THE CHILDREN OF HAMLIN

by Carmen Carter

  “Does this mean I have to stay in sickbay?” Yar’s concern was single-minded.

  “Yes!” said Crusher emphatically. Persistence was admirable in security chiefs but not in patients. She headed out of the office and the lieutenant trailed after her down the corridor. “I can’t release you until I’m sure your system has metabolized all traces of the drug. Even then, we won’t know what long-term effects you may suffer.”

  “But I feel fine!” exclaimed Yar.

  “Tasha, you say that even after a game of Parrises Squares with Worf. I’ve watched your body turn black and blue and you won’t admit to a single ache.”

  “But that’s not a fair comparison.”

  “Enough!” Crusher stopped abruptly and turned to face Tasha. “One more word and I’ll call your own security team to take you back to the ward.”

  An anguished cry from the room ahead brought the argument to an abrupt conclusion. Both women raced down the passage and burst into the isolation area. Dr. Crusher took in the scene at once. “Tasha, take care of Troi.” She moved directly to the chamber.

  Jason was awake. His whimpering cries mixed with Troi’s sobbing. The doctor retracted the protective cover of the isolation chamber in order to reach him directly. He was crouched in a corner of the unit, rocking back and forth in his agitation. Though his eyes were open, they stared blankly and didn’t seem to register Crusher’s approach.

  “Jason.” She reached in and touched him.

  The man screamed at the contact. His body curled into a fetal ball with his head buried against his knees. His arms and legs trembled uncontrollably.

  “No,” cried Troi. “Don’t get any closer.” Despite Tasha’s comforting embrace, the counselor was also shaking. Her face was contorted in a mirror image of Jason’s emotional distress. “Your presence only frightens him more.”

  “What can I do to reassure him?”

  “I don’t know,” sobbed Troi. “Nothing. Leave him.”

  Jason had retreated into an even tighter huddle, and his cries had taken on a disturbing rhythmic chant.

  “Damn.” Crusher pulled a hypo from her medical kit. Jason flinched at the touch of the cold metal against his skin but otherwise took no notice of the contact. Seconds later, as the sedative took effect, he fell silent and slumped in place. Crusher lowered the man onto his side and gently untangled his limbs into a comfortable sleeping position. He would remain that way for at least another six hours.

  The doctor activated the chamber-control panel and the shield slid back over the unconscious form, hiding it from view. The diagnostic panel indicated that Jason’s body was healthy even if his mind was not, but his intense emotional reactions would have a depressive effect eventually. Changing a setting on the hypo, Crusher turned her attention to the counselor.

  “No,” protested Troi, but she was too late to stop the hissing dose of medication from entering her system. “Really, I’m fine now.”

  “That’s what they all say,” murmured Beverly Crusher. “This should calm you down until you reach your cabin.”

  “But I can’t leave Moses.” The Counselor was as determined to stay in sickbay as Yar had been to leave. “He’s just starting to recognize me.”

  “I’ll keep you company,” volunteered Lieutenant Yar.

  Crusher looked up with disbelief. “I thought you wanted to get out of sickbay.”

  Yar shrugged sheepishly. “I hate to see Troi cry.”

  Troi laughed even as she wiped away the last of her tears. “Thank you for the offer, but what do you know about babies?”

  “Not much,” admitted the lieutenant. “But the exposure might be good for me.” She paused. “As long as there aren’t too many messy biological functions involved.”

  “Oh, do what you want,” said Crusher, exasperated with them both. Troi was quickly recovering her emotional equilibrium, but the doctor’s own reaction to Jason’s awakening was only now taking its toll.

  In the privacy of her office, Dr. Crusher was unable to ignore her growing despair. She sat at her desk, calling up a succession of case files on the computer without absorbing the material on the screen. Her mind kept returning to the Hamlin captive, searching for ways to help Jason adjust, but the situation was far removed from any she had ever dealt with before. She needed help. Raising a hand to her chest, Crusher tapped at her insignia.

  “I was expecting your call, “Andrew Deelor replied. “And I have a pretty good idea of what you want.”

  “Will you ask her?”

  “Yes, I’ll ask,” he said reluctantly. “But I can’t guarantee she’ll help.” He broke contact.

  And I can’t guarantee Jason’s life, Crusher admitted for the first time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  PATRISHA STOOD APART from the other Farmers. The men and women of the community were ranged in a semicircle around the front face of the barn, talking among themselves in whispered voices, stamping their feet to keep warm in the chill morning air. She held back, observing them as they watched the barn. An early dawn light washed over the wooden structure. The stage was set for the drama to come.

  A hush fell over the group as Dnnys and Wesley pushed their way through the crowd and marched up to the barn, conscious that their every movement was being watched. Exchanging nervous grins, the boys unbarred the great doors and swung them open. The Farmers edged forward, necks craning to catch sight of the cryogenic equipment stored inside. Beyond a few murmurs of contempt at the intricacy of the machine, there were no other comments.

  Patrisha was almost ashamed of the unquestioning acceptance of the stasis equipment on the holodeck. No one, not even Tomas, was bothered by the absence of tracks on the packed hay floor. But then, good Farmers didn’t know enough about transporter technology to look for the signs of its use. Patrisha was thankful that Mr. Riker had worked his magic during the night and was not present this morning. An outsider was sure to laugh at people who were so easily fooled, yet Patrisha had invited that ridicule with her advice to the starship officer.

  Dnnys initiated the first step of the actual decanting process by detaching a single cell from the honeycomb structure. Wesley emerged from the back of the machine unwinding the coiled loops of a thin, flexible hose. He handed the socket end to the Farmer boy. Moving with an assurance born of much practice, Dnnys deftly attached the threaded fitting to the cell’s drainage port. He flicked a switch and a suction pump kicked into operation with a series of gurgles and burps.

  “Dnnys was never this swift with his farm chores,” said Tomas, sidling up beside Patrisha.

  “He’s older now than when we left Grzydc.” And when had his skinny child’s frame filled out with solid muscle? “Besides, you should be glad someone can do this job.” Patrisha had defended her son’s decision to assume maintainance of the antiquated equipment during the long voyage to New Oregon since the community would have been hard pressed to afford a qualified technician. Now she saw firsthand the boy’s easy familiarity with the stasis equipment and wished his actions were not so visible to the other Farmers.

  She and Tomas watched as Wesley repeated the same motions with other cells, frequently looking to Dnnys for instructions. Clearly the Farmer boy was the main operator of this equipment, not the starship ensign.

  Another observer joined them. “He’s your son, all right.” Patrisha did not mistake Dolora’s comment for a compliment.

  A high-pitched buzzer signaled that the first cell was emptied of its preserving fluid and the gathering of men and women stirred and whispered as they waited to learn the condition of the contents. Dnnys flipped open the cover and reached inside the container. He pulled out a pink newborn rabbit, then another. “They’re alive,” he announced with pride when the small, fleshy bundles squirmed and squeaked.

  “Damnedest birth I’ve ever seen,” declared Old Steven, and spat onto the ground for added emphasis.

  Patrisha saw Dolora’s mouth tighten, a sure sign her aunt had heard the cursing. Old Ste
ven was the only Farmer who dared curse in Dolora’s presence. The two of them no longer kept company, but he had fathered her children and that sentimental connection apparently bestowed a certain immunity on the man’s actions.

  “Hey, look at this!” cried Wesley with great excitement. He had unlocked a cell with a litter of puppies. Their eyes were closed, and when he picked up one with black and white markings, it nuzzled against the palm of his hand in search of milk.

  Myra snatched the puppy away from him. “Get to work before the boy kills them all,” she snapped, passing the animal on to Charla.

  Patrisha moved forward to take the next one. Galvanized into action by the woman’s sharp tongue, Farmers carried away animals as quickly as the stasis workers could deliver them. The puppies were followed by a litter of piglets and clutches of chicken and duck eggs ready to hatch. All the newborns, bereft of their mothers, would have to be hand fed and tended around the clock. After ten months of enforced leisure the colonists were called back to duty.

  The hard labor would continue for the rest of their lives.

  “And day after tomorrow we start decanting the horses!” said Wesley. His mother was looking straight at him as he talked, but she didn’t react at all. “Mom, you’re not listening.”

  “Aren’t I?” said Dr. Crusher, then sighed. “No, I guess I’m not.” She laid aside her medical padd and sighed.

  “And you haven’t been to see the Oregon farm either.” He shifted a bulky package from one arm to another. “I’m heading there after my last class. Want to go with me?”

  “I’m sorry, Wesley. I know you worked hard on the holodeck project and I really want to see it, but . . . ”

  “But you’ve been working hard, too,” Wesley said without resentment. “In fact, you look kind of tired.” Just a few months ago he wouldn’t have noticed.

  “I haven’t had much sleep lately.” In fact, Wesley couldn’t even remember the last time his mother had been to their cabin. “But as soon as things calm down here, I’ll come see the farm.”

  “The captives, they’re not doing too well, are they?”

  She didn’t answer the question. “You’d better hurry or you’ll be late for your physics class.”

  “Astronomy,” Wesley corrected her as he backed out of the office. He paused at the doorway. “Mom, if a friend asked you for a favor, one that maybe meant getting him into trouble with his family . . . ”

  “What was that, Wesley?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “’Bye, Mom.”

  Dr. Crusher waved an absentminded good-bye to her son, then picked up her padd again. It seemed heavier every time she lifted it. She checked the next item on her agenda—a listing of those in the patient ward. Most of the beds had been cleared that morning.

  She was especially looking forward to releasing the next patient.

  “Get back to the bridge,” she ordered. “Your last exam shows you’re fine.”

  “That’s what I’ve been telling you all along,” said Lieutenant Yar, jumping off the bed. “I never felt any effects from the drug.”

  “Beyond fainting,” pointed out Crusher. Fortunately, Yar’s exposure to the narcotic had lasted just a few minutes. If only Jason could have recovered so easily, but he had spent the last fifty years aboard that ship and short of returning him to the Choraii … The glimmer of a solution began to form. “Did the drug affect your memories of the ship?”

  “Oh, no. I’m not likely to forget that experience very soon.” Crusher was pleased by the lieutenant’s answer, but Yar was too elated over her medical release to ask why. “About Troi . . . ”

  “I know she’s tired. I’ve already chosen someone to help her out with the boy,” said Crusher. Too many details kept interrupting her thoughts, but Yar’s departure would reduce the interference considerably. “And, Tasha, stay out of trouble. I don’t want to see you in sickbay again for a long time.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Yar, speeding toward the door. “I’m not coming back.”

  Dr. Crusher stood in place, developing her sketchy idea into a more solid concept. Her next step was to sound out Data. He answered her com link call and listened patiently as the doctor outlined her requirements.

  “Yes, technically the project is feasible,” said Data after due consideration. “I have access to most of the pertinent information.” He explained what else he would need to know.

  “Tasha may be able to provide some of that,” said Crusher thoughtfully. “But Ruthe definitely can.” If the woman would agree to help.

  “Do you wish to begin now?”

  “Not yet, Data,” said Crusher. “I’ll let you know when.” She was still waiting to hear from Deelor about her first proposal. If Ruthe refused that one, she would never agree to the second.

  Lisa Iovino tracked down Counselor Troi by listening for the howling of her young charge. The woman and child were in the dietician’s cubicle, which its resident nurse had evidently fled in search of more peaceful surroundings. Troi was too absorbed in what she was doing to notice Iovino’s approach. The doctor had the opportunity to observe for a few minutes.

  The counselor was seated at the food synthesizer table with the squirming child on her lap. A wide assortment of dishes had piled up in front of them, most of them barely touched. The missing portions were spread over Troi’s face and chest.

  “Here, try this one,” she coaxed, holding a spoon heaped with mashed potatoes. The boy opened his mouth to scream. With perfect timing she popped the spoon inside.

  After a moment’s silence he spit the food back at her, adding a new ingredient to the soiled uniform. Then he began to cry again. Troi looked close to tears as well.

  “I’m the relief crew,” announced Lisa, moving into the room. “Dr. Crusher said you needed a break.” Her own opinion, after seeing the counselor, was that the break was long overdue. The boy’s piercing screams had echoed throughout the medical section for hours.

  “But he’s not used to strangers,” said Troi wearily. Children were very direct in broadcasting their emotions, and shielding herself from this boy’s unhappiness had taken a great deal of energy. “I’m afraid he’ll be frightened if I leave.”

  “Well, he certainly can’t get any louder no matter who is with him.” Iovino reached out and gathered up the crying child from Troi’s arms.

  The transfer startled Moses into temporary silence. He stopped crying long enough to survey his new keeper, then broke into a suspicious whimper. He clutched tightly at the soft green blanket in which he was wrapped. It was liberally smeared with a sticky goo, as was his tear-stained face.

  “Not very hungry, are you?” Iovino asked the boy.

  “On the contrary, he’s very hungry.”

  The boy turned his face back to Troi at the sound of the counselor’s voice. Despite his steady sobbing, Moses was listening intently to the conversation between the two women, but Troi wondered if he could understand their words. The sound of human voices spoken in a liquid atmosphere was probably quite different from what he was hearing now.

  “He’s just not used to our food,” Troi continued, wishing the Choraii trade had included some of their common dietary staples. She could sense the child’s frustration at the unfamiliar taste and texture of what she had offered him. “I’ve tried soups, pudding, ice cream, pureed fruits, and vegetables.”

  “Hell eat eventually,” said Iovino. “Children don’t starve to death if there’s anything edible in arm’s reach.”

  Iovino’s soft brown hair and peaches and cream complexion projected an appearance of innocence and sweetness, but Troi could tell that the intern’s matter-of-fact answer was a more reliable indicator of her personality. “This is a special child.” The counselor hesitated, unsure of how much more she could tell without breaching security restrictions. “He’s had an unusual upbringing.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Iovino. She had read an obviously edited medical file on the mysterious shipwrecked survivors. The child’s c
ase history was not very detailed and certainly not up to Dr. Crusher’s usual exacting standards, which meant unanswered questions were probably meant to remain unanswered. “Just leave him to me.”

  Despite her mental and physical exhaustion, Troi was somewhat reluctant to deliver Moses into someone else’s care until she realized that the child had stopped crying. She lowered her empathic shield and read his puzzlement. Just what about the newcomer had roused his curiosity, she couldn’t tell. “You’re very good with children.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so,” sighed Iovino. Moses fixed Iovino with an unblinking stare and hiccuped. The young intern patted him absently on the back to ease the spasms. “I come from a large family, a very large family.” She shook her head at the memory of her homeworld. The sprawling continents of LonGiland had been populated in just a few hundred years by its prolific colonists. “Early marriage is a deeply entrenched tradition, so I’ve been taking care of younger brothers and sisters, not to mention nephews and nieces, all my life.”

  “But you joined Starfleet instead of following in that tradition,” said Troi thoughtfully. “I know how difficult that decision can be. I broke with the customs of my own people also.”

  “I haven’t entirely escaped,” laughed Iovino. Moses had fallen asleep in her arms. “Everyone in sickbay keeps harping on my rapport with children. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up in pediatrics.”

  * * *

  The argument had begun in the outer area of sickbay, but Dr. Crusher saw the hastily averted glances of her nursing staff and realized her temper was getting out of control. Either the ambassador was being unusually exasperating or her lack of sleep was affecting her emotional control; Crusher preferred to assign the blame to him. She guided Deelor into the privacy of her own office.

  “I can’t keep him fully sedated until we reach Starbase Ten,” Crusher continued. “He’s already been under far longer than I would like.”

  “Try lighter doses,” suggested Deelor.