THE CHILDREN OF HAMLIN

by Carmen Carter

  “Dammit, I don’t need your medical advice—” But that was exactly what she had been asking for. She took a deep breath and spoke more calmly. “I tried reduced dosages but being in a partially drugged state just increases Jason’s confusion. He’s slipping away from me.”

  “It happens.”

  “Not to my patients!”

  Deelor shrugged. “I can’t help you.”

  “But Ruthe can.”

  “I asked, but she refused.”

  Crusher abandoned any attempts to contain her anger. “Then ask again!”

  “No!” Deelor matched her heat with his reply. “Surely you realize what that request entails?”

  “I’m trying to save Jason’s life.”

  Their shouting covered the sound of approaching footsteps. Captain Picard walked into the room and paused, waiting for some explanation of their behavior. When it was not forthcoming, he broached his own concerns for coming to sickbay. “I’ve received your medical report concerning the Choraii atmosphere. What is the nature of this drug?”

  “Chemical analysis indicates that it’s a mild narcotic,” answered Crusher distractedly. “It may have contributed to Lieutenant Yar’s collapse after her return from the B Flat, but she doesn’t show any prolonged ill effects and I’ve released her from sickbay.” The doctor’s frown was directed at Deelor. “However, I’m still trying to determine whether Jason or the child are undergoing withdrawal. My tests on a possible chemical dependence have been inconclusive.”

  “And you believe Ruthe may have more information?” So Picard had overheard enough of their conversation to guess the issue under contention.

  Crusher nodded assent. “Only she won’t give me the opportunity to ask questions.”

  “Ambassador, you’re the only one who has any influence over her,” challenged Picard.

  “Me?” Deelor scoffed. “I’ve known her a long time, but don’t mistake that for influence. Ruthe follows her own will.” By his tone, Crusher suspected he admired that trait in her.

  The captain persisted. “I realize that Ruthe opposed the transfer, but surely she won’t let Jason suffer for our actions.”

  “Ruthe wants nothing to do with the captives.”

  “Why?” asked Picard.

  “I can’t answer that,” Deelor said.

  “Never mind,” said Picard angrily. “I’ll ask her myself.” He moved toward the office door, but Deelor blocked his way. “Are you ordering me not to try, Ambassador?”

  “No,” said Deelor at last, and stepped aside.

  He and Crusher settled into an uncomfortable silence as they waited for the captain’s return.

  Picard’s request for entry was granted, but Ruthe was not in the front room of the cabin and he was forced to go in search of her. He walked through a suite empty of personal effects. The captain knew Deelor and Ruthe had lost all their belongings when the USS Ferrel was destroyed, but evidently they had not made use of ship’s stores to replace any of those items. Deelor, at least, had procured a new suit of clothes, but the translator was always wrapped in the same worn gray cloak.

  Picard found Ruthe in the back bedroom. “Dr. Crusher has some questions regarding Jason’s condition.”

  “It’s nothing to do with me now.” She sat on the room’s single bed, hugging her knees to her chin. “I told you not to bring him on board.”

  Her pose was not seductive, but Picard would have preferred conducting their conversation in the day area of the cabin. The informality of their surroundings implied an uncomfortable degree of intimacy. “And Jason’s death would prove your point. Is your pride worth a man’s life?”

  “My job is to translate, nothing more. The Hamlin captives are not my concern.”

  “You can’t simply deny responsibility because it is inconvenient or even distasteful,” argued Picard—but he could see that he was not getting through to her. Ruthe plucked fitfully at the disheveled covers of the bed as her initial defensiveness gave way to restlessness. “You said the Choraii value their humans, but they’ve harmed Jason.”

  This accusation drew Ruthe’s immediate attention. “Why do you say that?”

  “Dr. Crusher has found traces of an unknown chemical substance, a drug, in the Choraii atmosphere, which has affected him. It may have also affected the child. Under the circumstances, I can’t regret my decision to bring them both aboard and I will strongly recommended to Starfleet that we make every effort to recover as many other adult captives as possible.”

  Ruthe uncoiled her body, standing straight up on the bed, glaring down on the captain. For a moment, Picard thought she was going to attack him. Instead, the woman leapt down to the deck.

  “Show me this drug” She drew the billowing folds of her cape back around her body and followed Picard out of the cabin.

  When they arrived at sickbay, Beverly Crusher assumed the neutral manner of a medical professional, but not before Picard caught the look of relief in her eyes. He also saw Deelor’s surprise . . . and a hint of displeasure at the captain’s success.

  Ruthe repeated her demand to see the drug, and Crusher handed the translator a small glass vial holding a few milliliters of amber liquid.

  “I noticed the scent when Lieutenant Yar returned from the Choraii ship.”

  Ruthe unstopped the end and took a tentative whiff of the contents. “Cinnamon,” she whispered.

  She remained frozen in place, cupping the vial in her hand, until Deelor called to her. “Ruthe?”

  “I’d forgotten.” Her eyes were still focused on some inner vision. Then Deelor’s touch on her arm pulled her back to the room in which she stood. She slipped the top back onto the vial, sealing in the aroma.

  “You’ve encountered this drug before?” asked the captain.

  “Years ago,” Ruthe said. “When I was a child.”

  Picard did not understand. “But how is that possible?”

  She slipped the vial into the folds of her cloak. “I was born on a Choraii ship.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “SHE DOES’T USUALLY tell anyone,” said Deelor as he and the captain walked into the Ready Room. With a pointed look at the doorway of her office, Dr. Crusher had made it clear she wanted to speak to Ruthe without the distractions of an audience. “And it wasn’t my secret to reveal.”

  “Yes, I can understand that,” Picard said, nodding. “The surprises on this mission never seem to end,” he added.

  The captain took his place behind the office desk, leaning back in his chair and swiveling to the side in order to talk to Deelor, who was admiring the lionfish. “When was she rescued?”

  “In the first exchange, fifteen years ago.” Now that her origins were known, Deelor decided there was little point in keeping back the details. “She was one of the five captives traded to the Ferengi.” By settling down onto a chair, he exchanged his view of the aquarium for that of the star window behind Picard.

  “And all three of the adults died,” recalled Picard. “No wonder Ruthe refused to help bring Jason back to the Enterprise. What of the other child?”

  “Alive and well. She was younger than Ruthe and adjusted to living with humans rather quickly.” According to their case histories, Ruthe’s transition had been more difficult, but that was none of Picard’s business.

  “Well, I certainly admire her courage,” said the captain. “This mission must be a painful reminder of her own captivity.”

  “She volunteered for the work. With her help, the Federation has recovered five Hamlin offspring over the last few years.” Though Deelor suspected that several captives had slipped away before he learned of her aversion to trading for adults.

  “I suppose the opportunity to help rescue other Hamlin survivors makes the distress worthwhile,” said Picard.

  “Yes, it must.” At least Deelor had thought so at first. Yet once the exchanges were complete, Ruthe never asked about the children. That thought brought another to mind. “How did you persuade her to come to sickbay?
”

  “Reverse psychology.” Picard outlined the strategy he had used. “So the only way she could fight my decision to rescue more adults was to come to sickbay and prove they aren’t being mistreated by the Choraii.”

  “Yes, of course. Quite clever, Captain.” Deelor had spent his career manipulating people in just that manner, and often his life, as well as his mission, depended on that skill. Such a simple ploy should have been obvious to him. Why hadn’t he thought of it?

  Once the question had been posed, he touched on an answer and immediately shied away from it. Deelor always traveled alone. He didn’t need complications.

  Dr. Crusher had never spoken to Ruthe alone before. At close quarters, without the distraction of Andrew Deelor’s strong personality, the woman’s reserved manner was even more accentuated. The lack of expression would go unremarked in a Vulcan, but in a human such behavior was oddly disturbing. For the first time Crusher saw Ruthe as more than just a passenger. She was also a patient.

  “The drug is harmless,” said Ruthe as she handed the vial of cinnamon-scented liquid back to Crusher. “The Choraii were probably trying to help with the transfer. Without its influence Jason would have been much warier of Lieutenant Yar’s approach.”

  The doctor was not mollified by the translator’s interpretation of the drug’s purpose. “That may be the case, but it increased his agitation when he was beamed over.”

  “They always react violently at first, even the young ones.” Ruthe cocked her head. The faint cries of a child could be heard through the walls of sickbay. “Is that the other one?”

  “Yes,” sighed Crusher. Iovino’s magical touch was no substitute for food, and the boy still wasn’t eating.

  “The cinnamon would calm him down.”

  “He needs food, not drugs.” The doctor fought to keep anger out of her voice. She couldn’t afford to alienate the translator now. Instead, Crusher used the subject to lead into a discussion of Ruthe’s past. “What did you first eat when you left the Choraii ship?”

  Ruthe shrugged indifferently. “I don’t remember.”

  Crusher had expected continued resistance. Even without the psych profiles in her medical file, the doctor would have guessed that Ruthe’s emotional distance served as a shield, protecting her from a painful past. Yet Jason’s best hope for survival lay in getting Ruthe to remember what she would rather forget.

  “I have a plan for treating Jason, but I need your help.”

  “I’ve already answered your questions about the cinnamon,” said Ruthe. “That’s all I agreed to do.” She turned her back on the doctor.

  “I want to recreate the Choraii interior on a holodeck,” said Crusher calmly. “If Jason can return to a familiar environment, he might be lured out of his emotional withdrawal.” She watched for the slightest sign of a reaction from Ruthe, but the woman was difficult enough to read face-to-face. Trying not to exert any obvious pressure, Crusher continued the explanation. “Data has enough sensor-scan information to determine the broad characteristics of the bubble structure and the composition of the atmosphere. Lieutenant Yar can provide some idea of the interior, but not many details. You’re the only person who can confirm the authenticity of the final effect.”

  “That child is very noisy,” said Ruthe. “Don’t you get tired of all that crying?”

  “Yes, I do.” Don’t force, Crusher reminded herself.

  Let her choose to help on her own.

  “Try grapes.” Ruthe turned back around to face the doctor. “Or anything round with a soft center. The Choraii food always came in bubbles.” Having delivered that one piece of advice, she left sickbay.

  Dr. Crusher tapped her com link. “Data, I’m ready to begin the holodeck project.” Ruthe hadn’t said no, and that was promising enough to start work.

  At first glance the construction of the room was simple, its boxlike dimensions established by plain, undecorated walls and an uncarpeted flooring. Appearances were deceiving. The holodeck was one of the most highly sophisticated technological features of the Enterprise.

  This particular holodeck was smaller than the one that held the Oregon farm, and the illusion it created was confined to the center of the room. A single transparent bubble quivered in place, its curving lines flattened at the contact point with the deck. The slick surface glistened in the sourceless ambient light used to illuminate the early design stage of the project.

  Inside the sphere, Tasha Yar hung suspended, treading water with lazy strokes, her blond hair drifting like a halo around her head. She waved one hand and the simulation faded, dropping her down to the deck with a thump.

  “Data!” she cried in protest. Rising from the crouch that absorbed the shock of her fall, she swept aside a lock of hair trailing down over her eyes.

  The android looked up from the control panel at the entrance to the room, his brows contracting in puzzlement. He caught the irritation in Yar’s voice, but it took him a moment to construct the reason for the emotion and infer that an apology was necessary. “Sorry. The gravity field is tied to the other program parameters. An entry portal will be necessary eventually, but I have concentrated on the interior of the Choraii vessel. However, I can take the time to … “

  “Don’t worry about it.” Yar brushed absently at her uniform, then stopped when she realized the material was dry. When Data had suspended the program, all the liquid had been removed along with the exterior shell. “The feel of the program is getting better, though.”

  “Could you be more specific?” he asked.

  “The temperature feels right and so does the density of the liquid. I think.” She concentrated on recapturing the physical sensations of her brief visit to the Choraii ship. The memories, which she had thought were indelible, blurred a little more with every exposure to the holodeck projection. “But something’s not the same.”

  Data opened his mouth to speak, but Yar held up a hand to stop him. “I know, please be more specific,” she said. The android nodded and she tried again. “The buoyancy is still wrong.”

  “In what way?” asked Data. Dr. Crusher had provided samples of the interior atmosphere, a few milliliters wrung from Yar’s clothing, but the properties of the substance were difficult to determine from such minute quantities. As the mass of the liquid increased, its qualities changed. This mutability was fascinating from a theoretical point of view, but frustrating for his attempts to duplicate its effects.

  “I can’t tell. It just feels off.” Yar hurried on with more items before he could try to pin her down. “And the walls are still too stiff.”

  “Ah. That particular logarithm is also very interesting,” said Data as he adjusted the program parameter for the bubble construction. “The Choraii exhibit an amazing ability to control surface tension.”

  “And can we try it with the color added?” asked Yar. “Maybe that will help make it seem more real.”

  Data nodded and entered another series of numbers into the control sequence. The broad structures of the Choraii ship were set, but these subliminal details played an equally important role in establishing a proper credibility. Unfortunately, human imprecision was further lengthening the time-consuming process. If Data had beamed over to the B Flat instead of the lieutenant, the project would be completed by now. He initiated the program run once again.

  “Hey!” Yar was pulled up into the air without warning as the low-gravity field reactivated. A translucent orange sphere popped into existence around her.

  When Wesley Crusher entered the Farmer holodeck, the sunlit meadows were still wet from morning rain and a faint rainbow stretched across the sky. The idyllic vista was completed by the sight of white lambs bounding over the rich carpet of moist green grass and a leggy colt racing around a grazing herd of calves. Walking through scattered patches of wildflower, Wesley wondered how soon the mushrooms would come up and whether anyone would notice them.

  “Fine weather we’re having,” said Old Steven when Wesley passed by the orcha
rd. The man was sitting on a fallen log, carefully peeling an apple with his pocketknife.

  “It certainly is,” answered the boy. He couldn’t tell whether Old Steven meant the comment as a compliment or a simple observation. In either case, it would be rude to admit credit. He walked on.

  Wesley was a frequent visitor to the farm, and despite his starship dress, the ensign managed to blend remarkably well into the Farmer community. He cultivated the same purposeful stride that Dnnys used on his way to chores, and kept his opinions to himself like a well-behaved Farmer boy. Eventually even the most hostile of the colonists had grown accustomed to his presence. Most were content to ignore him; others, like Old Steven and Mry, were openly friendly in their greetings.

  “Dnnys is up in the loft,” said Mry when Wesley entered the barn. She was in charge of feeding the rabbits and was busily preparing bottled milk for their next meal.

  Scooping up one of the young animals, Wesley stroked the long ears and marveled at the soft texture of their fur. “You get wool from the sheep and milk from the cows, but what do you do with the rabbits?”

  “We eat them,” said Mry.

  He looked down at the soft brown bundle. “Eat them?”

  “Of course. Why so surprised?” She reached her hands out for the animal he held.

  “I don’t know.” He gave over the rabbit, but not without a pang of remorse. “I guess I just assumed you were vegetarians.”

  “They are cute at this age,” agreed the Farmer as the rabbit licked at the bottle. “But they also taste good. And the fur is warm.”

  “Watch out!” cried a voice from above, but not soon enough for Wesley to sidestep the load from a pitchfork. Dnnys peered down over the edge of the loft and grinned at the sight of his friend coughing his way out of the loose hay. “Come on up where it’s safe.”

  Wesley scrambled quickly up the ladder. At close quarters he could see the strain behind the Farmer boy’s smile.

  “How did I do?” whispered Dnnys. He stabbed the pitchfork into a cut bale, rustling the dried grass to cover the sound of their voices.