to the outer perimeter of the engineering section. The night crew was certainly not going to challenge Ensign Crusher’s entrance, and they gave his companion little more than a curious glance before returning to their duties.

  “The central shaft is more interesting,” apologized Wesley as they walked through a wide, squat room filled with system control panels.

  “Maybe, but this is all pretty exciting to me,” countered Dnnys. He pointed to one panel, “What’s that do?” Dutifully, Wesley began to describe the panel’s function, his words underscored by the constant basso hum of the nearby matter/antimatter blender. Dnnys nodded, his eyes glazing over as he struggled to absorb a whole new world of information, as alien to him as farming would have been to Wesley.

  Dnnys started at an unfamiliar sound and his eyes skipped from one end of the room to another. “What was that?”

  “We’ve increased warp speed,” exclaimed Wesley, startled by the sudden shift in tempo and strength of the vibrations of the quivering deck. He turned away from the circuit monitor to ask why, but the duty technician had slipped away into another area.

  He would have to figure it out for himself.

  The main bridge of the Enterprise was its nerve center, a spacious room with a vaulted ceiling and curving walls that added an aesthetic dimension to its functional structure. The chairs of the duty stations were cushioned, the deck carpeted: warm pastels predominated, but a diffuse light revealed flat black control panels with displays of bright, flowing colors.

  William Riker, first officer of the USS Enterprise, stood at attention on the bridge, his tall muscular frame tensed beneath his uniform, eyes fixed on the viewscreen that filled the front wall of the circular room.

  “Steady as she goes,” Riker told the helm crew. He heard Lieutenant Worf’s heavy tread on the elevated deck behind him, and almost asked for another report from the long-range sensor scans, but stopped himself; the request would be redundant. He’d already done what he could for now.

  Riker’s response to the distress call had been automatic: a quick assessment of the message, a rapid spate of orders that brought the starship onto a new course and increased its speed. His next action should have been to contact the captain, but even as his hand moved to issue the call, Picard’s voice had rung out demanding an explanation. Riker did not doubt the appropriateness of the orders he had issued, or the pressing need to act instantly, but he did regret not having reached Picard first. A first officer who usurped a captain’s authority, even when that captain was supposedly sound asleep, should account for his actions without being asked.

  The hiss of the opening turbolift doors was immediately followed by the distinctive voice of Captain Picard. “Status report, Number One,” he ordered in clipped, sharply enunciated words as he strode down the ramp to the command level of the bridge.

  Riker quickly recited the speech he had prepared while waiting for Picard’s arrival. “The USS Ferrel, a Constitution-class starship, is broadcasting an automatic distress signal.” He took a deep breath and continued. “I ordered an immediate course diversion to their source coordinates and increased our speed to warp six.”

  “Yes, so I noticed,” said Picard dryly.

  Riker met Picard’s steely gaze without flinching. The first officer towered a half head above his captain, yet somehow Picard always seemed to be at eye level.

  “Quite right, Number One.”

  The rise and fall of Riker’s chest was the only sign of the relief that echoed in his own mind. He was still feeling his way with this new captain, but Picard consistently kept his ego divorced from the concerns of command. Riker relaxed his ramrod posture and finished his report. “Estimated time of rendezvous with the Ferrel is twenty-two minutes.”

  “Security, go to Yellow Alert,” ordered Picard.

  “And notify Starbase Ten of our diversion.” The steady pulse of alert lights sprang into life across the bridge. The captain dropped down onto his command chair. He tugged sharply at the waistline of his uniform, snapping the fabric into place. “Sit down, Will. There’s nothing we can do now but wait.”

  Riker envied the captain’s composure and wondered if his relaxed attitude was genuine or merely a pose. Perhaps the difference was irrelevant. The first officer sat down as bidden and concentrated on emulating the appearance, if not the substance, of Picard’s example.

  Natasha Yar was on her feet by the second flash of the alert lights. By the third her blue eyes had opened wide and her mind was fully awake. Her hand groped in the dark for a communications link. “Security chief to bridge,” she called out as her fingers closed in on the cold metal of her insignia.

  A full five seconds passed before she received a reply, time she put to use scrambling into her uniform. Yellow Alert meant she could afford to get dressed properly, but there was no time for a shower. She ran her fingers through short locks of blond hair and considered her grooming done.

  “Bridge here, Lieutenant.”

  She measured the tension in Riker’s voice and accurately judged the severity of the alert. The ship was not in danger. Yet.

  “I’m on my way.” Yar didn’t bother turning on the lights as she ran to the door. She had memorized the layout of her cabin for just such emergencies.

  Her sprint to the bridge was several seconds short of her best time, but neither Riker no
r the captain uttered a reprimand when Lieutenant Yar erupted out of the turbodoors. Taking her position at the tactical console, she surveyed the activity on the upper and lower decks, then studied the main viewer. Nothing of interest was on the screen, so she turned her attention to the distress signal that ran across the communications board in an unvarying pattern.

  “No response to hailing calls,” said Worf, standing by her side.

  “Why didn’t you call me as soon as you received the transmission?” hissed Yar.

  “I was busy,” said Worf.

  “I should have been here to initiate Yellow Alert.” Wary of drawing the captain’s attention, Yar kept her voice low, which weakened her display of anger. Not that a full-volume explosion of temper would have made any greater impression on the Klingon; the emotional storms of the human race were little more than a mild summer rain to him.

  “I was busy.”

  Yar was suddenly too preoccupied to pursue the one-sided argument. Scan readings had changed. The orange tracing of a fluctuating energy profile was faint but unmistakable.

  Geordi La Forge dashed out of his cabin only to stumble over a pair of feet that blocked the portal. A strong arm shot out across his chest, breaking his fall.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting for you,” replied Data. He pushed Geordi upright effortlessly, then fell into step beside him. They raced in concert down the corridor, a study in contrasts. Lieutenant La Forge was shorter and more solid of build with a deep brown skin that accentuated the unnatural pallor of his companion. Lieutenant Commander Data’s eyes were a golden color that matched the metallic gleam of the visor on Geordi’s face.

  “So what’s going on?” gasped Geordi as they jumped through the opening doors of a turbolift.