Worf frowned at the unspoken portion of Data’s argument. “But Commander Riker found a way to damage the B Flat with less power, by narrowing the phaser beam. In other words, ordinary solutions won’t work with the Choraii.”
He returned to the science station with a new perspective. Computers searched for answers based on established parameters, but if the parameters of the tractor beam were altered, new solutions might appear.
An hour later Worf found his answer.
“Theoretically, this could work,” said Data as he viewed the new graphic simulation. Worf had split the tractor into four beams. Each locked onto a single sphere. Regardless of the arrangement the spheres assumed, the beams held fast to their individual target. Overall power expenditure was no higher than for a single beam.
“This time they won’t get away,” said Worf. The knowledge was quite refreshing, more so than sleep.
Dr. Crusher heard the sound of footsteps entering her office, but she didn’t lift her eyes from the computer screen. “Go away. I’m busy.”
The shadow across her desk did not disappear. “A nurse warned me you were in a snit.”
Crusher’s head snapped up at the sound of Deelor’s mocking voice. “As the ship’s chief medical officer, it’s my responsibility to prepare for the arrival of the Hamlin survivors, but without any guidelines I can make only the most general preparations. Emotional disorientation is to be expected; vitamin deficiencies are also likely. Beyond that lie a host of maladies ranging from mild disorders to crippling disabilities.” She tapped the screen that had absorbed her attention. “If the Choraii ships lack gravity, the captives could have no bones left, just soft cartilage that would bend under the weight of their bodies. And that’s just the beginning . . . “
“Oh, stop worrying,” he said lazily. “I have a cure for what ails the doctor.” He flipped a cassette onto her desk. “These medical records will answer most of your questions about the captives.”
“It’s about time!”
“You’re welcome.” His flippant good humor only increased her irritation. “And, Dr. Crusher, about the records. I’m sure I needn’t remind you that this is all highly classified material.” The tone was light, but the words were serious enough.
“I’m well aware of that, Ambassador.” She slipped the tape into the computer and began to read.
By the time Picard walked onto the bridge, his first officer had already assumed command and Data had returned to his position at the helm. Riker appeared unusually somber when he greeted the captain.
“Ambassador Deelor would like to see you.”
Picard had expected as much. “Tell him to meet me in the Ready Room.”
“Sir, he’s already there.”
When Picard entered the office, Deelor was standing by the star window staring out into space.
“Won’t you have a seat?” asked Picard dryly. He indicated the captain’s chair behind the desk.
Deelor moved away from the window. “The desk is yours, Captain, but the bridge is mine. I will assume full command of the ship from this point on.”
“You have control of the mission, Ambassador,” replied Picard. “Not the Enterprise.”
Deelor frowned, but showed no surprise. “Admiral Zagráth . . . “
“Is not here right now,” said the captain evenly. “My primary responsibility is to my crew, and I will not place their fate in your hands.”
“Even at the risk of a court-martial?”
“A court-martial would require open discussion of the Choraii and their Hamlin captives. And of the USS Ferrel.”
“Very astute,” said Deelor. “Phil Manin didn’t see through that bluff. But there are many ways to lose a command, Captain Picard. Promotions to dead-end jobs on back water planets.”
“Better that than lose this ship. You destroyed the Ferrel; you will not destroy the Enterprise.”
The ambassador’s frown deepened. “Your concern is admirable, but misplaced. I’ve dealt with the Choraii before. I can make more informed decisions.”
“Then tell me what you know.”
“You’re a stubborn man,” sighed Deelor. “Don’t let your dislike for me blind you. No matter what you may think, my actions are not capricious or inept.” He tapped lightly on the glass of the wall aquarium, watching the fish inside nibble at the reflection of his fingers. When he turned back to Picard, he was smiling ruefully.
“Keep control of your ship, Captain. We can’t afford to fight among ourselves; the Choraii would take quick advantage of any divisiveness. But if you value the Enterprise, listen to whatever advice I give you.”
Picard felt the first stirring of doubt. Deelor was clever and manipulative. He was also unexpectedly gracious in defeat.
The two men left the Ready Room together and walked back onto the bridge. Picard noted the scrutiny of his first officer but said nothing to assuage Riker’s curiosity as to what had happened. Maintaining a poker face, the captain took his usual position at the command center, Deelor sat down at his left side. Then, and only then, did Picard look his first officer in the eye. “You may call the approach, Number One.”
“Impulse power, Mr. La Forge,” ordered Riker as the ship neared the rendezvous site.
“Leaving warp drive, now.”
The first officer addressed the helm again. “Sensor readings, Mr. Data.”
“Still no sign of the Choraii.”
“Full stop to engines.”
Ruthe’s location had been reached. The Enterprise hung in empty space.
“Well, Ambassador?” asked Picard sharply. “We’re here, at the appointed place and at the appointed time. Where are the Choraii?” He had put his career on the line for this encounter. If the B Flat failed to appear, the gesture would be somewhat anticlimatic.
“Patience, Captain. I’m certain they will come.” Deelor looked over his shoulder and frowned. “As will Ruthe.”
“Actually, we are somewhat ahead of schedule,” Data pointed out. “We have arrived one minute and fifteen seconds early.”
Picard was too tense to tolerate the overliteral statement. “Data, there are no ships within scan range, which means the Choraii will be late. If they come at all.”
“Captain!” cried out Yar. “Long-range sensors are picking up an object now. Just entering . . . no, it’s already well within range. Approaching fast, incredibly fast!”
Picard tensed in place. “Raise shields.”
“Would you look at that!” said Geordi, pointing to the viewer.
Seconds before there had been no image on its surface. Now, a small dot appeared, then zoomed into prominence on the screen. The B Flat tumbled end over end, hurtling ever closer to the Enterprise.
“They’re coming right at us,” warned Yar as the cluster of reddish-orange bubbles filled the frame. A Yellow Alert klaxon screamed its protest at the approach.
Picard took a deep breath, then said, “Evasive maneuvers.”
“No,” countered Deelor. “They’re not attacking.”
“How can you be so sure?” But Picard held back his next order.
At the last moment before collision, the Choraii ship stopped, its spheres quivering and shaking from the sudden deceleration.
“Twenty-two seconds early,” said Data. “Their punctuality is impressive.”
“So is their speed,” said Picard with an upraised brow. Now he understood why Starfleet had chosen an intelligence agent for a diplomatic mission.
Chapter Nine
Captain’s Personal Log: For duty’s sake I have often undertaken unpleasant tasks. Yet, I find this one especially distasteful. We are exchanging trade goods for human lives. We are paying for the return of those who should never have been taken in the first place. Is this the best that diplomacy can offer?
RUTHE GREETED the B Flat with an outburst of melody from her flute. The translator’s appearance on the aft bridge had been as sudden as the approach of the Choraii ship on the front viewer. Playing a
s she walked, Ruthe strolled down from the elevated deck to the command center. Her gaze never strayed from the image on the screen.
“Can we get visual contact of the interior?” Picard asked Deelor as her extended song was broadcast to the other ship.
Deelor shook his head. “No, they seem to lack an equivalent to our visual technology, even though their audio system is highly developed.”
Picard checked a second source of information. “Any comments, Counselor?”
Deanna Troi emptied her mind of her own thoughts, blocked the familiar impressions of the people around her, and studied what was left. “I can sense a strong presence that obscures the individual beings within the vessel. It’s as if the ship itself is a living being, or perhaps an extension of its inhabitants.”
Ruthe reached the end of her music. The Choraii crew answered as one in a return greeting. Four voices joined in lock-step progressions up and down the scale.
Ambassador Deelor waited patiently until the preliminary introductions were complete, then instructed Ruthe to confirm the conditions of the earlier exchange agreement. She translated his words into a new melodic form and paused for the response.
Picard heard the dissenting notes in the Choraii’s answer even if he could not understand the cause. The look of concern on Riker’s face indicated he had also caught the change in key. “What’s gone wrong?”
“The Choraii want more lead,” explained Ruthe. “Twelve pounds instead of the original ten,” she looked to Deelor for his next directions.
“No. Tell them the terms have been settled. Ten pounds in all and remind them the first payment has already been made.”
Ruthe proceeded to translate back and forth between the Choraii language and Deelor’s Federation Standard. The captain wondered if the laborious process was a concession to the Choraii or an attempt to shield some portions of the negotiations from the crew. While his attitude toward Andrew Deelor had shifted over the last hour, and the captain was more inclined to trust him than before, there was still no way to confirm the accuracy of Ruthe’s version of the transaction. Picard knew Data’s language computers were making progress, but not enough to follow the complexities of this bargaining session.
The dissonance of the B Flat’s transmission increased. Ruthe shook her head at its conclusion. “The Choraii maintain this is a new vessel, so a new contract is in order.”
“Agreed,” said Deelor emphatically. “Three pounds for their captive since the Enterprise is a stronger ship and has defeated them in battle. Unless they wish to fight again and negotiate a new price when the combat is over.”
Picard cleared his throat with a deep rumble, but he did not protest the ambassador’s challenge. He had agreed to leave this part of the mission to Deelor. The captain’s discomfort was noticed, however.
“The Choraii respect a hard bargain,” explained Deelor in an aside to Picard. “Besides, the less metal they have, the sooner they’ll be ready to trade more captives.”
Ruthe must have conveyed Deelor’s convictions to the aliens. “The original price is acceptable,” she reported at the conclusion of another passage of song. “They are ready to discuss the exchange procedure.”
“The captive must be brought over first.”
Until now, the translator had repeated Deelor’s statements without comment. This time she ventured an opinion. “They will expect a security.”
“No security,” he said firmly. “They forfeited that accommodation by their actions against the Ferrel. My terms or nothing.”
She shrugged and lifted the flute to her lips. A staccato series of discordant notes emerged.
Deelor leaned back in his chair. “Relax,” he advised the captain and Riker. “This one’s going to take awhile.”
“What happened with the Ferrel?” asked Picard in a low voice. He expected another evasion from the ambassador, but this time he received a straightforward reply.
“We beamed over a half-payment of the lead as proof of our trust.” Deelor frowned at the result of his previous action. “And the B Flat took off like a bat out of hell.”
“Then you tried to detain them with a tractor beam, depleting your power reserves in the process,” suggested Data. “At least that is my theory, based on available data. Is it correct?”
Deelor remained silent for a moment, brooding over the helmsman’s conjecture. Ruthe’s music floated above their heads. “Yes,” he said at last. “When they hit us with the energy matrix, we were too weak to break loose or even to fire our phasers.”
The translator’s song came to an end. She lowered her flute. “They are very upset by your restrictions.”
“The Choraii have closed their frequency channel,” Yar said, checking her console.
“But they’re not moving away,” observed Deelor thoughtfully. “So we wait.”
“Damn!” said Beverly Crusher when she reached the end of the Hamlin file. “Double damn.”
The doctor ejected the cassette, removing the security-restricted data from the medical computer system, and considered what she had just read. The developments should have been obvious to a doctor. She was annoyed at herself for not looking that far ahead and drawing the proper conclusions, but her concern had stopped short at the immediate medical condition of the Hamlin children. That misleading name again. Data had emphasized they weren’t children anymore, but the image persisted nonetheless.
Still absorbing the implications of the new information, Crusher departed for the bridge. She had felt the shudder in the ship’s deck as the Enterprise dropped out of warp speed. Negotiations for the B Flat’s captive should already be in progress.
She had expected music on the bridge, not a brittle silence. Her entrance drew the entire crew’s attention. With unaccustomed self-consciousness, she walked the short distance from the front turbo to the command center. All the seats were taken, so she had to stand next to Ruthe, making Crusher feel even more conspicuous.
“Finished your homework, Doctor?” Deelor asked.
“Yes.” She jammed her hands into the pockets of her med jacket and fought against the urge to whisper. “Very interesting reading.” The captain’s attention was fixed on the viewscreen; he was too distracted to pursue the meaning of her comment, and Crusher was not eager to elaborate in front of an audience. She joined the crew in their silent vigil.
“Incoming transmission from the Choraii,” announced Yar at last, and put it on speakers. The dissonance in their music was muted, but so was the melody.
Ruthe listened intently to the Choraii singers, then spoke. “They agree, but the decision was not unanimous. I suggest we proceed quickly, before the discord can deepen.” Another voice interrupted her with a jangling solo passage. “One of them warns that if the Enterprise tries to escape, there will be immediate reprisals.”
“But of course,” said Deelor. He gestured at her flute. “Tell them we would be dishonored if they failed to retaliate.”
She translated his sentiment into a sprightly, almost impudent tune. All four Choraii echoed the comic lightness in their response. “You have amused and pleased them. Careful, or they will want to trade for you.”
“They couldn’t meet my price.” Deelor jumped to his feet. “Mr. Riker, you can prepare the lead shipment while Ruthe beams over to the Choraii ship.”
“Is direct contact really necessary?” asked Picard with alarm.
Data saved the ambassador the trouble of an explanation. “The dense organic nature of the B Flat’s structure makes exact life readings difficult to obtain. My sensors are unable to determine the transporter coordinates for the captive human.”
“My away team is at your disposal, Ambassador,” said Riker, rising to his feet. “We can beam over with—”
“Stay out of this,” said Ruthe. “I don’t want your help.”
“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Riker,” said Deelor quickly. “But I’m afraid that your landing party isn’t trained to function on a Choraii ship.” He addr
essed the rest of his explanation to the captain. “The interior is not dangerous, but you must breathe in the liquid matter of the ship’s atmosphere; to wear environmental suits which hide your physical essence would be a gross insult to the hosts and a sign of deceit.”
Picard still looked dubious, so Dr. Crusher joined in the discussion. “According to my medical records, the oxygen-rich fluid is quite breathable—you can’t drown even when your lungs are filled—but the experience would be very unsettling to an air-breathing species.”
“However,” interjected Deelor. “I do want a backup team available in case of trouble. Will you allow Mr. Riker and Lieutenant Yar to accompany Ruthe to the transporter chamber?”
“Certainly,” said Picard with an ironic smile. Only Crusher caught his softly uttered aside. “You don’t usually bother to ask.”
Then Deelor aimed a slight bow in her direction. “And, of course, Dr. Crusher. To provide the best of medical care.”
“Come on,” said Ruthe, and moved impatiently toward the turboelevator. “The Choraii are waiting.”
Beverly Crusher reluctantly followed the translator. The doctor hadn’t been given the opportunity to discuss the Hamlin medical files with Captain Picard. But then, not all of what she had read could be told.
Ruthe’s preparation for boarding the Choraii ship was simple. She handed her flute to Lieutenant Yar, then shrugged off her gray cloak and dropped it onto the steps leading to the transporter. A communications emblem dangled from a chain around her neck. She wore nothing else.
Stepping up onto the circular platform, she waited unselfconsciously for her transfer. Riker, matching her aplomb with considerably more difficulty, established a signal code.
“One tap means an immediate return to the Enterprise. Two taps and our team will beam over to the B Flat.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Ruthe said calmly. “No more delays, Mr. Riker.”
The first officer moved away from the platform and nodded to Tasha Yar. As security chief, she supervised any procedures that affected the ship’s defenses, and transporting required a momentary lowering of the Enterprise’s shields. Yar was adept at keeping the window of vulnerability to a minimum. As the lieutenant activated the transporter controls, a high whine filled the chamber. Ruthe disappeared in a flicker of light.
THE CHILDREN OF HAMLIN Page 10