THE CHILDREN OF HAMLIN

by Carmen Carter

  “I checked the test answers this morning. Passing grade, but just barely.”

  Dnnys frowned for a moment, then sighed in resignation. “If I had more time to study, I think I could do better.”

  “I know you could,” said Wesley. “You’ve picked up the math concepts really quickly and you’ve got a lot of practical experience from your journey. Now all you need is more practice.” He took the pitchfork from Dnnys’s hands and tossed a load of hay over the edge. “So get to work. I can’t cover your chores for more than an hour.”

  Dnnys scrambled to the back of the barn and pulled a book out from under a loose board. The pages fell open to the middle of the volume. Squinting in the dim light of the loft, the boy began to read.

  Iovino plucked the last green grape from a denuded stem. Several other bare branches were scattered about the table. “Grape?” she asked, enunciating clearly.

  Moses nodded vigorously and reached out for the piece of fruit. Snatching the food from her hand, Moses placed the grape against tightly pursed lips, then sucked. It entered his mouth with a faint pop. He held out his hand for more.

  “That’s enough grapes for now,” said Iovino. The boy had eaten nothing else that day, but it was a good beginning on solid food. He even recognized the sound of the word. Another more serious difficulty remained, however. He refused to swallow liquids. Perhaps the food on his homeships had provided sufficient water, but on board the Enterprise he was chronically dehydrated.

  Iovino had a plan for changing that.

  Making a deliberate show of her actions, exaggerating all her body movements to capture the boy’s attention, she reached for a glass of water on the table. A brightly colored straw stuck up from the rim. Iovino slowly lifted the glass up to her mouth and sucked noisily on the straw until her cheeks were puffed out with the water she held in her mouth.

  Pushing her face up to his, Iovino squirted the liquid right at Moses. Water dribbled down from his forehead over his face and cheeks and down his chin. He laughed with delight at the trick.

  “You like that one?” she asked. “Want me to do it again?” He didn’t react to the words, but when she lifted the glass again he crowed.

  She repeated the sequence several times, then presented the boy with the drinking straw. He didn’t need any coaching on its use, which added an interesting note to his sparse file, and filled his mouth with water just as she had. His technique was better than hers. A jet of liquid splattered against Iovino’s nose.

  “Very good,” laughed the intern. “Now it’s my turn again.” The game continued back and forth until they were both drenched. She refilled the glass and offered Moses the straw, but this time slipped her hands up to his mouth before he could spew out the water. Her thumbs sealed his lips and an index finger pressing in on each cheek forced the water down the boy’s throat.

  He didn’t laugh, but before he could cry Iovino offered him a chance to play the same trick on her. She swallowed a mouthful of liquid when his clumsy fingers poked at her face. “Wasn’t that fun?”

  Moses evidently agreed, because he sucked from the straw and puffed out his cheeks but didn’t spit out the contents. Instead, he waited for the doctor to play her part in this new game.

  Dr. Crusher read parts of Iovino’s report aloud to the captain, but out of deference to the intern’s dignity she refrained from showing him the visual record. The sight of the boy gleefully squirting water into Lisa’s face had provided the chief medical officer with some much needed comic relief, but the scene would remain private.

  “A resourceful approach,” agreed Picard. He smiled at the doctor’s description of the water fight, but he was disturbed by the drawn quality of Beverly Crusher’s face. Fatigue accentuated her high cheekbones and washed the color from her fair skin.

  “She’s one of my best doctors,” said Crusher proudly, unaware of Picard’s scrutiny. “The boy is making good progress under her care. He may be walking by the time we reach Starbase Ten. Of course, it helps that he’s so young. Children have an amazing ability to adapt to new environments.”

  Fifteen years ago the translator had gone through the same rehabilitation. Picard tried to calculate the time difference, but her present age was difficult to determine. “How old was Ruthe when she was rescued?”

  “The results of her initial medical exam indicated she was about ten, but that estimate could be off by several years. There’s practically no information on the effects of the Choraii environment on early physical development.”

  “Ten years old,” said Picard thoughtfully. “Imagine learning to breathe air, to walk and talk, to drink water, all for the first time at that age.”

  “Worse yet,” said Crusher, “imagine that effort at over fifty years of age.” Her expectations for Jason’s rehabilitation were more modest: to keep him alive. The holodeck project had seemed promising at first, however Yar’s recall was limited and Data was increasingly guarded about the chances of designing a convincing simulation.

  “Beverly, you’re limping,” said Picard sharply as he watched the doctor cross the room to her desk.

  “I hadn’t noticed.” Now that he brought it to her attention, Crusher felt a dull throb in her right leg. The realization didn’t trouble her. She had experienced intermittent pain since injuring the leg two weeks before.

  “I thought the wound had healed.” The laceration had been deep and the resultant loss of blood very nearly proved fatal. In fact Picard had never really admitted to himself how close Beverly Crusher had come to dying on the planet Minos.

  “It has healed. I’ve just been on my feet for too long.”

  “Aren’t you the one who warned me about feeling invincible?”

  Crusher laughed wanly. “I feel more like a squashed bug.”

  “Then get some sleep, like the rest of us.” He refrained from telling her how tired she looked.

  Dr. Crusher was too preoccupied to listen to the advice. She turned to him and for a moment her professional composure dropped away, as if she were lowering a piece of armor that had grown too heavy to hold in place. “Jean-Luc, if we don’t succeed in creating the Choraii ship holo, I don’t know what else I can do for Jason.”

  Her voice betrayed a quality of fear Picard had never heard before, not even when her own life had been in danger in the caverns of Minos. Then, as now, he had no answers.

  The simulation released Yar from its hold. She had learned to anticipate the fall now and landed upright on two feet without losing her balance. Her legs ached from the repeated impact and the deck was marred by scuff marks from her boots, but she was too proud to ask Data to add the entry portal ahead of schedule. Especially since her performance was hindering their progress.

  The android looked at her expectantly, waiting for a comment.

  “I can’t tell anymore,” cried Yar, throwing up her hands in despair. “Warmer, colder, more pressure, less pressure. Data, we’ve tried it so many different ways that I’m all mixed up now.” At one time her mind had retained a crisp, clear image of the Choraii ship, but that picture could no longer be trusted. Whenever she reached out to touch it, the image shifted away like a desert mirage.

  “Perhaps we should work on the viscosity index next,” suggested Data. “You said that was near completion.”

  “When did I say that?” groaned Yar. “Data, it doesn’t make any sense to go on.” She turned her burning face away from the android.

  Data possessed an infinite store of patience, and he would have continued for as long as necessary, but he felt the futility of their efforts as well. “Dr. Crusher will be disappointed.” Human emotions often puzzled him, but he had detected Dr. Crusher’s reliance on this project. And her urgency.

  He called up the projection image again and studied its appearance critically. Regardless of the interior programming, the exterior of the Choraii bubble matched his visual records. “Perhaps this will be sufficient for the treatment.”

  “Maybe,” sighed Yar. She t
ried one last time to summon a memory that had not been overwritten with the trial and error of their design experiments, only to sense a further retreat of that reality; her brief experience had been too fragile to withstand hard use.

  Data resigned himself to the fact that the project had reached its end. He prepared to lock in his most recent model when the startled look on Yar’s face alerted him to the presence of a third person.

  Neither of them had heard Ruthe’s approach. The translator appeared as if from thin air at the holodeck entrance. She stood silent and unmoving, mesmerized by the translucent orange sphere inside. Then, as if pulled over the threshold against her will, she took one step closer, then another, gliding across the floor until she was within an arm’s reach of the image.

  Ruthe stretched out a hand to touch the bubble’s surface. When her fingers met resistance, she pulled back as if burned by the contact. She turned to face Yar. “How can I get inside?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  RUTHE FLOATED FREELY in the warm ocean at the very center of the Choraii cluster. The innermost sphere was large, several times her length, bounded on all sides by the flat ovals marking its joining with the spheres around it. With lazy strokes she swam up to the faceted surface and kicked her feet against the smooth shell, stretching the flexible fabric. The spring of the wall’s return pushed her across the interior to the far side. Her steepled fingers pierced an entry membrane to another sphere. She glided through to the other side and heard the pop of the closing gate. Stamping the flat of her foot against the nearest surface, she gained another burst of speed. She sped onward in that manner through a succession of spheres.

  Her race through the cluster of bubbles had begun for the sheer joy of it. She moved in time to a lilting music which rippled through the surrounding liquid and shivered across her skin. She tumbled and bounced with careless ease until a darker, deeper thrumming sound began to drown out the dance. Fear chased after her. The game became a hunt and she was the prey.

  As Ruthe swam onward, the spheres of the cluster grew smaller. She shot through them faster and faster, but the chase continued. Kick, glide, kick glide. When she saw the defracted light of stars sparkling and glittering through the curved hull, she knew she was trapped in the outside layer of the Choraii ship. The sound of snapping gates grew louder as her pursuer drew closer. A current washed over her, carrying an unfamiliar smell, one that reeked of danger.

  Terror overcame all reason. Ruthe dove through the last wall, screaming as she hit the icy cold vacuum of space beyond and the liquid was sucked from out of her lungs …

  Deelor scrambled through the dark of the cabin, led by the sounds of Ruthe’s screams to the corner where she had been sleeping. He wrapped himself around her thrashing body and called her name over and over again until her cries gave way to sobbing and she stopped struggling against his embrace. Gradually, as he stroked her hair and continued a constant whisper of reassurances, the tension in her muscles eased. Toward morning, when she fell back into a restless sleep, Deelor left her side.

  “Don’t look down,” said Yar as she led the others into the holodeck.

  Beverly Crusher automatically checked her feet She was standing over a black pit, light-years away from the stars shining below. Fighting against a wave of vertigo, the doctor raised her eyes and concentrated on the orange sphere suspended in front of her. Data had suggested placing the Choraii bubble in a cosmic setting and Crusher had agreed that it would add to the reality of the experience. The result was stunning. And disorienting.

  “You were warned,” said Troi with a sympathetic smile.

  “Now, remember, don’t fight against breathing in.” Yar didn’t bother to disguise her obvious enjoyment at the opportunity to quote the doctor’s advice back to her. “Just inhale the liquid. Nothing to it.”

  “Thank you, Tasha,” said Crusher dryly. She reminded herself that this was only a holodeck simulation, not an actual Choraii ship, but that knowledge was of little help once she had slipped through the entry portal into the alien environment. Bobbing gently in the liquid interior, her body refused to accept her mind’s order to breathe.

  With expert breast strokes, the doctor swam to Jason’s side. Yar had transported him directly from sickbay to the center of the projection. He was still floating in a ball, but one less tightly curled than before. Crusher reached for the scanner strapped to her side and began her medical inspection. A wide pass over his body showed that his system had fully metabolized the last trace of sedatives; brain activity indicated that he was aware of her presence. That was a definite improvement in his condition.

  Crusher swam back to the portal, but just before leaving the bubble she forced herself to take a quick breath of the atmosphere, filling her lungs with the unaccustomed weight and pressure of liquid. Crusher’s respect for Yar increased severalfold. The security chief had guts.

  “It’s working,” said Crusher upon her exit. She gathered up her hair and wrung out the remains of the watery interior. Rivulets of liquid coursed down over her uniform, pooling on the surface of the invisible deck. “He’s coming out of it.”

  “Yes,” agreed Troi with less enthusiasm. The emotions she sensed from Jason’s awakening were far from reassuring.

  Patrisha was still holding the textbook in her hands when Dnnys entered the room.

  “That’s mine,” he said tightly.

  “I’m sorry, Dnnys. I didn’t mean to pry.” She laid the book down on the cabin dresser, next to the clothes she had pulled out from the drawers. “I was packing your things for our arrival on New Oregon. You’ve been so busy lately . . . ” Her finger trailed over the title of the book. “I can see why now.”

  He dropped his gaze to the floor. “I’m not sorry. Whatever the punishment, I won’t say I’m sorry.”

  “No, I wouldn’t expect you to,” sighed Patrisha. “If Tomas hasn’t beat any sense into you by now, there’s no hope left.”

  Her son’s head jerked back up, his eyes flashing with anger. “You don’t believe in their silly rules. Why should I?”

  Patrisha felt her throat tighten with fear. “Is it that obvious?” she asked.

  “Maybe not to the others, but I could tell.”

  “And this book. What will you gain from reading it?”

  “A mechanics license,” said Dnnys. “And passage off New Oregon on the first freighter that needs an extra hand.”

  Jason could be seen from the outside of the Choraii bubble, but only as a pale, ghostly shape drifting from one place to another. His eyes were closed and he did not react to the three people who watched him and talked about him in low voices. Although his arms and legs had unfolded from around his body, their movements were listless and limited.

  “What if Data repeats the bubble pattern and creates a cluster?” suggested Beverly Crusher. Her brows had pulled together, marking her forehead with worry. “The structure would be even closer to the original. . . ”

  “That won’t help,” said Troi. “The construction of the sphere is not the issue. He is reaching out for something we cannot provide.” Once again, though with some trepidation, the counselor thinned her emotional shields and felt what Jason felt. She searched for words to describe his yearning, the sense of abandonment, but her voice choked with tears.

  “He’s listening for the Choraii,” said Ruthe quietly.

  She stood apart from the other two women. “Even though he knows they’ve gone.”

  “Will you play for him?” Crusher asked. “Maybe your music can reach him.”

  The translator stood still for a moment before speaking. “When I was little and my mother and I still swam through the waters of our homeship, she would tell me the story of Hamlin. How a child heard the song of the Choraii and laughed and clapped with joy at the glorious sound of their music, even though everything around her was turning to dust and fire. And the Choraii saved the child, and all the other children, so they could listen to the melodies for the rest of their lives.” />
  “How horrible,” cried Troi.

  “Do you think so?” wondered Ruthe softly.

  “Ruthe,” Crusher asked through the tightness in her throat. “Please help us save Jason.”

  The woman shook her head. “You missed the point. The weak breath of my flute can’t compare with the music of the singers. Besides, all I feel are sad songs.” She turned and walked out of the holodeck.

  “Damn her,” said the doctor angrily.

  Troi reached out and grabbed hold of Crusher’s arm. “Beverly, this is affecting her, too. When Ruthe first came on board, she had insulated herself from all feelings. Now she is being forced to relive her past through Jason and through the child. I can sense so many emotions coming to life in her. We must be very careful in what we ask her to do.”

  “Well, it doesn’t make any sense to me,” said Riker as he and Data strolled through the corridors on their way to the bridge. “How can you even have a religion if you can’t talk about it?”

  “Some cultures forbid discussion about sex and yet they manage to reproduce.” Data hadn’t meant to provide amusement, but the first officer laughed at the remark.

  Data shook his head. “You never evince the same response at my jokes.”

  “That’s because they’re never funny,” Riker said, and laughed even harder.

  “The subject requires much study,” admitted Data.

  “I’m not sure you can develop a sense of humor by studying,” said Riker. He caught sight of a familiar form and sought to overtake the woman walking ahead of them. “It comes naturally.”

  “Like sleep?” Data absently matched the first officer’s lengthening stride. “That is also a difficult concept. So far I have failed to comprehend the appeal of unconsciousness.”

  Riker was no longer listening. “Deanna.”

  Troi didn’t turn until he had called her name twice over. “What’s wrong?” Riker asked sharply when he saw her face.