THE CHILDREN OF HAMLIN

by Carmen Carter

  Picard acknowledged the woman’s statement with a curt nod. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” he added deliberately, shaking off the influence of the sterile confines of the battle bridge. “Mr. Data?”

  The android alone appeared unaffected by the oppressive interior. He replied with his customary enthusiasm for commentary. “The Choraii ships shed a continual stream of decayed organic particles, much as human beings shed dead cells from their outer layer of skin. However, over time, the concentration of residue disperses as the inertia of the drifting particles carries them in different directions, so . . . ”

  “So we’ve arrived too late to track this ship’s departure from New Oregon,” said Picard, jumping ahead to the conclusion of Data’s exposition.

  “We can’t turn back now,” cried Yar. “There must be a way to keep after the Choraii.”

  “We shall find them,” said Picard, announcing his agreement with a studied calmness that subdued Yar’s hotheaded manner without open rebuke. “Mr. La Forge, can you sense any pattern in the progress of their ship?”

  “Definitely,” said Geordi. His visored eyes tracked the curving path marked on the conn navigation panel; the end of the line was already fading away. “But the movements are very complex. I doubt I could get very far without a sensor feed.”

  Ruthe sprang up from the deck and approached the helm. Peering down over the pilot’s shoulder at the console panel, she studied the visual display for a moment, then shook her head. “If only I could hear where they’ve been.”

  “Ah,” said Data with a self-satisfied nod. “That can be easily arranged. I have established rough musical equivalents for the travel coordinates.” He tapped his ops panel to call forth a record from the language computers. “Unfortunately, the reconstructed rhythm is arbitrary and lacks the free-flowing variation of Choraii song.”

  “If there is a melody, I will find it.” Eyes closed, breath stilled, Ruthe listened twice to the sound of the starship’s journey from New Oregon to their present location. “It’s a traveling song,” she declared at last. Her eyes fluttered open.

  “You’ve heard it before?” asked Deelor.

  “It’s a popular melody sung by many of the ships in the local cluster,” said Ruthe. “We don’t have to follow the trail any longer. I can play the rest of the song and show you where it will end.”

  The translator pulled the sections of her flute from out of her robe and strung the instrument into its full length. Pursing her lips over the embouchure, she blew lightly and called forth the same notes the computer had played, but the stiff mechanical quality of the rendition was transformed into a fluid musical line. Ruthe continued the song past the point where the computer had stopped, carrying the melody on to its conclusion. As the last note died away, she lowered her flute. “That’s where they’re going.”

  “Reversing the translation process now,” Data said, then checked the output of the language computer. “Final destination coordinates computed.”

  “Set a direct course for that location,” ordered Picard. “Warp eight.”

  With a satisfied smile Ruthe sank back down on the deck. She held the flute in her lap, but her fingers continued to slide over the silent stops as if she sang to herself. Except for the flutter of her hands, she sat motionless.

  Wesley Crusher crashed down onto the hard dirt of the open barnyard but absorbed the shock of his fall with an outstretched arm, just as Tasha had taught him. Then he automatically raised the other arm to guard his chest from the blows that followed the tackle. Dnnys was a clumsy fighter, easily blocked, and Wesley could have thrown him off with ease. Instead, the ensign concentrated on self-defense.

  “Tell me!” shouted Dnnys. He was too blind with fury to notice his fists never connected with their target. “Why was the captain asking about Emily?”

  Wesley blocked another blow. “Stop hitting and I’ll explain!”

  Dnnys pulled back from his attack. “I’m sorry,” he stammered as his anger subsided. “But she’s my niece. You know what that means to me, to any Farmer uncle.”

  “That’s why I think you should know,” said Wesley, sitting up. He brushed at the bits of dirt and straw clinging to his tunic, stalling for time as he phrased his answer to fall within the limits of his security oath. “There’s a chance that Emily’s still alive. She may have been taken off the planet.”

  “You mean the raiders have her?” asked Dnnys. His flushed face drained of color.

  “Yes,” Wesley said, skirting dangerously close to a security breach. “She’s being well cared for, but getting her back is going to be difficult.” He gingerly touched a stinging patch of skin on his cheek and wondered if the scrape would be healed before his mother returned. The thought of his mother on the battle bridge was more painful than the bruises. Wesley never gave much thought to danger when the two of them were together on the ship, but waiting for her return filled him with worry. Was this how his mother had felt while Jack Crusher was on board the Stargazer?

  Dnnys shook his friend by the shoulder. “When will we find out?”

  “I can’t tell you, because I don’t know,” said Wesley, throwing off the hold and scrambling to his feet. “Come on, I have to finish your chores before sunset.” He wanted to think about something other than the outcome of his father’s last voyage.

  The Enterprise had reached a patch of space no different from any other within a distance of several light-years. No different at that moment, reflected Andrew Deelor. If the Choraii followed their usual habits, the situation was subject to change without any prior notice.

  “This is the place,” announced Geordi. “I’ve double-checked the navigation settings.”

  “Sensors do not detect any traces of organic particles,” reported Data. “Either our coordinates are incorrect or the Choraii have not yet arrived.”

  “We are at the right place and they will come,” said Ruthe without rising from the deck. “The song is a long one.”

  “Not that long,” Lieutenant Yar exclaimed. “I’m picking up a faint radio transmission. Boosting reception to the maximum.” She released a thrumming sound into the air.

  The bridge crew stopped in mid-motion, entranced by what they heard. The throaty chorus was far deeper than that of the B Flat singers; it possessed the broad resonance of a cathedral organ and a wide range of voices which rose and fell in complex harmony. Deelor waited for Ruthe’s reaction; she displayed none that he could observe. Either she was indifferent to the character of the sound or she already knew what to expect.

  “Not a single note,” said Picard with surprise as he listened to the undulating music. “More like a chord.”

  “A D major chord, to be precise,” noted Deelor. He stepped up to the captain’s chair. “We’re in trouble.”

  The quiet statement snapped Picard’s attention away from the Choraii song. “Explain.”

  “Pitch is an indication of a ship’s age. In addition, listen to the number of voices,” Deelor instructed. “Only five different tones are present, but I suspect many of the parts are doubled or even tripled. A conservative estimate indicates eleven singers, which means the ship is very old and therefore very powerful. More than a match for the Enterprise.”

  Ruthe’s answering song caught him by surprise. She had mounted the aft bridge and played as if from a stage. The tripping notes from her flute hovered several registers above the drone of the Choraii D major chorus as she wove an intricate counterpoint to their melodic line.

  “Captain, shall I broadcast her response?” asked Yar, lowering the growing volume of the Choraii transmission.

  Picard hesitated. “Is something wrong, Ambassador?”

  “What?” Then Deelor realized he had been frowning as he listened. “No, nothing’s wrong.”

  The captain waved an assent to Lieutenant Yar. Ruthe played on and the tempo of the intertwined sounds quickened.

  “They’ve heard her.” Deelor’s own heart began to beat more rapidly, as if striving to
match the pulse of the music.

  “And here they come,” announced Geordi from the helm. His energy-sensitive visor had picked out the first glimmer of the approaching vessel on the battle-bridge viewer, but by the time his warning drew the crew’s attention to the screen, the image of the Choraii ship had tripled in size.

  Deelor caught his breath at the sight. Even without any reference point in space, he could sense how massive the ship must be. Whereas the B Flat had been composed of some two dozen neatly packed bubbles, the D Major was a jumbled conglomeration of over a hundred spheres. An elongated stream of large bubbles formed the central mass, with smaller ones tucked into crevices and dotted here and there over the outer edges. Deelor had never faced a ship of this complexity before.

  “Reduce magnification,” ordered Picard as the D Major filled the frame, then spilled beyond its borders. His brow furrowed. “So these are the destroyers of New Oregon.”

  The approaching cluster tumbled in space. As a new side rolled into view, Deelor spotted several purple spheres nestled in the exterior layer. “Captain . . . ”

  “Yes, I see them,” said Picard tersely. “Data, prepare your neutralizing probe for launch. Just in case we end up inside another energy net.”

  “Neutralization efforts would be ineffective,” said Data. He further reduced the screen magnification as the Choraii ship threatened to outgrow the frame once again. “The net draws power from the mother ship and the D Major can release a far greater energy surge than can be siphoned off by the probe.”

  “Which means their net would crush us faster as well.”

  “Captain, we would still have time to drill through the spheres with our phasers,” said Worf.

  “Yes,” agreed Data “But my calculations indicate a seventy-eight point five percent chance that such a scenario would end in mutual destruction.”

  “That’s enough talk of battle,” said Deelor impatiently. “This is going to remain a peaceful encounter.”

  “So far, the peaceful intentions have remained ours and ours alone,” said Picard bitterly. “The Choraii loot and destroy and then we pay them for their ill-gotten gains.”

  The flight of the D Major came to an abrupt halt. The glowing orange spheres quivered with the strong currents of their liquid interior.

  “Ambassador . . . ”

  Deelor hushed the captain with a wave of his hand.

  “Listen.” The journey song had ended, but Ruthe continued playing with the Choraii, modulating without a break into a new melody. “They’re singing the greeting.”

  Shifting his weight in the captain’s chair, Picard leaned closer to Deelor and spoke more softly. “The exchange sounds friendly.”

  “Yes, it is.” So even the captain could detect the joy of the meeting. “Once Ruthe establishes our good intentions, we can—” Deelor broke off.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Ruthe has begun a third melody,” explained Deelor. She hadn’t looked to him once for a sign of what to do, yet apparently she was moving beyond the ritual preliminaries. In what direction? Deelor tried to make sense of her exchange with the Choraii, to untangle the mix of high flute and booming organ voices, but the scales they used were unfamiliar and his understanding of the exchange faltered.

  Dr. Crusher edged up behind him. “Do they have the child?”

  “Yes, I think so,” answered Deelor, less certain than he sounded. He had lost track of the melodic line and could grasp only scattered phrases of meaning.

  “So how do we get her back?” Picard’s voice rang out over the bridge. All singing had stopped abruptly, replaced by an unvarying bass hum emanating from the D Major.

  Snapping off a section of her flute, Ruthe answered the captain. “Arrangements have already been made for the girl’s return.” The translator rapidly disassembled the remainder of her instrument and tucked the pieces inside her cloak. “Emily was found when they plundered New Oregon for silver. She isn’t a bonding gift, so they are willing to let her go for the proper price.”

  The palms of Deelor’s hands grew moist. He rubbed them dry against his uniform. “What price is that?”

  “Three pounds of gold, some few ounces of zinc and platinum.” Ruthe stepped down from the aft deck. “I’ll beam over while the metal is gathered.”

  Deelor was too shaken to reply. He had trusted Ruthe with his life over and over again; he would do so now. Yet he knew her well enough to sense a lie in what she told him. A lie to what purpose?

  Picard stepped down from his chair to confront Ruthe. “I don’t like the appearance of this transaction. They’ve agreed too easily.”

  “Would you rather fight the Choraii?” asked Ruthe, arching one brow. “I’m not so certain you would win.”

  A full beat passed before the captain spoke again. “Lieutenant Yar, Dr. Crusher, please accompany Ruthe to the transporter chamber.” Picard fell back and the translator swept past him.

  Deelor stared after her until the doors of the turbo cut her off from his sight. “I trust Ruthe’s judgment.” Then he wondered if he had jumped too quickly to her defense and betrayed his growing unease to the captain. “She knows what she’s doing.”

  Picard settled back into place, his feet braced firmly on the dais, his hands gripping the armrests. He focused his attention on the viewer. “You may trust Ruthe, but I don’t trust the Choraii.”

  Tasha Yar felt uneasy about opening a window in the ship’s shield for the critical seconds when Ruthe would transport over to the Choraii ship. Her tension eased very little even after the deflectors snapped back into place; she couldn’t relax while the massive vessel loomed so near to the Enterprise.

  “I hate this part,” admitted Yar leaning against the console. “Last time we waited for nearly three hours before Ruthe’s contact signal.”

  Crusher sighed heavily. “If the ritual swim through the B Flat took hours, how long will she take to go through the D Major?”

  “Days, weeks . . . ” A high-pitched tone jerked the security chief back to the controls. “The beam signal,” Yar announced, swiftly reversing the procedure that had sent Ruthe out of the ship only minutes before.

  “It’s too early! Something must have gone wrong.” Crusher rushed to the dais as white light flooded the chamber once again. When the blinding beam died away, the doctor found a young girl standing on the platform. And only the girl. Around her neck she wore the chain with Ruthe’s com insignia.

  “Get her out of the way,” cried Yar as she hastened to broaden the reception beam around the coordinates. Each second she spent adjusting the controls increased the ship’s risk.

  Crusher swept the child off the platform, drawing the small body to her chest with a fierce hug, rejoicing in the recovery of at least one life from the devastation on New Oregon. The face that had peered out from behind water-soaked brown tresses bore a strong resemblance to Dnnys. “Emily!”

  “I was having fun,” answered the girl happily when the doctor loosened her embrace. Emily had made the transition to breathing air without assistance. “Can I go back to play soon?”

  “No, honey. You’re going home,” said Crusher, trying to smile back. Had the Hamlin children been this untouched by their parents’ deaths?

  “Is that nice lady coming, too?”

  Ruthe. The doctor looked across the room. Yar’s hands were on the transporter controls, but they weren’t in motion any longer. “Tasha, where is she?”

  “I couldn’t lock on to her,” said the security chief. Her face was wooden, her eyes downcast. “Shields are raised.”

  “The entire ship registers as a life form,” boomed Worf across the smaller bridge. “Sensor readings are garbled. I can’t pinpoint her exact position in the interior.” He checked another section of the tactical console. “Still no answer on hailing frequencies.”

  “What can have happened over there?” Picard had doubted the Choraii’s intentions from the start, but he mustn’t let his suspicions override judgment. A mi
sreading of the alien motives could embroil both ships in unnecessary combat. “Would the Choraii send over the child without receiving payment first?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose. Perhaps as a statement of extreme arrogance.”

  Another thought increased Picard’s concern. “Or would she have snatched the child away without the Choraii’s knowledge?”

  “No,” said Deelor firmly. “She’s not that foolish.”

  “We’re blind to what’s happening over there, but unless they make a hostile—”

  “Captain,” broke in Data. “The D Major is moving away.”

  “Helm, full speed pursuit!” ordered Picard. He followed quickly with a shipwide announcement. “All hands to battlestations.”

  The Enterprise surged forward after the Choraii bubbles. The wide gap between the two vessels began to narrow, but very slowly.

  “Ambassador, we can’t force Ruthe’s return,” said Picard. “Not without placing her in grave danger.”

  Deelor nodded. His face was pale but composed. “Just get their attention and buy me some time, Captain.”

  “Understood.” Picard took a deep breath and issued his next order. “Worf, lock tractor beams as soon as the Choraii are in range.”

  Worf’s clawed hand hovered above the tactical console like a raptor, then swooped downward. Contact. Deck tremors racked the starship as a half-dozen tractor beams latched onto the spheres of the D Major. White bridge lights guttered out; bloodred emergency lights flickered to life. On the viewer, the Choraii ship shuddered to a slow halt.

  “Humans, release us!” Deep, slurring voices thundered like an angry Greek chorus.

  “You still carry one of our people within your ship,” shouted Deelor, but his solo tenor was weak in comparison. “Return her to us.”

  “You mean the lost one? We were forced to give her up many years ago, but now she’s come back.”

  “Damn her,” cursed Deelor under his breath.

  Picard signaled Worf to cut off communications.