THE CHILDREN OF HAMLIN

by Carmen Carter

  Deelor knew her well enough to drop the issue. He returned to a previous topic. “And let me do all the talking at the briefing.”

  Her face peeked out from under the folds of cloth. “I always do. Well, most of the time.”

  “Yes, but it’s the times you don’t that worry me. Picard is not a stupid man; the slightest slip and he’ll pounce. So it’s very important . . . . ” He walked over to Ruthe, who had once more retreated into a formless ball. Sitting down on the bed beside her, certain that she could hear him, he continued. “It’s very important, for both our sakes, that he doesn’t learn any more than I want him to know.”

  “Then why talk to him?” she asked with a muffled voice.

  “I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to.” He tugged gently at her elbow. “Come on. They’re waiting for us.”

  From his position by the doorway, Picard watched as the conference lounge was filled to capacity by the members of the bridge crew. Lieutenant Worf reached the room early and was the first to file past the captain. He secured a seat with a wall at his back. The Klingon was followed by Data and Geordi; the android took control of the computer access panel and Geordi sat beside him.

  “You’re early,” remarked Picard when Dr. Crusher crossed the threshold.

  “It happens.”

  “Here, read this while we wait for the briefing to start.” He handed her the Hamlin medical report which Deelor had provided. The doctor accepted the package and carried it to the table.

  After a short lag, the second group arrived. Dr. Crusher glanced up from the pages of her printout in time to see her son enter with Tasha Yar and Deanna Troi. One hand rose in the air to beckon Wesley to her side, but she stopped in time. Picard was amused to see her cover the motion by scratching the tip of her nose.

  “Where’s the ambassador?” asked Riker when he arrived. He was exactly on time. “And Ruthe.”

  “Yes, they always travel as a pair,” noted Picard. “So who is she? An assistant, attaché, aide-de-camp?” Meaningless, interchangeable terms, but without them Ruthe’s presence was unexplained.

  “Lover?” offered Riker. “They’ve turned down separate quarters.”

  Picard shrugged. “For all we know, she’s his wife.” The doors parted at his final statement, revealing Deelor and Ruthe at the threshold. Picard wondered just how much of the exchange the ambassador had overheard.

  “This is unacceptable, Captain,” said Deelor when he saw the large number of people grouped in the room. “Especially the boy.”

  “I will not send my bridge crew on this or any other mission without a full understanding of the situation. That includes Ensign Crusher.” Picard moved to his place at the head of the table. “I have the utmost confidence in their discretion.”

  Deelor expressed his dissatisfaction with a frown but said nothing more as he took an empty seat next to the captain. Out of the corner of his eye Picard saw Ruthe skitter away from Riker’s offer of a chair. She stood at the back of the room, fading into the gray shadows.

  “Well, let’s get started,” demanded Deelor as if the crew had kept him waiting.

  Picard signaled Data to activate the computer display in the center of the table. A miniature bubble ship wavered into existence, hovering just above the desktop.

  “Fifteen years ago,” began Deelor without preamble, “a Ferengi merchant encountered a crippled Choraii ship marooned in space. Their supply of zinc had been exhausted, rendering the ship immobile. The Ferengi, with an eye to future profit, exchanged a few pounds of that metal for the only salable merchandise the Choraii had to offer: five human captives. In turn, the Ferengi offered those humans to the Federation, at a significant price per head. That was when we finally learned the fate of the Hamlin children. They had been taken aboard Choraii ships and kept there for over forty years.”

  The man’s uninflected voice could not rob the narrative of its horror. “Five survivors,” said Picard. “Forty-two children were reported missing from the colony. How many more have been recovered since then?”

  “Eight more.”

  A very low growl erupted from the general vicinity of Lieutenant Worf. The rest of the crew released their anger less directly with the rustle of shifting bodies and the exchange of somber glances.

  “You must understand the difficulty we faced,” said Deelor. “The Choraii have no home other than their ships, and though they travel in loose groups, each vessel is autonomous; they do not form a cohesive political entity. Furthermore, the Choraii are nomads and travel over broad areas of uninhabited space so the Federation has lost track of their ships for years at a time. Even after we learned of their reappearance in this sector, it took months to track down the local cluster and weeks of sporadic radio contact before we could persuade one ship to meet with us to exchange a few pounds of lead for their captive.”

  Yar broke into the explanation. “But at that rate it could take another four decades to recover the rest of the children.”

  “They’re hardly children anymore,” said Data. “Given the age range at the time of abduction, even the youngest would be Captain Picard’s age.”

  A smile flitted across Dr. Crusher’s face, and Picard wondered if she was amused by Data’s unerring instinct for social bricks, or by his own reaction to the unflattering statement.

  Tapping thoughtfully at the sheets in her hand, Crusher expanded on the android’s comment. “The Hamlin colony medical records indicate the older captives would be in their mid-sixties now. That’s assuming they’re still alive after fifty years of imprisonment under who knows what conditions.”

  A voice from the back of the room drew the group’s attention. “The Choraii have treated them well”

  Picard responded with considerable fire to Ruthe’s remark. “Captivity, by its very nature, is barbarous!”

  “Yes, well, that’s certainly true,” said Deelor quickly. “However, we must all remember to contain our natural hostility during the second round of negotiations or we risk severing our tenuous diplomatic ties. And the remaining captives will be lost forever.”

  The intensity of his own reaction had surprised Picard, and he saw those same strong emotions mirrored in the eyes of his crew. Discussion of the Hamlin Massacre still touched a raw nerve among Fleet officers, and it seemed the captain was no exception. He struggled to provide a more dispassionate example. “Understood, Ambassador Deelor. I, and my crew, have no wish to jeopardize the outcome of this mission. You can depend upon our full cooperation during contact with the Choraii.”

  Ruthe spoke again. “Thank you, Captain.”

  Picard took a second, closer, look at the woman.

  Until now she had been overshadowed by Deelor’s strong personality, but her response implied she was involved in the mission.

  “I should have introduced Translator Ruthe earlier in this meeting,” said Deelor. “She will handle all direct communications with the Choraii.” He stood up abruptly. “So, Captain, if you and the crew will simply mind the store, this venture will proceed smoothly and without incident.” Ruthe followed him out of the observation room without any prompting.

  The departure of the ambassador and the translator set off another round of uneasy rustling from the assembled crew. Picard sensed their suppressed tension and waited for the inevitable explosion of emotion.

  “I can’t believe we’re going to bargain with the aliens who massacred the Hamlin miners!” cried Yar.

  Even Geordi was moved to an outburst. “And they’re actually going to make a profit from the attack. That’s wrong. Dead wrong.”

  “Is revenge the right answer?” asked the captain. He was pleased to see Lieutenant Yar rein in her anger. The other members of the crew had also stopped to reflect on the mission.

  The security chief sighed heavily. “Getting the children back is more important.”

  “I still have a number of questions, Captain,” said Data. His composure contrasted strongly with the human crew.

  “Yes,
Data, so do I,” said Picard. “However, it appears Ambassador Deelor is not ready to answer them yet.” He rose to address the assembly. “We know the Choraii are capable of destroying a constellation-class starship and they came very close to disabling the Enterprise. Our first priority must be to create a better defense for the next encounter. For the moment, you will have to make the effort with what little information we already possess.”

  The briefing was over. The group dissolved into smaller clusters as the officers headed toward their duty posts.

  Captain Picard walked out of the conference room with the vague intention of returning to his quarters, but instead he found himself walking alongside Beverly Crusher. He dismissed the possibility that this action was anything other than random. After all, the doctor was the closest to his equal in age, so it was only natural to seek her out at times.

  The ship’s corridors were well traveled, so the captain and Crusher could talk only of general shipboard matters, but once inside the relative privacy of her office, Picard broached the subject of Hamlin with a personal revelation.

  “Nightmares?” exclaimed the doctor.

  “Oh, yes, for years,” said Picard. “I had a rather active imagination and conjured up quite vivid images of the bloody deaths of the missing children. And it didn’t help that a neighborhood bully would threaten to ship me off to Hamlin, where hungry monsters were waiting to gobble up bothersome little boys.” He accepted Crusher’s amusement at his expense with only a twinge of embarrassment. “After all, I was only five years old at the time and somewhat gullible.”

  Dropping the loose sheets of the Hamlin medical records beside her, Dr. Crusher threw one hip over the edge of her desk. “And yet, despite those fears, you went into space.”

  Picard adopted her informal posture. Leaning against the entrance frame, he cast his mind back through the years. “Despite, or possibly because of those fears. I grew tired of being afraid, and tired of the boy’s tyranny. I chose to confront my nightmares.”

  “How ironic. The children weren’t killed, but because you thought they were, you now have a chance to rescue them.”

  Picard resumed his more rigid stance. “Not me. I’m just the storekeeper. My responsibility is to move the trading post into position. A Ferengi merchant would be more useful; at least he could drive another hard bargain with the Choraii.”

  “A few pounds of lead is a small price to pay. The metal is practically worthless, toxic to human life. We could easily spare a hundred times that amount.”

  “Yes, and if the Choraii had bothered to ask for what they needed fifty years ago, the Hamlin colonists would still be alive. Over a hundred people killed, slaughtered like animals. Hardly a worthless metal, Dr. Crusher—it has a blood price beyond measure.”

  The lightness of their earlier mood had faded completely. Crusher took up the papers she had tossed aside. “I didn’t have a chance to mention this at the briefing, but the medical records Deelor provided are little more than historical documents. They make no mention of which individuals were returned or their physical condition at that time. If we’re going to bring more survivors on board, I’ll need as much current information as I can get.”

  “A legitimate request,” agreed Picard. “But somehow I suspect it won’t be that simple. Getting answers out of Ambassador Deelor is like breaking open an Aldebaran shellmouth. The result is hardly worth the effort.”

  “But he wants this mission to succeed. He must realize we’re only trying to help in that effort.”

  “Yes,” said Picard. “That would seem obvious. Perhaps he’s only a petty-minded bureaucrat clinging obsessively to the status that comes with controlling access to top secrets.” The captain compared this assessment with what little he had seen of Deelor in action and judged the fit. No, not a good match. “Either that, or he has something to hide.”

  In the privacy of their suite, with Ruthe safely asleep in the next room, Deelor embarked on a computer-guided inspection of the Enterprise. His ambassadorial rank allowed him to review the ship’s engineering specs without any difficulty, but the computer system balked when he requested the crew personnel files. Deelor responded with a five-digit code that silenced all opposition to his access and erased all tracks of the intrusion.

  Jean-Luc Picard was his first target. Deelor rifled through the record of the captain’s previous postings, but the list of distinctions grew tedious so Deelor switched to more recent information. Gaining access to the Captain’s Log required a seven-digit code. The study gave him a good feel for Picard’s style and some clue as to how the man might react to the demands of the current situation. Picard was a seasoned officer, but then, Deelor had expected no less from the captain of a galaxy-class vessel.

  He spent less time on First Officer William Riker and Lieutenant Commander Data, but his search through their files was thorough. An acquaintance with the other bridge crew members could wait until later.

  Ruthe did not wake when Deelor picked up the small chest resting on the dresser by the bed. The box was the only item he had retrieved from the Ferrel before its departure. He disliked possessions and he was eager to be rid of its contents. The computer established that Riker and Data were working together in the science section and politely offered to furnish directions, but Deelor declined the information.

  Finding his own way to the science lab proved to be a convenient test of his memorization of the ship’s layout. Deelor reached the proper location without a false turn. On the Ferrel he had walked an equivalent distance in the dark to reach the bridge, a journey that had saved both his life and Ruthe’s. The need to duplicate that feat could arise if the Choraii won the next round. Deelor noted the surprise on the officers’ faces when he entered the room. Their reaction pleased him. Predictability was boring. And dangerous.

  “Mr. Riker, I leave this in your charge.” Deelor dropped the small chest onto a lab table. The crack of impact betrayed its weight. He pulled the vocoder out from a jacket pocket and tossed it to Data. The android’s reaction time was excellent. “And that’s for you, Mr. Data.”

  Riker examined the box carefully before opening it. Deelor gave him extra credit for his caution. “Lead,” said the first officer as he counted the bars inside. “About fifteen pounds.”

  “I brought extra in case the Choraii raise the price of their captive.”

  “Why so little?” asked Riker. “Even highly refined metal is fairly cheap.”

  “They never ask for more than they need,” said Deelor. “After laying waste to all of Hamlin, the Choraii probably took only twenty pounds of metal.”

  “And now we’re giving them more.”

  “Not giving, trading.”

  Riker frowned with disgust, but Data merely looked inquisitive. “Given their obvious technological sophistication, why haven’t the Choraii developed their own processing techniques? Asteroids are an abundant source for the metals they seek.”

  “Some sort of political squabble,” explained Deelor. “It seems the ships with mining capabilities have withdrawn from the local cluster. Choraii social structure is rather complicated and we know very few details of its workings.” He proceeded with his instructions before Data could delay him further. Deelor had other more pressing duties than to satisfy an android’s curiosity. “Mr. Riker, keep the chest in a secure location near the transporter chamber so the bars can be pulled out at a moment’s notice.”

  “What do I do with this?” asked Data, lifting up the instrument he had caught.

  “The vocoder contains a record of the Ferrel’s sensor readings on the Choraii. Examine it for any information that can explain their unusual weapons technology. I’ll expect a full report as soon as possible.”

  Riker stiffened in place. “Is Captain Picard aware of these assignments?”

  “Feel free to inform him,” said Deelor, executing his second abrupt departure of the day.

  Chapter Six

  “THE BOY NEEDS an uncle,” declared Dolora
as she folded another shirt and tucked it inside the open trunk on the cabin floor.

  “Well, he doesn’t have one,” answered Patrisha. From the depths of a cushioned chair, she watched the older woman’s efforts. Under different circumstances she could have enjoyed her accommodations aboard the Enterprise. Farmer principles had never ruled against plush furniture and airy spaces, but the community could rarely afford such amenities. However, a week of sharing quarters with her aunt had made the trip nearly unbearable, despite the physical comforts. “Another example of my mother’s thoughtlessness in dying young.”

  Dolora pursed her thin lips. She found Patrisha’s sense of humor to be quite distorted at times. “Tomas would serve as his uncle if only you would ask.”

  “Tomas already tries to act the part of my brother without being asked.”

  “He’s your cousin.”

  “He’s—” Patrisha bit back her reply. Tomas was a pigheaded ass, but he was also Dolora’s son. He came by his aggravating nature honestly. “He’s kind, to be so interested in our welfare, but I can deal with Dnnys on my own.”

  Dolora probed fitfully at the contents of the trunk, considering whether to pull everything out and start over again. “Being an only child has made you very headstrong.”

  “Thank God.” The curse slipped out before Patrisha could stop herself. “I’m sorry, Auntie Dolo.” She shamelessly plied the old endearment, so little used now. “It’s just that the news Dnnys brought has upset me.”

  Two bright spots still colored her aunt’s cheeks, but the woman accepted the apology. “Do you believe what the boy says?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Patrisha. “He’s quite certain the ship has changed course away from New Oregon.”

  “Which shows Dnnys hasn’t learned a lesson from his last censure,” sniffed Dolora. “He’s still sneaking away from the community.”

  And they were back to their first argument all over again. Patrisha took her son’s part as before, carefully linking her defense to the Farmers’ best interests. “We need his knowledge of the Enterprise to protect ourselves. And our cargo.”