“You’re eating well while babies starve in the Endrayan Realm—because this corrupt government wants them to starve! Their only crime is that their parents refuse to sell their heritage in return for food that’s rightfully theirs! They refuse to surrender to the genocide you call Fusion! There’s plenty of food for all Thiopans, but Stross won’t let those babies have it. Why?” He whirled to stare right at Stross. “Why, Sovereign Protector? The Sojourners will never accept Fusion. Join us and save Thiopa! Join Stross and our world dies! Please—”
His speech ended in the piercing whine of a blaster beam. Picard jerked his head toward the source of the terrible sound and saw three guards firing, their blue bolts knocking the man off his makeshift podium. By the time he hit the floor, he was dead, his chest smoking where the beams burned through his clothing.
* * *
Will Riker pulled off his boots and flopped back on his bed, undecided about whether to read or listen to music. He felt too tired to read—
“Commander Riker, this is Lieutenant White on the bridge.”
Riker rolled toward the intercom screen next to his bed.
“This is Riker.” White’s freckled face appeared on the viewer. “What is it, Lieutenant?”
“Sorry to disturb you, sir. Captain Picard and the away team are beaming back up. He wants you to meet them in the bridge conference lounge.”
“On my way. Riker out.”
By the time he reached the bridge, Picard and the others were already waiting for him. He strode into the lounge and stopped short when he saw food and drink stains dotting their uniforms. “Those Thiopans must throw wild parties.”
Picard paced in front of the wall of windows on the outside bulkhead. Thiopa shone brightly below, the light from its sun bouncing off the thick layer of clouds and pollution shrouding the planet. “Sit down, Number One.”
“You sure you three don’t want to change first?”
“It looks worse than it is. I want to do this as quickly as possible, then get some sleep.” With no more preface than that, Picard launched into a terse report of the anniversary celebration. Then he sat down at the end of the table.
Riker’s mouth quirked in disbelief. “The security people shot this protester just for shouting and waving a banner?”
“A rather extreme punishment,” Picard agreed, steepling his fingers. “Did you sense anything, Counselor?”
She sighed before replying, obviously trying to sort out the emotions she’d absorbed during the brief but violent incident. “Terror, determination—and great anger.”
“From whom?”
“From everyone around us.”
“I understand,” Picard said, his expression grim. “The Sojourners are clearly a longtime thorn in the government’s side.”
“Yet,” Data pointed out, “in spite of the importance of the storage facility and the anniversary feast, the Sojourners managed to breach security in both instances. Security that was most likely more stringent than usual.”
“Both those breaches proved highly embarrassing to the government,” Picard said. “The Sojourners gained little else. But they were evidently determined to let us know of their existence, and their determination.”
“Still,” Troi said, “all we know about their cause are slogans spoken by an apparent terrorist and a protester before they were executed. Unless we can find out more, we have no way of knowing if their grievances against the government are valid.”
“They’re valid to the Sojourners,” Picard said. “They’re willing to die for their cause—whatever it may be.”
“Do these incidents otherwise affect our basic mission to Thiopa?” Data wondered.
Picard spread his hands in uncertainty. “A good question, Data. We’re not permitted to interfere in this world’s internal quarrels. But if Thiopa proves unstable, the Federation may have to look elsewhere in this sector for an ally against the Ferengi.”
“But we don’t have to make that decision, Captain,” Riker said, “just a recommendation.”
“Exactly—but we may have to make a decision on whether to complete our mercy mission or abort it.”
Troi’s large eyes grew concerned. “Captain, if there are people starving on Thiopa—”
“They may not be starving merely because of ecological catastrophe,” Picard suggested. “Their plight may be caused as much—or more—by political decisions made by the government in Bareesh. If that’s the case, then who’s to say that our emergency relief supplies will ever get to the people who truly need them?”
Riker planted his elbows on the conference table. “The Thiopans must really need that food, and not just to feed those Sojourners and their sympathizers out in this Endrayan Realm. Things must be worse than that feast made them appear or they wouldn’t have sent such an urgent S.O.S. to the Federation. Agreed?” He glanced around for signs of dissent, got none, and continued. “Let’s proceed under the assumption that we’ve got something they want and they’ve got something we want.”
“Information about just what’s going on down there,” said Troi.
“Right. So let’s go through the motions of making our delivery, but we’ll drag our feet, make them think we just might take our container ships and go home.”
“A reasonable first approach, Number One,” said Picard. “Apply a little gentle pressure. Which I can also apply when I meet with Sovereign Protector Stross tomorrow.”
“I am scheduled to meet with Dr. Keat tomorrow as well,” Data added. “So our approach is three-pronged.”
Picard leaned back in his chair, his eyes revealing his weariness. “Tomorrow had better provide us with some answers. I want to start tying up loose ends—the quicker the better. Data, what about this weather control project? Is it possible?”
“In principle. Weather is a product of atmospheric density and constituents, land mass arrangement, air and water temperature, wind speed and direction, amount and intensity of sunlight reaching the planet, cosmic radiation, angle of planetary axis, precession of equinoxes, and effects produced by flora and fauna, including—”
Picard waved his hand impatiently. “I don’t need a catalog of factors.”
“Of course. As I started to say, weather control is theoretically possible, up to a point. In terraforming a planet, technicians and designers can actually create weather in an environment where none exists. But that takes years, or decades, depending on the original state of the planet. However, even the most advanced technology in the Federation is not capable of controlling or manipulating the weather around an entire planet simultaneously.”
“What can be done?”
“Pockets of artificially controlled weather can be created by interrupting, redirecting, or augmenting key natural wind currents, modifying the temperature of large bodies of water, adding or deducting atmospheric moisture—”
“All these strategies sound as if they’d require immense amounts of energy,” Picard said.
“That is true, Captain.”
“It also sounds like a house of cards,” said Riker. Data tilted his head quizzically, so Riker explained. “Complex interrelationships of factors—change one, and it affects all the others, which in turn add their own effects.”
Data grasped the meaning. “That is correct, sir. And even advanced computer modeling is inadequate for predicting exact results, since there are too many variables that cannot be controlled or even charted.”
“Bottom line,” said Picard. “Can the Thiopans successfully accomplish what Stross and Dr. Keat say they’re going to do?”
“Based on our limited observations of Thiopa’s level of technology, and the Thiopans’ lack of success in managing their environment, I would tentatively conclude that such a project is beyond their capabilities.”
“Tentatively?” Picard said.
“Yes, sir. It is possible that they possess knowledge of which we are not aware. Possible—but unlikely.”
“When you meet with Dr. Keat tomo
rrow, try to find out enough to make that analysis more definite. All right, then, if there’s nothing else . . .”
Riker lifted a hand. “There is one thing.”
“Which is . . .?”
“Undrun. Do we tell him what we’re planning?”
Picard nodded. “He is the Federation’s liaison with the Thiopan government so far as the relief supplies are concerned. He has a right to be informed as to why we’re not delivering them just yet. Computer, where is Ambassador Undrun?”
“Sickbay.”
“Picard to sickbay.”
Kate Pulaski answered, her voice tired and hoarse. “Sickbay here. What is it, Captain?”
“Rough day for you, too, Doctor?”
“Only since Mr. Undrun checked in.”
“Is he awake and lucid?”
“He is.”
“Ambassador Undrun, this is Captain Picard.”
Undrun’s voice came over the intercom. “I want you to force the Thiopan government to provide a more suitable place to store the Federation’s emergency supplies.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Picard saw Riker shake his head wearily. “We are not permitted to force them to do anything of the sort. I’ll send you a transcript of the conference I just had with Commanders Riker and Data and Counselor Troi. If you review it, you’ll be completely briefed on the decision we’ve just made to delay delivery of the relief cargo to the Thiopans.”
“I want that food delivered as soon as possible,” Undrun blustered.
“Mr. Ambassador, you’re the one who just said that the Thiopans haven’t provided an appropriate storage facility. That is what you and Commander Riker will see to first thing tomorrow. The delay is merely procedural.”
That caught Undrun off guard and he stammered for a moment. “I—I—That food has to get through to starving people. Is that clear?”
“Quite clear, sir.”
Undrun lowered his voice suspiciously. “I may be drugged, but I’m not stupid, Captain Picard. If you interfere with the completion of my relief mission in any way, I’ll lodge a formal protest with Starfleet. I can make you very sorry—”
“I already am,” Picard muttered under his breath.
“What was that? I didn’t hear you.”
“I started to say I am in agreement with you about the importance of this mission. Good night, sir.”
Picard’s jaw muscles twitched. Somehow, when it came to Ambassador Frid Undrun, the single simple word “vexatious” no longer seemed adequate.
Chapter Six
IN THE SA’DRIT VOID, on the high side of noon, the sun held dominion. It filled the sky and parched the land. It whitewashed everything within sight of its unblinking glare. Only now, as it rode toward the barren horizon, did merciful shadows begin to steal across baked rock and dust, like creatures creeping from daytime hiding places.
One of those shadows, cast by the crags atop a savage ridge of time-torn stone, fell across a subordinate ledge. That ledge, in turn, hung over a narrow pass between flat-topped peaks. From that vantage point, two lookouts lying on their bellies watched the lifeless plain stretching vastly below them.
There were living things out there, and they were getting closer. At first they’d looked like mites wriggling in the distant shimmer of the sun’s fire. After a time, they had resolved into animals with men riding on them. The lookouts were both women, one young, one older, with wrinkles framing her eyes and whiskers already turned gray. The younger peered through binoculars, touching a servo button to focus the zoom lens.
“How many, Mori?” asked the older sentry in a hoarse voice.
Mori didn’t answer right away. She watched the odd gait of the animals—there were two—as their slender legs plodded in slow sequence, heads swaying to an altogether separate rhythm. These were full-grown ealixes, taller than a man, rotund bodies covered with the fine pinkish hair that didn’t fill in until the gentle beasts were well into their second year. The light coat protected their hide from the sun but allowed air to circulate and help keep them cool.
“Two animals, two riders—carrying a body.”
The older one muttered a sharp curse. “Another dead fighter for Lessandra’s collection,” she hissed. “Can you make out their faces?”
Mori squinted into her viewer. The riders were dressed in standard desert garb—loose robes of pale cloth, gathered at the waist with a bright sash, woven leggings and sandals. The robes had a scarflike collar, the ends of which dangled open during the scorching days, ready to be bundled around the neck to retain body heat when temperatures plunged after dark. Floppy hoods were also stitched onto the garments, and the approaching travelers had pulled theirs up to protect their heads from the sun. Their faces were hidden in shadow. “No.” Mori rolled onto one elbow to look at her companion. “Glin, do you really think Lessandra’s wrong about all this?”
Glin’s scowl softened as she scrutinized her young partner. Where Glin’s face was weathered and lined by time and bitter experience, Mori’s was as fresh and smooth as a newly bloomed flower. She was a grown woman now, though she had recently cropped her hair short and ragged in an effort to look older—an unsuccessful effort. But the hardscrabble life that lay before her would rob Mori of her innocence soon enough.
“Yes,” Glin finally said. “I think Lessandra’s wrong. It’s gone too far. She’s pushing Stross as if she thinks we’re the ones with the power.”
“We do have power,” Mori protested.
“Enough to hurt them—but not enough to win. If it comes to a war, the numbers say we have to lose. A lot of us think Stross would rather do other things than pick up the pieces after we set off bombs. He’d rather not send hoverjets out here to try to catch us in the open.”
“Which we almost never are.” Mori looked away, annoyed at Glin’s implication.
“That’s my point, little one. Your father taught us what Sojourners knew in the old times.”
Mori turned back, her head tipped like a student afraid to answer a question. “That the Hidden Hand leads us on the better path?”
“Exactly. All the dead we’ve buried make it obvious that the better path is negotiation.”
“Lessandra says the government will never negotiate.”
“Then we’ve got nothing to lose. We will make the offer. If they come to the table to talk, we don’t have to accept any terms we don’t like. We’re free to resume our fight. Same if they refuse to talk at all. But if we can talk and agree, then we’ll gain what we want most—the right to live peacefully in our own lands and by our own rules.”
“But Lessandra says the government is ruining the whole world and that we are not immune to their toxins. If they poison their air and water, they poison our air and water, too. She says we have to make the rest of the world return to the old ways. It’s not enough for us to go back to them.”
Glin’s eyes narrowed. “I know what she thinks. What do you think?”
“I—I’m not sure.”
“Lessandra says things that differ from what your father wrote and preached all those years. He didn’t believe in forcing other people to follow our ways unless they wanted to.”
“But he’s been gone for twenty years—almost my whole life,” Mori blurted. “How do we know that what he believed back then is right for what we face today?”
“Because what he believed came from the old times. He rediscovered the Testaments and made them fit our world. Lessandra can reinterpret Evain all she wants, but that doesn’t make her right.”
“If my father was as persuasive as everybody says he was, he could have settled all this.”
“Mori, he’s dead.”
“We don’t know that, not for sure.” The young woman’s voice quavered.
“Mori—”
“We don’t know!” Mori scrambled to her feet. “Just because the government said he died in prison doesn’t mean it’s true. All those stories—”
“Are just stories. Nobody knows if those oth
er prisoners really saw your father alive. Now go tell Lessandra we saw fighters returning. Tell her one of them is dead.”
Sandals scuffing in the dirt, Mori hurried off with her head bowed in dejection. The Sojourners never believed anything the government said, so why were they so willing to believe that her father had died in captivity two years after he was captured? They had charged him with treason, found him guilty, sentenced him to life in prison—but they never said they would execute him. Elders, like Glin, had told Mori that the government wanted to keep Evain alive as a symbol of swift but fair justice and as a warning to other Sojourners of the government’s determination to keep order. If Evain had been executed, as many people demanded, martyrdom would have imbued his legacy with a power he could never have attained in life.
Still, only two years after his conviction, the government announced that Evain had taken sick and died, in spite of the best medical care available. On his deathbed, he had recanted all his Sojourner beliefs, they’d said, and endorsed Stross’s vision of Fusion—a united Thiopa marching boldly toward the future under the banner of progress through technology. They built a tomb for him in Heroes’ Park, in the heart of the capital, and schoolchildren were taught from then on how the government’s most implacable enemy had seen the light in his last mortal moments, thanks to the kinder and gentler wisdom of Sovereign Protector Ruer Stross . . . Uncle Stross.
Mori was only five when it happened. Evain’s death left her an orphan with no close relatives. She was raised by the community that had followed her father. But she’d never felt neglected; all her father’s closest friends had taken an active role in her upbringing. She had never wanted for love or attention—quite the opposite. At least a half-dozen good people thought of her as their own child. But she had always felt closest to Lessandra, Glin, and Durren, who might be one of the fighters now on his way back to the Sojourners’ sacred mountain stronghold. If he was the one who had died—She stomped on that morbid thought before it could take root. Durren was too wily to get caught.
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