POWER HUNGRY

by Howard Weinstein

  “With Captain Picard’s permission . . .”

  “By all means,” Picard said.

  “Sorry I can’t chat with you all a bit longer,” Stross said, “but Ootherai here has a number of other people I’m supposed to talk to before this feast gets going.”

  “We understand,” said Picard. “A head of state does have certain responsibilities.”

  “I’d like to talk more,” Stross added. “Ootherai can set up an appointment for tomorrow, if you’d like, Captain. He can answer any questions that might come up tonight. Otherwise, just enjoy yourselves.” Supo opened the side door for him and Stross left the room.

  Ootherai motioned back toward the lobby. “The feast hall should be ready. If you’ll allow me to accompany you to your seats . . .”

  “May I tag along?” asked Dr. Keat.

  “Please do,” Data answered eagerly. “I am very curious about your analyses of the causes of Thiopa’s ecological difficulties. One can discern only so much from a brief period of orbital observation. Without the proper historical perspective, contemporary examination is of limited value. The relationships between atmospheric components and their relative levels of modification could prove most enlightening, taking into consideration, of course, the overlapping cause-and-effect curve of—”

  “Mr. Data,” Picard interrupted, “you’re babbling again.”

  Data’s yellow eyes widened. “So I am, sir. Sorry.”

  “Quite all right, but this is a social occasion.”

  “I am not entirely proficient in social occasions,” Data said, emphasizing the last two words as if referring to a course he was in danger of failing.

  “Why not, Commander?” Kael Keat wanted to know.

  “It was evidently not part of my programming.”

  Keat did a double-take. “Programming? You’re an android?”

  Picard and Troi exchanged a knowing glance. No matter how long they served with Data, his shipmates never tired of seeing other beings surprised to discover that they’d been conversing with a machine rather than with a naively charming human with unusually sallow skin. “Not just an android,” Picard said with pride. “One of my most capable officers.”

  “Well, I’m not sure who’s more anxious to talk to whom, Mr. Data,” Dr. Keat said. “I’ve never met anyone like you before. Perhaps I can help you sharpen those social skills this evening.” She took Data by the arm and began leading him out of the room.

  Smiling, Picard and Troi followed.

  “What did he call it, again?” Riker asked Geordi LaForge as they strode along an Enterprise corridor.

  “A chuS’ugh—and don’t ask me if I’m pronouncing it right. Klingonese always sounds like somebody either gargling or getting strangled.”

  “I’ll tell him you said so.” Riker chuckled.

  “He already knows.”

  “What does”—Riker hesitated, then came up with his best approximation of the instrument name— “chuS’ugh translate as?”

  “ ‘Heavy noise.’ ”

  Riker’s expression turned skeptical. “And you’ve heard him play it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What does it sound like?”

  “That’s a tough one, Commander. Not like anything I ever heard before.”

  “Then it’s not likely anybody’s written any great jazz arrangements for it,” said Riker with a wry smile.

  “So you’ll improvise. Isn’t that what jazz is all about?”

  Another all too familiar voice broke in from behind them. “There you are, Riker. Stop!”

  Riker turned and let a shoulder slouch as Frid Undrun shuffled up to them. “What is it, Mr. Ambassador? I’m off duty.”

  Undrun halted and teetered back on his heels. “Oh, well . . . I’m never off duty. We needa discush what happened down there . . . We needa make some d’cisions,” he asserted, losing a few syllables along the way.

  Riker eyed the ambassador skeptically. “We can’t make any decisions until Captain Picard returns from the planet and you sleep off the rest of that sedative.”

  “What sed’tive?”

  “Did Dr. Pulaski release you from sickbay?”

  Undrun’s chin jutted defiantly. “I releashed myself. Don’t need anybody to tell me—”

  “You’re going right back to sickbay.” Riker tried to steer the bleary-eyed envoy into an about-face, but Undrun eluded his grip. “You either cooperate—”

  Undrun backpedaled. Cooperation was not his first choice. Riker strode forward and in one smooth motion picked Undrun up and slung him over his shoulder. “You didn’t see this, Geordi.”

  LaForge trailed behind. “See what? I’m blind, remember?”

  “Riker,” Undrun shrieked, “I warned you if you ever tushed me again—”

  Fortunately, sickbay wasn’t far, and it wasn’t long before Riker was depositing his cargo in front of a startled Dr. Pulaski. “I think you lost something, Kate.”

  “Where did he come from?”

  “If you’re referring to the larger philosophical context, I haven’t got a clue. I’d batten my hatches if I were you.”

  “Consider them battened.”

  Riker and Geordi resumed their musical mission, arriving at Worf’s cabin in time to hear a basso profundo bleat. Something like a forty-foot sheep jabbed with an electric prod. Riker looked horrified. “You sure about this, LaForge?”

  “He’s just tuning up. Don’t worry. I told you, I’ve never heard anything like this instrument.”

  Another blaaaaaat, slightly higher in pitch.

  “Tuning up?”

  “Don’t you want this combo to sound original?”

  “Sure, but I still want it to sound like jazz.” Riker’s brow wrinkled doubtfully. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

  Geordi answered with a wide grin. “That’s the spirit.”

  “When in Rome . . .” Picard shrugged. He and his companions got to their feet but didn’t join in the ovation with which the Thiopan celebrants greeted their sovereign protector on his grand entrance into the feast hall.

  “Feast” appeared to be the right word for the celebration after all. By Data’s estimate, there were 2,836 people in the massive hall. Judging by their enthusiastic reaction to Stross’s appearance, they were all partisans of the beleaguered government. The applause went on and on as spotlights and laser beams danced across the long dais where Ruer Stross waved clenched fists over his head and savored the adulation.

  “Quite a spectacle,” Picard said to Troi, bending close to her ear to make himself heard over the cheering. “I think this level of revelry far exceeds the morale-building threshold you suggested. They’re well past the point of ostentation.”

  Troi nodded. “Do you think they lied to the Federation about this famine?”

  “I don’t know. If so, did they really think they’d get away with it?”

  Data leaned closer to them. “Their ecological problems are quite apparent, sir, and more than severe enough to contribute to an extreme food shortage.”

  “This celebration hardly reflects the restraint one would expect from the leaders of a world whose inhabitants are threatened with starvation. Just look at all those groaning boards of food waiting to be served.”

  “This wouldn’t be the first time that leaders have exhibited bad judgment,” Troi pointed out.

  Picard snorted. “Let them eat cake?”

  “Cake?” said Data, scanning the hall. “I do not see any baked goods.”

  “It’s an expression from earth history, late seventeen hundreds, the French Revolution.”

  “Ah, yes,” Data said. “Your ancestral land, sir. Marie Antoinette, queen of France and wife of King Louis the Sixteenth, was popularly believed to have said ‘Let them eat cake’ in response to a critical shortage of bread. That attribution was never confirmed, however.”

  “That’s not the point, Data,” Troi said patiently. “The French nobility lived extravagantly while the rest of the p
eople endured poverty. Cruel indifference on the part of leaders has contributed to many revolutions throughout history.”

  “Do you think that’s what we’re facing here?” Picard asked her.

  “It’s a possibility, sir,” Troy said, “but it would be very difficult to isolate an admission like that from anyone in this group, especially now, when they’re so excited about this anniversary celebration.”

  “All the more reason for us to meet tomorrow with Stross and Ootherai.”

  The ovation finally subsided and the diners took their seats again. An army of waiters began circulating with rolling carts and fine silver trays, all heavily laden with food. The Enterprise officers were seated at a small private table in a front corner of the vast hall. A waiter served them almost immediately, setting before them bowls overflowing with fruit.

  “Generous,” Troi noted. “If the Thiopans really are starving, I feel a little guilty about gorging myself.”

  “We’ve got four shiploads of food up in orbit, Deanna,” said Picard. “If we do our job, those hungry mouths will be fed . . . for a while at least.”

  “It’s tuned,” Worf intoned. He cradled his chuS’ugh in the crook of one arm. The instrument, which was made of dark, dull-finished wood, had a pear-shaped soundbox about two feet high. Its wide base rested on Worf’s thigh. At the tapered upper tip was a small air grate. A short bridge with four thick strings of coiled steel was set at an odd angle against the instrument’s midsection. In his other hand, the Klingon gripped a stubby bow.

  To Riker, who had visited many different worlds and sampled numerous alien cultures, this was without doubt the strangest musical instrument he’d ever seen. He extended a tentative finger toward the strings. “May I?”

  Worf nodded. Riker plucked the thinnest string—the thickest was nearly as big around as his little finger. A tone came out of the soundhole low on the instrument’s belly—pleasantly mellow, to his surprise—but that was overwhelmed a second later by a brassy dissonance howling from the grate at the top.

  Riker’s hand jerked back by reflex, as if he’d been burned. “What the hell was that?”

  Worf almost smiled. “Harmony.”

  “All right, Worf.” Riker leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “As they used to say in the old days, ‘lay some sounds on me.’ ”

  The Klingon gave Geordi a hesitant glance. “He means play,” Geordi assured him.

  With an incongruous flourish, Worf stretched his bowing arm, positioned the bow across the strings, and began sawing at them while pressing the strings with his other hand. Riker winced at the noise that came out—harsh, clashing, ponderous, and low enough to make the floor shake.

  “Pick up the tempo,” Geordi shouted.

  After about two minutes, which were among the longest in Riker’s life, Worf stopped. “That’s—uh—distinctive, Worf. How long have you been playing?”

  “Since childhood—this very same instrument. I grew up among humans, as you know, but my parents wanted me to learn about my own culture, too. They paid a lot of money for this chuS’ugh, then realized there was no one who could teach me to play it. They finally found a computer lesson program. Not as good as a live teacher—”

  “He’s too modest,” said Geordi seriously, “but he turned out to be a natural. So—what d’you think?”

  They both looked at Riker, who wanted nothing more than to make his escape. Hoping his feelings didn’t show in his eyes, he furiously tried to formulate an answer that wouldn’t offend the very large Klingon warrior who’d just bared the artistic corner of his soul, at Geordi’s urging. The first officer’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Think fast, Riker . . . “Well, it’s not what I expected,” he said at last. “I don’t know what I expected. I’ve never heard Klingon music before.”

  “Isn’t there a saying, ‘Close enough for jazz’?” Geordi prodded.

  “Yes—yes, there is. I’m just not sure this is close enough for jazz. I’m not underestimating your talent, Worf. God knows, I couldn’t play that thing. What kind of piece was that anyway?”

  “A Klingon classic.” Worf’s face remained impassive, but his eyes revealed a mixture of disappointment, pride, and hurt. “You didn’t like it.”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure what to make of it.”

  They both turned to Geordi, who tried to save the situation. “Hey, it’ll grow on you, Commander.”

  Riker backed toward the doors, which obligingly slid open. “I’ll get back to you.”

  “Maybe it just needs some accompaniment,” Geordi called after him.

  “Maybe,” Riker called back. Then the door closed.

  “Don’t worry, Worf. I like your music. I’ll talk to Commander Riker later. Meanwhile, maybe we should work on your stage presence—y’know, a little chatter between songs,” Geordi said brightly.

  “Humans wouldn’t know good music if it knocked them over,” Worf grumbled. “They’d rather listen to feeble imitations of mewling infants.” He gently laid the instrument back in its molded case.

  The bowls of fruit were just the first of five courses served at the anniversary banquet. By the time dessert arrived—multi-layered platters of pastries—Picard felt more than a bit stuffed. As he surveyed the huge hall, the image of fatted calves ready for slaughter darted into his mind. The evening meal left no doubt that Thiopan cuisine was excellent, but hadn’t yet provided a shred of illumination as to what was really going on here on this planet. The important announcement that Stross had hinted at had yet to be made; maybe that would contain at least a nugget or two of information Picard could use to start piecing this puzzle together.

  He sampled a tasty spiral crust with a perfect chiffon filling. So far, in the half-day since the Enterprise had approached Thiopan space, they’d been fired on by Nuarans, had a brush with Thiopan terrorists, taken their first disconcerting measure of the extent of ecological damage on the planet, and weathered repeated petulance on the part of the Federation envoy, Frid Undrun.

  After finishing the pastry, Picard licked his fingertips and noticed Troi staring at him. “Something on your mind, Counselor?” His tone was more brittle than he had intended. Not that it mattered; it was rather hard to hide moody undercurrents from an empath sitting eighteen inches away.

  “You seem tense, Captain.”

  His stoic features rippled in resignation. “It’s been a Murphy’s Law kind of day. I fully expect it to end with a Ferengi waiter scuttling out here to serve us poisoned coffee.”

  Up on the dais, Protector Stross had begun to speak. “I’m not going to bore you with a long speech,” he said to a twitter of appreciative laughter. “I do have an announcement, though. Something big. Or I wouldn’t tear you away from those desserts.”

  “He has a natural charm,” Troi whispered. “It is understandable that Thiopans would have accepted his rule for so long.”

  “You all know,” Stross went on, “that we’ve had some problems lately. Our planet is hot, it’s dry, some people are going hungry. But we’ll soon change all that. And I want to introduce the scientist who’s making that change possible—the head of our Science Council, Dr. Kael Keat.”

  The young woman swung gracefully out of her chair and joined her leader at the lectern as the audience clapped politely. Picard wondered at the lack of enthusiasm. Was it possible that these people didn’t know who Keat was, or had the excitement been lulled out of them by a night of overeating?

  “Thank you,” said Keat. “All the bounty we’ve enjoyed tonight must be made available to every Thiopan, not just the ones lucky enough to come to this feast. Soon we’ll have a way to make that dream come true. Never again will we be at the mercy of shifting winds, unpredictable rain, scorching heat, and deadly cold. Never again will we be made to feel like our primitive ancestors, cowering before forces we can’t understand. The Science Council is ready to unveil a project that will make us stronger than nature—a weather control shield that will solve our environmental pro
blems for all eternity.” Because of her low-key delivery, it took several moments for her meaning to sink in. Then the crowd began to murmur and the murmur grew into a rumble of sustained applause that soon spread across the hall like a wave.

  “In ten years’ time,” Kael Keat said, her voice still tranquil, “we’ll make Thiopa a temperate paradise.” The applause broke out again, longer and louder now.

  After a minute, Stross signaled for attention.

  “That’s our goal, my friends,” he said. “But first, we have to unite this world and all her people—one mind, one goal, one faith.” The crowd had fallen silent. Stross spoke with simple intensity. “Harmony. That’s what we need. No more squabbling over old ways or new ways. Let’s just take the best way. Once we have achieved Fusion, we’ll be strong enough to take on the one enemy that really can kill us all—nature. With your help, I know we can do whatever needs doing. Thank you, my friends.” The ruler of Thiopa ended his speech with his head bowed in humility.

  And the members of the audience jumped to their feet as if programmed to do so. By comparison, the welcoming ovation they’d given to Stross at the start of the evening had been restrained. Now the great hall exploded with a fervor that was equal parts religion and lust. These people were True Believers, Picard realized as he and his officers stood at their table without joining in.

  Data’s head swiveled in birdlike movements as he watched in wonderment. “The degree of arousal is most interesting.”

  “It is all a matter of knowing the right things to say to the right people,” said Troi. “That is part of what makes a good leader.”

  “Or a dangerous leader,” Picard added.

  Troi nodded, suddenly apprehensive. “Captain, I do sense danger.”

  “What kind of danger?”

  Before she could explain, one of the Thiopan waiters scrambled past their table and flipped it over, splattering food on people and walls. Picard grabbed Troi as they fell back across their toppled chairs. Startled guests fell silent as suddenly as if a plug had been pulled when the lone server leaped on top of another table and unfurled a banner.