The blank look on Data’s face made it obvious he was awaiting additional input before declaring his confusion resolved. “So you are saying it would be preferable to reject such help?”
“How shall I put this? In the best of all possible universes, devoid of all negative motivations, a helping hand would always be welcome. Unfortunately, not all superior beings have the purest of motives. In return for their help they may exact a price, and that price is often too high.”
“And sometimes,” said Troi, “even when the motives are pure, the temptation to play God is irresistible.”
“Ahhh,” Data said. “This is why the Federation adopted the noninterference directive?”
“That’s right,” Picard said. “The framers of that directive had the wisdom to apply the old adage about the road to hell being paved with good intentions.”
“Data, what other records do we have of Nuaran activities in this sector?” Riker asked.
“They have established labor colonies on several uninhabited planets and planetoids. Thiopan slaves were used in those outposts.”
Troi’s eyes widened. “Slaves?”
“Yes. Thiopan political prisoners were disposed of by trading them to the Nuarans like any other commodity. This evidently occurred later in the relationship, when the resources Nuara valued began to grow scarce on Thiopa.”
Troi looked stunned. “After only forty years these abundant Thiopan resources were already running out?”
“Yes, Counselor.”
Riker shook his head in disbelief. “The Thiopans allowed the Nuarans to plunder their world, they engaged in something as barbaric as slave trade—and the Federation is still willing to consider forming an alliance with these people?”
“Doesn’t sound promising, I agree,” Picard admitted. “That’s part of why we’re here—to get some idea whether these things are part of Thiopa’s past growing pains or part of a continuing pattern of behavior that may be deemed questionable by Federation standards.”
“The Thiopans did ask for our help,” Deanna Troi pointed out, “knowing full well what principles the Federation stands for. And they’ve severed their relationship with the Nuarans. Maybe they’re asking for a second chance.”
“Yes. For now let’s try to see this situation from the Thiopans’ point of view,” Picard said. “They saw themselves in a galaxy full of more advanced civilizations. I’m not sure they can be blamed for their willingness to be dragged into the twenty-fourth century, no matter what the cost.”
Riker’s even features darkened. “Some costs are too high, no matter what the return.”
“That judgment is not ours to make, Number One,” said Picard. “Counselor Troi, psychological profile of the Nuarans, please.”
“By our standards, very alien both psychologically and intellectually. Totally motivated by a desire for self-advancement—”
“Sounds like the Ferengi,” Riker said.
“Only up to a point,” Troi countered. “The Ferengi are very cautious, but the Nuarans are willing to take great risks in the expectation of great gains.”
“The risk of attacking a starship, for example?” said Picard.
Troi nodded. “They don’t operate according to the rules we use to govern social and political interactions. Traders and diplomats who’ve had contact with them report that Nuarans either follow no recognizable rules at all or feel no compunction about changing the existing rules to suit their needs. It’s possible that they don’t care about the consequences of their actions. It’s also possible that their thought processes simply don’t encompass the concept of consequences.”
“All of which means that, on top of the Ferengi threat, we’re going to have to be on constant alert while in the vicinity of Thiopa. We don’t know why the Thiopans broke off relations with the Nuarans, but it’s already clear the Nuarans aren’t about to accept being dismissed without getting in a few last words.” Picard pushed his chair back from the table and rose to his feet. “Thank you for your thoughts. You may return to your posts.”
“Captain,” said Troi, “I would like a word with you and Commander Riker.”
Data exited to the bridge, and Troi faced Picard and Riker. “It’s about Ambassador Undrun. I sense a deep insecurity in him.”
Picard frowned. “What sort of insecurity?”
“As if he feels he’s a fraud and that others might discover this. His insecurity may lead him to try to overcompensate, to cover up what he sees as his own failings by doing things that may not be what we expect from him.”
“Great,” said Riker. “He’s not only insufferable—he’s unpredictable, too?”
Picard pursed his lips. “Are you suggesting some sort of preferential treatment for our troublesome Mr. Undrun?”
“I am reasonably sure we won’t have any major problems with him as long as we don’t corner him or overwhelm him with accusations of incompetence. His job-performance record is good.”
“Which means if we handle him carefully,” Picard concluded, “we can expect Undrun to get his job done at Thiopa.”
“Yes, sir. I just thought you should both be aware of a possible problem area.”
“Thank you, Counselor,” Picard said.
They left the conference lounge and took their seats on the bridge. The Enterprise was nearing Thiopa now, and the planet had grown large on the main viewscreen. It wasn’t a pretty sight. A sickly brown haze formed an atmospheric envelope around Thiopa, and the main continent was scarred by ragged gashes in its mountain ranges, where mineral deposits had been carelessly mined. Great swaths of forest had been cut away. And through intermittent gaps in Thiopa’s shroud of fouled air, the eye had no trouble confirming what the ship’s sensors recorded: water-borne pollution blemished Thiopan seas like spreading tumors.
“Is that as bad as it looks?” Picard asked.
“Yes, sir,” Data said. “While we were in conference, Wesley ran some comparisons with sensor readings of Thiopa from twenty years ago.”
“Your report, Ensign Crusher?”
“Yes, sir. The atmosphere now contains fifteen percent less oxygen, twenty percent more carbon dioxide, and seventy-five percent more industrial pollutants, including twenty-five known carcinogens and at least a dozen other toxic wastes. The water tells pretty much the same story, and the mean temperature of the planet is up by almost two degrees Centigrade.”
“If Thiopa were a human patient, Captain,” Data added, “its condition would be critical.”
Captain Picard folded his arms across his chest. “How much of Thiopa’s ecological disaster has been caused by nature and how much by the Thiopans’ own hand,” he wondered. “Good work, Ensign. Continue on standard orbital approach—assume orbit when ready.”
“Yes, sir.” Out of the corner of his eye, Picard saw Wesley smile to himself, clearly pleased by his captain’s words of praise. Data, too, gave Wesley an encouraging nod.
Picard half turned toward his first officer. “Your assessment, Number One?”
“Thiopa doesn’t look like a place I’d want to hang my hat for very long.”
“Agreed. Your judgment about the cost of progress being too high may apply here after all.”
“Maybe, sir. But right now, I’m more curious than anything else. What force could drive a planet so far toward suicide before its inhabitants could cry out for help?”
Picard leaned back, his expression reflective. “We’ll soon find out.”
Chapter Three
“LORD STROSS, you must stand still!”
Ruer Stross, sovereign protector and all-powerful ruler of Thiopa, stewed silently, regarding his own image in a full-length mirror as his valet flitted around him.
“Supo, will you hurry up—”
“Hold your arms up. I’ve got to see that these sleeves fit just right, or—”
“Or what? Will my arms fall off?”
Supo froze. His clenched fists landed firmly on his hips, or where his hips would have been
had they been discernible. But his ample belly obscured such anatomical landmarks. Supo was shaped something like an upright sack—head perched on narrow shoulders; girth steadily increasing down his body as if flesh had surrendered to gravity; stubby legs and dainty feet, which stood on their toes most of the time.
Most Thiopans had elegantly sculpted triangular faces with high cheekbones blending into a long chin, large upturned eyes without lashes or brows, and three or four sensory whiskers on either side of the face where many other humanoid races had ears. But “elegant” was not a word that would come to mind when describing Ruer Stross’s domineering valet. He had a huge beak of a nose, bulging eyes, and whiskers that always seemed to be drooping—except when they were twitching in exasperation. As they were now.
“No, your arms won’t fall off, but you could very well be the laughingstock of your own anniversary feast, and then everyone would blame me. They’d say, ‘Poor old Supo—blind as a burrowskratt, eh? Can’t even dress his master, eh?’ And wouldn’t you just love that, making me the most disgraced servant on the planet, in the galaxy, in the universe?”
“All right, all right,” Stross said, smiling placatingly. “Didn’t mean to growl. I just hate spending this much time getting dressed.”
“I know,” Supo said, already back at work, fitting, pulling, snipping, polishing.
“Don’t think I’d be doing this at all but that Ootherai’s insisting.”
“I know,” the valet said again. Supo’s fingers, the only parts of him that were graceful, fluttered around his master as he made certain that the billowy tunic, with its shiny snaps and rows of medals, was draped perfectly over Stross’s barrel-chested body.
Stross puffed out regular breaths through his nose, as if venting steam from an overstoked boiler. His hair and whiskers had long since gone white with age. But his eyes, with the large pearly irises characteristic of Thiopans, were still clear and vibrant.
Supo stepped back with a flourish. “Done! Perfect!”
“Good,” Stross said with a sigh. “Can I take it off now?”
“No! You’ll wrinkle it or pop the snaps or lose the medals. I’ll take it off you.” The valet delicately released each fastening and slipped the jacket off Stross’s shoulders in one smooth motion, then immediately hung it on a dressing form. Stross, meanwhile, shrugged into a pullover robe that came down to his knees. It was a drab tan, wrinkled and spotted with food stains, but he settled into it like a man released from bondage. He tied a coarse length of rope around his waist and pushed the loose sleeves of the robe up to his elbows. One stayed up, the other sagged. He didn’t care.
“I’m hungry,” Stross announced.
Supo whirled so quickly he almost toppled the clothing dummy. “No! No snacks before tonight. You’ll inflate like a gas bird and this uniform will never fit. You eat too much, master. And the only exercise you get is lifting food to your mouth!”
Protector Stross snorted. “You win, you little tyrant. And that’s only because I’m tired of hearing you scream at me. After this feast tonight, I’ll eat whatever I damn well want.”
“And I’ll alter all your clothing so you won’t have to run around naked,” Supo shot back as he strutted toward the door. It slid open and he left without a look back. “And I found that brueggen cake you hid in the nightstand, so don’t even look for it,” he called from the corridor.
Stross reached out toward the table next to the bed and yanked the drawer out. Empty—I’ll bet that little rodent ate it himself.
“Did you lose something, my lord?” Different voice, this one a smoky purr.
Stross looked up to see a tall woman shadowed in the foyer of his bedchamber. “Yeah. Food. Come on in.”
She stepped into the pool of light spilling from an asymmetrical lamp stand whose severe design of black metal and gray glass echoed the stark austerity of the rest of Stross’s furnishings. Ayli herself was anything but austere.
Honey-colored hair cascaded over her shoulders and framed a face with all the cool beauty of a flawless gem. Her eyes were darker than those of most Thiopans, imparting to even her most casual glance an air of mystery. Her whiskers were starting to turn gray, but that aside, she seemed as youthful as she had on the day she first became Stross’s shadowreader over twenty years earlier. Her satiny dress whispered as she walked to an oval table flanked by a pair of straight-backed chairs.
“Is Supo still treating you with his usual lack of respect?” she asked lightly, settling into a chair with prim dignity.
Stross joined her at the table. “Why should that change? Sometimes I think I should’ve given him to the Nuarans.”
Ayli regarded her leader with a tolerant smile. “And who would look after you? Without Supo to see to your outer shell and me to see to your life-current—”
“You’re as arrogant as he is,” Stross said, laughing. “Don’t forget Ootherai.”
Ayli grimaced. “I hate him,” she said without passion.
“I know you do. And although he won’t say it—because he’s so much cagier than you are—I know he hates you, too.”
“And you like it that way,” Ayli said. “It’s your assurance that your two most trusted advisers won’t plot against you behind your back.”
“There’s something to be said for that. I need a shadowreader and I need a policy minister, and I couldn’t do better than you and Ootherai. Now, Ayli, I’ve got a lot to do today, so let’s get to it.”
Ayli lifted the leather case she’d carried in with her and set it gently on the table. When she released the top latch, the hard sides fell away to reveal a collection of tubes and box shapes, all made of finely machined black metal. With a practiced deftness, Ayli unfolded the tubes on their silver hinges and had her apparatus assembled in a couple of minutes. The device was composed of an eyepiece connected to a kaleidoscopic set of prisms and mirrors enclosed within the cylinders. The main vision tube was girded by four rings, and she used those to adjust the focus as she peered into the device.
Stross, waiting patiently, could see flashes of light and color dancing across her face as the complex optical mechanisms inside the apparatus captured light beams, dismantled them, and reassembled them in a way that only a handful of mystics like Ayli could use to determine the course of future events.
Shadowreaders had been present throughout Thiopa’s history. In ancient times their omens literally changed the course of life on the planet as they advised some leaders to shun wars, others to launch them. As science gained a foothold on Thiopa, before Stross was born, people who wanted to embrace the new ways turned away from the old, and shadowreaders fell on hard times. No respectable government leader would admit to consulting the flickerings of light and dark—though a good many did so in secret.
In the outlying realms, including Thesra where Ruer Stross grew up, a few raggedy shadowreaders still scratched out a meager living by reading omens and foretelling the future for common folk whose lives had yet to be enriched by the new ways of science. Stross never forgot how much respect his parents had for their local shadowreader, a toothless old man named Onar. And Ruer never forgot it was Onar who’d warned them of the earthquake that swallowed up most of Thesra when he was only ten. Ruer’s parents and the others who believed Onar’s prediction had escaped barely a day before the quake. But most of the townsfolk thought Onar was just an old fool. They stayed. And they died.
By the time Stross led the military revolt that overthrew Protector Cutcheon, Thiopa was well on the way to becoming a modern world. For a boy who’d been born into a village without running water or power, science and technology were like magic. Ruer Stross didn’t understand them, but he worshiped them. To him, they were no different, no better or worse, than the form of magic Onar the shadowreader used to save him and his family from the destruction of Thesra. As far as Stross was concerned, both kinds of magic channeled the natural forces of the universe. If they worked, that was good enough for him. He had plenty of scientists and
engineers and technologists, but shadowreaders were hard to find in the new world.
He’d had his agents scour the planet for someone who really had the gift of light and dark. Too many shadowreaders were frauds. A few were genuine, but most of them didn’t seem to be very good. It took him twenty years of searching, trying, dismissing, before he found the bewitching young woman named Ayli.
She straightened and looked at him grimly. “There are many dangers ahead for you, Ruer. Are you sure you want to hear about them?”
“That’s what I pay you for. Let’s have it.”
Her dark eyes clouded with concern. “The omens don’t carry any answers this time—just questions.”
“Well, just knowing the questions has to help. Don’t you think?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen the shadows so dark before.”
He slapped his palms on the table, making her jump. “Enough warnings about the warnings, Ayli. Tell me what you read there.”
Ayli took a deep breath, then spoke. “For the first time I cannot see you reaching your goal.”
“Fusion?”
She nodded. “Your dream is to see all Thiopans joined together in one unified culture and society before you die. But you know your life-current won’t run for that much longer.”
“True. I want Fusion to be the girl I leave behind. The Thiopans’ differences have kept them from uniting—it doesn’t take a genius to see that. When we get everybody speaking the same language, believing in the same things—that’s when we will be strong enough to take on the universe and win. You believe that, don’t you?”
“Yes, my lord. I do. But not everyone does.”
“I know that. Where is the greatest danger to this mission of mine?”
“In the sand—the Endrayan Realm.”
“You mean the Sa’drit Void,” he growled. “The damn Sojourners. Damn them to hell, every last one of them.”
“Some people would say the Void isn’t much better than hell.”
Stross suddenly rose from the table and began to pace the hardwood floor. “They live like savages out there—no power plants, no water system, no heating or cooling, no food processing facilities—”
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