POWER HUNGRY

by Howard Weinstein

  Wherever they’d lived while Ruer was growing up, Father had always set aside a shed or cellar or room, or just a corner, to consecrate as the place where his passion could take flight. It wasn’t something Ruer ever quite understood, but he never questioned it. He’d somehow absorbed the feeling and made it part of himself. Which was why, all these years later, the most powerful man in the world could find true peace only at his own workbench.

  “Is this the time for puttering?” Ootherai said to the Sovereign Protector’s back, since that was all he could see with Stross bent over his woodworking tools. The sawdust made the policy minister’s nose twitch with the beginnings of a sneeze.

  Ayli was standing with her elbows propped on the workbench, watching with interest as her ruler carefully cut shapes out of wood. She had no idea what they might eventually become.

  “Any time is the time for this,” Stross said in a calm voice.

  “We need those Federation supplies,” Ootherai said. “They will be our insurance against future dislocations—not to mention a way of convincing the people in Endraya to forsake their loyalty to the Sojourners. Without the food from the Federation, we lose that tool. You know about tools, Lord Stross.”

  “That I do, my friend. You need the right one for the right job. And when you can’t find the one you want, you have a choice: don’t do the job, or find something else that works.”

  “Will anything else work?” asked Ayli.

  “Maybe, maybe. If we have learned anything from the Nuarans, it is the value of having something somebody else wants. The Enterprise has what we want. The Sojourners have what Picard wants. Find Riker—and we will get our supplies.”

  “You make that sound so simple,” Ootherai sneered.

  “Who’s in charge here, anyway?” Stross said without looking up. “We’ve got a good idea where they’re taking Riker. Mount a force to get him back.”

  Ootherai snorted a derisive laugh. “Invade the Sa’drit? Impossible.”

  “We don’t have to invade. All we have to do is punish them a little. We have weapons that can do that.”

  “And they have weapons that can stop us.”

  “Use that symbolic brain of yours,” Stross prodded. “Find a way.”

  Captain Picard sat with his back to the huge ports in the bridge observation lounge. Across the conference table, Data was completing a report on his visit to Dr. Kael Keat and her lab earlier in the day. “Your foray seems to have raised as many questions as it answered.”

  Data nodded. “It is safe to assume there is much Dr. Keat has not told me.”

  “Did you get enough on this weather control plan to judge whether it’s feasible?”

  “No, sir. I was able to examine only the theoretical foundations of the project.”

  “And what’s your opinion on that?”

  “Theoretically their plan could provide the sort of weather modification they seek.”

  “But can they put these theories into practice?”

  “Doubtful, Captain. Unless they possess technological capabilities we have not observed—which is possible.”

  “Speaking of possibilities, do you think Dr. Keat might reveal more information to you?”

  “She did seem fascinated with me.” From most anyone else, the statement would have smacked of conceit. From Data, it was a simple factual account.

  “Well, you’re a most fascinating fellow, Mr. Data. Depending on what happens with—”

  The intercom tone interrupted, followed by the unwelcome imperious voice of Frid Undrun. “Captain Picard, I want an explanation.”

  “Of what, Mr. Ambassador?”

  “Your unauthorized actions. We’ll meet now.”

  “If you insist. Report to the bridge conference lounge. Picard out.”

  Data started to get up. “Shall I leave, sir?”

  “No, no,” Picard replied a bit too urgently, then flattened his lips into a mirthless smile. “I have no desire to be alone with Mr. Undrun. And you may be of some help.”

  Moments later the door slid aside and Undrun strutted in, not bothering to sit down. “You had no right to make a unilateral decision,” he said.

  “And which unilateral decision is this?”

  “To threaten to leave Thiopa without delivering those relief supplies. You and your crew have bungled and interfered with my mercy mission almost from the minute we left Starbase.”

  “You are not on a personal crusade,” Picard thundered, reaching the limit of his patience. He wondered for the tiniest instant if Riker had gone into hiding simply to avoid having to deal with this pint-sized tyrant. “We are on a Federation-Starfleet mission, and I take strong exception to your suggestion that my crew has performed in anything less than exemplary fashion so far as their dealings with you are concerned. My decision, unilateral or not, is consistent with my powers as captain of this vessel.”

  Undrun hammered his fist on the table. “Powers I can override.”

  “Not when this mission imperils my crew and the Enterprise. I am becoming more and more convinced we should never have undertaken this mission, and I plan to say exactly that in my report to both Starfleet and your Aid and Assistance Ministry. And that, for the moment, is all I have to say on this matter.” Picard rose to his feet and marched out of the room. He went directly to the aft turbolift without a word to his bridge crew, all of whom knew enough not to divert an angry captain from his chosen course.

  Undrun slumped into one of the high-backed chairs in the conference lounge, carefully facing away from the observation windows. Data remained seated, but silent.

  It was the Noxoran envoy who spoke first. “You seem to be the only person aboard this ship who hasn’t condemned me as a useless slime toad, Commander Data.”

  “Perhaps if I knew what a slime toad was . . .” the android replied earnestly.

  Undrun did a double take, then realized Data was not attempting to be glib or cruel. And that Undrun found funny enough to warrant a sad chuckle. “I meant you haven’t judged me as a bad person, just because I’m trying to do my job the only way I know how.”

  “It is not part of my cognitive programming to judge other beings—unless I am requested to perform that analytical function.”

  “Well, then, I’m requesting it. Judge me. Give me an android’s objective appraisal.”

  Data thought for a few moments. “Your behavior patterns seem to have a common factor.”

  “Which is . . .?”

  “You seem excessively bound by established guidelines and precedents.”

  Undrun’s shoulders heaved in a helpless shrug. “I can’t work any other way. I need those guidelines. They function almost like a funnel. I know that whatever I pour into that funnel will come out the other end in a narrow, compact stream.”

  “Such methods do have a directness to them. But I have noticed that humans—particularly members of the Enterprise crew—do not always approach problems in what I would determine to be the most direct way. Their capacity for unpredictability and irrationality is quite limitless. And yet, although I may find their strategies baffling, they achieve the desired results.” A touch of wistfulness tinged Data’s expression. “In spite of considerable study, I cannot quite grasp or replicate this whimsical human creativity.”

  “You’ve got an excuse,” said Undrun, leaning across the table and resting his head on folded arms. “You’re restricted by your programming. But I’m a flesh-and-blood humanoid. And creativity eludes me, too.”

  “Biological life forms can also be limited by programming. Perhaps something in your past . . .”

  “You’re right.”

  “Please elucidate.”

  “I’d rather not.” The diplomat shook his head with regret. “It all seemed so simple. If this mission fails, my life is as good as over.”

  Data’s yellow eyes crinkled in sudden concern. “Is there something Dr. Pulaski can do?”

  “What?”

  “You said your life is in da
nger.”

  “I meant my professional life, Commander Data. To me, that is my life. There’s an expression: we are what we eat. Well, some of us are what we do. How could such a simple mission turn into such a disaster?”

  “If I may differ, this mission was not quite so simple as it appeared. We knew about the Nuaran involvement, the Ferengi threat, a certain level of societal instability on Thiopa itself. Even excluding other factors that we did not know about until our arrival, how could you have considered the known complications and still judged this mission to be simple?”

  “Fact is, I didn’t consider all that. All I saw was a cargo convoy delivering emergency relief supplies for which the Thiopans had virtually begged. Bringing people what they want should not be a complicated mission.”

  “That is true—except that humanoid beings are often reticent about accurately expressing their wants and needs. This is another element of humanoid behavior I do not yet understand. Whether it is the result of dishonesty or fear, such reticence invariably causes complications.”

  “Fear . . . Can I tell you my fear?”

  Data answered with an accommodating nod.

  “My superiors will see how badly I managed this mission—they thought it was a simple assignment, too—and they’ll decide I’m incompetent. I’ve alienated Captain Picard, caused Commander Riker to be kidnapped—”

  Data was staring in wonder now. “Most intriguing. Is this what humans call self-pity?”

  Undrun stopped abruptly. “Yes . . . I guess it is.”

  Jean-Luc Picard liked his crew to view him as a bit of an ascetic. Not that there was any pretense in it. He wasn’t an especially demonstrative man, a characteristic that arose naturally from having spent most of his adult life as a commanding officer and the bulk of that time as captain of the deep-space explorer Stargazer. The two-decade duration of Stargazer’s voyage of discovery had encouraged camaraderie, but he hadn’t viewed it as a captain’s option to form any deeper relationships with those serving under him.

  So far he’d applied that policy to the Enterprise as well. Employed judiciously, it imparted an aloof mystique that elicited an extra measure of respect—a commodity that tended to facilitate the exercise of authority.

  Even his physical presence contributed to Picard’s aura of leadership. Not a conventionally handsome man, he had an aristocratic profile and a stern jaw. A fringe of silvered hair served to highlight the clear, piercing eyes. He wasn’t a big man, yet he could dominate without effort, thanks in part to regal bearing. But his voice—alternately tempered with unadorned compassion or ringing with the resonance of confidence and power—was the key attribute with which he commanded.

  All of that aside, however, the few who knew this starship captain best were well aware of his Gallic appreciation for the proverbial pleasures of wine, women, and song. And, if anything, those tastes had been honed by the relative deprivation of his years aboard the Stargazer. Still, that vaguely hedonistic aspect of his personality was something he preferred to keep private, which meant he kept his visits to the Enterprise’s Ten-Forward lounge to a minimum. He went there only for an irresistible party in progress or when he had an undeniable need to unwind.

  Without question, dealing with Envoy Frid Undrun fell into the latter category. Which explained Picard’s unaccustomed appearance at the end of Guinan’s pastel-lit bar. She greeted him with a friendly nod. “Captain.”

  “Guinan.”

  “What can I get you? A bit of Wesburri fizz might give you a lift.”

  “Just some sparkling spring water with a twist of lemon, please.”

  A moment later she placed a tapered glass before him. “There you are.”

  “Thank you.” He sipped. She stood, patient as always, an almost-smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Picard had noted her knack for matching her mood to that of her clients, then elevating theirs by changing her own so subtly as to escape notice. For the moment, however, she was still measuring his.

  “Sometimes, I just like to watch the bubbles rising,” Guinan said.

  He lowered his eyes to the glass. “Mmm. Buoyancy. Not always easy to attain for the uncarbonated human.”

  “You’ve had better days . . .?”

  “Does it show?”

  “You’re not exactly one of my regulars.”

  His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “How would it look to have the captain on a constant synthehol high?”

  “Not good at all, Captain. But sometimes you should stop by just to say hello. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

  He sipped his drink. “You’re doing a fine job, Guinan.”

  “Thank you. You know, Ambassador Undrun came in yesterday.” She saw Picard’s expression turn sour, as if he’d bitten into his lemon twist. “Ah, sore point, is he?”

  “Not my first choice as a dinner guest.”

  “Also not the only thing bothering you, I’d guess.”

  He frowned in mock anger. “You and Counselor Troi are starting to sound very much alike.”

  Guinan grinned. “Our jobs do have similarities.”

  “But you don’t have her Betazoid empathic capabilities.”

  “I get by,” she said lightly. She took his empty glass. “More?”

  Picard shook his head. “I’d better get back to the bridge.”

  She let out a snort. “Good thing the rest of your crew isn’t so tight-lipped, or I’d never feel as if I accomplished anything. You came in here to unwind, but you still look wound up to me, Captain.”

  “Let’s just say I’m less tightly wound.”

  “Captains never really unwind, do they?”

  “We get by.” He smiled. “Thanks for the chat.”

  He did feel better as he left the lounge, aware that the eyes of crew members were watching him as he passed. Guinan was correct about captains never unwinding completely. Too much tension and you’d snap. Too little, and you’d founder at the first sign of a storm. Just enough, he thought, and you’re braced for action. As he headed for the bridge, Picard felt braced for the next few hours, when the decisions he would have to make might save Thiopa and Commander Will Riker—or condemn them.

  Chapter Nine

  RIKER’S WORLD comprised a shade more than one cubic meter, and it was dark, except for pinpoint rays of light filtering through two breathing screens, each the size of his hand. It also shook to an irregular rhythm of bone-jarring bounces. Once he’d awakened, it hadn’t taken long to figure out he was being transported by motor vehicle, like a trapped animal. And, as an xanimal might, he wondered if he was being taken to a place of safety or slaughter? He’d tried banging on the sides and shouting, without response.

  The frequent bumps and noises from outside made it clear they weren’t traveling at a very high rate of speed. But since he couldn’t even guess how long he’d been boxed and unconscious, there was no way to estimate how far he’d been taken from the warehouse in Bareesh. His communicator was gone—that he knew. Nothing much to do but wait . . .

  It must have been three hours later when the vehicle rolled to a stop. Riker could hear distant voices, as if they were near a bazaar or shopping district. Then he heard the unmistakable click-slide of latches unlocking. Riker crouched on bruised haunches, prepared to spring at whomever or whatever he saw first. The lid opened a crack—and a blaster muzzle poked in. He made a fatalistic grab for it, but the person on the outside held fast.

  “Let go or you’re dead,” said a gruff voice.

  Riker did as he was told. The lid fell open, forcing him to squint against blinding daylight. As he took a gulp of outside air, Riker prepared to fight back his cough reflex. Compared to the city, though, this air was fresh and pure. At least breathable. After a couple of seconds of adjustment, his eyes focused on the grizzled whiskers of the Thiopan with the blaster pointed at him. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Durren.” He thrust a bundle of dirty tan clothing at Riker. “Out of yours. Put these on.
”

  “One size fits all?” The man didn’t seem to get the joke. “Sojourner, I presume?”

  The man continued to ignore him, and began humming a mournful folk melody. So Riker unzipped his uniform and stepped out of it. He felt a little foolish getting undressed under these circumstances. He could see that his packing crate was in fact on the bed of a small cargo vehicle with a bubble-shaped cab up front. And they were indeed parked just off a bustling marketplace. As he put on the gauzy leggings and shirt and tied a blue sash around his waist, he took in the surrounding area.

  The marketplace and its alleys and stalls were filled with people, but they looked more like refugees than shoppers or traders. Many appeared to have their meager belongings with them, some heaped on emaciated animals, a few in decaying motor vehicles overloaded with packs and people, but most of the Thiopans were stooped by the weight of duffels and sacks strapped to their backs and clutched in whatever arms were not already holding small children. Older children were themselves carrying backpacks.

  “Put the hood on,” Durren said. Riker did, but Durren tugged it farther forward, making it harder for anyone to see that he wasn’t Thiopan.

  “Where are we?”

  “Get out.”

  Riker would have preferred to vault out of the crate and make a gymnastically perfect landing on the ground. But his head throbbed from whatever had been spritzed in his face back at the Bareeshan warehouse, he’d been knocked around inside the box for an indeterminate period of time, and he was wobbly from hunger. So discretion won out and he clambered over the side carefully. Still pointing his blaster barrel, Durren hopped off the truck bed after Riker, who found himself facing two more Thiopans, with rifles and knives hanging from their bright sashes.

  The other two were younger than Durren. One had a baby face and burning eyes. He held his weapon with palpable affection. The third man was somewhat older, with a nervous blink and darting eyes.