“Telemetry’s nominal. He’s alive.”
“Then he must be unconscious. Mr. Worf, take a security team down to wherever Undrun is located.” Picard addressed the intercom. “Bridge to Dr. Pulaski.”
“Pulaski here, Captain.”
“Report to transporter room two, please. Accompany Lieutenant Worf and his away team down to Thiopa. He’ll brief you on the situation.”
“How serious are the injuries, Captain?”
“We don’t know. Prepare for the worst, Doctor.”
“I always do.”
Chapter Eight
WORF’S MASSIVE HAND closed around the small communicator as he returned to the storage depot elevator where they’d found Undrun and the Thiopan supervisor, both out cold. Kate Pulaski took some body-function readings and made a quick calculation with her tricorder so she could match her stimulant dosage with the non-Terran metabolisms of her patients. She pressed her hypo against their necks and administered precise injections. Seconds later, they both were coming around.
“Just lie still and let the medication take effect,” the doctor said firmly.
Worf opened a channel to the ship. “Captain, Commander Riker isn’t here. Ambassador Undrun and the warehouse supervisor were both found unconscious, but Dr. Pulaski says they’ll recover.”
“Recover from what? Can you tell what happened to them, Doctor?”
Pulaski touched her communicator. “They were overcome by some sort of paralyzing gas. It’ll make them a little groggy for a while.”
“Are they sufficiently recovered to tell us what happened?”
“They will be in a few minutes, Captain.”
“What is that supervisor’s name?”
The Thiopan shook his head to clear it, then rolled unsteadily to his feet. “That’s me—Chardrai,” he said, leaning on the mesh elevator wall for support. “And who’re you?”
“Captain Picard of the Enterprise. Mr. Chardrai, would you permit us to beam you aboard our ship?”
Chardrai’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “For what?”
“Further medical care in our sickbay—and I’d like to hear what happened, face to face. It shouldn’t take long.”
“Don’t see the harm. Sure.”
“Thank you. Lieutenant Worf, have you and your men had a chance to look around down there?”
“Yes, sir. No physical evidence that we could find.”
“Very well. Gather your team and Dr. Pulaski’s patients and beam up when ready.”
The captain waited for Pulaski’s summons to sickbay, then went down to interview the only witnesses to whatever happened to William Riker. Undrun and Chardrai were seated in Pulaski’s office when he arrived, accompanied by Counselor Troi. Her Betazoid empathic skills were always helpful in such situations, giving him a reliable gauge of the veracity of those being questioned.
Undrun’s recollections were hazy at best, as if he hadn’t been paying much attention. Supervisor Chardrai, however, was able to give a terse account, moment by moment, right up until the guards over-powered them.
“Had you ever seen these guards before?” Picard wanted to know.
“One of them, sure. Jeldavi. He’s been my personal guard for months. The other two I didn’t know. I run the place, but I don’t get chummy with everybody we got working there.”
“Have you had other incidents where Sojourners managed to infiltrate your staff?”
“No. But you can be damn sure I’m going to have everybody checked out when I get back.”
Picard crossed his arms impatiently. “Apparently you have a major security problem, Mr. Chardrai. Two breaches in two days, and my first officer abducted in the process.”
“As you say, Captain, I’ve got my problems—and now you’ve got yours. Can I go now?”
“Yes, of course—and we appreciate your cooperation.” Picard’s words were polite, but his manner distracted. He waved in the general direction of his Klingon security chief, standing by the office door. “Lieutenant Worf, show Mr. Chardrai to the transporter room and see that he’s beamed down.”
When they were gone, Jean-Luc Picard turned back to Ambassador Undrun, who seemed even smaller than usual as he sat in a fetal curl. “Are you certain you can’t add anything to what Supervisor Chardrai told us?”
Undrun peered up and pulled his sweater up closer to his chin. “I told you, Captain Picard, I just don’t remember the details—and I think I’m having a reaction to whatever venomous solution your physician shot into me without my permission.”
“Unconscious people have a great deal of difficulty giving permission, Mr. Ambassador, and sometimes they die without treatment,” Dr. Pulaski said, an edge sharpening her tone.
“Well, all I know is I feel dizzy.” With visible effort, the Noxoran straightened. “And this whole mission is a shambles, Captain. I expect you to exercise whatever power you have to get some cooperation from these Thiopans. That relief aid has got to get to the people who need it.”
Picard’s jaw muscles twitched. “Ambassador Undrun, you seem not to have noticed that my first officer has been kidnapped by an opposition force which has already demonstrated that it means business.”
“I’ve noticed, Captain Picard,” Undrun said, his tone rising defensively. “I’m very sorry that Commander Riker was captured, but to blame me—”
“I never said you were to blame,” Picard shot back, trying to temper his exasperation. “The Thiopan situation is far more complicated than we were led to believe. The safety of this ship and her crew have been compromised, and your single-minded concentration on delivering this emergency aid—”
In a fit of indignation, Undrun jumped to his full four and a half feet of height. “Pardon me for trying to do my job, sir. I’m going to my quarters to rest from my ordeal.” With that, he shot past an astonished Picard and out of sickbay.
The captain’s anger deflated and he let his shoulders slump. “Well, I certainly handled that well.” He managed a fraction of an ironic smile.
“Not without considerable provocation,” said Dr. Pulaski. “He’s a little weasel.”
“He doesn’t seem to give a damn about what’s happened to Will.”
“He’s more concerned than he lets on, Captain,” Troi said. “He seems to blame himself.”
Picard and Pulaski both stared at the counselor. “He what?” said Picard. “He blames himself?”
“He certainly hides it well,” Pulaski added.
“Self-recrimination seems out of character, based on what we’ve seen so far of Mr. Undrun,” Picard said.
“I did some checking on his Federation personnel profile,” Troi said. “He came from a well-to-do family on Noxor and enjoyed all the privileges that come with wealth. But the Noxorans have a strong dedication to public service. The wealthier the family, the greater the pressure to devote one’s life to helping others. It’s almost a military discipline that’s instilled in young Noxorans.”
“All right,” Pulaski said, “so he joined the Federation Aid and Assistance Ministry.”
“And he rose through the ranks very quickly. It’s difficult to tell his age because all Noxorans look youthful, but he’s quite young to have reached this level of responsibility. The captain’s observation of his single-mindedness was very perceptive.”
“It’s very obvious,” Picard interjected.
Deanna smiled. “Bureaucracies aren’t famous for encouraging unbridled creativity. The combination of Undrun’s strict upbringing, his narrowly directed focus on succeeding in public service, his total acceptance of bureaucratic restraints, and his insecurity all contribute to what we see as insensitive, unbending concentration on a single task.”
“He operates by the book,” Picard said softly. “I’ve known plenty of officers like that. Frankly, at the risk of appearing insensitive, I must admit that Undrun’s childhood traumas are the least of my concerns. Finding out who has Will Riker and getting him back quickly and safely rank somewhat hi
gher. Counselor, I need you on the bridge.”
Hydrin Ootherai swept into the sovereign protector’s sparsely furnished office with a plump female aide in tow, but stopped abruptly when he saw Ayli seated on the deep-cushioned couch next to Lord Stross. The shadowreader half reclined against the pillowed arm, her legs tucked under her with a feline nonchalance that somehow made her look years younger. Her tawny hair fell across her face, but a sly smile betrayed her pleasure at Ootherai’s consternation.
“What is she doing here?”
“I asked her to come here. I wanted her reaction to this.”
“Afraid of another opinion?” Ayli challenged.
“Certainly not. Tresha?” He snapped his fingers and his young assistant sprang into action, setting up a spindly easel and placing several large boards on the sill. The boards were covered with a cloth shroud. When her preparations were complete, Ootherai took up a professorial position in front of the hidden display, visibly warming to one of his favorite pastimes—lecturing.
“You live for these little presentations of yours, don’t you?” said Ayli, a flicker of amusement glinting in her deep amber eyes.
“Symbols create reality. You know all about creating reality, Ayli.”
Stross shifted impatiently. “Get to it, Ootherai.”
“Of course, my lord. It’s immensely important that we present your weather control plan as the means of saving our world.”
“It will save the world,” Stross said firmly. “But will it get the citizens back on our side?”
Ootherai circled. “Without question. It’s got all the right elements. We portray the Nuarans as hateful villains. We offer a homegrown solution to a crisis caused by those villains, and we outline a bold program addressing the worries that give all of us sleepless nights. It’s the oldest epic in the universe—good guys against bad, us versus them—and you, Sovereign Protector Ruer Stross, are its hero.”
Stross laced his fingers and rested his hands on his belly, mulling over the concept. “How do we present it?”
“We mount an all-fronts assault. Special coverage in all the media, flooding our message into every Thiopan home. Rallies. Get children involved right from the start—capture the older generation by grabbing the young ones first. Make ours the tune to which every single Thiopan of intelligence will march. Positive reinforcement in every conceivable form. Mount a religious crusade that will overwhelm those pitiful Sojourners and their outdated beliefs. And at the center of the campaign, this . . .”
With a flourish, the policy minister whipped the cloth off his easel, revealing a crisply drawn logo, with the Thiopan globe in the center, a ring of tiny sparkles around it, and a single stylized flower blooming behind and above the planet, all done in vibrant hues that bore no resemblance at all to the sepia haze that hugged the real world outside Stross’s windows.
Ayli peered at the design with a hint of a smile.
“Don’t be stunned, Hydrin—but I like it. It has a sort of magnetic charm.”
Stross nodded. “Not bad, Ootherai.”
“Just one little question,” Ayli said. “Will this weather control project really work? Or are we selling a fantasy?”
“It will work,” Stross growled. “I know it will.”
Ootherai waved a hand. “That’s of no consequence. The important thing is the perception, not the reality. Getting the people to devote their undying support to Lord Stross—that’s what matters.”
“Surely you’re joking,” Ayli said with a skeptical squint. “If the weather control project doesn’t succeed, this planet could become unlivable. Or has that trivial fact eluded you and your symbolic brain?”
“Digest this trivial fact, Ayli,” Ootherai parried, thrusting his finger at her. “If we don’t regain control of the political situation on Thiopa—if we don’t crush those miserable anarchists under a mountain of revitalized popular support—this government will be long gone by the time the last molecule of air is polluted beyond breathing.”
The intercom on the simple plank desk beeped. “Lord Stross, Planetary Communications calling,” said a controlled female voice.
Stross reached over and thumbed the switch. “Stross—what is it?”
Ootherai frowned. “I wish he’d use his full title when dealing with subordinates,” he muttered.
“Captain Picard is calling from the Enterprise. Shall I put him through?”
“Let me screen this, Excellency,” Ootherai said. Stross responded with an affirmative gesture, and Ootherai moved to the two-way viewscreen in an alcove across the room. “Communications control, I’ll take it.” The receiver activated and Jean-Luc Picard’s face appeared on the monitor. “Captain . . .”
“Minister Ootherai, is Protector Stross available?”
“I’m afraid not. He’s involved in a critical consultation and cannot be disturbed. Perhaps I would suffice?”
“I’d appreciate your passing along the substance of our conversation to him.”
“Certainly, Captain. I surmise from your tone of voice that the substance is quite serious.”
“It is indeed. On an inspection visit to your storage facility, my first officer was apparently taken prisoner by a team of Sojourner guerrillas. I request your assistance in effecting his safe return.”
The Thiopan’s expression turned remote. “I’m sorry to hear about Commander Riker’s misfortune. But I fear there is little we can do to help.”
“Minister Ootherai,” Picard said warningly, “even though Thiopa isn’t bound by Federation laws, your government has a responsibility to—”
“Captain, before you finish that thought, I am constrained to point out that your officer would be safe aboard your ship had you simply beamed the emergency supplies down upon your arrival. There was no need for any of your personnel to set foot on Thiopa.”
“We were not aware of any danger. Your government knew we were sending people down, yet you failed to warn us—”
“We didn’t know circumstances would arise that would have required warning. In hindsight, of course we would have cautioned you to keep your people on your ship. But I’m afraid hindsight won’t help Commander Riker.”
“What can you do to help?”
“Nothing, really.”
“Pardon me?”
“Do we have a faulty signal, Captain Picard? I shall repeat: there is little we can do to help you locate your missing man. Oh, certainly we can instruct our security forces to keep an eye out for him, and we can remain alert for intelligence we might glean from our agents watching the Sojourners. But we are fighting to retain order on this planet. We simply must devote all our resources to controlling the growing threat of civil unrest. I do regret that we cannot do more, but the simple fact is, we can’t.”
Picard’s eyes grew steely, but his inflection became almost offhand. “Without more cooperation, I’m afraid we cannot even begin delivery of those supplies Thiopa evidently needs quite badly. I’ll give you twelve hours to reconsider your current position. At that time, if your government isn’t more forthcoming, the Enterprise will leave orbit.”
“Without your kidnapped officer?”
“I’ve lost men before, Minister Ootherai. I value every member of my crew equally, but no single life takes precedence over the safety of this vessel or her mission.”
“Captain, I can hardly believe—”
Picard cut him off. “Twelve hours. We shall look forward to a change of heart. Picard out.”
“Captain,” Troi said, “departing without giving them the relief supplies would be punishing innocent people on Thiopa—”
“Perhaps, Counselor. But everything we’ve seen so far casts severe doubts on the Thiopans’ claims of widespread famine. They had enough resources to throw that anniversary feast.”
“Which may have been staged for effect.”
“Or it may have been an example of mismanagement of resources rather than outright shortages. The Federation is not obliged to sanction such m
ismanagement. If Thiopa’s problems are self-made, so must the solutions be.”
Data swiveled in his seat. “The ecological damage to Thiopa is verifiable, sir.”
“I’m aware of that, Commander, and of the likelihood of food shortages in certain areas of the planet. But at present it appears quite unlikely that any of the food we’ve brought will reach those who are most in need, if they are allied with the Sojourner movement.”
Wesley Crusher swallowed, then spoke up. “What about Commander Riker, sir? We aren’t really going to leave without him in twelve hours, are we?”
“Not without doing everything possible to locate him and get him back to the Enterprise alive and well,” Picard said, his tone softer, but still determined. “I have a strong hunch the status quo won’t last the twelve hours. Meanwhile, let’s utilize our own resources. Mr. Data, initiate a sensor search for Commander Riker.”
Nothing could soothe Ruer Stross like the sweet aroma of sawdust tickling his nose. He knew it to be the first sensory impression he could recall, going back to infancy. More satisfying than mother’s milk, food, sunlight, sex. His father had been a woodworker, and the memory of sleeping in the cradle next to his father’s workbench still gave Stross a warm glow. Unlike some fathers who wanted their work to remain mysterious to their children, as if the withholding of that knowledge could help father retain power over son, W’rone Stross had initiated his young son before the child was old enough to use the tools himself. Ruer cherished the images that were still fresh and unblemished in his heart and mind—his father’s massive hand guiding the son’s tiny one, providing the muscle so the boy could learn the art. All the years he’d watched his father, Ruer knew that finding objects hidden in wood was more than W’rone’s livelihood—it was his life. In all other things, the elder Stross was the mildest of men. He loved his wife quietly. He took pride in his son without boasting. He helped his neighbors without fanfare. Ruer could not recall his father ever raising his voice either in anger or in joy, and he had no memories of tears or broad grins. Except in his workshop. It was as if W’rone had stored his passions, saving them for the holy place where his hands joined with nature’s invisible hands to make magic.
POWER HUNGRY Page 11