THE CHILDREN OF HAMLIN

by Carmen Carter

  The first phase of the exchange had begun; Riker and Yar immediately prepared for the second. Dr. Crusher watched as the two officers pulled bars of lead from a small chest and stacked them neatly onto the platform near the area Ruthe had vacated.

  “The payment is ready,” said Riker when the last bar had been counted out.

  “Yes,” said Crusher with a worried frown. “But just whom are we buying?”

  The leisurely pace of the Choraii greeting ritual had prepared the Enterprise crew for another prolonged interval during contact, but that knowledge did not lessen the tension of waiting. Conversation on the bridge faltered, then ended altogether. An hour passed without any signal from the translator. Then another.

  Riker was the first to question the delay. “I advise we go after her.” His voice echoed over the bridge intercom.

  “Absolutely not,” countered Deelor. “Ruthe has been on Choraii ships before—she knows what she’s doing. We wait for her signal.”

  “She may be in trouble.”

  The ambassador dropped all pretense of courtesy.

  “I’m in command of this mission, Mr. Riker.” He severed the contact with a savage flick at his chest emblem.

  “His concern is only natural,” said Picard in his first officer’s defense.

  “These matters take time,” Deelor declared, glaring at the image of the B Flat on the viewscreen. “You can’t rush the Choraii.”

  “Evidently not.” Picard rubbed the back of his neck. Tempers had frayed as time passed, his own included. “Counselor Troi?”

  Deanna shook her head in frustration. “I don’t sense any distress, but my impressions from the ship are still very clouded. Even at close quarters I’ve never read any of Ruthe’s feelings.”

  “Mr. Data, what can you determine from the translator’s communications link?”

  “She appears to be exploring the ship. I have tracked her path through most of the spheres in the cluster.”

  “And the Hamlin captive?”

  “Also present,” said Data, frowning. “However, the currents and eddies of the atmosphere are disordering my scan data. I am registering an echo in certain life-sign readings.”

  “Can you compensate?” asked Picard.

  “The complexity of the problem presents a challenge. I will attempt a recalibration that will take the density and viscosity into account. If my controlling logarithm is increased by—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Data. A detailed explanation is unnecessary.”

  “Yes, sir,” sighed the android. He continued his work in silence.

  At the end of the third hour, Lieutenant Yar recorded a single beep from Ruthe’s com link.

  “One or two people to beam over?” asked Riker.

  “I can’t tell,” said Yar. “The site readings are too garbled.” She entered the source coordinates into the system controls and specified a wide beam that would pull in Ruthe and any possible companion. As the flash from the transport energy filled the room, Dr. Crusher automatically reached for the medical kit hanging at her side.

  Ruthe’s body shimmered on the chamber platform, then solidified. Her bare skin glistened with moisture and liquid streamed out from her nose as she exhaled the Choraii atmosphere from her lungs.

  She carried a young child in her arms.

  Only one person was prepared for the sight. Dr. Crusher sprang forward and plucked the boy from the translator’s careless grasp. The doctor placed a palm over the child’s chest and pushed her hand gently but firmly beneath his rib cage. He coughed up fluid, then gasped in his first breath of air. Seconds later he began to cry.

  “You’d better tell the captain,” said Crusher to Riker. She wrapped the screaming child in a blanket and raced for sickbay.

  “A child?” stormed Picard when Riker had completed his intercom report to the bridge. The captain turned on Deelor, who still sat beside him. “Were you aware of this situation, Ambassador?”

  “Not in this instance,” said Deelor, lowering his voice. “But we have recovered other descendants of the original Hamlin group.”

  “A fact you failed to mention during the briefing,” Picard pointed out without any drop in his own volume. “And one that increases the complexity of the entire issue. The Hamlin Massacre is still a sensitive episode for the Federation, even after fifty years. That the humans held by the Choraii are growing in number can only inflame emotions.”

  “I am well aware of that, Captain, but this is neither the time nor the place to discuss the matter.” Deelor nervously scanned the bridge. “This was one aspect of the Hamlin project which I had hoped to keep restricted to a smaller circle for precisely the reasons you just stated.”

  “I trust my crew’s discretion,” snapped Picard. “Which is more than I can say for—”

  “Captain,” said Troi. She had taken Riker’s seat on the bridge and her call forced Picard to turn away from Deelor. “With your permission, I’d like to offer my assistance to Dr. Crusher. I haven’t been of any use in our dealings with the Choraii, but I am certain I can help with the captive.”

  Picard granted the counselor’s request with a curt nod. Troi rose from her chair and walked to the forward elevator. When the doors parted, she stepped aside to let Ruthe leave the compartment. “How is the child?” Troi asked anxiously.

  The translator shrugged. “Well enough, I suppose,” she said before Troi was whisked away. With an unhurried stride, Ruthe approached the command center. Her hair was still wet from her immersion in the Choraii ship’s atmosphere, and small beads of fluid trickled down her neck, darkening the yoke of her robe. She was careful to hold the wooden shaft of her flute away from the damp cloth.

  “Why didn’t you tell us about the child?” demanded Picard.

  “The exchange was for their captive. Age wasn’t the issue.” She lowered herself into the chair Troi had vacated. “Has the lead been transported yet? The Choraii will expect a parting song.”

  Picard shook his head. “Lieutenant Yar will beam the metal over as soon as the ambassador orders us to do so.”

  “We have waited patiently for the Choraii,” said Deelor. Leaning back, he stretched his legs forward, out onto the deck, and crossed them at the ankles. “They can wait until we’ve checked the condition of the trade goods.”

  “And do we return the boy if he is damaged?” asked Picard bitterly.

  “No, but I might insist on a reduced price.”

  “Your humor is offensive.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be funny,” said Deelor. “I’m looking at the situation from the perspective of the Choraii. You could do with a little more objectivity yourself, Captain.”

  Picard clenched his jaw. Several seconds passed before he tapped at his com link. “Picard to Crusher. Please report on the Hamlin child.”

  “Male, approximately two years of age. His lungs are handling the transition to an oxygen environment quite well.” A wailing cry could be heard in the background. “The results of my exam are still being compiled, but he appears to be in excellent physical condition. He’s been very well cared for.”

  “Of course he has been,” said Ruthe at the conclusion of Crusher’s evaluation. “Humans are highly valued by the Choraii.”

  “Valued for what?” asked Picard. “Their labor?”

  Ruthe shook her head. “Humans are never put to work. They serve . . . a symbolic function. The gift of a child from one ship to another cements bonds of friendship within the cluster. In order for the tie to be honored, the child must be treated with kindness and consideration.”

  “Pampered pet or slave, the distinction is a fine one,” observed Picard. His voice had regained its former edge. “And equally demeaning.”

  Deelor sighed heavily. “Let’s leave the ethical debate until another time, shall we?” As he crossed his arms over his chest, one finger flicked his metal insignia. “Deelor to transporter room. Proceed with the exchange.”

  The three people seated at the command center s
tared at the image of the Choraii ship on the forward viewscreen, waiting silently for the trade to reach its conclusion. The soft chatter of Data’s ops console filtered back to them. The android’s hands moved back and forth over the panel, never still for more than an instant.

  “Riker to Captain. The lead shipment has been delivered.”

  At a nod from the ambassador, Ruthe picked up her flute and began to play a loose, unstructured melody. The B Flat slowly drifted away to the strains of her farewell song.

  Deelor watched the ship leave through half-closed eyes. When Picard stirred in place and opened his mouth to speak, the ambassador cut him off with an imperious wave of the hand. “Listen,” he whispered.

  The captain rose from his command chair and paced up to the helm, but he issued his orders quietly. “Mr. Data, set a heading for New Oregon.”

  Data used one hand to input course coordinates, but his other hand continued manipulating sensor input from the retreating Choraii ship.

  “Mr. La Forge, prepare for engagement of warp drive.”

  “Captain, wait,” said Data suddenly. He looked up from his console. “My life-sign readings were not in error after all. There is a faint but unmistakable profile of another human still on board the Choraii ship.”

  Chapter Ten

  CAPTAIN PICARD PACED the deck of the observation lounge, circling the conference table and the three people seated there. He stopped opposite from Ruthe. “Data tracked your progress through every sphere in the B Flat. You knew there was another human on board.”

  “Yes,” she admitted defensively. “But he doesn’t count. He’s too old to bring back.”

  “And who are you to make that judgment?” Picard switched his gaze to Deelor, who sat next to her. “Or was this your decision?”

  “I knew nothing about it,” said Deelor. “Federation policy is very clear on this issue. All Hamlin survivors are to be recovered.”

  “I spoke with Jason,” said Ruthe. “I asked if he wanted to come with me and the child, but the thought of leaving the Choraii frightened him. He’s been with them too long to want another life.”

  Picard paused in mid-stride, then took a seat at the table. “Of course, I should have realized—it’s only natural for any captives to be confused by our appearance—but this man can be helped to readjust to his native environment. We can’t abandon him simply because of his fear.”

  Ruthe shook her head. The captain’s reassurance did not change her mind. “Tell them what happens,” she asked of Deelor. “Make them understand.”

  Deelor did not answer her. He stared down at the tabletop as if searching for a reply on its glassy surface. He found none.

  She grew anxious at his silence. “Please.”

  The ambassador flinched at the utterance of that simple word which she so rarely used. He raised his head, but looked only at Picard when he spoke. “Official Federation policy dictates that we must recover all Hamlin survivors.”

  “No!” said Ruthe. Her face, usually still and expressionless, was animated with resentment. “It’s a waste. He’ll die. They all do.”

  “Is that true?” asked Picard.

  But Deelor fell silent again. Dr. Crusher answered the question instead. “Of the five Hamlin captives bought by the Ferengi, all three adults did eventually die. Only the two children lived.”

  “I see,” Picard said, dragging the two words out ominously. He was disturbed both by the knowledge and by the doctor’s possession of it. “Why wasn’t I informed of this earlier?”

  “I’m sorry, but I received the pertinent files only a few hours ago . . . ”

  Picard waved aside her apology; he knew who was to blame. Divide and conquer seemed to be one Deelor’s favorite maxims. “Continue, Doctor.”

  “The exact cause of death was different in each case, but emotional stress was recognized as a prominent contributing factor to their physical deterioration. One suffered a fatal heart attack; the second died of pneumonia.” Crusher took a breath, then continued. “The third committed suicide.”

  “So, what is your medical recommendation?” asked Picard, wondering if the decision for future action would be his. Deelor had dropped all presumption to authority since Data’s announcement on the bridge. “Will this man live if we bring him back?”

  “I can’t predict the outcome based on three people,” protested Crusher. “It’s too small a sample from which to draw any valid conclusions. In addition, there’s no way to judge what effect the intervening stay with the Ferengi had on their final condition.”

  “Ferengi or human,” said Ruthe. “Don’t you see it’s all the same? This place is too different from the Choraii ship. Leave him alone.”

  “We can’t,” said Deelor quietly. “The decision has already been made at higher levels. We have no choice but to bargain for the last captive.”

  “I won’t translate,” said Ruthe stubbornly.

  “But the Choraii can speak Federation Standard.” Picard’s statement startled both Ruthe and Deelor. “Ruthe told my first officer they learned our language from the children.”

  “Yes, that is true,” said Deelor with a reluctant nod. “However, our language form doesn’t tend to facilitate communications. The harshness of the sound puts the Choraii on the defensive.”

  “We have no choice but to try,” said Picard, and Deelor did not contradict him. The captain appealed to Ruthe next. “Surely you can see that?”

  “No. And I won’t help.” With this last protest, Ruthe ran from the room.

  Sound does not travel through the vacuum of space, but instincts forged by planet-bound evolution are not easily extinguished. So while the Enterprise shadowed the B Flat, the members of the bridge crew assumed the demeanor of a predator stalking its prey. They talked only when necessary and moved with soft, silent steps over the carpeted deck. Even the engines were subdued, reduced to impulse speed. The ship’s pace was set by the leisurely progress of the Choraii vessel as it sang its private song of alien dreams. Data had established a correlation between the ship’s spiraling path and the notes of its language, but the significance of the pattern was still beyond his comprehension. Perhaps Ruthe could have deciphered its meaning, but the translator had not returned to the bridge.

  “Status report, Number One,” demanded the captain as he crossed to the command center. His voice was automatically pitched low in deference to the hushed ambiance.

  Riker answered with equal restraint. “The B Flat is moving slowly. We’ve been careful to keep it just within sensor range so our continued presence isn’t detected.”

  “Ruthe refuses to help us lure them back,” said Picard. He did not elaborate on her unwillingness. “We shall have to signal them ourselves.”

  “That calls for a bit of trickery—and I think Data may have just what we need.” Riker looked to the android, who nodded in reply. “Ruthe played a version of the greeting for me in the crew lounge and Data managed to record it on the ambassador’s vocoder. Since the Choraii have never heard this particular song before, they may think she’s singing to them in person.”

  “Excellent,” said Picard.

  Data stepped away from the ops station to pass the vocoder on the Lieutenant Yar and instruct her in its operation. “The greeting is cued. Begin broadcasting as soon as we’re in radio-contact range.”

  “You’re a very persuasive man, Mr. Riker,” observed Deelor as he took a seat next to the commander. “Do all young women fall for your oily charm? Or just the trusting ones, like Ruthe?”

  Riker’s jaw tightened, but he did not respond.

  “Close in on the B Flat, Mr. La Forge,” Picard instructed. “Maintain impulse power, but be prepared to go to warp speed on my order.”

  “Hailing distance reached. Ruthe’s greeting is being transmitted now,” announced Lieutenant Yar.

  The B Flat responded to the strains of the flute by weaving an irregular path back toward the Enterprise. The bubble cluster grew larger on the main viewer.
As before, the Choraii voices responded with their own melody, then fell silent waiting for Ruthe to explain the recall.

  “Ambassador,” said Picard. “Will you speak to the Choraii or shall I?”

  Deelor roused himself from an unblinking stare at the screen. His former quicksilver manner had slowed. “I’ll speak to them.”

  Animation returned to his features. The ambassador stood, took a deep breath, and answered the Choraii with the single sustained naming-note of the B Flat. His tenor voice was amazingly good, thought Picard.

  “Who are you?” wavered a single Choraii voice, filtered through the liquid environment of the alien ship. Its words still rose and fell to the demands of a musical cadence and the effect on human ears was of a haunting siren call.

  “I am Deelor,” said the ambassador, though he kept his voice soft, smoothing out the roughness of the spoken sound.

  “Where’s the other one? Why doesn’t she sing for us?”

  “She’s tired and in need of rest. My speech isn’t as pleasing as her songs, but will you listen to me?”

  A second Choraii voice replaced the first. “What do you want?”

  “The trade pleased us,” explained Deelor. “We wish to trade again and provide you with more lead.”

  “But we can’t pay for it.”

  “But you can . . . “ Deelor faltered for an instant, then recovered. “You can pay us with the other human.”

  A clashing chord of notes echoed over the broadcast band. All four Choraii joined together in a jumble of sound until one of their number regained dominance. “No trade.”

  Picard recognized the voice of the fourth singer, who had opposed the arrangements for the first captive exchange. Deelor adopted the persuasive wheedle of a merchant trader. “We offer any metal of worth to you.”