Chapter Seven
“WILL THE LIVESTOCK be jettisoned into space?” asked Patrisha with dismay.
“Definitely not,” said Riker. Surely she couldn’t have expected such a drastic reaction. “We have no intention of harming the decanted animals.”
“But then where will we put them all?”
Picard had asked the same question with considerably more force and the inclusion of an expletive. As befitted a competent first officer, Riker had prepared an answer before letting either the captain or the Farmer know of the problem brewing in the cargo bay. “The ship’s holodecks can be reprogrammed for pasture and farmland, including barns and corrals. Wesley Crusher is working out the computer instructions now.”
The captain had insisted on the assignment, as if blaming the messenger for bad news. However, the young ensign was delighted at the chance to alter the simulation parameters. With Dnnys serving as a consultant for the Farmers’ requirements, the task was closer to play than work.
Patrisha’s face was still taut with anxiety. “A holodeck. Oh, dear.”
“Is something wrong?” asked Riker. Dnnys had accepted the solution with relief, but his mother looked even more worried than before.
“It’s the only way, really. I can see that,” said the Farmer. “However, holodecks are. . . ” She shrugged helplessly.
“Works of the devil?” suggested Riker with an irreverence he hadn’t meant to voice.
“We’re not superstitious, Mr. Riker.” Patrisha’s annoyance was obvious, but fortunately she wasn’t gravely offended. “As Farmers we try to avoid unnecessary technology, to lessen our dependence on machinery.”
“But your credo allows stasis chambers,” Riker pointed out. Of all the colonists, this woman seemed the least likely to take offense, but he should have brought Troi along to warn him if he pushed Patrisha too far.
“Only because our need is so great,” she said. “We had no other choice. Despite that pressing urgency, many Farmers have opposed the use of such an unfamiliar method of transport for the animals. The stasis malfunction has strengthened the force of their arguments. So many arguments.”
Riker sensed a lowering of Patrisha’s reserve, as if she were too tired to maintain her distance. For the first time, she motioned him to sit down on the suite’s couch. She perched on a smaller chair, tense but much less defensive.
“We are wanderers, Commander. Ziedorf, the oldest among us, was born on Titan nearly two hundred years ago. My mother and my aunt were born on Yonada, and I was born during the voyage to Grzydc. Each world was deemed a perfect place, so we would adopt some smattering of the local customs, alter our names to fit the native language, but always the changes were superficial. First and foremost we were Oregon Farmers and eventually the differences forced a departure. With each move to a new planet our community and our possessions grew smaller.”
“And New Oregon is to be another home.”
“The final one, I hope.” She smiled sadly. “Though my mother said the same of Grzydc.” She shook herself and continued more briskly. “My daughter Krn is waiting for us on the terraformed land, making the final arrangements for our settlement. We named it after our original home, a place on Earth called Oregon. Nearly a thousand people left there some three centuries past. We’re all that remains of that group. And the animal embryos are nearly all that’s left of our possessions.”
“I understand, Farmer Patrisha.” Riker stood to take his leave. “The Enterprise will get you, and your livestock, safe to New Oregon.” But he was relieved that she didn’t ask him when.
“What time of year do you want?” asked Wesley.
The computer blinked a steady query remark and patiently waited for new input.
Dnnys instantly whooped out, “Spring!” The Grzydc year was very long, and he had experienced that glorious growing season only four times in his life. He wasn’t sure what a Terran spring was like, but he was sure it would be better than what Grzydc had offered, as was almost everything Dnnys had encountered since leaving that planet.
“And I’ll put in a few fancy details,” continued Wesley as he entered a series of numbers into the holodeck program. “Commander Riker says that if you can take the time to make a project good, then you might as well work hard enough to make it great.”
“That sounds just like Dolora,” sighed Dnnys. “But somehow I don’t mind it so much coming from Mr. Riker. I like him.”
“So do I.” Wesley’s fingers stopped their tap-dance on the keyboard. “Sometimes I wonder if . . . ” But he didn’t finish.
“Go on,” urged Dnnys.
“Well, it’s just that I was kind of young when my father died. I try to remember what he was like, but it’s hard.” It was equally hard to admit that to his mother. She would probably understand, but the knowledge that Wesley’s memories of his father were fading would make her sad. “And so sometimes I wonder if he was anything like Mr. Riker.”
“Not having a father must be like my not having an uncle,” said the Farmer boy. “Except you miss a real person, whereas I just think about a make-believe one.” He had never revealed that fantasy to anyone, but his friend would understand the desire that prompted it.
The simulation program was forgotten for the moment. “So it bothers you, too?”
“Not that often, really,” said Dnnys, shrugging. Sometimes he didn’t think about an uncle for weeks on end. Other times the sense of loss drove him to seek out Tomas, whom he didn’t like much at all, but who was made of flesh and blood rather than air. “And I get along pretty well with my mother. Not like my sister Krn. They were always fighting. I think that’s one of the reasons Krn volunteered to go to New Oregon ahead of the group.”
Wesley tried to conjure up the image of a red-haired sister yelling angrily at his own mother, but the very idea set him laughing. “Don’t they like each other?”
“Of course they do. Or at least they love each other.” He could see that more easily than the two women. “Tomas says they’re two of a kind.”
A deep male voice echoed this last phrase. “Two of a kind?” Riker had entered the room just as Dnnys finished speaking. “Are you building a farm or playing cards?”
The boys broke up laughing, then eagerly waved the first officer over to the computer to review their work. Thoughts of fathers and uncles gave way to the demands of the holodeck project.
Picard usually stayed on the command level of the bridge, but as the search for the Choraii dragged on he noted the unconscious frown Tasha Yar directed at her console. When the frown deepened, but she remained silent, the captain took a stroll onto the aft deck. His security chief was quick to speak her mind, too quick many times, but her dogged attempts to discipline her own temperament could go too far. Yar had good instincts which must not be lost beneath the weight of caution.
“Have you found something, Lieutenant?” he asked with assumed carelessness.
His question caught her off guard. “Yes, sir,” she said, then amended that to, “I mean, maybe.”
Picard looked down at the search grid. It appeared normal. “A hunch?”
She squirmed uncomfortably at the implied imprecision. “It’s probably only edge distortion, Captain.” With a pointing finger she drew his eyes to a tiny ripple on the outer perimeter of the scan field. “This coordinate isn’t on Geordi’s current trajectory.”
“Mr. Data, what do you make of the lieutenant’s reading?”
Data’s interpretation of the disturbance was equally indecisive. “If it is the Choraii vessel, we are traveling far off course.”
“What course?” asked Geordi. His visored eyes were fixed on the computer signal that traced a path on his navigation board. “These guys travel in loops, not straight lines. Their ship could end up anywhere.”
Picard rapidly weighed the statements of his officers. The review was a rational process, but his final decision was based more on instinct than on logic. Unlike Yar, he had conquered his fear of playing
hunches. “Mr. La Forge, set a direct course for the sensor disturbance.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” said the pilot. The tumbling stars on the main viewer gave one final lazy swirl, then steadied into place.
“Computer navigation does have certain advantages,” remarked Picard to Lieutenant Worf.
Worf nodded solemnly. An odd gurgling noise reminded Picard that the Klingon had scorned Dr. Crusher’s offer of a horizone injection though everyone else had taken it willingly. Judging from the sounds emanating from the lieutenant’s body, Klingons were just as prone to nausea as humans, if far less willing to admit their discomfort.
Satisfied that the varied problems of the aft deck were now over, Picard returned to his command position. With a rapid series of taps to his chest insignia, he summoned Riker and Troi to the bridge; he would contact Ambassador Deelor after addressing the bridge crew. The captain had promised full cooperation on this venture, and Deelor would get it, but he would not get blind obedience. Picard wanted a close accounting of the ambassador’s actions from this point on.
Andrew Deelor was a light sleeper. The call from the bridge brought him to an alert state immediately and there was no trace of drowsiness in his voice when he spoke with Picard.
The exchange was brief and Deelor slipped out of bed as soon as the contact was severed. Ever since the Enterprise had picked up the trail of the Choraii, he had gone to bed fully dressed, ready at any time for a summons to the bridge.
“Ruthe?” He switched on the cabin lights, blinking just once at the sudden glare, and searched for the translator’s gray cloak. She would be huddled beneath it. The night before Ruthe had pulled all the pillows off his bed and slept on the deck, but tonight he found her curled up on a chair in a far corner of the suite.
Deelor shook her awake and whispered the news into her ear. Ruthe hated loud noises. She uncurled her body with a lazy stretch and was ready to leave the cabin. They had that much in common: they both traveled light.
The ship’s corridors were quiet—the few people they encountered walked alone—but the bridge was a startling contrast, alive with voices and movement, and he felt Ruthe flinch as they stepped off the turbolift.
“The ship is skimming in and out of scanner range,” explained Picard to Deelor and Ruthe as they joined him at the command center. “We can’t get close enough for a solid reading.”
“Don’t even try,” said Deelor. He waved First Officer Riker aside and took the seat at the captain’s right. “The Choraii do not respond to direct pursuit.”
“What do they respond to?” asked Picard with a touch of bad humor.
“This.” Ruthe pulled her hands out from the folds of her cloak. She held three sections of an intricately carved wooden shaft. With practiced ease, the separate pieces were assembled into a single unit.
Dropping down next to Deelor’s feet, Ruthe sat cross-legged on the deck. She lifted the musical instrument to her mouth, adopting the position of a flute player, but the sound that emerged was deeper in timbre, closer to that of an oboe or bassoon though without the reedy quality.
“Start transmission now,” ordered Deelor. He noted Yar’s resistance to his assumption of command. She waited until the captain nodded a confirmation before opening a broadcast channel. The time was fast approaching when Picard must cede his authority outright. Soon, but not quite yet.
The rise and fall of notes from the flute pulled Deelor’s mind back to Ruthe. Her melody was simple, little more than a scale played over and over with subtle variations of tempo and rhythm, but haunting nevertheless. Each phrase led to the same note, lingered over it, then rushed away only to come back to it again.
“B flat,” said Riker after listening for several minutes. “At octave intervals, but always B flat.”
“That’s as good a name for the Choraii ship as any other,” responded Deelor.
Reaching the end of her greeting, Ruthe held the naming note until her breath died away. She dropped the instrument into her lap and waited.
The answering transmission was more intricate. Three separate flutes, or possibly voices, wove up and down crossing the B flat tone sustained by a fourth player. After listening for some time, Ruthe began to play again, melding her part among the others. The exchange lasted several minutes, then one by one the voices dropped out, leaving Ruthe solo again.
Eyes closed to the people around her, the translator was still playing when Yar announced that the Choraii ship had passed out of scan range. Deelor touched Ruthe lightly on the shoulder. She broke off abruptly, as if waking from a trance.
“They have a song to finish before they can meet with us, but they have agreed to another rendezvous.”
“Even after the injury we caused their vessel?” asked Picard. “I would have expected that a greater amount of persuasion would be needed to arrange another contact.”
“Oh, that.” Ruthe shrugged off the previous encounter. “No one was hurt, the ship has healed.”
“Where and when are we to meet with them?”
Ruthe hesitated, then returned to her flute. She replayed a short segment of the exchange, transposing the notes to human concepts. “In twenty of your hours. The choice of place was mine. I told them we would meet at coordinates eight five six mark twelve.”
“We can reach the site in the allotted time by traveling at warp six,” said Data after plotting the coordinates on his console. “But why there? The location has no obvious significance.”
“I liked the sound of it.”
Riker smiled at the android’s consternation. “Sometimes presentation is more important than content, Data.”
“I fail to comprehend . . . . “
“Later, Mr. Data,” said the captain firmly. “Now that the rendezvous has been established, the ship’s saucer section can be detached and left behind. We’ll meet the Choraii with the battle bridge.”
“Under no circumstances,” said Deelor. “The ship stays whole.”
Picard stiffened at the countermand. “I can’t deliberately involve passengers in the coming conflict.”
“They are far safer staying with the heavy armaments section than they would be on their own. The Choraii are erratic in their navigation and could easily double back on course. The saucer section would be easy prey.”
“I see your point,” sighed Picard. “The population is at risk either way.”
“Quite so.” Deelor had no desire to continue debating the issue. He stood and beckoned Ruthe to leave the bridge with him. He called out one last order from inside the forward turbo compartment. “You may proceed to the rendezvous, Captain Picard.”
“The ambassador needs better manners,” muttered Picard after the turboelevator had carried Deelor off the bridge. He instructed the helm to lock in Ruthe’s coordinates, though not without some misgivings. Picard was no musician; while Riker had been enthralled by the performance, the captain had listened with growing unease to the unintelligible transmission.
“We’ve only her word for what passed between them,” he pointed out to Riker. “And while I have no reason to disbelieve what she says”—he threw up his hands in frustration—“I just don’t trust her or Deelor.”
The captain looked to Troi for an opinion, but the counselor had little to offer. “Ruthe thought solely of her music. And Deelor, as always, was very careful to shield his emotions. He knows I’m half-Betazoid, and his powers of concentration are very strong when I am nearby.”
“I have a record of the entire transmission, Captain,” said Data, next in line for the captain’s attention. “Theoretically, the language computers can develop a translation, but the Choraii speech appears to be quite intricate, more emotive than literal. I will need additional information to speed the translation process and increase accuracy.”
Picard turned to his first officer. “You’re a musician, Number One. I’ve heard you play.”
“I’m an amateur,” protested Riker. “And I really know only jazz.”
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��Amateur or not, you’re the only person with security clearance who has any affinity for the musical nature of the Choraii language.” The captain considered the first officer’s other off-duty interest and nodded at the appropriateness of his choice. “Yes, I’m sure you can persuade Translator Ruthe into discussing her work.”
“But Captain . . . . “
“She’s not unlike Mistress Beata on Angel One. Your oratory moved her to grant clemency to the crew of the Odin.” According to certain informal sources, Riker’s persuasion had been based on more than just his debating skills. Picard gave greater credence to those reports when he noticed the tips of Riker’s ears had turned pink.
“I’ll give it a try, sir.”
Despite the first officer’s discomfort, Picard detected a certain amount of anticipation in his acceptance of the task. “Just make sure Deelor isn’t around when you do. He strikes me as the jealous type.”
A diversion was easily arranged. Dr. Crusher was none too pleased to have Deelor’s medical exam used as a screen for Riker’s activities, but when pressed she agreed to schedule an appointment with the ambassador. Drawing Ruthe out of her cabin was more difficult. Several minutes passed before she answered Riker’s persistent touch to the door chime. His offer of a tour of the ship was met with a blank stare, but since she did not tell him to go away, he tried again with a more direct approach.
“I was fascinated by your flute-playing on the bridge. Would you play for me?”
“Here?” she asked, somewhat bewildered.
Riker insisted on treating her answer as an agreement to his request, but suggested a nearby recreation lounge as a more congenial location. With more prompting, Ruthe followed him to an open area filled with cushioned seats and brushy plants. The place was empty, which evidently pleased her because her resistance disappeared. She moved ahead of Riker and sat on a plush chair facing a large port window. The view must have pleased her as well. She smiled at the sight of deep space.
THE CHILDREN OF HAMLIN Page 8