“But they have weapons, they have communications, they have the rail line we abandoned. They have the will and the capability to come out of that desert and hurt you, Ruer.”
“I know. What I don’t know is why. When we got rid of Cutcheon and his band of idiots, Thiopa was barely living in the present. Whole realms were still living as I did when I was a child, without enough food, drinking water that made people sick. In forty years I took this world from the past to the future. Why do these crazy Sojourners want to destroy all that?”
Ayli remained calm. “Because they believe your rush toward the future may have destroyed that very future. They blame you for the drought and the crop failures. They blame you for the brown air and the poisoned water.”
“Progress always requires sacrifices. Why can’t people understand that? Do they really want to live in the past again? In a world where people grow old and broken before their time, where babies die . . .” Stross shook his head. “If they’re going to blame me for the bad things, why won’t they give me credit for the good?”
“That’s the way people are, Ruer. They always want what they don’t have. And they’ll turn on their leaders the moment things go wrong.”
“Can’t they see over the horizon, as we can?” Stross asked, hands outstretched plaintively.
“Not when they’re scared—as some of them are now. So scared that somebody like Lessandra can lead them around by the nose and turn them into a mob of monsters,” Ayli said.
“They haven’t won yet, these Sojourner bastards.”
“Maybe not, Ruer. But don’t forget the darkest shadow: the Sojourners are committed to their mission—to take this planet back to the old ways—just as you are committed to your mission—to unite Thiopa under Fusion.” She paused. “And, my lord, they believe in their leader as much as we believe in you.”
A third voice, cultured and sly, spoke from the doorway. “And if we eliminate their leader?”
Policy Minister Hydrin Ootherai entered. He was much younger than Stross, and taller and thinner, with a shaved head and a pointed beard. Ootherai wore a smartly tailored suit appointed with black braid and brass. Where Stross scorned the use of physical adornment for the sake of effect, his policy minister embraced the concept.
“If you kill Lessandra,” Ayli replied, speaking directly to Stross, pointedly ignoring Ootherai, “someone else will take her place. The Sojourners have come this far—they’re not about to bend.”
“Then perhaps they’ll shatter,” Ootherai said.
“As they did when you hunted down Evain and arrested him? That was twenty years ago, and since then the Sojourners have only become stronger.”
“Evain was a philosopher, not a fighter,” said Ootherai. “When Lessandra took his place, we were presented with a new foe, one who was tougher, more radical, more willing to employ strategies of violence.”
“And how do you know you won’t get someone even more radical if you do away with Lessandra?”
“You have such a simple view of things, my dear.”
“You can’t see anything that’s not right in front of you, Ootherai. You discount Evain’s contribution to what we’re fighting today. He’s the one who updated the old Sojourner Testaments. His writings provided the foundation for what Lessandra’s doing now. She’s just added the idea of a holy war to win the world back from us before it’s too late.”
“You give far too much credit to some muddle-headed itinerant—”
“Enough!” Stross exploded, hammering his fist on the table. “You’re arguing about what has already happened. I need to know what will happen. As for getting rid of Lessandra, we don’t need to create any more martyrs. I need specifics, Ayli.”
The shadowreader cleared her throat. “You face perils in dealing with the Federation starship that’s coming here. If you’re to gain the most benefit from the relief supplies the Enterprise is bringing, without risking major losses, you must keep control of events. You must not let the Sojourners reach the starship crew with any of their propaganda and lies.”
“Control,” Ootherai said. “That’s what I always recommend.”
Ayli went on, ignoring the policy minister. “I see the Sojourners striking where they can have the most impact—at the moment of your greatest triumph.”
Stross frowned. “The anniversary feast?”
“The shadow-light relationship tells me it is a certainty.”
Ootherai rolled his eyes. “One does not need to be a shadowreader to predict that, my lord,” he said. “For this event I have designed the most stringent security measures we’ve ever had. You will have an unblemished celebration tonight, I can assure you.”
“Just as you assured him there was no way Bareesh and this realm could be attacked by terrorists?” Ayli asked quietly.
“I never said we didn’t make errors. We do, however, learn from our errors and strive to make our efforts more effective. I’ve never heard such standards of accountability applied to a shadowreader. Our agents discovered a massive propaganda campaign and nipped it in the bud, before these”—the policy minister reached into his coat pocket and removed a wrinkled sheet of paper—“could be spread around Bareesh City, not to mention the whole realm. Under torture, the terrorists admitted to being Sojourner sympathizers.”
Stross blinked in disbelief when he saw the propaganda leaflet. “Sympathizers . . . our citizens helping the Sojourners?”
“Yes,” Ootherai replied quickly, “but we don’t believe there are very many of them. It’s a small movement, and we’re expending a great deal of effort toward arresting them and convincing potential traitors that the rewards of treason are not pleasant. We’ll have them eliminated in no time.”
“That’s not what my readings say,” Ayli said.
“Your readings? You sound like a scientist who knows—”
“Shadowreading is something you can’t understand.”
Stross cut the bickering short by snatching the leaflet from Ootherai’s hand and studied it closely. It showed a photo of Stross, the sovereign protector, at a rally, dressed in his ceremonial tunic, waving his hands—but his face had been replaced by a death’s-head. The caption ridiculed him as “Uncle Death.”
“The children call me uncle because they know I love them,” Stross sputtered, so distressed he could barely speak. “I’ve made their lives better . . . and that’s why they love me.”
“Everyone knows that, my lord,” Ootherai said, trying to soothe his leader.
“These monsters take that love and pervert it into this?” Stross gritted his teeth angrily. “If they want death, I’ll give them death. I’m the sovereign protector and I’ll live up to that title.”
“They’re sand spiders,” said Ootherai. “We’ll crush them.”
“Ruer,” Ayli said urgently, trying to reach him through his rage, “you can’t let the Sojourners distract you from your goal: Fusion for Thiopa. If you get sidetracked into a war and forget what you’re trying to do for this world, your enemies will win—even if they lose.”
Stross shook his head. “What can I do?”
“Draw a shroud over them so their poison cannot escape. Above all, you must keep the Federation and its emissaries from hearing their demon’s version of the truth.”
Stross remained silent for a long moment. He wanted nothing more than to crush the Sojourners for mocking him, but he heard the sense in what his shadowreader was telling him.
“All right,” he said finally, “we’ll do as you suggest, Ayli.” He turned to his policy minister. “Tighten your security precautions for the anniversary feast, Ootherai, and make sure there’s not a Sojourner or one of these”—he crumpled the propaganda leaflet in his hand—“within a hundred miles of here when the Enterprise arrives.”
“Yes, Lord,” Ootherai said.
“I’ll be in my workshop. If anyone bothers me, it had better be important.” Stross rose and shuffled out of the chamber through a side door.
; The policy minister watched him go, and shook his head. “I cannot understand why a leader, whose government policy is built on the development of technology, can give credence to the ritualistic pronouncements of a woman who professes to foresee the future in the flickerings of light through prisms and mirrors.”
“Again you fail to see what is right in front of you, Ootherai,” Ayli said. “Ruer Stross listens to me because I am right.”
Chapter Four
WESLEY TAPPED a final command into his console. “Standard orbit established, Captain.”
“Thank you, Mr. Crusher. Mr. Data, sensor readings?”
“Close-proximity scans confirm Wesley’s earlier findings, sir.” The android turned halfway toward Picard and Riker, who were seated behind him. “Since the causes of Thiopa’s environmental difficulties will be vital to our evaluation, I will need additional historical data on Thiopa.”
“What sort of data?” Picard wanted to know.
“Weather and water temperature records, readings on levels of atmospheric and oceanic pollutants, rates and methods of industrial development. I would like to conduct my research via direct contact with Thiopan scientists and information banks, with your permission, Captain.”
“By all means. If they’ll talk, we’re certainly free to listen. Keep me informed. Mr. Worf, contact the planetary government.”
“Channel open,” said Worf.
“This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the U.S.S. Enterprise, requesting contact with Sovereign Protector Stross.”
A reply came quickly. “Enterprise, this is the Thiopan Space Communications Network. Please stand by while we transfer you.”
“Enterprise standing by.”
After a couple of seconds the image of a bald man with a beard replaced the planet on the bridge viewscreen. “Captain Picard, I am Policy Minister Ootherai. Sovereign Protector Stross asked me to welcome you to our world.”
“Is your sovereign protector available?”
“At the moment, he isn’t. But I am authorized to speak for him and on behalf of our government, Captain. We extend our warmest greetings and our appreciation for the emergency supplies you’ve brought to help us in our time of need. Lord Stross is busy preparing for tonight’s anniversary feast here in our capital city of Bareesh.”
“Anniversary feast?” Picard wasn’t sure he’d heard that last word correctly.
“Yes. The fortieth anniversary of Lord Stross’s elevation to the protectorate. He has been our leader longer than anyone else in Thiopan history. We would be most honored to have you and your senior officers as our guests at the feast. Do you need some time to consider the invitation, Captain Picard?”
Picard smiled cautiously. “No, not at all, sir. We shall be happy to attend.”
Ootherai clapped his hands. “Wonderful! The feast will commence in about two hours. Beam down to the government center coordinates you’ve already been given. I’ll be there to greet you myself.”
“Thank you, Minister Ootherai. Now, as to the primary purpose of our mission—have your storage facilities been prepared to accept our cargo of relief supplies?”
“Yes, they have. If you care to transport down and examine them . . .”
“Actually, I’ll be sending my first officer, Commander William Riker, down for that purpose. We have the coordinates.”
“Excellent, Captain. I shall inform Facility Supervisor Chardrai. And I and the Sovereign Protector will look forward to meeting you and your party at the reception. Until then, Captain Picard . . .”
“Your hospitality is appreciated. Picard out.” The planet reappeared on the viewer, rolling on its axis ten thousand kilometers beneath the Enterprise.
Riker’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “A feast? They’re in the middle of a famine and they’re having an anniversary feast?”
Picard looked at him. “Perhaps it won’t actually be a feast, Number One. If food is as scarce down there as we’ve been led to believe, the menu may be a meager one.”
“The celebration could be a morale-booster,” Counselor Troi suggested. “When circumstances are especially trying, people can benefit from an appropriately scaled celebration to lift their spirits and help them look forward to better times.”
“Like those jazz concerts you’ve been trying to organize,” Picard said to his first officer. “Morale boosters for times when the captain behaves in a particularly tyrannical fashion.”
Riker grinned. “Which reminds me, Worf . . . Geordi’s sold me on the idea of you auditioning for me. He says you’re pretty good on that Klingon instrument you play.”
“A chuS’ugh, Commander.”
“First chance we get.”
Picard leaned close to Riker. “Worf in a jazz band?” he murmured. “Why do I have a hard time picturing this?”
“He may discover a whole new career,” Riker shrugged. He could tell Picard would need additional convincing.
“Counselor, Commander Data,” Picard said, “I would like both of you to accompany me to this reception on Thiopa.”
“I’m not sure I like the idea of you beaming down, Captain,” said Riker.
“Protocol, Number One. Besides, how hazardous could it be? And you have other responsibilities on Thiopa.”
“For which I have to bring Undrun with me,” Riker sighed.
“I’m afraid so,” said Picard. “I have faith in your good judgment and restraint in handling him.”
Riker stood and shook his head. “So while I’m taxing my self-restraint, you, Deanna, and Data will get wined and dined like diplomats. I get to tour a warehouse . . . Doesn’t seem fair somehow.” He was already several strides up the ramp toward the turbolift.
“It’s not likely to be a sumptuous affair,” Picard said. “We’ll probably eat stew from wooden bowls.”
That conjecture prompted a fragment of a grin. “I hope so.”
“Number One—”
Riker paused at the open lift doors. “Sir?”
“Be careful down there. And don’t let the irksome Mr. Undrun distract you from making the most useful observations you can. The Federation is relying on us, and I’m relying on you.”
Riker nodded. “Understood, Captain.”
Riker waited next to the transporter console, trying to control his growing impatience as Undrun carefully arranged his hat and fur collar to leave as little bare skin as possible. “Ambassador Undrun, it’s not cold in Bareesh.”
“Cold is relative, Mr. Riker.”
“Whenever you’re ready, sir . . .”
After a little more fluffing of his collar, Undrun finally announced, “I am ready.”
“Good. Take this.” Riker handed Undrun a filter mask designed to fit snugly over eyes, nose, and mouth.
Undrun held it at arm’s length. “And do what with it?” he demanded.
“Our sensors report a good deal of air pollution in the area to which we’re beaming down. We’re not permitted to be transported without adequate protective equipment. If you’d like me to help you—”
“I’m capable of putting on a filter mask, Commander.”
Riker backed off a step. “Fine.” He put his own mask over his face and stepped up onto the transporter platform. Undrun followed, and when they were both set, Riker gave the order. “Energize.”
He and Undrun shimmered back into being on a vast concrete dock on a bank of the Eloki River—or what was left of the river. Though the opposite bank was at least a kilometer away, the river itself was just a weak trickle running diffidently down a muddy mid-stream channel. The rest of the riverbed was now hard and dusty, baked and blistered by the sun. Barges lay embedded in dry mud like fossilized creatures trapped by a world gone environmentally mad.
Riker immediately realized that it was a good thing they’d worn the masks. All around them, industrial stacks loomed overhead, spewing gaseous and particulate filth into the mustard-colored sky. The sun glowered down through the smog, a vague pale disk diminished by the veil of poison s
trangling the planet.
Directly behind them, recessed back from a huge square building, was a vestibule, which, when they ducked into it, turned out to be a sort of airlock. The outside doors thumped tightly shut, and a red light began flashing over the inner doors. Hissing pumps sucked out the fumes in the airlock and vented them back outside. The warning light winked off and the inner doors slid aside, permitting entry to a dim corridor built from prefabricated sections. Riker cautiously lifted his mask. The indoor air smelled stale and artificial, but it was breathable. He nodded and Undrun took his own mask off, then carefully replaced his hat.
The corridor led in only one direction. As Riker and Undrun followed it, they glanced through small windows at the cavernous interior of the depot, which extended ten levels above them and five below ground. Some areas were wide open, apparently to allow for storage of massive industrial beams and girders. But most of the structure’s space was divided into cantilevered platforms, divisible as needed, depending on what was to be kept there. A variety of containers and crates, some molded of plastic or metal, others made of old-fashioned wood, lay scattered about the warehouse’s interior.
The corridor led them to a glass-walled office warren, where a lone Thiopan sat at a desk and a guard stood just inside the door. The two men wore similar utilitarian uniforms, one-piece and gray, with pockets and simple markings. The guard wore a squared-off helmet and cradled a rifle, which Riker guessed to be some sort of beam weapon. On his hip was a holstered pistol, and a functional knife was nestled in a shoulder scabbard.
The man at the desk looked up as Riker and Undrun entered, but the guard made no move to stop them. “You must be from the starship. I’m Chardrai, supervisor of this here palace.”
“I’m Commander Riker. This is Ambassador Undrun of the United Federation of Planets Aid and Assistance Ministry.”
Chardrai nodded a gruff greeting. He was short and stocky with heavy jowls and grizzled hair and whiskers. “Can I get you a drink to clear your mouth of the taste of that soup we call air?”
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