“This isn’t the time to mention that,” Deelor whispered back. He fought against a wave of nausea. The side effect was typical of anticoagulants; he must have received medical treatment at some point. “Later, when I’m feeling better, I’ll let them know.” He would need a clear head to explain his presence on the Ferrel and to establish his authority on the Enterprise.
“Captain Manin has been sent to sickbay.
Picard listened to Riker’s intercom report with unexpressed relief. Given thirty survivors out of the full crew complement of a constellation-class starship, there was no reason to expect any high-ranking officer had been saved. “Report back as soon as you’ve spoken to him.” Picard burned with the desire to conduct the questioning himself, yet he couldn’t leave the bridge so soon after an attack. The captain waited for his first officer’s return with impatience, masking the unruly emotion behind his usual facade of studied calm.
Ten minutes later Riker stepped out of the forward turbo, then quickly turned to urge another man in a dusty fleet uniform to step through the doors. The stranger was tall and lanky, with an untidy shock of salt and pepper hair.
“Captain Manin is in surgery,” explained Riker. “This is First Officer D’Amelio.”
“Welcome aboard the Enterprise,” said the captain, approaching the two men. Picard’s greeting brought a smile to D’Amelio’s face, but several seconds passed before he noticed the captain’s outstretched arm. Moving in slow motion, the officer reached out and limply shook hands. He stood in place until Riker pulled gently at the man’s elbow, ushering him into the adjacent Ready Room.
The captain followed. He waited until the door had closed before giving voice to his misgivings. “Number One, this man is in shock. He should be in sickbay.”
Riker pushed the first officer down into one of the chairs facing the captain’s desk. “He’s already been treated. I’m sure Dr. Crusher would have released him if I’d asked, but I didn’t want to disturb her.”
“In other words, we’d better talk fast before she finds out he’s gone,” said Picard, taking a seat across from them.
The session did not run smoothly. D’Amelio appeared unable, at times unwilling, to answer any questions about the alien ship that had attacked the Ferrel. The few answers he supplied gave rise to more questions.
Picard took a deep breath, suppressing the hard edge that had crept into his voice. “Mr. D’Amelio, you maintain that the Ferrel was operated by a skeleton crew. That’s welcome news, indeed. We had thought your fatalities were much higher. However, I’m sure you can understand our confusion—forty-six people is an unusually small crew for a starship.”
“It’s all we needed.”
“Needed for what?” asked Riker.
As before, D’Amelio did not answer. His gaze drifted vacantly across the room. Picard and Riker exchanged looks of frustration and growing skepticism. A predictable pattern had formed. Any question concerned with the starship’s mission resulted in a lapse of attention. Picard did not need Deanna Troi’s empathic abilities to realize D’Amelio was witholding information, but perhaps the counselor should be brought into the meeting if there was no change in the man’s response.
The trill of a communications contact stopped the captain from a direct challenge to D’Amelio’s evasions. “Crusher to Captain.”
Picard had been expecting the call. “Don’t worry, Dr. Crusher, we’re taking good care of Mr. D’Amelio.” He studied the first officer’s profile with dissatisfaction. “But we still need to ask more—”
The doctor overrode him. “Captain, one of the Ferrel’s casualties was wounded by a blast from a hand phaser.”
All three men in the room were startled by her statement. “Are you certain?” asked Picard. “Perhaps contact with the alien force field—”
“No, not the force field. The cellular disruption pattern is quite characteristic of phaser burns, and he’s the only one brought aboard with injuries of that nature. Everyone else is suffering from shock, vacuum exposure, impact with debris. This man was shot.”
Picard turned to the first officer. This time he did not mask his anger. “Mr. D’Amelio, what the hell was happening on that ship?”
“I don’t know anything about it.” In his confusion, D’Amelio dropped out of his dreamy stare. He turned from Picard to Riker in turn. “Honest, I don’t! The bridge was collapsing . . . we didn’t have much time left. No hope of rescue, or so we thought. Captain Manin and I were preparing to initiate a self-destruct sequence.”
“But you didn’t finish it,” said Picard.
“No.” D’Amelio shook his head as if to clear it. “I was about to confirm my rank identification when I blacked out.”
“What is that man doing out of sickbay?” demanded Crusher. Too late, the captain realized she was still listening. “Return him at—”
Her voice broke off abruptly, although the link remained open. Picard heard a crash, followed by the faint sound of shouting in the background. Crusher’s voice resumed. “Stop! Captain Manin, I will not stand for this . . . security to sickbay.”
The words sent Picard and Riker racing out the door.
If sickbay was an unlikely arena for violent confrontation, the combatants were even less convincing. Dr. Crusher had dragged Captain Manin away from his assault on her other patient, but she was more concerned with the harm he was doing himself as he struggled to escape her grasp and resume the fight. His strength was deceptive—she knew him to be badly injured. Only the force of a considerable anger had overcome his body’s weakness.
“Damn you Deelor!” shouted Manin as he wrestled against Crusher’s restraint. “You destroyed my ship, my crew!”
Crusher cast a glance over her shoulder to the target of this accusation and assessed the second man’s condition. He sagged weakly against a wall, and his face was bathed in sweat. Manin had landed several blows to an area of scorched skin and muscle on Deelor’s chest, but there were no spreading stains on the protective bandage. The doctor attributed Deelor’s pallor to renewed pain rather than blood loss.
The doors to sickbay flew open. Security Chief Yar sped through the portal with Riker and Captain Picard on her heels. At the sight of the man grappling with Crusher, Yar pulled out her phaser.
“No.” Dr. Crusher moved to block Yar’s line of sight. “He’s badly hurt. Even a stun blast could kill him.”
Captain Manin took advantage of the doctor’s distraction and lunged toward Deelor. Picard jumped between the two men, forearm raised to ward off a swinging fist, but the blow never came. Manin staggered to a halt after one step. Picard caught him as he collapsed, then gently lowered him to the floor.
“Lie still. You’ll only hurt yourself,” urged Picard, but the sound of his voice increased the man’s agitation.
“It wasn’t my fault,” gasped Manin with labored breath. “I followed his orders. Starfleet made me.”
“Quiet!” Deelor warned. “I order you to be quiet.”
Crusher knelt down beside Picard and examined the man cradled in the captain’s arms. “Help me get him under the scanner.” They moved quickly, lifting the limp body onto the bed of the diagnostic machine, but the doctor could see Manin weakening by the second. The panel that closed down over his chest emitted a frantic electronic chatter. “He’s started to hemorrhage again.”
Calling out for medical assistance, Crusher tracked a path of widespread tissue damage in the liver, spleen, and kidneys. “Tissue factor,” she demanded, and the nurse slipped a hypo into Crusher’s palm. The doctor administered the clotting agent to a vein in his neck, but the bleeding continued. A second dose thickened the blood, but it continued to fill his chest cavity. There would be no third dose. An additional injection would coagulate his entire circulatory system.
Oblivious to Crusher’s efforts, the captain of the Ferrel clutched at Picard’s arm. The grip lacked force, but Picard let himself be pulled closer. “Full mission control . . . to a damn bureaucrat.”
“Shut up, Manin!” Deelor pushed himself away from the wall and staggered toward the table, but Lieutenant Yar still had her phaser drawn. She swung the weapon toward him. Deelor stopped, swaying unsteadily in place. “You’re violating Starfleet security.”
Crusher knew her patient was too weak to withstand surgical invasion. She would have tried anyway except his vital organs had been reduced to pulp and there was nothing left to operate on. Instead, she requested a drug that would ease his pain.
Manin’s voice had dropped to a whisper. Picard leaned closer, straining to hear. Only one word was clear.
“Hamlin?” Picard echoed. “What about Hamlin?” There was no reply. The hand fell away from Picard’s sleeve.
“You fool!” Oblivious to Yar’s warning cry, Deelor closed the distance to Manin’s bedside. “I’ll have you stripped of your command for this breach.”
“He can’t hear you.” Dr. Crusher switched off the medical unit above the still body. “He’s dead.”
Chapter Four
Captain’s Log, supplemental: The events surrounding the destruction of the USS Ferrel are still shrouded in mystery. We beamed aboard thirty people from a ship that should have carried hundreds. And not one of those thirty will tell us why their ship was attacked.
THE BRIDGE LOUNGE had been designed to provide a sense of well-being to those who used it. Cushioned chairs circled an oval table of generous proportions; wide, gently curving windows lined the outside wall, presenting a breathtaking panorama of jeweled stars. A dozen people could sit around the table without feeling confined, but only four entered now.
“Counselor, are you feeling all right?” asked Picard. Troi had sunk into the comforting embrace of a wide chair and immediately closed her eyes.
Her dark lashes fluttered, and she opened her eyes again. “I’m a little tired,” she admitted reluctantly. “My contacts with the Farmers and the survivors of the Ferrel have been draining.”
“And not very informative,” said Riker as he and Data circled the table. “They all act as if we’re the enemy.”
Picard saw Troi tense as the first officer passed behind her chair. The reaction confirmed his suspicion that she was unusually sensitive to Riker’s moods. The force of the man’s present frustration must be battering against her emotional defenses.
“Let’s begin the briefing,” suggested Picard, moving away from Troi to sit at the head of the table. He realized his own impatience was probably adding further turbulence to her emotional surroundings.
“I don’t understand what’s going on,” fumed Riker as he settled in place. “According to the first officer, Deelor is an efficiency consultant assigned to improve operations and maintenance procedures of the Ferrel, but according to Starfleet personnel records he’s not a member of the crew. He’s not even listed as being aboard the ship.”
“I ran a full computer identity check on his name,” confirmed Data. “And came up with nothing. There is no record of an Andrew Deelor in Starfleet or in any Federation civilian population in this sector.”
“And the Ferrel crew won’t talk about who tried to kill him or why. It seems they were all looking in another direction when he was shot,” said Riker with obvious disgust. “Deanna, tell the captain what you felt.”
Troi hesitated, struggling to put the impressions she had gathered into words. “Such a tangle of conflicting emotion. Sorrow for their captain’s death; anger, almost hatred, at the mention of Deelor’s name; and always the need for secrecy. If they know anything, they will not admit it, not without considerable duress.”
“This is not an inquisition,” said Picard with an admonishing wave of his hand. “Yet I can’t allow this incident to remain unresolved. I must know what happened to the Ferrel, to protect the Enterprise if nothing else.” He frowned at the unbidden image of his own ship torn and mangled, its crew and passengers floating amid the wreckage. “What about the other civilian, the woman?”
“Her name is Ruthe,” said Riker. He uttered a sigh of exasperation. “She won’t give us a last name and she won’t answer any other questions. She just repeats ‘ask Deelor.’”
“Who isn’t feeling strong enough to provide any answers.” With the announcement of Manin’s death, Deelor had developed a convenient fainting spell. “His injuries are real enough, but the timing has a familiar ring. He’s faking weakness,” said the captain grimly. “Just as D’Amelio was faking shock. But why? What are they all hiding?”
Yar’s intercom message brought a temporary halt to the briefing. “Farmer Patrisha has called the bridge. Again.” The lieutenant’s voice was hardened by her annoyance. “She insists on speaking to you personally, Captain.”
“Tell her—” But Picard thought twice before completing the statement. He began again. “Tell her everything is under control and I will meet with her just as soon as my duties allow.”
He severed the link with a flick of his finger. “Passengers, like children, should be seen and not heard,” he said to no one in particular. Dismissing the Oregon Farmers from his mind, he returned to the puzzle. “Hamlin. To me, that means only one thing—the Hamlin Massacre. I was only a small boy at the time, but I remember the incident well.”
“I read the historical accounts at the academy.” Riker caught Troi’s questioning look and provided an explanation. “Hamlin was a mining colony located on the Federation frontier. Fifty years ago they reported first contact with a new alien race, then suddenly all communications from them stopped. The next supply ship to reach the planet found that everyone in the colony had been killed.”
“Not everyone,” corrected Data. “Just the adults. The colony’s children were missing, presumably also dead.”
“Some say eaten.” Picard murmured the dark words as if echoing a long-forgotten phrase.
“Inquiry: eaten, as in consumed? As in food source?”
“Yes, well, the more sensational reports mentioned the possibility.” Picard regretted his comment immediately and tried to dismiss it from the conversation. He turned to Riker. “Could the aliens who attacked the Ferrel be the same ones responsible for the Hamlin Massacre?”
But Data was not to be deflected from a new line of conjecture. “Perhaps the missing crew of the starship were eaten as well. Though several hundred bodies would presume a considerable hunger.”
Another call from Lieutenant Yar saved the captain from having to respond. “Not the Farmers again?” asked Picard.
“No, sir. I’m receiving a transmission from Zendi Starbase Ten.”
Riker rocked back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “They’ve taken a long time in getting back to us, sir. The communications lag is only a few hours, not a full day.”
“Late or not, at least we’ll get some answers from Admiral Zagráth,” said Picard. “Pipe it in here, Lieutenant.”
“Advise you to take the message in your office, sir. Scrambled transmission, Code 47—for your eyes only.”
“The message was only three minutes long,” protested Yar. She leaned over the aft deck railing, staring at the curving wall that separated the bridge from the captain’s Ready Room. “But he’s been in there for ages.”
Data swung the ops console around to face the other bridge officers. “Ten minutes, twelve seconds. Not an unreasonable duration for contemplation of a classified transmission. If one is human, that is.”
“I call twenty minutes unreasonable,” said Geordi a while later. “After all, how many times can you listen to a three-minute message?”
“Six point six, six, six, six . . . ”
“Data,” said Yar, breaking into the android’s computation. “Has there been any computer activity from the captain’s terminal?”
“Not according to my . . . “
Riker shook his head firmly. “That’s enough, Data. We’re getting close to an invasion of privacy. We’ll know what’s going on soon enough.” After waiting another ten minutes, the first officer turned to Troi. “You haven’t
said very much about the captain’s absence. Aren’t you curious?”
“That’s a leading statement and you know it,” responded Troi tartly. “What happened to your concern for his privacy?”
Geordi and Data both turned from their posts and stared silently at the counselor. She glanced above her head and saw both Yar and Worf looking at her as well. Troi sighed heavily. “If you must know, I sense he is experiencing great anger. He is trying to bring his temper under control.”
Any further explanation was forestalled by the sound of the Ready Room doors opening and closing. Face stripped of all emotion, Picard marched stiffly to the front of the bridge. He stood at attention, back to the viewer, and coughed loudly, as if calling an unruly class to order. In a flat, uninflected voice, he addressed a point in the center of the room.
“On instructions from Starfleet Command, there is to be no further discussion among the crew concerning the events we have witnessed in response to the distress call from the Ferrel. All log entries and sensor data involving the USS Ferrel and its attacker will be sealed. I trust each and every one of you will follow these instructions to the letter.”
The trill of an incoming call broke the uneasy silence that followed the captain’s announcement. Yar cut off the shrill sound with a swift jab at her communications console. “It’s from the Oregon Farmers, Captain.”
“Inform Farmer Patrisha that I will see her now,” answered Picard evenly. He had already reached the doors of the turboelevators before he turned and spoke again. “Data, you have the conn. Number One, Ill need your assistance.”
Riker asked no questions as their compartment dropped deck by deck through the center of the saucer. Eyes front, he matched the captain’s severe demeanor with his own martial stance.
“Hold.” Picard’s sudden order brought the turbolift to a standstill. A flashing alarm signaled their location between decks. “As first officer, you deserve to know at least some of what that transmission contained.”
THE CHILDREN OF HAMLIN Page 4
