A Time to Hate

by Robert Greenberger

  Perim took a step toward the platform, then turned and flashed Peart her most dazzling smile. He almost did a double-take as he looked right into her eyes. There was a curiosity there; she could practically see him reevaluating her. Damn, he’s good-looking, she thought.

  “You bet I will,” she replied, and quickly stepped on to the transporter platform. Beside her was a female engineer, Goodnough, and then there was Gracin, looking grim and determined. Behind him stood another security officer, Davila. Four against how many? she wondered as they readied themselves.

  Osedah was experiencing fall, Perim thought as she materialized. There was a familiar sting to the air, and sure enough, trees in the distance were dropping multi-hued leaves that fluttered on the soft breeze. Before them was a huge entranceway coated with signage, practically begging people to enter the bazaar. Food, spices, perfume, crafts, everything was promised, prices were reasonable, and no one would walk away unhappy.

  No one was at the entrance. There was no one anywhere in sight. The bazaar—broad, one story tall, made out of canvas coverings affixed to metal posts—was located at the intersection of three roads, with plenty of space for local vehicles as well as a station nearby with what appeared to be a monorail track. Local time was late morning, so the Trill expected the place to be bustling. Of course, there was supposed to be a problem, so something must have scared the people away. She remembered her training and surveyed the scene using all of her senses. She couldn’t hear any screams. The air smelled of cooking meats and something else, but nothing was burning. It was downright odd.

  With a glance, she saw that Gracin was scanning the area with a tricorder, a frown etched across his face. It made her feel somewhat better to know that this situation baffled a more seasoned officer. Goodnough seemed confused, too, turning in slow circles, trying to figure out where the problem was.

  “All life signs are clustered deep within the bazaar,” Gracin finally said. “From what I can make out, the entire layout is designed to force shoppers all the way through the bazaar before they can leave. One pathway, blocked emergency exits.”

  “How many life signs?” Davila asked.

  “Forty-two. A mix of Bader and Dorset, strong and vital. Okay, here’s what we do: we work our way deep inside, slowly, and survey. Davila, you take the rear and keep your phaser at the ready. Everyone else, stay holstered.”

  Everyone acknowledged the order, and then Gracin spun on his left heel and strode forward with an air of confidence that Perim didn’t share. Within seconds he was past the arch and inside the artificially lit structure. As Perim walked behind Gracin, she saw that to each side were low tables piled high with items for sale. On each metal post were prices, specials of the day, manager recommendations, every trick she had ever seen to get people to buy goods. There wasn’t anything like this on her native world of Trill, but she had seen many such places while at the Academy on Earth and then on other worlds, from Farius Prime to Sherman’s Planet. She missed the sounds of haggling, of people shouting with pride about their wares, of old friends reunited. The silence was more than disturbing, it was alarming.

  As they hit the first bend, they went right, then a quick left. Whoever had been staffing these booths had left them in a hurry. Candles burned, a cash box lay atop a stack of garments. At one table she saw small carvings of Bader children at play and idly thought that one might be nice for Peart, but knew there was no time for shopping. Along the way, the deeper they got, the more disheveled the tables were. Then they saw one overturned. Another left and they found one broken in half, the pottery once displayed on it broken into countless shards.

  Gracin stopped so suddenly, the distracted Kell smacked into his broad shoulders. She immediately stepped back, biting her tongue from uttering an apology. With a quick hand signal, he communicated something to Davila and remained still. Finally, Kell heard the sobbing sound that must have alerted her squad leader. It sounded like a child. Kell knew that whole families usually worked these sorts of places, and it made her angry that children should be victimized by violence as well as adults.

  Gracin began moving forward more slowly, his right hand just inches from the phaser still at his hip. He paused at a right-hand bend and peered around it, jerking back after only an instant. He waved the others close so he could speak in a whisper.

  “The Dorset have all the Bader in a group. They’re brandishing knives. I’d say an almost even split.”

  They all exchanged alarmed glances. That meant twenty or so weapon-bearing Dorset against just four Starfleet officers. Kell didn’t like the odds at all and was wondering why she ever talked herself into beaming down, let alone volunteering. She flexed her knee, the one that had been troubling her for months now. Crusher kept pushing a mechanical replacement, but Perim had remained hesitant. It felt fine, but she feared it would give out on her while in action. With a violent shake of her head, she banished her fear, knowing full well she was trained for this sort of problem. She was in Starfleet for a reason, and saving lives was part of that. She would do her job and make Gracin and Data proud. Oh, and Peart too.

  “Goodnough, Davila, you backtrack and come around to their position on the opposite side of the canvas,” Gracin instructed in clipped tones as he handed the tricorder to his partner. “When you’re in position, I’ll startle them. We need to attack front and rear if we have any hope of saving these people.”

  Davila nodded once and tapped the tip of the phaser against his temple in a salute.

  “Okay, Perim, ready to make a stand?”

  “Give me the word,” she replied.

  “Good,” he said, and turned his back, straining to listen as the other two retreated. Perim watched them hurry along, careful to step over broken items. She couldn’t hear more than a scratch in the dirt, not loud enough to alert the Dorset.

  “What are we going to do?” she whispered into Gracin’s ear.

  “I’ll count down with my fingers. On my mark, we will emerge in their line of sight and immediately stun those closest to the Bader. You fire to your right. The phaser fire will be all the signal Davila needs. He will either fire on those trying to escape, or cut through the canvas and herd the Bader out.”

  “Wait, do you mean it’s you and me against twenty?”

  “Odds too small?” he asked with a tight smile.

  “Odds too great,” she countered. “You’ve never seen my scores.” She hated the notion that her first mission would involve shooting a phaser. She would have preferred a rescue mission that didn’t put people in harm’s way. Once phasers were fired, people could panic and wind up in the path of a shot. Or be shot by frightened Dorset. But without backup, Gracin had little choice but to plan an offensive approach, and to be honest, she couldn’t think of a better plan.

  The seconds passed slowly. Perim saw that Gracin was not only concentrating on the sounds before him, but also mentally tracing Davila and Goodnough’s path back out and around until they were in position. There was no way to signal one another without alerting the terrorists, so silence was their only option. Perim didn’t doubt that Vale had trained her troops well during the days en route to Delta Sigma IV; she’d overheard enough reports to know the score results had pleased Captain Picard. If he trusted Vale and she trusted her people, then she was going to trust Gracin.

  Finally Gracin was satisfied that the others were in position. He held up his left hand, fingers spread wide. Five. His other hand gripped his phaser, and it practically nodded toward her. She got the signal and withdrew her own weapon. The phaser felt heavy in her hand, and nervous sweat was already forming on her palm.

  Four.

  She checked the setting, satisfied it wouldn’t slip from stun to disintegrate.

  Three.

  She ran her free hand through her hair, making sure it wouldn’t fall into her eyes.

  Two.

  She took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly.

  One.

  She muttered a very sho
rt prayer.

  Mark.

  In a burst of motion, they rounded the corner and were firing before she had fully cleared the space. Some Dorset fell; others screamed. At least one attacked back, a knife flying close to her but missing.

  Gracin fired at one, then another, with sure, true shots. Perim barely let go of her trigger, so the crimson beam was continuous, striking Dorset, pillars, a table. Things and people went flying, but fortunately, the Bader knew enough to stay down.

  Sure enough, several Dorset used their knives to cut the canvas and try to escape. No sooner did a hole appear than a phaser beam cut through the air and knocked the would-be escaper backward over the shoulders of hunched-over Bader. Once the Dorset was in their midst, the former prisoners pummeled the man.

  Davila was through the ragged space and firing as well. Goodnough scrambled through the sliced fabric right behind him, firing with much the same continuous motion Perim used. That made her feel better, but she suspected it wasn’t by-the-book.

  One Dorset, screaming something about Bader treachery, grabbed a woman by the hair and tried to slit her throat. Gracin threw himself over huddled Bader and grabbed for the man’s knife hand. The two men grappled, and Perim took the opportunity to yank the woman out of the way. Then, when the Dorset man presented his back to Perim, she fired.

  “Thanks. Duck!” he shouted.

  Without hesitation, she bent her knees and dropped low, and he fired where she had been standing a moment before. Only then did she turn and watch a Dorset woman pinwheel backward into a table.

  It wasn’t long before the Dorset were rounded up, the Bader using whatever they could find to tie them up. The cacophony of voices gave Perim a headache. People were accusing one another of fomenting a rebellion, while others were hurling epithets at Starfleet and still more were crying over their destroyed belongings.

  Davila gave her a smile and patted her shoulder, indicating he was pleased with her work. Goodnough sidled up to Perim and said, “Are all away missions like this?”

  “No, from what I hear, they’re an awful lot more dangerous.”

  And she couldn’t wait until the next opportunity.

  Picard was fuming. When he told his senior staff they were to convene in three hours, he didn’t mean three hours and five minutes. Still, Crusher was missing, and she was the most important member of the staff, given the topic for discussion. Everyone was busy, and he hated pulling La Forge away from the engines—he really needed to ask about the plasma injector problem, but it wasn’t immediately vital. Data was clearly running the ship effectively, but Picard hadn’t taken the time to inquire as to the crew’s mood. In fact, the captain had been falling more and more out of touch with everything but the Council, and they were moving with less than deliberate speed. He’d much prefer to handle things aboard the ship, but he had time for only the most important matters. He had hastily drunk a cup of soup while going through the last communiqués from Starfleet before checking in with the recovering Ambassador Morrow and then called down to verify that the Council halves had, as expected, done nothing while he was away.

  Once that was clear, he asked Troi to come back aboard and do a fast analysis of Crusher’s issues concerning her plant seeding scheme. The last thing he wanted was to approve a solution and then discover it would violate some cultural taboo. The concerned look in her eyes when she grasped the issue didn’t tell him which side she favored, and maybe that was for the best.

  Still, a part of him wanted to postpone the meeting until Riker had been found. The captain had become so used to having the first officer’s insight that it felt wrong not to have him seated by his side. The hours had ticked by and any hope he had of a miraculous rescue evaporated, especially when Lieutenant Vale was the first to enter the observation lounge. She gave him a wan smile and a shrug of her shoulders.

  Everyone who had been planetside looked exhausted, and Picard hoped that when this mission ended, Command would allow them some shore leave.

  Finally, a whoosh of the doors and Crusher entered the room, hair flying, hands thrust deep into her lab coat pockets. She muttered apologies as she passed Picard and took her seat to his right.

  “Everything okay, Doc?” La Forge asked.

  “Fine,” she said a bit breathlessly. “I was helping Tropp finish with a patient he rescued.”

  “The impaled one,” La Forge added. “Nice work on that, I hear.”

  “She was a mess, but she’ll live,” Crusher finished.

  “That’s certainly good to hear,” Picard said, regaining control of the room. All eyes turned his way, expectant. “After I present the facts, I will need everyone’s considered opinion on what we do next. Either choice will have long-lasting consequences to both races.

  “The liscom gas Dr. Crusher discovered in the bloodstream has acted like a narcotic. It has effectively drugged these people into peacefulness. They grew up believing their history, which says it was an enlightened view of the universe that led to the peaceful colonization of Delta Sigma IV. They were wrong. The gas also altered their life cycles, accelerating them so they are now dying off at a faster than normal rate.

  “What Starfleet Medical discovered was a cure for the aging but totally missed the tranquilizing effects of the gas in the natives’ systems. Their cure neutralized the gas’s soporific effects, and the natives reverted to their true natures. As you know, those natures are anything but peaceful and cooperative. And the cure has spread like a virus, igniting the violence that has become our preoccupation.

  “From what the doctor has determined, these people have never experienced such feelings before and are completely untrained in handling the emotions coursing through them.”

  “There’s more to it than that,” Troi interrupted. Picard nodded for her to continue. “All the more extreme emotions were suppressed, which not only led them to peaceful cohabitation but also stunted their emotional growth. I took a quick look at their native music, art, and literature. It’s all very basic and bland. As some of us have noted, their buildings are not very interesting to look at. It’s because they lacked the passion for creativity. The inability of the government to act during this crisis also seems to be a by-product of the liscom gas. On their original homeworlds, those natural aggressive tendencies had been channeled into governance and creativity. Once those abilities were removed by the liscom gas, the spark was essentially snuffed out.”

  “I didn’t think two races could be so boring,” Morrow chimed in from the rear of the room. Picard shot him a look, and the ambassador slumped a little lower in the seat. The captain noted that the man looked healthier than before, which was good since he would need his help before this mission ended.

  Picard continued after another moment. “What Dr. Crusher has determined is that we could let things remain as is, let the people belatedly come to grips with their natural tendencies, learning through experience and living out their normal lives, or she can introduce something that would neutralize the liscom gas’s effects on the chromosomes, letting them live peacefully but keeping them drugged.

  “Neither the doctor nor I want to make this decision ourselves. We certainly can’t expect the divided Council to make an informed choice. Therefore, I now open the floor to debate. While I’d like to give this a proper airing, time is definitely against us.”

  Picard stopped and let his words sink in. As expected, Data, without an emotional filter, was the first to speak.

  “Captain, if these people formed a peace that led to membership in the Federation under altered circumstances, does it not follow that the Bader and Dorset governments should be consulted?”

  Picard looked at Morrow, glad to have immediate input from the Diplomatic Corps, especially from one who had spent some time with the people involved. Morrow sat up straighter, wincing as his left hand gently rubbed one of the almost-healed ribs.

  “That is one course of action, certainly, but not a required one. The gas is a natural phenomenon, so the
situation is much different than if they all ingested something illegal, like Red Ice. In fact, both governments might see this as a way to press their claim to the planet, which in turn might ignite a new conflict, and the citizens below would be caught in the middle.”

  “So you would not suggest that approach?”

  “No, Mr. Data.” Picard inwardly winced at the simplicity of expression on Data’s face. He missed having his second officer complete with emotions, and he suffered on his friend’s behalf since, after all, Data couldn’t fully comprehend his loss.

  “My chief concern,” Crusher observed, “is that by administering yet another element into the ecosystem I’m treating people who are not technically sick. I’m changing them permanently because of my own moral system.”

  “But don’t we recognize the need to change the status quo because it’s killing them?” La Forge said. “Left as they are, either they’ll kill each other or the survivors will die prematurely. Let the liscom gas take hold once more, they’ll just die more slowly.”

  “Death either way is no solution,” Troi said.

  “Starfleet Medical’s code of ethics isn’t clear on this sort of subject,” Crusher said. “I spent some time checking on it, while Moq finished the simulation. Still, I cannot in good conscience risk changing these people again, possibly for the worse. They tested five subjects for almost a year, and you’d have me introduce my ‘cure’ immediately, with no test subjects at all.”

  “So noted, Doctor,” Picard said, wondering what Riker would think about all this.

  “Sir,” Vale spoke up. “I have people down there giving their lives to preserve a peace that maybe never should have existed at all. Maybe the best course of action is to abandon the world entirely. It’s toxic to both races.”

  “I’m not sure either of the original homeworlds would welcome back the descendants of those who left,” Morrow said. “Checking would take time, which I’m told we do not have.”