THE CHILDREN OF HAMLIN

by Carmen Carter

  The informal surroundings were deceptive. Lieutenant Yar’s security guards were posted at all the corridor crossways leading to the section. They had strict instructions to keep off-duty crew members away from the lounge. The effort to separate Ruthe from Andrew Deelor had been carefully worked out to take full advantage of the short time available.

  Riker had framed his opening gambit after a quick review of the music files in the ship’s library. “What little I heard of the Choraii message reminded me of Terran music during the Middle Ages. Western song forms displayed several voices, but they weren’t tied together by either melody or rhythm—each part moved separately.”

  Ruthe was surprised by the comment. She pulled her gaze away from the stars to look at him. “Yes, the polyphonic development is similar, though the Choraii harmonic modes are closer to the scales developed in the twentieth century by Schönberg.”

  “So you’re a professional musician?” he asked. The statement was the longest she had uttered in public, and he was eager for her to continue talking. The question had the opposite effect.

  Ruthe looked back to the window. “I’ve studied music history,” she said tersely, then lapsed into silence.

  “The greeting you played”—Riker hummed a few bars of the melody he had heard on the bridge—“was it your own composition? Or do the Choraii have a standard form when they call another ship?”

  “The notes are always the same,” she answered, “but the rhythm is free.” She drew out the pieces of her flute. “The song changes every time I sing it.”

  As Riker watched Ruthe assemble the instrument, he was struck again by her beauty. One part of his mind concentrated on the music she played, while another delighted in the clean line of her profile as she blew into the flute and her delicate fingers fluttered against its stops.

  Ruthe did not break off playing when Data wandered into the lounge, though her melody slowed as she watched him take a seat. He was more interested in the printout report he brought with him than in her music, so she resumed her original tempo. Riker knew that the vocoder nestled in the palm of Data’s hand recorded her every note.

  Deanna Troi was the next person to enter. Riker feared the counselor’s presence would disturb Ruthe, but the translator was too absorbed in her song to be troubled by an additional listener. Unfortunately, he couldn’t restrain his own irritation at the growing audience.

  Under cover of the music, Deanna whispered to him, “Perhaps you could concentrate better in more intimate surroundings.”

  A sustained B flat signaled the end of Ruthe’s song.

  “That was beautiful, even if I don’t understand what it means,” said Riker. “But then, I’m sure the Choraii find our speech just as mysterious.”

  Ruthe shook her head. “Not at all. The Choraii learned Federation Standard from the children. In fact, they speak it quite well, but it’s such an ugly, clumsy way of communicating, they prefer not to use it.”

  That fact was certainly worth passing on to Picard, but it was the last useful bit of knowledge that Riker gathered from the translator.

  “Will . . . . ” Troi’s warning came when Ambassador Deelor was only a few yards away.

  “I wondered where you were.” Deelor spoke only to Ruthe.

  “I got bored waiting in the cabin.”

  “That won’t happen again,” Deelor assured her. “My trips to sickbay are over,” This last comment was directed at the first officer.

  The ambassador beckoned Ruthe to his side. She rose from her seat and followed him out of the lounge.

  Riker frowned as he watched the pair walk away. Ruthe had left without a parting word, without a backward glance. “I don’t like the way Deelor orders her around.”

  “She doesn’t seem to mind,” said Troi. “Why should you?”

  He turned to answer her but bit back the reply when he saw Data still sitting nearby. The android had abandoned his earlier pose of disinterest and watched them with undisguised curiosity.

  “Data, it’s time for you to go,” said Riker.

  Data frowned, searching his memory for some forgotten appointment. “I have no particular event scheduled for this hour.” He studied Riker’s expression more closely. “You wish for me to leave?”

  “Yes, Data,” said Troi quite firmly.

  The android didn’t move. “My understanding of human interaction would improve if I had more opportunities for direct observation. Your discussion promises many important insights.”

  “We’d like some privacy,” Riker insisted.

  “But it is that very privacy which obstructs my attempts at understanding the intricacies of interpersonal relationships.”

  “Good-bye, Data,” said Riker. Data rose from his chair and left the room, but he walked slowly. The first officer wondered about the limits of the android’s hearing and waited until Data was well out of sight before speaking. “Deanna, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous.”

  “I have no right to jealousy. Our parting made that aspect of our relationship certain.”

  “And you have no reason for jealousy either.”

  “I know that, Will,” she admitted with a sigh. “True, I can sense a passing interest in Ruthe, your admiration of her beauty, but no serious attraction. From her . . . . ”

  Riker’s vanity battled against a sudden concern for Ruthe’s feelings. “You don’t mean she’s falling for me?”

  “No. No, she’s not,” answered Troi with more certainty than he expected. “In fact, I sense no interest in you at all.”

  Troi smiled at the flicker of annoyance that crossed his features. Her next words soothed Riker’s pride and explained her own troubled thoughts. “That’s just it. She has no interest in anything except her music. She is empty, Will. Devoid of all feeling.”

  Chapter Eight

  TEN MEN AND WOMEN were bunched in a tight knot in front of the holodeck gate. The portal was open. Just over the threshold, gently rolling hills led to a stand of shade trees. A breeze rustled their leafy branches. Wooden buildings painted a dusky red lined the far wall of the ship’s hull, but the images of pastureland projected onto the flat surface created a vista of meadows stretching away to a distant horizon.

  Farmer Leonard edged closer to the opening and sniffed at the air. It was fresh and carried the scent of honeysuckle. He inhaled deeply, savoring the familiar smell. “Early spring, just in time for planting.”

  Some of the more timid of the colonists watched him carefully, but he showed no ill effects. Others drifted to his side.

  “I never saw so much green in all our years on Gryzdc,” sighed Charla. “It looks just like Yonada.”

  Tomas snorted loudly and stepped back. “It’s cheap theatrics. An illusion.” He tugged peevishly at his beard.

  “After all these months in space, I’ll settle for an illusion,” said Mry. “It can’t be any worse than reality.”

  She was the first to step from the hard metal deck to ground that gave way beneath her feet, but Leonard followed immediately after her. The lure of open air and warm sunlight was too strong for the others to resist for long. By ones and twos they passed through the gate.

  Tomas was left standing alone. “For shame,” he called after them. “I said it before and I’ll say it again: I’d as soon enter the maw of a dragon as step foot in a holodeck simulation.” He raised his voice as they moved farther away. “You applauded my ethics then, but evidently your own principles can’t stand up to temptation.”

  “Come, Tomas,” responded Myra. The old woman still lagged near the entrance. “You can disapprove as easily from inside as elsewhere.”

  Tomas did not move. He hooked his thumbs over his belt to steady the trembling of his hands. “I can see quite well from here.” His eyes narrowed as he watched his sister and Leonard laughing and tumbling in the meadow grass.

  “Mry’s an attractive woman,” commented Myra with a dry chuckle. “And old enough to bear children.”

 
“Perhaps so,” he said. “But I’ll have some say as to the sire.” He gritted his teeth and stepped forward.

  As soon as he walked through the portal, the metal doors meshed together with a soft hiss, then vanished. The illusion was complete. Tomas was standing in a field of rippling grass. A clear blue sky vaulted far above his head, and the warmth of the yellow sun prompted him to loosen the top buttons of his flannel shirt

  Young Stvn dropped down to his knees. He dug out a handful of soil, crumbling the black loam between his fingers. Old Steven plucked a stalk of grass and chewed on the root. “Not suitable for corn, but an acre of wheat would do pretty well.”

  “It’s the animals that are being put here, not the seed,” said Tomas, glaring at the two men.

  “Still, it’s a waste of good land not to plant something,” said Young Stvn, exchanging approving nods with his uncle. “Decades of hard work will be needed to turn New Oregon into so pleasant a world as this.”

  Tomas glared next at Dnnys and Wesley as they raced out of the barn and across the meadow to greet the adults. “Another short circuit and our sheep will be grazing on a metal deck,” he scolded Dnnys when the boys were within reach of his voice.

  “I think they did a wonderful job,” said Mry. Fluttering wings brushed against her cheek, then danced away. “Look at the orange butterfly! I’ve never seen a live one before. Who thought of such a lovely detail?”

  “Uh, it was my idea,” admitted Wesley.

  “So you’re an artist as well as an engineer.” She plucked a stray wisp of straw from his hair.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Dnnys dug an elbow into his friend’s side. “You’re turning all red.”

  “The sun’s too bright,” Wesley said. Mry smiled at him and he blushed again. “I’d better recheck the construction code.”

  “I wish living on a farm were as much fun as writing the program for one,” sighed Dnnys. “Then I wouldn’t mind—”

  His cousin lifted a hand to his mouth and touched his lips with her finger. “Hush, Dnnys. They’ll hear you.” She glanced nervously at the other Farmers.

  Myra stumped up to them, frowning dangerously. “Don’t lag about. I want to see the pens.”

  “There’s no point in seeing any more,” declared Tomas desperately.

  Myra waved away his protest like a bad odor. “This is a farm and a farm means work. The youngsters have been idle for too long; they’ve forgotten the value of hard labor. I’ll refresh their memories.”

  Under Myra’s constant proddings, the entire group drifted toward the buildings. Tomas marched next to his sister, using his bulk to shield her from Leonard’s attentions. Any objections to the use of the simulation were forgotten.

  All preparations for the rendezvous with the B Flat had been made, but the time for Deelor to take control of the bridge had not yet come. Suspended between actions, he and Ruthe could do nothing now except wait.

  Deelor sat still as a crouching cat, muscles coiled for a sudden spring. He hadn’t moved from his chair for over an hour, but his mind flitted restlessly between the immutable past and an all too variable future.

  Ruthe, on the other hand, was stretched out on the cabin bed listening to the mellow strains of an unaccompanied cello from the ship’s music library. She was obviously content with the present.

  “Riker likes you,” said Deelor suddenly.

  “Does he?” She looked up at him idly, lost in the music. Deelor wondered if the Choraii would think more highly of humans if they could hear this Bach suite or a Mozart concerto.

  “How can you tell?” she asked.

  “The way he looks at you.”

  “Do I have to do anything about it?”

  “No. Not if you don’t want to.” The sarabande gave way to the gavotte, her favorite passage of the D major suite. He knew enough to keep silent until it was over. At the start of the gigue he continued. “He thinks we’re lovers.”

  “Who does?” she asked.

  “Riker.”

  “Oh, him.” She frowned suddenly. “Is that why he asked me to play for him? Because he likes me?”

  “In part. However, he was probably under orders to gather more information about the Choraii.”

  Ruthe curled into a ball, a sure sign that his words had disturbed her.

  “What did you tell him?” Deelor was careful to project a casual curiosity. If she sensed any tension in the question, she would stop talking altogether.

  “I don’t remember.”

  She probably didn’t, The past held as little interest for her as the future. Deelor rose from his chair. With a quick tap to the room controls, he cut off the music.

  She sat up abruptly. He had her undivided attention.

  “Ruthe, you know my position. If the captain and his crew see through your agreement with the Choraii, I won’t be able to back you up. You’re acting without official approval. For your own sake, be very careful around Riker and the others.”

  “I don’t like him anyway.”

  “Neither do I,” laughed Deelor. “But I like you.” He sighed at her wary look. “And no, you don’t have to do anything about it.”

  With a light tap at the ops panel, Data displayed a graphic representation of the Choraii energy net on the main viewer of the bridge. He tapped again, and the sprawling blue web glowed. “This is only a theory,” the android cautioned the two officers seated at the command center.

  “Yes, I understand,” said Picard, squinting at the sudden brightness of the screen’s image. He absently rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Please continue.”

  “The Choraii net is constructed of flexible strands of energy. I believe it is possible to capture one of those filaments and by bending it create a weak area that can be pierced by a specially constructed probe.”

  “For what purpose?” asked Riker, studying the schematic drawing of Data’s design that appeared on the viewer. An animated sequence brought the probe in contact with the net.

  “To draw on the net’s energy source.” As Data spoke, the blue lines lost their glow. “We can either bleed the energy out into space or use its power ourselves. In either event, the drained field will be ineffective against our shields.”

  “Sounds risky,” said Riker frowning. “What if we can’t control the flow?”

  “There is a thirty-four percent probability of an explosive overload,” agreed Data. “As I said, the model is theoretical and may require some adjustment during actual operation.”

  Picard considered the hazards of testing such a defense in the midst of combat. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, Mr. Data.”

  “We’re only four hours away from the rendezvous,” said Riker. He was slumped in place, too weary to maintain his usual upright bearing. The bridge officers had worked several shifts without a break. “That doesn’t leave us with many options.”

  “We shall have to rely on Andrew Deelor’s diplomacy. Presumably, the ambassador possesses a store of tact that he doesn’t waste on subordinates.” The captain took a closer look at his first officer. “Our remaining time can best be spent in getting some rest. That includes you, Number One.”

  Riker sat up, quickly correcting the slouch that had betrayed him. “On one condition, Captain, that you also leave the bridge.” And he was prepared for resistance. “If asked, I’m sure your chief medical officer would insist.”

  A faint smile crossed Picard’s face. Apparently, he had not hidden his own fatigue any better than Riker. “There’s no need to disturb Dr. Crusher. I’ll go to bed like a good little boy.” Pushing himself up from his chair, the captain addressed the one officer on the bridge who did not need relief. “Commander Data, you have the conn.”

  However, once Picard had reached his cabin he simply could not fall asleep. He lay unmoving on his bed, eyes closed, thinking. Andrew Deelor would demand control of the Enterprise soon. Admiral Zagrath had made it very clear that the captain must give Deelor that control.

  Don’t waste yo
ur luck on us, Captain Picard. You’ll need it more than we will.

  D’Amelio’s warning whispered in Picard’s ear. He felt the weight of Phil Manin dying in his arms. The captain of the Ferrel had followed the ambassador’s orders and lived long enough to regret it. At what point did obedience to authority become unquestioning stupidity?

  Hours passed.

  Picard had not yet answered those questions when Data called him back to the bridge. He rose from the bed feeling more tired than when he had first lain down.

  Lieutenant Worf had stoically withstood the insult of Captain Picard’s insistence that he rest, then marched dutifully to his cabin. As a Klingon, Worf followed orders to the letter. As a Klingon, he also felt free to violate the spirit of those orders if they did not suit him. He remained inside the room for some two minutes, then promptly returned to the bridge.

  Humans sleep too much,” Worf told Data by way of explanation. “It dulls the reflexes.”

  Since Data did not require such periods of inactivity, he was unable to judge the validity of this statement. However, he had an observation of his own to add. “They seem to find sleep an enjoyable process.”

  “That’s another reason to avoid it.”

  Worf set to work on the problem that had taunted him for days: the B Flat’s ability to overload a tractor lock. The Choraii spheres were slippery, they could still move inside the holding beam even if they could not escape it. By shifting into a long strand, they had put an increasing drain on the Enterprise’s power supply, and computer simulations indicated that a ring shape would have the same effect. Each configuration expanded the tractor beam beyond its assigned portion of ship’s power.

  “They never broke out of the tractor beam,” said Worf when he showed Data the results. “They made us turn it off because the cost was too high.”

  “Perhaps the Ferrel tried to hold them for too long,” theorized Data. “That could explain why the starship was so vulnerable to the energy matrix.”

  “According to the computers, we need more power.”

  “That is certainly the most direct solution,” said Data. “Perhaps more power to the phasers would have stopped them as well.”