THE CHILDREN OF HAMLIN

by Carmen Carter

  “Off the record, I assume,” said Riker. He glanced around the small compartment. “The setting for the briefing is a little unorthodox.”

  The tight line of Picard’s mouth curved ever so slightly. “It appears that the mysterious Andrew Deelor does indeed exist. And at a very rarified height. Admiral Zagráth called him a diplomatic ambassador.” A dry cough betrayed his skepticism. “Possible, but Fleet Intelligence is more likely.”

  “That could explain the Ferrel’s small crew. Top security, high risk.”

  “Yes, but we’ll probably never know what they were doing out here. The entire Ferrel incident has just been pulled behind a veil of secrecy,” Picard restarted the elevator. “In the interests of Federation security.”

  The simple phrase startled Riker into protest. “But, Captain, that’s the highest security classification in use.”

  “Exactly.”

  The doors of the turbo compartment slid open. The discussion was over.

  When the door chime sounded, Patrisha took a deep breath and faced the threshold of the passenger suite. “Come in,” she called, and the doors parted of their own accord. Such a silly waste of power, she thought, then shoved aside her scorn to greet the two men who stepped inside.

  “Thank you for coming to see me, Captain,” said Patrisha to the older of the outsiders. She had never been introduced to Picard, and she had yet to sort out the signs of rank that studded the collars of Starfleet uniforms, but she had learned to recognize the air of command. These officers walked with a characteristic grace and arrogance, and this man was more lordly than any other she had seen on board the starship. She turned to the one who was not a stranger. “Well met again, Mr. Riker.”

  “After too long, Farmer Patrisha.”

  The younger man’s smile was much warmer than that of his companion, and Riker had answered her with a Farmer idiom. She would have preferred to continue the conversation with him, but that was not the way of these people. Their rigid hierarchies must be honored.

  “I understand you were disturbed by our alert?” said the captain.

  “The entire community is most concerned by recent events,” acknowledged Patrisha. The captain broached the substance of this meeting most abruptly, but she had no desire to prolong the encounter either. “I speak as one of many.”

  “Yes, so I gather,” said Picard with a quick glance toward the other room of the suite.

  Patrisha flushed at the wry comment. He had heard the stealthy rustle of moving bodies and whispering voices coming from behind the wall and was aware that listeners hovered just out of sight. She covered her embarrassment with a declaration of Farmer principles. “Captain Picard, we are a peaceful people.”

  “I’m sorry if our recent encounter upset anyone,” said Picard, though she detected no apology in his manner. “Please assure your people they were never in danger and that the attacking ship has left this sector.”

  “That is not the point, Captain. We will not take part in military actions.”

  “I quite understand your concern. However, the Enterprise is required to assist ships in distress. In this particular instance assistance required a show of force. Regrettable, yes, but necessary. We will resume our journey to New Oregon soon, very soon.”

  “But why the continued delay?” persisted Patrisha. If she must safeguard the community, and certainly none of the other Farmers were willing to confront the captain, then she would ask the necessary questions.

  Riker answered her. “We’re providing maintenance support to the crew of the damaged ship so they can return to Starbase Ten.”

  Patrisha could tell Picard’s patience was wearing thin by the way he shifted his weight from one foot to another. He looked just like Dnnys, ready to bolt out the door as soon as minimal courtesy had been satisfied. In any event, she could think of no more questions. “Don’t let me keep you from your work any longer.”

  This was a traditional Farmer closing, but Picard froze, as if suddenly aware of his display of impatience. He managed a sincere smile before leaving. “Please call Counselor Troi if you have need of any further assistance.”

  “I will be pleased to do so,” said Patrisha politely as she ushered the two men to the exit. She sighed with weary relief when the cabin door shut and the outsiders had returned to their rightful place outside. Seconds later a door behind her whisked open.

  “They left the stink of their technology in the air,” said Dolora, sniffing loudly as she walked across the floor.

  “Oh, please,” groaned Patrisha, but she was drowned out by the approaching babble of querulous voices. More Farmers poured out of their hiding place and into the day area.

  “You were entirely too accommodating,” said Tomas with his usual bombast. “We can’t be held here against our will.”

  “On the contrary. We have no choice in the matter,” countered Patrisha. “However, Captain Picard was tactful enough not to point that out.” Only Tomas could anger her sufficiently to defend an outsider.

  Dolora shook her finger in the direction of the corridor. “It’s an outrage, and the Grzydc government must be informed of the treatment accorded its citizens.”

  “They never treated us any better,” grumbled another woman.

  A man on the other side of the room cried, “Outsiders don’t know the meaning of respect. You can’t expect common decency from any of them.”

  Shouting the Farmers down with rational arguments would only waste her breath. Patrisha threw herself down onto a sofa and shut her mind to the various recitals of real and imagined grievances. The scenario had been repeated over and over, with minor variations, since the yearlong trek to New Oregon had begun and was no less tedious for all its familiarity.

  “The Farmers accepted the delay rather more calmly than I expected,” remarked Picard after he and Riker had left the passengers’ quarters. His first officer was not given to complaint, but rumors of temperamental storms by the colonists had reached the captain through other channels.

  “That particular Farmer took the news well,” said Riker grudgingly as they walked through the corridor. “But then, they must be resigned to delays by now. The group waited for nearly a month on Starbase Ten before we were assigned to carry them the rest of the way. Their home world used its diplomatic influence to get the community aboard the Enterprise.”

  “I didn’t think Grzydc had any influence,” said the captain as they entered a turboelevator.

  Riker directed the compartment to the bridge.

  “According to Wesley, the Grzydc government has actually paid for the Farmers’ new territory.”

  “Terraformed land is very expensive,” said Picard thoughtfully. “I’m surprised a resource-poor world like Grzydc would be so eager to help a group of naturalized citizens.”

  Riker grinned ruefully. “It may have been a small price to get them off the planet.”

  The turbo slowed to a halt. Picard and his first officer stepped out onto the bridge and into the middle of a heated confrontation between Security Chief Yar and Andrew Deelor. Yar broke off from shouting at the captain’s entrance and stiffened to attention; Deelor shoved his clenched fists into the pockets of his blue medical jacket. The robed woman known only as Ruthe stood by his side, unmoved by the commotion.

  “What seems to be the problem?” asked Picard. He addressed Lieutenant Yar, but his attention was really on Deelor. Details of the man’s appearance had blurred since their brief encounter in sickbay. The ambassador had an undistinguished face, neither handsome nor ugly, and easily forgotten. He was of medium height and medium build—all in all, an unremarkable man.

  “Ambassador Deelor will not leave the bridge as requested.” Yar used the man’s title, but her suspicion of its authenticity was obvious. “I was about to call for a security team to escort him to his quarters.”

  “You acted correctly, Lieutenant Yar.” Picard turned to Deelor and his companion. “Passengers are not allowed on the bridge without my express perm
ission.”

  “I am not an ordinary passenger,” stressed Deelor.

  “Evidently not.” Picard’s smile was not reflected in his eyes. “You’ve made a remarkable recovery from your wounds, Ambassador.”

  “Dr. Crusher is a very able physician. I’m feeling much better.” He eased his hands out of the jacket pockets and let his arms rest by his side, but the tension in his shoulders remained.

  “Good. Then you’ll be able to answer some of my questions.” Picard ushered the two down the curving bridge ramp to the threshold of his office. He and Riker followed them into the room, but Deelor shook his head at the first officer’s presence.

  “It’s best if we speak alone, Captain.” He made no pretense of making a request. This was an order.

  “As you wish, Ambassador.” Picard signaled Riker to obey.

  Ruthe, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrent of tension in the room, stared with fascination at the lionfish swimming in the wall aquarium. Riker stepped briskly around her and left. When the door had closed, Picard walked past his guests to take his place behind the office desk, star window at his back. He remained standing, the fingers of his hands resting lightly on the polished surface of the tabletop.

  “Admiral Zagráth has made it very clear that I am to refrain from all inquiry into the attack on the USS Ferrel. Does that also mean I’m to drop my investigation into the attack upon you?”

  “There was no attack, Captain,” said Deelor steadily. “My injury was an accident.”

  “I’m pleased to hear that. Then you’ll be quite safe aboard the Ferrel on its return journey to Zendi Starbase Ten. Of course, the accommodations will be somewhat primitive with thirty people crammed into the service areas of Engineering, but the trip should take only eight or nine weeks.”

  A wry smile tugged at the corner of Deelor’s mouth. “Touché, Captain. But let’s put an end to our fencing. You know too much already, and yet not enough.”

  The ambassador pulled a chair alongside the desk and sat down. He rocked back to a comfortable angle. Picard lowered himself into his own chair, but kept himself carefully upright. He wasn’t fooled by the pretense of informality.

  “I have no intention of returning to the Ferrel,” admitted Deelor. “As you pointed out, the trip would be quite uncomfortable and tedious. Tempers can fray under the stress of confinement.”

  “The crew of the Ferrel hate you. Why?”

  “Because I had command of the mission over their captain. And because I underestimated the strength of our adversary. As you’ve probably surmised, the aliens who attacked us are also responsible for a rather unfortunate incident on the planet Hamlin.”

  “The Hamlin Massacre,” said Picard flatly. Those words still touched a chord of shock in him. “Three hundred people were killed without reason. Such butchery usually counts as more than an ‘incident.’”

  Deelor’s brows crept upward. “I can see I won’t have to brief you on the details.”

  “What do you know of these aliens?”

  “They call themselves the Choraii.

  “The Choraii,” repeated Picard slowly. So now the enemy had a name. “And this was not a chance encounter.”

  “Oh, no. It’s taken months of radio contact to arrange the rendezvous between the Ferrel and a Choraii ship.” Deelor paused uncertainly. When he spoke again, the arrogance of his manner was muted. “I was prepared for hostile action from the Choraii, for a testing of our defenses. It was essential that the Ferrel display a military force equal to their own, one strong enough to earn their respect yet not so strong as to scare them away.”

  “What went wrong?” prompted Picard.

  “I miscalculated, held back too long. The Choraii saw this as weakness and closed in for the kill. Their energy net was a surprise. Our power reserves weren’t able to withstand the pressure of the field for more than a few hours. A hard lesson, but a valuable one. Next time, with the Enterprise, I’ll succeed.”

  Picard’s open palm crashed down on the desktop. “Not with my ship!”

  “I have the authority to override your command. Or didn’t the admiral tell you that?” Deelor’s arrogance was back

  Picard drew on thirty years of Fleet discipline to suppress the urge to leap across the distance separating them and physically teach the ambassador his place. “Yes, I was so informed,” he said at last. That particular portion of the transmission had set off a rage that he could still feel burning within him. “And what, if I may ask, is the purpose of your contact with the Choraii?”

  This capitulation to authority added a trace of smugness to Deelor’s face. Picard could feel his own jaw clench in response. Oh, to be able to wipe away that smile.

  “The Choraii are in search of a variety of metals: zinc, gold, platinum, lead. Evidently they lack the ability to refine the ores found in asteroids. If convenient, they will kill to obtain what they need, but it is my mission to persuade them to enter into trade negotiations instead.”

  “Trade!” cried Picard in outrage. “Trade for what? What do they have that we could possibly want?”

  Ruthe stepped out of the background. “The children of Hamlin.”

  Chapter Five

  THE USS FERRAL dangled in space. The soft glow from its four slim engine nacelles bathed over the crumpled outlines of the main saucer with its row upon row of darkened, lifeless port windows.

  Picard studied the scene from the comfort and safety of the captain’s chair on the Enterprise bridge. He was flanked on either side by his first officer and the ship’s counselor. “Are you sure, Number One?” Picard asked dubiously as he reexamined the image on the viewscreen.

  Riker shrugged. “I can hardly believe it myself, but Logan swears the Ferrel’s engines can sustain full impulse power long enough to reach Starbase Ten.” With an outstretched hand he traced the line of damage. “The contracting energy field netted around the main hull and pulled the saucer in on itself, but the nacelles were left intact. Our maintenance crews sealed off the connecting necks leading to the damaged section and concentrated on returning basic ship’s services to the remaining areas. No gravity, no food synthesis, no comforts to speak of, but it will keep them alive.”

  “Not my idea of a good time.” Geordi spoke under his breath, but the captain overheard his remark.

  “Agreed, Mr. La Forge. Now that the Ferrel’s crew has seen their new accommodations, they may think better of their decision. Lieutenant Yar, open an audio link with the starship.” Despite Engineer Logan’s best repair efforts, the communications section of the saucer was still too badly damaged to provide visual contact.

  “Channel open, Captain.”

  “Are you still determined to go through with this, Mr. D’Amelio?”

  “Captain Manin is returning home on his own ship. We won’t have it any other way,” replied the voice of the first officer floating down from above.

  Counselor Troi leaned closer to the captain and whispered an aside. “They are determined to remain on their own ship, but not just to honor their captain. They are eager to sever their association with Ambassador Deelor.”

  Picard understood that sentiment only too well. “As you wish, Commander. The Ferrel is free to go. And the best of luck on your journey.”

  The crackle of static gave the answering laugh an unnatural harshness. “Don’t waste your luck on us, Captain Picard. You’ll need it more than we will.”

  The USS Ferrel departed without ceremony. A brief shudder rocked the distorted structure, then it lurched into a slow crawl across the viewscreen. Picard watched the image pass out of the viewer frame with a growing sense of unease, uncertain whether his concern was for the crippled Ferrel or his own ship. D’Amelio’s parting words echoed in his mind like an alert siren.

  The Enterprise had proved her worth as a fighting ship on several occasions, but her basic mission was peaceful. Unlike his previous Fleet commands, this starship carried families on board. It had taken Picard weeks to get used to the s
ight of children walking through the corridors. They were the most prominent symbol of the expanded population, and their presence disturbed him. They were a constant reminder that the nature of his responsibilities had been altered in new and uncomfortable ways. With a ship like the Stargazer, Picard wouldn’t hesitate to attempt the rescue of the Hamlin captives, but the Enterprise was different. Where did his duty lie now? Could he in good conscience risk the thousand lives aboard this vessel for those long-forgotten children? More disturbing, did the captain of the Enterprise have any say in the matter?

  “Captain,” said Data from the helm. “I’ve computed the Choraii ship’s trajectory from our sensor readings. Course laid in.” He waited expectantly for further orders. If he felt any surprise at Picard’s hesitation, he did not show it.

  “Ahead warp factor four, Mr. La Forge,” said the captain at last. He had waited until the decision was truly his, and not the ambassador’s. The result was ultimately the same. Yet not quite the same. “Mr. Riker, assemble the bridge crew in the observation deck. Lieutenant Yar, inform Ambassador Deelor that we are ready to begin the briefing.”

  The visitor’s quarters were spacious, even luxurious after the smaller accommodations on board the Ferrel, but the ambassador was too preoccupied to make a comparison and Ruthe did not care.

  Deelor studied his reflection in the bedroom area mirror, critically assessing the line of his black uniform. He was pleased to see that the synthetic skin covering his burns was too thin to show beneath the form-fitting fabric. Deelor was not a vain man, but he understood the subliminal underpinnings of authority. Any flaw could weaken his position.

  Satisfied with his own apparel, he shifted his attention to the reflection of the woman behind him. “You need new clothes, too.”

  “No,” said Ruthe, and curled up on the bed, pulling her cloak tightly around her. The garment had been newly cleaned, but the material was worn and the original dark color had faded to a lighter, uneven shade of gray.