THE CHILDREN OF HAMLIN

by Carmen Carter

  “He knew what I was doing all the time.”

  The captain had suspected as much. “Then why did Deelor deny it?”

  Ruthe didn’t answer. She pulled her instrument into parts, then slipped the pieces into separate pockets in her cloak. Each section had its own place. “He knows other things. Dangerous things that he’s not telling.”

  “Will you tell me?” asked Riker.

  Her head jerked up. She studied Riker’s face, as if seeing him for the first time. “I’ve told you things before. Now it’s his turn.”

  Pushing Riker aside, she raced nimbly down the rungs of the access chute. He scrambled after her, but by the time he dropped back into the corridor below, Ruthe was gone.

  Chapter Twelve

  UNCOUNTED NUMBERS OF STARS glittered brightly outside the windows of the observation lounge, but their light cast no warmth on the three men inside.

  “You knew there was an adult still aboard the B Flat and were prepared to let the Choraii leave with him. Why?” demanded Captain Picard.

  “Ruthe acted of her own accord, Captain,” said Deelor with a greater show of conviction than he had exhibited hours before in that same room. “I knew nothing . . . ”

  Picard made a deliberate show of losing his temper.

  He slammed his fist down on the tabletop and raised his voice to shout. “I’m tired of your self-serving games, Ambassador Deelor. Or Agent Deelor—or whoever you really are. No more evasions, no more crumbs of information. I want the whole truth of what you’re doing out here.”

  The expression of innocence had frozen on Deelor’s face. He rubbed it away with one hand. Beneath that mask, his face was gaunt and weary. “Yes, I knew about Jason and I knew that Ruthe planned to leave him.” He sagged deeper into his seat, as if in need of its support to continue. “I agreed not to interfere with her decision because I knew if we brought him here he would probably die. There have been other exchanges, ones that not even Ruthe knows about. In all, the Federation has recovered twelve of the original Hamlin captives.”

  “And they’ve all died?” asked Riker.

  “Not all,” said Deelor. “But those that aren’t dead are withdrawn, catatonic. Only young children seem able to adjust to life outside of the Choraii ships.”

  Picard thought of the casualties in sickbay and his bitterness increased. “Why didn’t you tell me this before we brought Jason aboard?”

  His answer confirmed the captain’s fear. “Because you might have let him remain with the Choraii,” said Deelor. “And being a man of integrity, you would have recorded that decision in your Captain’s Log. I have fewer scruples. I was willing to let Jason go, but only if no one knew. There are too many officials in high places that want the Hamlin captives brought back.”

  Picard might fault the man’s ethics, but at least Deelor was finally being candid. “Why is his return so important?”

  “Different reasons for different admirals. Some are under the belief, perhaps misguided, that the survivors can be salvaged or that a crippled life in our world is better than leaving them with the aliens who killed their parents. Others want the adult captives returned on the off chance that one of them will provide some useful information. You see, the children can’t tell us how the Choraii stardrive works.”

  “No!” Picard brushed aside Deelor’s explanation with scorn. “I won’t believe Zagráth would sacrifice lives for that knowledge.”

  “Don’t judge her too harshly,” said Deelor. He bit down on his lip, stifling the words that almost followed. Drumming his fingers on the table, the first nervous tic he had ever betrayed, he studied Picard, then Riker. The tapping stopped and Deelor’s narrative resumed. “The Romulans are after that drive, or will be soon. At least one of their battlecruisers, The Defender, was destroyed in an encounter with the Choraii. There may have been other clashes, rumors indicate, but we don’t know the outcomes.” He had their undivided attention now. “My original mission was to discover how the Choraii defeated The Defender.”

  Riker caught the connection immediately. “By letting them destroy the Ferrel.”

  “If necessary.”

  “You’re a cold-blooded bastard,” observed the captain.

  “Look beyond the nose on your face, Picard!” cried Deelor. “What do you think will happen if the Romulans unravel the workings of the Choraii drive? They could fly through the Neutral Zone to the very heart of the Federation and lay waste to entire worlds. I’ve walked through the carnage they leave behind. Imagine what would have happened at the border outpost if the Romulans had possessed a superior flight technology.”

  “The Enterprise was sent there to maintain a balance of force,” reflected Picard, settling back into his chair. “And a very shaky balance it was.”

  “Yes, I know. I was there, too. Only I was walking on the other side—that’s how I learned about the fate of The Defender. Fortunately, I made it back across the Neutral Zone before I bled to death.”

  Once again, Picard found his opinion of Deelor shifting to accommodate a new facet of the man’s character. He clearly possessed physical courage. The captain listened with growing respect to Deelor’s impassioned speech.

  “In the interests of Federation security. That’s not a phrase to be used lightly. It means a few dozen captives, or the crew of a starship, may be sacrificed to save millions of lives. Captain Manin forgot that part of the equation when he tried to detonate the Ferrel. He wanted a clean death for his crew and he wanted revenge on the Choraii. I had to stop him.”

  Bit by bit the pieces of the puzzle were coming together in Picard’s mind. “That’s why you were shot.”

  “As you’ve pointed out on several occasions, people feel quite strongly about the Hamlin massacre—too strongly, perhaps. Violent hatreds demand swift military reactions, but the interests of the Federation are best served by the slower progress of diplomacy. Since the exchange of human captives between the Choraii ships serves as a bonding gift, we’re hoping that our trade exchanges for the young children will lead to similar ties between the Choraii and the Federation and the eventual exchange of technological secrets.”

  “My actions certainly haven’t improved those relations,” said Picard with a weary sigh.

  “Conflicting Federation policy set us up for a no-win situation. Some officials want the adult captives back, while others want to maintain cordial relations.” Deelor shrugged philosophically. “The B Flat is just one ship in the local cluster, and not among the most important. I’ll start again with another.”

  “You could have saved a lot of trouble by telling me all this in the first place.”

  “I shouldn’t be telling you now,” said Deelor. He revealed another part of himself to the two officers, one more chilling than the others. “And if what I’ve told you leaves this room, you’ll both be dead men. I’ll see to it personally.”

  When Deelor returned to his cabin suite he was surprised to find Ruthe comfortably curled on a low couch listening to a Vivaldi string concerto. She looked up when he entered, then returned to her contemplation of the music. Silence was no clue as to her mood since her greetings were always sporadic and perfunctory. As he had learned over the course of their association, Ruthe would remain remote and impersonal until she had need of him or he addressed her. Deelor had expected that the fight would change their tenuous relationship in some manner, but perhaps she had already relegated that scene to the past.

  Or perhaps her betrayal of him had evened the score.

  Settling down on a chair, Deelor let the rushing counterpoint of violins and violas sweep away the tensions born of his confrontation with the starship officers. If Ruthe held no grudge, neither would he.

  Picard had stayed behind in the observation lounge after the other two men left. The view stretching outside the broad sweep of windows never bored him because the pattern of far-distant stars was always different, always changing. Those elusive beacons usually challenged and inspired him with their beauty, b
ut just now the vista seemed bleak.

  He heard the doors to the room slide open and thought for a second that Riker had returned, but the steps coming up behind him were too light to belong to his first officer. Then Picard caught Beverly Crusher’s reflection moving across the glass window. She stopped a few feet away from him and followed his gaze out into space. They stood side by side in silence for several minutes before she spoke.

  “If you look at the stars for too long, you can start to feel like a god. Or to think you should be able to act like one. Omniscient, omnipotent, infallible.”

  Picard did not respond.

  “Captains and doctors are both prone to the syndrome. We expect to solve all problems and cure all ills, and then blame ourselves if we fail at impossible tasks. Or blame others.”

  Picard finally glanced over at her. “Am I being lectured, Dr. Crusher?”

  “Something like that.” Her eyes were still locked on the scene outside the ship. “I’m better at lectures than I am at apologies.”

  “I don’t need either.”

  “You deserve both.” Crusher took a deep breath and faced him squarely. “An apology for what I said to you in sickbay and a lecture for listening to me when I was in too foul a mood to make any sense.”

  The captain’s stiff posture loosened. “I wasn’t in a particularly good humor myself,” said Picard wryly. “And you didn’t say anything that I hadn’t already told myself a hundred times over.”

  “Which proves we both need a vacation.”

  Picard smiled and the strain between them dissolved, only to be replaced by another, more familiar tension. Crusher took a step back and Picard looked out at the stars again. He wondered how he could have mistaken their brilliance for desolation.

  “How is Lieutenant Yar doing?”

  “Tearing apart my sickbay,” sighed Crusher. “I’ll release her soon, unless I strangle her first.”

  “And Jason?”

  “Sedated,” said Crusher tersely. “I’ve established his identity from the old Hamlin medical records. His DNA profile matches that of Jason Reardon. He was three years old at the time of his abduction, not much older than the child we recovered.”

  “Are they related?”

  “No,” she said. “However, I used genetic markers to trace the boy’s ancestry. His father was one of the original kidnapped group but his mother was apparently born in captivity, the result of a union between two maturing children.”

  “A third-generation captive,” said the captain. His brows lifted in alarm.

  “Yes, and he’s probably not the only one. Given their good health, the human population may be growing fairly quickly and spreading throughout the Choraii ships. How will we ever recover them all?”

  “Is that even the right question?” asked the captain, recalling Andrew Deelor’s revelation of the high fatalities among the rescued captives.

  Crusher raised her hand to stop him. “I’m not ready to deal with that issue yet. Oh, Jean-Luc, if you could have seen Jason when he beamed aboard . . . those terror-stricken eyes . . . “ She shook herself. “I’ve got to get back to sickbay. Jason’s sedative is due to wear off soon.”

  They walked out of the lounge together but parted after crossing over the threshold. Picard was halfway down the opposite corridor when the doctor whirled around and called to him.

  “By the way, Captain. Professor Butterfield requested a caudifera salad for his lunch.”

  Although Data had been assigned a cabin of his own like his human companions, he was more often found in Geordi’s quarters or the ship’s library. Both places fed the only hunger of which he was capable: curiosity. The android was free from the demands of a human body, but he delighted in the search for knowledge and acquired facts with the same relish some people experienced when they encountered a new culinary delicacy.

  Since Geordi was still in command of the bridge, Data chose to spend the remaining hour of his off-duty shift pursuing his most recent line of research. He had mastered the texts explaining the physiological necessity for sleep among organic life forms, but certain psychological aspects still puzzled him. Upon entering the ship’s library, however, Data was distracted by unusual activity in one corner of the room.

  “Oh, hi, Data,” sighed Wesley when the android approached the print terminal. He tried to gather up the hardcover books that covered the table, but Data had already picked up one of the volumes.

  “Very interesting,” said Data, inspecting the title on the spine. Personally, he found the printed format to be somewhat clumsy and time-consuming, yet its close association with humans lent the medium a certain charm. “Basic Engineering Principles. Is this for archival purposes? You have already mastered this material”

  “I’m doing a favor for a friend.” Wesley removed the final bound volume from the printer assembly. “And, Data, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this to yourself.”

  Data frowned. The phrase was unfamiliar to him. “You wish me to have a copy as well?”

  “No, I mean”—Wesley took a deep breath—“well, don’t tell anyone about what I’m doing. You see, it’s, uh . . . ”

  “A secret?” asked Data.

  “Yes,” said Wesley.

  The android smiled and recited enthusiastically, “Secret: a clandestine operation, a sub rosa endeavor, a—”

  Wesley interrupted his recital. “Sorry, sir, but I’m running late for class.” With an apologetic smile the boy gathered up his printed materials and hastened toward the exit.

  Data stood lost in thought, pondering the mystique of secrets.

  Now that he had one, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.

  Each time Riker met with Farmer Patrisha, the woman greeted him with greater civility. On this occasion, when he came to her suite, she offered the first officer some tea and he accepted. They sipped the bitter herbal brew in companionable silence before moving on to business.

  Riker hoped Patrisha’s cordiality would stand the test of his tidings. Setting aside his empty cup, he began. “I have good news. We’re back on course to New Oregon.”

  “Will we arrive in time for the decanting?” asked Patrisha.

  “No, I’m afraid not.” Riker was frank about that aspect, then launched into his deception. “Our warp engines are undergoing some routine maintenance work that will slow our progress.” Fortunately, Logan wasn’t likely to come in contact with the Farmers. The chief engineer wouldn’t appreciate having his department maligned.

  “How long will we be delayed?”

  Smiling, he tried to downplay the answer. “Only two weeks.” His bravado was unnecessary; Patrisha accepted the news without comment. Riker wondered if her composure was influenced by Dolora’s decision to live full-time on the holodeck farm. That thought brought a second issue to mind. “About the decanting. The easiest way to move the stasis machinery to the holodeck is to use the transporter.”

  “My people will never agree to that,” said Patrisha immediately. Her brows flew upward at the heretical proposal. “Transporters are definitely against Farmer creed.”

  “I was afraid that would be the case.” The entire community and their belongings had come aboard the Enterprise by shuttlecraft, a process that should have taken only one hour but lasted for five instead. Shuttles had flitted back and forth between the starbase dock and the hangar deck with colonists riding both ways in a noisy muddle of lost baggage and separated families. The first officer wanted to avoid a replay of that episode. “The alternative is to dismantle the machine so that the stasis cells can be carried by hand.”

  “Which means the entire project would end in disaster for the animals,” concluded Patrisha without any prompting. Evidently, she remembered the disorganized boarding just as clearly as Riker.

  “It’s not my place to say so,” demurred Riker, uncertain as to how far he could push her.

  “And not mine either.” Patrisha set her mug down onto the table. “These matters are decided by a commu
nity consensus.”

  And they both knew what the community would decide. At least he had tried, thought Riker as he stood to take his leave. Perhaps the Farmers could be persuaded to allow members of the starship crew to assist in the delivery process. He wondered how many of his own people would be needed to counteract the inefficiency of the colonists.

  “Of course, if you don’t ask, they can’t refuse,” said Patrisha, also rising from her chair.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes, but she made her position clear as they walked to the door. “If the stasis equipment is in place tomorrow morning, it will be too late for anyone to object. And possibly no one will even wonder how it got there.”

  “Thank you for the tea, Farmer Patrisha,” said Riker, smiling broadly. “And for the advice.”

  “Please don’t mention it,” said Patrisha firmly. “To anyone.”

  “I can’t stand another minute of bedrest,” cried Tasha Yar, storming into the doctor’s office. “I could be on the bridge doing something useful. We’re in the middle of a highly classified mission, and my confinement is interfering with essential security duties.” She planted her fists on Crusher’s desk. “Besides, I feel fine.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Tasha,” sighed Beverly Crusher. She leaned back to put a little more distance between herself and the lieutenant. “But I’ve been holding you here until I got this back.” She held up a tape cassette. The lab analysis report had been on her desk when the doctor returned to sickbay. She’d initiated the tests as a routine precaution—but the results had been an unpleasant surprise. “What do you remember about the Choraii ship’s atmosphere?”

  “It was just like drowning,” Yar shuddered. “The first few moments were the worst. After that, breathing in wasn’t as bad as I expected. The liquid was actually rather pleasant. It had this smell, almost a taste, of cinnamon.”

  That had been the telltale clue. “I had a sample of the scented liquid tested. It’s laced with a drug, a narcotic.”