dropped all presumption to authority since Data’s announcement on the bridge. “Will this man live if we bring him back?”

“I can’t predict the outcome based on three people,” protested Crusher. “It’s too small a sample from which to draw any valid conclusions. In addition, there’s no way to judge what effect the intervening stay with the Ferengi had on their final condition.”

“Ferengi or human,” said Ruthe. “Don’t you see it’s all the same? This place is too different from the Choraii ship. Leave him alone.”

“We can’t,” said Deelor quietly. “The decision has already been made at higher levels. We have no choice but to bargain for the last captive.”

“I won’t translate,” said Ruthe stubbornly.

“But the Choraii can speak Federation Standard.” Picard’s statement startled both Ruthe and Deelor. “Ruthe told my first officer they learned our language from the children.”

“Yes, that is true,” said Deelor with a reluctant nod. “However, our language form doesn’t tend to facilitate communications. The harshness of the sound puts the Choraii on the defensive.”

“We have no choice but to try,” said Picard, and Deelor did not contradict him. The captain appealed to Ruthe next. “Surely you can see that?”

“No. And I won’t help.” With this last protest, Ruthe ran from the room.

Sound does not travel through the vacuum of space, but instincts forged by planet-bound evolution are not easily extinguished. So while the Enterprise shadowed the B Flat, the members of the bridge crew assumed the demeanor of a predator stalking its prey. They talked only when necessary and moved with soft, silent steps over the carpeted deck. Even the engines were subdued, reduced to impulse speed. The ship’s pace was set by the leisurely progress of

the Choraii vessel as it sang its private song of alien dreams. Data had established a correlation between the ship’s spiraling path and the notes of its language, but the significance of the pattern was still beyond his comprehension. Perhaps Ruthe could have deciphered its meaning, but the translator had not returned to the bridge.

“Status report, Number One,” demanded the captain as he crossed to the command center. His voice was automatically pitched low in deference to the hushed ambiance.

Riker answered with equal restraint. “The B Flat is moving slowly. We’ve been careful to keep it just within sensor range so our continued presence isn’t detected.”

“Ruthe refuses to help us lure them back,” said Picard. He did not elaborate on her unwillingness. “We shall have to signal them ourselves.”

“That calls for a bit of trickery—and I think Data may have just what we need.” Riker looked to the android, who nodded in reply. “Ruthe played a version of the greeting for me in the crew lounge and Data managed to record it on the ambassador’s vocoder. Since the Choraii have never heard this particular song before, they may think she’s singing to them in person.”

“Excellent,” said Picard.

Data stepped away from the ops station to pass the vocoder on the Lieutenant Yar and instruct her in its operation. “The greeting is cued. Begin broadcasting as soon as we’re in radio-contact range.”

“You’re a very persuasive man, Mr. Riker,” observed Deelor as he took a seat next to the commander. “Do all young women fall for your oily charm? Or just the trusting ones, like Ruthe?”

Riker’s jaw tightened, but he did not respond.

“Close in on the B Flat, Mr. La Forge,” Picard instructed. “Maintain

Maintain impulse power, but be prepared to go to warp speed on my order.”

“Hailing distance reached. Ruthe’s greeting is being transmitted now,” announced Lieutenant Yar.

The B Flat responded to the strains of the flute by weaving an irregular path back toward the Enterprise. The bubble cluster grew larger on the main viewer. As before, the Choraii voices responded with their own melody, then fell silent waiting for Ruthe to explain the recall.

“Ambassador,” said Picard. “Will you speak to the Choraii or shall I?”

Deelor roused himself from an unblinking stare at the screen. His former quicksilver manner had slowed. “I’ll speak to them.”

Animation returned to his features. The ambassador stood, took a deep breath, and answered the Choraii with the single sustained naming-note of the B Flat. His tenor voice was amazingly good, thought Picard.

“Who are you?” wavered a single Choraii voice, filtered through the liquid environment of the alien ship. Its words still rose and fell to the demands of a musical cadence and the effect on human ears was of a haunting siren call.

“I am Deelor,” said the ambassador, though he kept his voice soft, smoothing out the roughness of the spoken sound.

“Where’s the other one? Why doesn’t she sing for us?”

“She’s tired and in need of rest. My speech isn’t as pleasing as her songs, but will you listen to me?”

A second Choraii voice replaced the first. “What do you want?”

“The trade pleased us,” explained Deelor. “We wish to trade again and provide you with more lead.”

“But we can’t pay for it.”

“But you can  . . .  “ Deelor faltered for an instant, then recovered. “You can pay us with the other human.”

A clashing chord of notes echoed over the broadcast band. All four Choraii joined together in a jumble of sound until one of their number regained dominance. “No trade.”

Picard recognized the voice of the fourth singer, who had opposed the arrangements for the first captive exchange. Deelor adopted the persuasive wheedle of a merchant trader. “We offer any metal of worth to you.”

“Jason was a present. He isn’t for sale.”

“The boy had a price,” persisted Deelor.

“Because he hasn’t been named yet. Jason is different; we like him too much to give him up.”

“If you are fond of Jason, you will return him to us. He should be with his own people.”

“Go away, Wild Ones!” Deelor tried to respond but the Choraii drowned him out. “Your notes are ugly. We will not sing with you anymore.”

“They’ve severed communications contact,” said Lieutenant Yar.

“Moving away at warp one,” added Data.

The ambassador looked to Picard for his reaction. “If we try to stop them, your ship will be placed in danger.”

The captain nodded gravely. “Yes, I know, but we have some new tricks of our own for dealing with the Choraii.”

“Do what you can, then,” said Deelor, leaving command of the ship to Picard, just as promised. “I won’t interfere.”

At Picard’s command, the Enterprise sprang forward in pursuit of the retreating alien ship. The Choraii, unprepared for the acceleration of their enemy, called forth a burst of speed, but not soon

enough to escape the rays that latched on to four bubbles in the cluster.

“Tractor beams locked on,” said Lieutenant Worf. The Choraii ship shuddered in place. A dimple formed in the center of the cluster, then deepened into a hole, creating a ring. The ring spread out, thinning its sides until the line of the circle was only one sphere thick. Four tractor rays swiveled in tandem with the moving spheres, firmly attached to their individual targets. The ring swiftly reformed its structure. Two spheres detached from each, other and flew apart, forming the single-file line that had overloaded the previous tractor lock.

“As predicted, no increase in energy consumption.” Worf’s theoretical model was now fact.

Picard signaled Yar to open a hailing frequency to the alien ship. “This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard. We repeat our previous request. Let us bring Jason over to the Enterprise.”

The bubbles regrouped and parted, whipping through a series of geometric forms, but none of the variations shook the grip of Worf’s energy lock. As a last resort, one of the trapped spheres was detached entirely. It floated loose, dragging the beam with it. Within seconds Worf had switched the wandering beam back to the main cluster. The maneuver was not repeated.

The bubbles drew together into a clumped mass. Lieutenant Yar tried to initiate radio contact, but the B Flat was silent as well as still.

“They don’t give up easily,” said Riker. “They’ll try something else, maybe the energy matrix.”

Picard shook his head. “Our phaser fire discouraged the use of that particular tactic. Remember, they’ve lost four spheres now, a loss which reduces the size of their ship.”

“And of their status,” said Deelor. “Evidently each ship begins as a cluster of three or four bubbles, but as the crew matures, more bubbles are added. Grown, as far as we can determine. A larger ship commands respect by virtue of its age.”

“So what’s next?” asked Riker. “How do  . . .  “

The bridge deck rocked violently, shaking the crew from side to side. Yellow Alert sirens flashed into life, and Picard immediately picked up the escalating whine of the ship’s engines. Overload indicators spread like fire across Worf’s console.

“Report! All stations,” shouted Picard, clutching at the arms of his chair to keep in place. “What is happening?”

Geordi La Forge was the first to pinpoint the cause. “The B Flat is trying to pull out of the tractor beam with their warp drive.”

“Data, how long can we hold them?” asked Picard.

The bridge had regained an even keel, but it was still trembling in place as the engines fought to maintain the starship’s position. The scream of their effort deafened his ears.

“Unknown. The duration is dependent on their maximum speed, which has not been measured.”

“Warp nine-point-nine,” said Deelor, then smiled wryly. “That’s highly classified information, by the way.”

Data tilted his head in contemplation of his completed equation. “In that case, our energy reserves will be depleted in approximately fourteen point six minutes.”

Picard rose to his feet, bracing himself for the rolling movement of the deck. “Yar, prepare to fire on the Choraii.”

“Phaser power at forty percent capacity, Captain,” answered the lieutenant.

“If we divert power to phasers,” said Data with a swift recalculation

recalculation of his figures, “we will deplete our energy reserves in five point two minutes.”

“Captain, look!” Riker pointed to the viewscreen. A violet globe had appeared among the orange bubbles of the Choraii ship.

“Damn,” swore Picard. “They’re going to hit us with everything they’ve got.”

Riker turned to the captain expectantly, “Now what, sir?”

“Worf, maintain tractor beams.” Even as he issued the command, Picard’s mind sifted through the remaining alternatives. He could try Data’s energy-field neutralizer, but the probe had never been tested. If the tactic failed, his ship could be destroyed.

Picard took a deep breath and broadcast a second order through his communicator. “All hands. Prepare for sudden acceleration. Engineering, cut power—”

Suddenly, there was a tremendous surge of forward motion as the Choraii ship shot away, pulling the unresisting starship in its wake. Inertia dampers absorbed part of the shock, but they couldn’t prevent a severe jolt. Picard was thrown back into his chair with a force that knocked the breath out of him. On the viewer, stars were transformed to streaks of light.

“Warp two,” said Data. His grip had kept him at the helm. And dented the edges of his ops panel with the imprint of his fingers. “Warp five.”

Picard tried to speak again and managed a hoarse whisper. “Damage reports.”

“Minor damage only,” replied Riker as the information filtered through to the bridge. “All essential systems fully operative.”

“Warp nine,” called out Data.

Yar’s report came next. “Captain, weapons power is back to full capacity.”

“Sickbay to bridge.” Dr. Crusher’s voice stormed over the intercom. “What the hell was that all about? A two-second warning isn’t my idea of proper notice. I’m receiving injury reports from all decks.”

“Not now, Dr. Crusher.” Picard’s breath had finally returned. He snapped shut the connection with sickbay. Casualty reports would have to wait until later. “Lieutenant Yar, lock narrow phaser fire on the edges of the cluster, but steer clear of any spheres with life-sign readings.”

“Warp nine-point-seven,” warned Data.

Yar selected an uninhabited sphere at random. “Phasers locked and ready.”

“Fire!” cried Picard.

Just as before, the target exploded at the beam’s first touch and its interior atmosphere sprayed out from the shattered shell. Globules of liquid boiled away into the vacuum of space. Picard held his breath, waiting for the enemy’s reaction.

At first there was no change. Then the deck lurched.

“The Choraii are reducing speed to Warp eight,” said Data. “Warp six.”

“They’ve given in,” said Riker with an admiring grin. “I knew you could outsmart them.”

The captain smiled back and tried to hide his own relief at the outcome of the struggle. Data’s count continued downward, keeping pace with the slowing of Picard’s pulse.

“Wild Ones, enough!” came the message from the B Flat when it had coasted to a full stop. “Take Jason, only stop your fire.”

“Agreed,” answered the ambassador before Picard could speak. With the starship at rest, Deelor was back in control of the mission. He turned to the aft bridge. “Lieutenant Yar, prepare to board the Choraii ship.”

“Alone?” asked Yar. Her eyes widened.

“I have no intention of going over myself, Lieutenant.” Deelor glanced uneasily at the viewer. “The Choraii bear close watching during a trade, and I can best observe their actions from the bridge.”

Riker was quick to jump to the defense of his away team member. “Request permission to accompany—”

“Denied, Commander,” said Deelor flatly. “This isn’t an invasion. And if Ruthe can handle these transactions by herself, I’m sure Lieutenant Yar can muddle through also.”

The security chief reacted just as Picard knew she would. And as Deelor must have predicted as well. “I’ll go over, sir. If there’s any problem, I can signal for backup.”

The captain protected Yar in the only manner open to him. “Mr. Riker, Mr. Data. Accompany the lieutenant to the transporter room.”

As the turbolift compartment dropped downward, Data described the curious composition of the Choraii ship’s environment in greater detail. Yar listened calmly to the detached clinical terms which were unconnected to the terror of submersion. Her composure was put to a greater test when they reached the transporter room; Dr. Crusher was waiting there and her advice went to the heart of Yar’s fear.

“Don’t fight against breathing in. Force as much air out of your lungs as you can, then inhale.”

“I’ll beam you in a few spheres away from Jason,” said Data, taking over the transporter controls. “That will give you time to adjust to the environment.”

“Let’s go, then,” said Yar, leaping onto the platform. She didn’t want time to dwell on what was ahead.

Yar materialized in the calm sea of the Choraii atmosphere.

Regardless of Crusher’s instructions, she immediately held her breath. Her every instinct fought against exhaling the air in her lungs.

Treading in place with fine movements of her hands and feet, she concentrated on orienting herself in the alien surroundings. She was suspended in a sphere some ten meters in diameter. Music echoed faintly all around her, and a reddish glow radiated from the curving walls, filtering through the clear liquid to the very center of the orb. She could see no openings.

Yar knew she could hold her breath for several more minutes, possibly long enough to find her way through the next sphere and even to return the captive to the Enterprise. If all went well. If not, she would have to breathe in eventually. Better to do so now before her fear grew too strong to overcome. She quickly blew out a stream of air bubbles, then inhaled. Her mind was clouded by a momentary panic as her lungs filled with a thin, warm liquid, but against all expectation she did not suffocate. She took another deep breath. The fluid flowed in and out of her nose, more noticeable than air but just as breathable. The scent of cinnamon lingered behind.

A butterfly stroke carried her to the small flat circle that marked the intersection of two spheres. The opaque membrane was smooth and cool to the touch. Yar pushed the palm of her hand against it and felt the surface give slightly. She pushed harder but couldn’t break through. Remembering Riker’s narrow beam assault against the exterior of the spheres, she tried again with palms and fingers pressed together in a diver’s pose, and this time her hands passed easily through the membrane. A swift kick sent her entire body gliding into the next compartment. It was empty, but the one after it was not.

A man was there, floating, eyes closed, listening to the lulling

song of the Choraii that reverberated in the chamber. Yar’s entrance stirred the fluid interior, and a current brushing against his bare skin alerted Jason to her presence. She expected him to flee at the sight of a stranger, but he swam toward her instead, curious and trusting. His age was difficult to determine. He was plump, with the smooth, unlined face of a child, but his brown hair was streaked with silver. When he reached her side, she signaled the Enterprise.

The embrace of warm liquid gave way to the sharp bite of air and the dragging weight of her body’s return to gravity. She wasn’t prepared for the shock of transition. A harsh flood of white light blinded her eyes.

Yar tried to breathe. She stumbled to her knees on the transporter platform, coughing convulsively as fluid and air mixed together in her lungs. Racking spasms choked her throat. Seconds later, she passed out.

Chapter Eleven

DR. CRUSHER’S CALL alerted the medical department to incoming casualties from the transporter room. Following her hurried instructions, a team of paramedics and nurses prepared for new patients.

Data was the first to arrive. He ran through the doors of sickbay with Tasha Yar’s unconscious body. The lieutenant had pitched forward off the transporter platform into his arms and, rather than wait for a stretcher, he had carried her in himself.

“Over there,” directed a waiting paramedic, pointing to an empty table.

Data swung the woman onto a scanner bed. Her uniform was sopping wet; her hair was plastered flat against her head.

“Swimming accident?” asked the nurse, but she was too busy checking the diagnostic output to notice that Data did not reply. “Readings approaching normal. Lungs clear of water.”

“Tathwell, I want a chemical analysis of that liquid,” gasped Crusher, coming up behind them. She could smell the lingering scent of cinnamon on Yar’s skin and clothing. When Ruthe and the child had returned to the Enterprise, the Choraii atmosphere had been odorless.

Riker was the last to enter sickbay and hand over his burden to the medics. He had refused Data’s offer to carry both Yar and

Jason—however, the effort of keeping up with the android had left the first officer badly out of breath.

“If you’re going to hyperventilate, do it somewhere else,” said Crusher, pushing Riker aside so she could read Jason’s scanner results. “I can’t deal with more than one patient at a time.”

Too winded to reply, Riker let Data ask about Yar and Jason’s condition.

“Stable,” she replied. Like the captive child, Jason had flailed about in confusion when he was beamed aboard, and Crusher’s only recourse had been to sedate him. By the time the doctor could turn her attention to Yar, the lieutenant had already passed out.

“The captain will expect a prognosis for their recovery.” Riker’s chest was still heaving from the exertion of carrying Jason, but he could finally talk.

“Later,” said Crusher brusquely. “After I’ve had a chance to examine them more closely.” She was too preoccupied with monitoring her two patients to spare Riker any further attention, and dismissed him and Data from her mind as soon as they walked out of sickbay.

“Dr. Crusher!” Nurse Tathwell called out changing vital signs as Yar edged back toward consciousness. The lieutenant came awake with a strangled gasp as if she were fighting for air.

“Tasha,” cried Crusher catching hold of the woman’s shoulders. “You’re back on the Enterprise.” The doctor didn’t release her grip until Yar had stopped struggling and her eyes had focused, but Crusher noted that the pupils were still dilated.

“I must have been dreaming.” Yar’s voice quavered as she spoke. “I thought I was drowning.”

“You’re just not used to breathing a liquid atmosphere,” said Crusher with a reassuring smile, brushing a damp curl of Yar’s hair off her forehead. Yar was still breathing rapidly, but the colored

lights of the diagnostic panel had stabilized. Her physical condition was good; her emotional recovery would take a while longer.

“What about him?” asked the lieutenant, nodding toward Jason, who lay prone on a nearby medical table. “Is he all right?”

“He’ll be unconscious until the effects of the sedative wear off.” Crusher signaled two nurses to carry Jason into another ward for continued observation, then turned back around at the sound of a metal latch coming undone. Yar had swung up the cover of the diagnostic scanner and was scrambling down off the table. “And where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m fine now,” said Yar even as she grabbed the edge of the platform to steady herself. “I should be at my post.”

Crusher saw the woman’s pallor give way to a flush of embarrassment at the thought of her collapse. Yar would have been further mortified to know that Data had carried her to sickbay. “You have been relieved of duty, Lieutenant. I want you under medical observation for a full twenty-four hours.”

“But I was unconscious for only a few minutes.”

The doctor knew Yar’s stubborn temperament and didn’t waste time on gentle persuasion. “Tasha, if you don’t get back on that bed, I’ll have you sedated.”

The threat lacked finesse, but it achieved the desired effect. Dr. Crusher had no intention of letting the officer go until any ill effects from her exposure to the Choraii environment had been ruled out. And the spicy aroma had been explained.

“Lieutenant Yar passed out?”

“She seemed to be having difficulty breathing, sir.” Data’s intention may have been to reassure the captain that the rescue attempt had been successful, but his graphic description of the scene in the

transporter room only heightened Picard’s alarm.

Ambassador Deelor, however, appeared satisfied with the knowledge that the lieutenant and the captive were in sickbay. “Lieutenant Worf, open a channel to the B Flat,” he ordered, then drummed his fingers impatiently as the Klingon looked to Picard for confirmation of the command.

“Thieves!” The Choraii were as one in their accusation. “This wasn’t a trade.”

“Well, let’s see if I can salvage some shred of good accord,” whispered Deelor to Picard. He raised his voice to answer the Choraii accusation. “The extra lead is still yours. We offer payment for what we have taken.”

“Keep your metal, only let us go!”

Picard heard the disharmony in their voices and recognized the futility of the ambassador’s attempt. “If we hold their ship any longer, the Choraii may resume fighting.”

“Very well,” said Deelor after a short pause. “Release them.”

An impassive Lieutenant Worf cut power to the tractor beam. As soon as the four rays retracted, the B Flat shot away at full speed. The entire crew watched with fascination as the bubble cluster shrank to a pinpoint size on the viewer, then disappeared entirely.

“Moving out of long-range sensor range,” announced Worf. “Gone.”

As abruptly as it had begun, the confrontation with the Choraii was over. The Enterprise had won. Captain Picard reflected briefly on his ship’s triumph, then moved on to the demands of the present. He looked over to the ambassador.

“I’m just a passenger now,” Deelor said, divining the question in Picard’s mind. “You can drop me off at Starbase Ten, along with Ruthe and the Hamlin survivors.”

“That will have to wait until after we have taken the Farmers home,” said Picard. “Our passengers have suffered enough inconvenience as it is.” He expected a protest, but Deelor only shrugged. The man had an uncanny ability to know which issues the captain would give way on and which were not worth the effort of contesting. “Helm, set a course for New Oregon. Warp four.”

Data had anticipated the order and the necessary coordinates were already prepared. “Course laid in, sir.”

Picard settled back in his command chair. The passage of a few uneventful days would be quite welcome after the recent turmoil. “Engage.”

Geordi started the ship on its journey, then double-checked a number on his control panel. “Data, this can’t be right.” The pilot turned around to address Captain Picard. “Estimated time of arrival at New Oregon is thirty-six days.”

“What!” The captain jumped up from his seat. “Mr. Data, explain.”

“More precisely, thirty-six days, five hours, and twelve minutes.” Data puzzled over the agitation of his fellow crew members. “The Choraii ship towed us off course during the tractor lock.”

“Yes, but over a month?” protested the captain. “The original rendezvous site was only a day and a half away from New Oregon.”

“The B Flat reached a peak speed of warp nine-point-nine for several seconds,” said Data. “I can show you the exact distance/acceleration ratio of—”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Data,” said the captain. He sighed at the thought of prolonged contact with Ambassador Deelor’s entourage and over a hundred contentious Farmers. “Mr. La Forge, increase speed to warp six.”

Data obligingly recalculated their arrival time. “Twelve days, ten hours—”

“Understood,” said Picard, cutting Data off. The captain’s mood was not appreciably improved by the altered schedule, especially since the colonists would demand an explanation for the delay. Riker could provide it, decided Picard. One of the privileges of rank was the delegation of unpleasant tasks.

None of the Farmers had been hurt when the Enterprise was jerked into motion by the Choraii ship. Enticed by second-hand reports of beguiling farmland, the entire community had packed inside the holodeck for a first-hand look at the simulated wonder. Most of the colonists were still exploring the meadows when they were thrown down onto the springy grass by the sudden lurch of the ground beneath their feet.

A few of the more intrepid explorers had reached the cluster of wooden buildings, but the barn floors were lined with a thick layer of dry hay which padded their fall. Of them all, Tomas was the most unfortunate. He was rapped soundly on the back of his head by a swinging Dutch door and briefly lost consciousness.

“Tomas, my son, my poor boy,” Dolora clucked, bending over the bulky form stretched out on the floor. She looked anxiously to the woman who was checking his pulse. A loose circle of Farmers were gathered around them, peering down at Tomas and waiting for Charla’s pronouncement.

“I can’t even find a bump,” Charla laughed.

The man’s eyes fluttered open and fixed on his mother’s face. He groaned.

“Oh, don’t move!” cried Dolora when he sat up. She pulled at his

arm, trying to keep him from rising, but Tomas struggled to his feet. “You’ll only make it worse, son.”

“Please, Mother,” he said through tightly pressed lips. He tried to avert his gaze from the other Farmers, but the audience was ringed all around him. “I’m not a child.”

“No, fortunately. You’re a grown man with a thick skull,” said Patrisha.

Tomas ignored the jibe, but he brushed the straw off his clothes with great vigor and jammed a loose end of his shirt back under his belt. One by one the men and women drifted away. When Tomas looked up again, he caught sight of Dnnys and Wesley at once.

“Earthquakes, what a lovely detail,” he cooed, mimicking his sister’s earlier praise, “Who thought of that?”

“It’s not in the program,” protested Wesley, then lamely added, “but maybe there was a glitch somewhere.” He suspected the true cause of the motion but shouldered the blame rather than draw attention to another of the starship’s combat maneuvers. A programming error would be less likely to draw the wrath of the Farmers.

“And what other surprises do you have in store for us, Ensign Crusher?” Tomas was starting to draw the attention of the bewildered colonists. “Barn fires? Tornadoes? Perhaps a flood of biblical proportions?”

“Tomas!” cried his mother. “You go too far.”

Her son flushed. “I’m very sorry, Mother. It must have been the blow to my head.” He edged his way out of the barn as he apologized.

Taking advantage of the diversion, Wesley and Dnnys scampered up a tall ladder to the hayloft. From that dizzying height the concerns of the adults below seemed just as puzzling, but far less important.

“So what was that all about?” asked Wesley. “What was he apologizing for?”

Dnnys mumbled an unintelligible reply as they climbed over tightly corded bales of hay and waded through loose straw. Dust raised by their boots tickled their noses and set them to sneezing. They reached the hay doors and pushed them open, taking in great gulps of the clear air outside.

“So tell me,” Wesley asked again, after they had taken a seat, dangling their legs over the edge of the loft. A late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the barnyard below.

“We don’t talk about those things.”

“What things?”

To Wesley’s surprise, his friend turned bright red.

Dnnys took a deep breath, then whispered the answer. “You know, religious things.”

“Oh.” Wesley was careful not to show any sign of amusement. His exposure to a wide variety of cultures had taught him to respect an equally wide variety of taboos, and this prohibition was certainly no stranger than others. He changed the conversation to spare his friend any further embarrassment. “When does the decanting start?”

Dnnys stuck a straw between his teeth and leaned back onto his elbows. “Tomorrow morning,” he said glumly, as if uttering a death sentence.

Wesley understood. Once the animals were released into the holodeck, Dnnys would lose his excuse for working in the cargo deck. Which also meant losing his cover for roaming freely about the Enterprise. “Listen, if there’s anything I can do  . . .  “

“There is,” said Dnnys. “I have a favor to ask. A big favor.”

Wesley waited for an explanation, but Dnnys seemed reluctant to continue. “What is it, Dnnys? You know I’ll help.”

“I have this plan.” The Farmer boy wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. “But it’s got to be a secret.”

Wesley listened carefully to his friend’s explanation. And as he listened, he began to frown.

The medical isolation chamber had been cleverly designed for a wide variety of purposes. If a patient was contagious, the airflow seals locked the infectious agent within. For anyone with a depressed immune system, the same seals kept viruses and bacteria from entering. The low-intensity red lights were soothing to eyes weakened by fever and fatigue, while the soft cushions and lowered gravity were especially suited for burn patients in the last stages of healing.

It was also the closest approximation to the environment of a Choraii ship that Dr. Crusher could prepare on such short notice.

A diagnostic scanner monitored the patient lying inside, displaying a constant assessment of his physical condition and the effect of the last sedative injection, but the panel couldn’t tell her what she really wanted to know. She studied the sleeping figure of the man known as Jason, searching for the answers to the disturbing questions raised by the deaths of the other adult captives. The skin over his knees and elbows was still raw. He had collapsed as soon as the transporter beam faded and his body lost the support of the buoyant liquid interior of the Choraii atmosphere. Here, his face was slack in repose, but her own mind superimposed an image from the transporter chamber when she had looked into his eyes and seen only a wild terror.

Jason had plunged without warning into a vastly different world, and his cries had been strangled by the unexpected rush of thin air into his lungs. If he was one of the original Hamlin children,

memories of that long-ago childhood had not eased the transition. Even Tasha, gone for only a few minutes, had been disoriented on her return to the ship.

Had the rescue come too late for this man? Would he die like the others?

Dr. Crusher laid a hand on the clear window. Her touch darkened the glass, granting Jason privacy in the confines of the chamber. He would remain unconscious for another few hours, but she stole out of the room as if afraid she might wake him.

In the room next door, a second isolation unit also held a sleeping form, but the child was deep in a natural slumber. His toffee-colored skin and curly black hair were a stark contrast to Jason’s pale complexion.

“He’s finally cried himself out,” said Troi, who was keeping vigil over the boy. She followed Dr. Crusher’s sharp glance at the blood-sugar-level indicator. “He was too upset to eat, but he’ll be hungry when he wakes up. I’m certain I can tempt him with some food later.”

Crusher nodded in automatic agreement, then shook her head. “It’s not going to be that simple, Deanna.” A brief review of the Hamlin medical records had made that much clear. “He’s been raised in a liquid environment. A complete rehabilitation will be necessary to teach him how to function in our world.”

“Which means he’ll need constant supervision,” said Troi. “So how will we explain him to your department?”

“Good question.” Only a few people had seen Crusher whisk the child into the isolation chamber, and Troi had taken over primary responsibility for his care when the doctor had been called away, but his presence could not be shielded for much longer. The unannounced appearance of a two-year-old boy, one unknown to her

medical staff, would give rise to a host of questions. “For that matter, how do we explain Jason?”

“Survivors of a shipwreck,” suggested Troi. “It’s unoriginal, but not too far from the truth.”

“Good enough, I suppose,” sighed the doctor. “Only we’d better make sure the rest of the bridge crew gives out the same story. Nothing will draw attention faster than conflicting accounts of how they got here.” She moved toward the room’s door. “I’ll stop by later and we can discuss what to do when he wakes up.”

“Beverly,” called out Troi as the other woman reached the threshold. “We can’t keep calling him ‘the boy’ and ‘the child.’ He needs a name.”

“What about Moses?” suggested Crusher, and stepped out of the room to continue on her rounds.

Striding down the corridor, the chief medical officer shoved aside the distracting demands of the Hamlin captives and focused her attention on her next set of patients. Sickbay was at near capacity, and the heavy caseload meant she would be working through the night.

Captain Picard’s warning announcement before the Enterprise was dragged off course by the Choraii ship had been brief, too brief to prepare every one of the thousand people on board for the sudden acceleration. A few people never heard the crew alert and were hurled through the air without warning. Others were simply a shade too slow in reacting. The extent of their injuries depended on what part of their body connected with the nearest solid object. Those with broken bones and lacerations reached sickbay quickly on float stretchers with paramedics in close attendance or were carried in by fellow crew members. Over the following hour, a gradually increasing stream of people had hobbled in to sickbay on their own,

seeking relief for bruises and sprains.

“Duncan is doing very well,” said the supervising nurse in critical care. He called up an encouraging pattern of regenerating nerves on a computer screen. Crusher was relieved to see that the astronomer’s spinal cord had been bruised rather than cut by the telescope that had swung into his lower back.

“What about Butterfield?” The most badly injured of the crew had been a botanist who had crashed headfirst into a potted caudifera. Butterfield would be the first to laugh at the irony of being attacked by one of his own plants, if he ever regained consciousness. Dr. Crusher had mended the scientist’s fractured skull, but only time could tell if his brain would function with its previous brilliance.

Doswell shrugged. “No change.”

Recovery was out of her hands at this point. Dr. Crusher reacted to her impotence with a rage—and found a focus for that rage waiting in her office.

“Captain, I have a sickbay filled with casualties and because of Deelor’s damn security restrictions, they don’t even understand why they were hurt. This wasn’t their fight, but they’re the ones paying the biggest price.”

Her harsh words echoed Picard’s own thoughts, intensifying his guilt. He alone was responsible for the people lying in the medical wards.

“These are passengers. They should never have been taken into a situation that you knew would be dangerous!” Crusher said bitterly. “You should have separated the ship.”

In fact, his first instinct had been to order the detachment of the stardrive section from the main disk. He had been swayed by Deelor’s arguments against that action. Or was it that he hadn’t been

willing to fight hard enough for his own command decision? What would have happened if the saucer section had been left behind—would the crew of the battle bridge have returned to find these people uninjured or to find all the passengers slaughtered by the wandering Choraii? “I chose not to,” said Picard curtly.

“Tell that to my patients.”

“I stand by my actions.”

“At least you’re still able to stand, unlike Butterfield and Duncan.” She regretted that remark as soon as she said it—but Picard didn’t give her time to retract the statement.

“It’s your job to redress my errors in judgment,” he said harshly. “Be thankful you can wash the blood from your hands.”

“Jean-Luc, I’m sorry, I should never have said that. It was unfair of me.”

“Never apologize for the truth, Dr. Crusher,” said Picard, unwilling to accept absolution for his sins. He stalked out of the office before she could speak again.

One by one the senior officers had scattered to other parts of the ship until Geordi La Forge was left in charge of the bridge. Trading his position at the helm for the captain’s chair, even during the prevailing tranquility, inevitably led to dreams of command. Having observed Picard in action against the Choraii, the lieutenant questioned how he would react to a similar emergency. Not that he would get the opportunity to find out any time soon.

“Geordi?”

Starting at his name, La Forge looked up to see who had called him. “Oh, hello, Wesley.” He hadn’t noticed the boy’s entrance onto the bridge. Geordi was relieved that an ensign rather than an officer had caught him lost in thought. “You can use any of the empty duty stations . . . ”

“I’m not here to work,” said Wesley with a shake of his head. “I have a favor to ask.”

“So ask,” urged Geordi, sensing an unspoken urgency in the young ensign’s somber expression.

“Well, it’s not really ship business,” apologized Wesley. “But a friend of mine needs some information.”

“What kind of information?”

Wesley looked nervously over his shoulder, then bent down and whispered in Geordi’s ear. Once Geordi heard the request, the identity of Wesley’s friend was fairly obvious. “The best person to ask for that information is probably Logan.”

“Oh.”

Geordi grinned at the boy’s unenthusiastic response. “Hey, I know our chief engineer isn’t your biggest fan, but I bet he’ll answer your questions. After all, it’ll give him a chance to give you some answers for a change.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” said Wesley, turning away.

“And Wes, tell Dnnys . . . I mean, your friend, that I wish him luck.”

“Thanks, Geordi,” the ensign called out as he raced off the bridge ramp to the aft deck. “He’s going to need all the luck he can get.”

    *

Riker had been on his way to his cabin when the haunting melody pulled him off course, sending him through a welter of corridors searching for the source of the music. He turned one corner and the sound strengthened, turned another and it faded to a faint whisper. Doubling back on his trail, he picked up the soft strains of the flute filtering down from an access chute in the ceiling. He stood listening for several moments, letting the sorrowful notes wash over him like falling tears.

Grabbing hold of a rung at the hole’s entrance, he hoisted himself into the tunnel above. His shoulders brushed against the sides of the narrow, curving walls. He kept climbing, hand over hand up the ladder, until he reached a service chamber halfway between decks.

Ruthe was sitting cross-legged on the metal ledge that circled the opening like a catch basin. Her music trailed away when Riker climbed out of the chute, then stopped altogether when he sat down beside her. She dropped the flute onto her lap but didn’t seem to resent the intrusion.

“You’re hurt,” he said, frowning at the line of dried blood that ran down her cheek. He brushed aside a lock of her hair and uncovered a purplish bruise on her forehead.

She shook off his touch. “Sharp edges and hard metal. That’s what ships are made of.”

“We’ve brought Jason on board. I thought you should know that.” Picard had described his confrontation with the translator and

her resistance to the rescue. “Dr. Crusher will do everything—”

“He lied,” said Ruthe abruptly.

Riker almost asked her who she meant, but there was really only one person that she could be talking about. He let her continue.

“He knew what I was doing all the time.”

The captain had suspected as much. “Then why did Deelor deny it?”

Ruthe didn’t answer. She pulled her instrument into parts, then slipped the pieces into separate pockets in her cloak. Each section had its own place. “He knows other things. Dangerous things that he’s not telling.”

“Will you tell me?” asked Riker.

Her head jerked up. She studied Riker’s face, as if seeing him for the first time. “I’ve told you things before. Now it’s his turn.”

Pushing Riker aside, she raced nimbly down the rungs of the access chute. He scrambled after her, but by the time he dropped back into the corridor below, Ruthe was gone.

Chapter Twelve

UNCOUNTED NUMBERS OF STARS glittered brightly outside the windows of the observation lounge, but their light cast no warmth on the three men inside.

“You knew there was an adult still aboard the B Flat and were prepared to let the Choraii leave with him. Why?” demanded Captain Picard.

“Ruthe acted of her own accord, Captain,” said Deelor with a greater show of conviction than he had exhibited hours before in that same room. “I knew nothing  . . . ”

Picard made a deliberate show of losing his temper.

He slammed his fist down on the tabletop and raised his voice to shout. “I’m tired of your self-serving games, Ambassador Deelor. Or Agent Deelor—or whoever you really are. No more evasions, no more crumbs of information. I want the whole truth of what you’re doing out here.”

The expression of innocence had frozen on Deelor’s face. He rubbed it away with one hand. Beneath that mask, his face was gaunt and weary. “Yes, I knew about Jason and I knew that Ruthe planned to leave him.” He sagged deeper into his seat, as if in need of its support to continue. “I agreed not to interfere with her decision because I knew if we brought him here he would probably die.

There have been other exchanges, ones that not even Ruthe knows about. In all, the Federation has recovered twelve of the original Hamlin captives.”

“And they’ve all died?” asked Riker.

“Not all,” said Deelor. “But those that aren’t dead are withdrawn, catatonic. Only young children seem able to adjust to life outside of the Choraii ships.”

Picard thought of the casualties in sickbay and his bitterness increased. “Why didn’t you tell me this before we brought Jason aboard?”

His answer confirmed the captain’s fear. “Because you might have let him remain with the Choraii,” said Deelor. “And being a man of integrity, you would have recorded that decision in your Captain’s Log. I have fewer scruples. I was willing to let Jason go, but only if no one knew. There are too many officials in high places that want the Hamlin captives brought back.”

Picard might fault the man’s ethics, but at least Deelor was finally being candid. “Why is his return so important?”

“Different reasons for different admirals. Some are under the belief, perhaps misguided, that the survivors can be salvaged or that a crippled life in our world is better than leaving them with the aliens who killed their parents. Others want the adult captives returned on the off chance that one of them will provide some useful information. You see, the children can’t tell us how the Choraii stardrive works.”

“No!” Picard brushed aside Deelor’s explanation with scorn. “I won’t believe Zagráth would sacrifice lives for that knowledge.”

“Don’t judge her too harshly,” said Deelor. He bit down on his lip, stifling the words that almost followed. Drumming his fingers on the table, the first nervous tic he had ever betrayed, he studied

Picard, then Riker. The tapping stopped and Deelor’s narrative resumed. “The Romulans are after that drive, or will be soon. At least one of their battlecruisers, The Defender, was destroyed in an encounter with the Choraii. There may have been other clashes, rumors indicate, but we don’t know the outcomes.” He had their undivided attention now. “My original mission was to discover how the Choraii defeated The Defender.”

Riker caught the connection immediately. “By letting them destroy the Ferrel.”

“If necessary.”

“You’re a cold-blooded bastard,” observed the captain.

“Look beyond the nose on your face, Picard!” cried Deelor. “What do you think will happen if the Romulans unravel the workings of the Choraii drive? They could fly through the Neutral Zone to the very heart of the Federation and lay waste to entire worlds. I’ve walked through the carnage they leave behind. Imagine what would have happened at the border outpost if the Romulans had possessed a superior flight technology.”

“The Enterprise was sent there to maintain a balance of force,” reflected Picard, settling back into his chair. “And a very shaky balance it was.”

“Yes, I know. I was there, too. Only I was walking on the other side—that’s how I learned about the fate of The Defender. Fortunately, I made it back across the Neutral Zone before I bled to death.”

Once again, Picard found his opinion of Deelor shifting to accommodate a new facet of the man’s character. He clearly possessed physical courage. The captain listened with growing respect to Deelor’s impassioned speech.

“In the interests of Federation security. That’s not a phrase to be

used lightly. It means a few dozen captives, or the crew of a starship, may be sacrificed to save millions of lives. Captain Manin forgot that part of the equation when he tried to detonate the Ferrel. He wanted a clean death for his crew and he wanted revenge on the Choraii. I had to stop him.”

Bit by bit the pieces of the puzzle were coming together in Picard’s mind. “That’s why you were shot.”

“As you’ve pointed out on several occasions, people feel quite strongly about the Hamlin massacre—too strongly, perhaps. Violent hatreds demand swift military reactions, but the interests of the Federation are best served by the slower progress of diplomacy. Since the exchange of human captives between the Choraii ships serves as a bonding gift, we’re hoping that our trade exchanges for the young children will lead to similar ties between the Choraii and the Federation and the eventual exchange of technological secrets.”

“My actions certainly haven’t improved those relations,” said Picard with a weary sigh.

“Conflicting Federation policy set us up for a no-win situation. Some officials want the adult captives back, while others want to maintain cordial relations.” Deelor shrugged philosophically. “The B Flat is just one ship in the local cluster, and not among the most important. I’ll start again with another.”

“You could have saved a lot of trouble by telling me all this in the first place.”

“I shouldn’t be telling you now,” said Deelor. He revealed another part of himself to the two officers, one more chilling than the others. “And if what I’ve told you leaves this room, you’ll both be dead men. I’ll see to it personally.”

When Deelor returned to his cabin suite he was surprised to find

Ruthe comfortably curled on a low couch listening to a Vivaldi string concerto. She looked up when he entered, then returned to her contemplation of the music. Silence was no clue as to her mood since her greetings were always sporadic and perfunctory. As he had learned over the course of their association, Ruthe would remain remote and impersonal until she had need of him or he addressed her. Deelor had expected that the fight would change their tenuous relationship in some manner, but perhaps she had already relegated that scene to the past.

Or perhaps her betrayal of him had evened the score.

Settling down on a chair, Deelor let the rushing counterpoint of violins and violas sweep away the tensions born of his confrontation with the starship officers. If Ruthe held no grudge, neither would he.

Picard had stayed behind in the observation lounge after the other two men left. The view stretching outside the broad sweep of windows never bored him because the pattern of far-distant stars was always different, always changing. Those elusive beacons usually challenged and inspired him with their beauty, but just now the vista seemed bleak.

He heard the doors to the room slide open and thought for a second that Riker had returned, but the steps coming up behind him were too light to belong to his first officer. Then Picard caught Beverly Crusher’s reflection moving across the glass window. She stopped a few feet away from him and followed his gaze out into space. They stood side by side in silence for several minutes before she spoke.

“If you look at the stars for too long, you can start to feel like a

god. Or to think you should be able to act like one. Omniscient, omnipotent, infallible.”

Picard did not respond.

“Captains and doctors are both prone to the syndrome. We expect to solve all problems and cure all ills, and then blame ourselves if we fail at impossible tasks. Or blame others.”

Picard finally glanced over at her. “Am I being lectured, Dr. Crusher?”

“Something like that.” Her eyes were still locked on the scene outside the ship. “I’m better at lectures than I am at apologies.”

“I don’t need either.”

“You deserve both.” Crusher took a deep breath and faced him squarely. “An apology for what I said to you in sickbay and a lecture for listening to me when I was in too foul a mood to make any sense.”

The captain’s stiff posture loosened. “I wasn’t in a particularly good humor myself,” said Picard wryly. “And you didn’t say anything that I hadn’t already told myself a hundred times over.”

“Which proves we both need a vacation.”

Picard smiled and the strain between them dissolved, only to be replaced by another, more familiar tension. Crusher took a step back and Picard looked out at the stars again. He wondered how he could have mistaken their brilliance for desolation.

“How is Lieutenant Yar doing?”

“Tearing apart my sickbay,” sighed Crusher. “I’ll release her soon, unless I strangle her first.”

“And Jason?”

“Sedated,” said Crusher tersely. “I’ve established his identity from the old Hamlin medical records. His DNA profile matches that of Jason Reardon. He was three years old at the time of his abduction,

not much older than the child we recovered.”

“Are they related?”

“No,” she said. “However, I used genetic markers to trace the boy’s ancestry. His father was one of the original kidnapped group but his mother was apparently born in captivity, the result of a union between two maturing children.”

“A third-generation captive,” said the captain. His brows lifted in alarm.

“Yes, and he’s probably not the only one. Given their good health, the human population may be growing fairly quickly and spreading throughout the Choraii ships. How will we ever recover them all?”

“Is that even the right question?” asked the captain, recalling Andrew Deelor’s revelation of the high fatalities among the rescued captives.

Crusher raised her hand to stop him. “I’m not ready to deal with that issue yet. Oh, Jean-Luc, if you could have seen Jason when he beamed aboard  . . . those terror-stricken eyes  . . .  “ She shook herself. “I’ve got to get back to sickbay. Jason’s sedative is due to wear off soon.”

They walked out of the lounge together but parted after crossing over the threshold. Picard was halfway down the opposite corridor when the doctor whirled around and called to him.

“By the way, Captain. Professor Butterfield requested a caudifera salad for his lunch.”

Although Data had been assigned a cabin of his own like his human companions, he was more often found in Geordi’s quarters or the ship’s library. Both places fed the only hunger of which he was capable: curiosity. The android was free from the demands of a human body, but he delighted in the search for knowledge and

acquired facts with the same relish some people experienced when they encountered a new culinary delicacy.

Since Geordi was still in command of the bridge, Data chose to spend the remaining hour of his off-duty shift pursuing his most recent line of research. He had mastered the texts explaining the physiological necessity for sleep among organic life forms, but certain psychological aspects still puzzled him. Upon entering the ship’s library, however, Data was distracted by unusual activity in one corner of the room.

“Oh, hi, Data,” sighed Wesley when the android approached the print terminal. He tried to gather up the hardcover books that covered the table, but Data had already picked up one of the volumes.

“Very interesting,” said Data, inspecting the title on the spine. Personally, he found the printed format to be somewhat clumsy and time-consuming, yet its close association with humans lent the medium a certain charm. “Basic Engineering Principles. Is this for archival purposes? You have already mastered this material”

“I’m doing a favor for a friend.” Wesley removed the final bound volume from the printer assembly. “And, Data, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this to yourself.”

Data frowned. The phrase was unfamiliar to him. “You wish me to have a copy as well?”

“No, I mean”—Wesley took a deep breath—“well, don’t tell anyone about what I’m doing. You see, it’s, uh  . . . ”

“A secret?” asked Data.

“Yes,” said Wesley.

The android smiled and recited enthusiastically, “Secret: a clandestine operation, a sub rosa endeavor, a—”

Wesley interrupted his recital. “Sorry, sir, but I’m running late for class.” With an apologetic smile the boy gathered up his printed

materials and hastened toward the exit.

Data stood lost in thought, pondering the mystique of secrets.

Now that he had one, he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with it.

Each time Riker met with Farmer Patrisha, the woman greeted him with greater civility. On this occasion, when he came to her suite, she offered the first officer some tea and he accepted. They sipped the bitter herbal brew in companionable silence before moving on to business.

Riker hoped Patrisha’s cordiality would stand the test of his tidings. Setting aside his empty cup, he began. “I have good news. We’re back on course to New Oregon.”

“Will we arrive in time for the decanting?” asked Patrisha.

“No, I’m afraid not.” Riker was frank about that aspect, then launched into his deception. “Our warp engines are undergoing some routine maintenance work that will slow our progress.” Fortunately, Logan wasn’t likely to come in contact with the Farmers. The chief engineer wouldn’t appreciate having his department maligned.

“How long will we be delayed?”

Smiling, he tried to downplay the answer. “Only two weeks.” His bravado was unnecessary; Patrisha accepted the news without comment. Riker wondered if her composure was influenced by Dolora’s decision to live full-time on the holodeck farm. That thought brought a second issue to mind. “About the decanting. The easiest way to move the stasis machinery to the holodeck is to use the transporter.”

“My people will never agree to that,” said Patrisha immediately. Her brows flew upward at the heretical proposal. “Transporters are definitely against Farmer creed.”

“I was afraid that would be the case.” The entire community and their belongings had come aboard the Enterprise by shuttlecraft, a process that should have taken only one hour but lasted for five instead. Shuttles had flitted back and forth between the starbase dock and the hangar deck with colonists riding both ways in a noisy muddle of lost baggage and separated families. The first officer wanted to avoid a replay of that episode. “The alternative is to dismantle the machine so that the stasis cells can be carried by hand.”

“Which means the entire project would end in disaster for the animals,” concluded Patrisha without any prompting. Evidently, she remembered the disorganized boarding just as clearly as Riker.

“It’s not my place to say so,” demurred Riker, uncertain as to how far he could push her.

“And not mine either.” Patrisha set her mug down onto the table. “These matters are decided by a community consensus.”

And they both knew what the community would decide. At least he had tried, thought Riker as he stood to take his leave. Perhaps the Farmers could be persuaded to allow members of the starship crew to assist in the delivery process. He wondered how many of his own people would be needed to counteract the inefficiency of the colonists.

“Of course, if you don’t ask, they can’t refuse,” said Patrisha, also rising from her chair.

“I beg your pardon?”

She couldn’t meet his eyes, but she made her position clear as they walked to the door. “If the stasis equipment is in place tomorrow morning, it will be too late for anyone to object. And possibly no one will even wonder how it got there.”

“Thank you for the tea, Farmer Patrisha,” said Riker, smiling broadly. “And for the advice.”

“Please don’t mention it,” said Patrisha firmly. “To anyone.”

“I can’t stand another minute of bedrest,” cried Tasha Yar, storming into the doctor’s office. “I could be on the bridge doing something useful. We’re in the middle of a highly classified mission, and my confinement is interfering with essential security duties.” She planted her fists on Crusher’s desk. “Besides, I feel fine.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Tasha,” sighed Beverly Crusher. She leaned back to put a little more distance between herself and the lieutenant. “But I’ve been holding you here until I got this back.” She held up a tape cassette. The lab analysis report had been on her desk when the doctor returned to sickbay. She’d initiated the tests as a routine precaution—but the results had been an unpleasant surprise. “What do you remember about the Choraii ship’s atmosphere?”

“It was just like drowning,” Yar shuddered. “The first few moments were the worst. After that, breathing in wasn’t as bad as I expected. The liquid was actually rather pleasant. It had this smell, almost a taste, of cinnamon.”

That had been the telltale clue. “I had a sample of the scented liquid tested. It’s laced with a drug, a narcotic.”

“Does this mean I have to stay in sickbay?” Yar’s concern was single-minded.

“Yes!” said Crusher emphatically. Persistence was admirable in security chiefs but not in patients. She headed out of the office and the lieutenant trailed after her down the corridor. “I can’t release you until I’m sure your system has metabolized all traces of the drug. Even then, we won’t know what long-term effects you may suffer.”

“But I feel fine!” exclaimed Yar.

“Tasha, you say that even after a game of Parrises Squares with

Worf. I’ve watched your body turn black and blue and you won’t admit to a single ache.”

“But that’s not a fair comparison.”

“Enough!” Crusher stopped abruptly and turned to face Tasha. “One more word and I’ll call your own security team to take you back to the ward.”

An anguished cry from the room ahead brought the argument to an abrupt conclusion. Both women raced down the passage and burst into the isolation area. Dr. Crusher took in the scene at once. “Tasha, take care of Troi.” She moved directly to the chamber.

Jason was awake. His whimpering cries mixed with Troi’s sobbing. The doctor retracted the protective cover of the isolation chamber in order to reach him directly. He was crouched in a corner of the unit, rocking back and forth in his agitation. Though his eyes were open, they stared blankly and didn’t seem to register Crusher’s approach.

“Jason.” She reached in and touched him.

The man screamed at the contact. His body curled into a fetal ball with his head buried against his knees. His arms and legs trembled uncontrollably.

“No,” cried Troi. “Don’t get any closer.” Despite Tasha’s comforting embrace, the counselor was also shaking. Her face was contorted in a mirror image of Jason’s emotional distress. “Your presence only frightens him more.”

“What can I do to reassure him?”

“I don’t know,” sobbed Troi. “Nothing. Leave him.”

Jason had retreated into an even tighter huddle, and his cries had taken on a disturbing rhythmic chant.

“Damn.” Crusher pulled a hypo from her medical kit. Jason flinched at the touch of the cold metal against his skin but otherwise

otherwise took no notice of the contact. Seconds later, as the sedative took effect, he fell silent and slumped in place. Crusher lowered the man onto his side and gently untangled his limbs into a comfortable sleeping position. He would remain that way for at least another six hours.

The doctor activated the chamber-control panel and the shield slid back over the unconscious form, hiding it from view. The diagnostic panel indicated that Jason’s body was healthy even if his mind was not, but his intense emotional reactions would have a depressive effect eventually. Changing a setting on the hypo, Crusher turned her attention to the counselor.

“No,” protested Troi, but she was too late to stop the hissing dose of medication from entering her system. “Really, I’m fine now.”

“That’s what they all say,” murmured Beverly Crusher. “This should calm you down until you reach your cabin.”

“But I can’t leave Moses.” The Counselor was as determined to stay in sickbay as Yar had been to leave. “He’s just starting to recognize me.”

“I’ll keep you company,” volunteered Lieutenant Yar.

Crusher looked up with disbelief. “I thought you wanted to get out of sickbay.”

Yar shrugged sheepishly. “I hate to see Troi cry.”

Troi laughed even as she wiped away the last of her tears. “Thank you for the offer, but what do you know about babies?”

“Not much,” admitted the lieutenant. “But the exposure might be good for me.” She paused. “As long as there aren’t too many messy biological functions involved.”

“Oh, do what you want,” said Crusher, exasperated with them both. Troi was quickly recovering her emotional equilibrium, but

the doctor’s own reaction to Jason’s awakening was only now taking its toll.

In the privacy of her office, Dr. Crusher was unable to ignore her growing despair. She sat at her desk, calling up a succession of case files on the computer without absorbing the material on the screen. Her mind kept returning to the Hamlin captive, searching for ways to help Jason adjust, but the situation was far removed from any she had ever dealt with before. She needed help. Raising a hand to her chest, Crusher tapped at her insignia.

“I was expecting your call, “Andrew Deelor replied. “And I have a pretty good idea of what you want.”

“Will you ask her?”

“Yes, I’ll ask,” he said reluctantly. “But I can’t guarantee she’ll help.” He broke contact.

And I can’t guarantee Jason’s life, Crusher admitted for the first time.

Chapter Thirteen

PATRISHA STOOD APART from the other Farmers. The men and women of the community were ranged in a semicircle around the front face of the barn, talking among themselves in whispered voices, stamping their feet to keep warm in the chill morning air. She held back, observing them as they watched the barn. An early dawn light washed over the wooden structure. The stage was set for the drama to come.

A hush fell over the group as Dnnys and Wesley pushed their way through the crowd and marched up to the barn, conscious that their every movement was being watched. Exchanging nervous grins, the boys unbarred the great doors and swung them open. The Farmers edged forward, necks craning to catch sight of the cryogenic equipment stored inside. Beyond a few murmurs of contempt at the intricacy of the machine, there were no other comments.

Patrisha was almost ashamed of the unquestioning acceptance of the stasis equipment on the holodeck. No one, not even Tomas, was bothered by the absence of tracks on the packed hay floor. But then, good Farmers didn’t know enough about transporter technology to look for the signs of its use. Patrisha was thankful that Mr. Riker had worked his magic during the night and was not present this morning. An outsider was sure to laugh at people who were so easily

fooled, yet Patrisha had invited that ridicule with her advice to the starship officer.

Dnnys initiated the first step of the actual decanting process by detaching a single cell from the honeycomb structure. Wesley emerged from the back of the machine unwinding the coiled loops of a thin, flexible hose. He handed the socket end to the Farmer boy. Moving with an assurance born of much practice, Dnnys deftly attached the threaded fitting to the cell’s drainage port. He flicked a switch and a suction pump kicked into operation with a series of gurgles and burps.

“Dnnys was never this swift with his farm chores,” said Tomas, sidling up beside Patrisha.

“He’s older now than when we left Grzydc.” And when had his skinny child’s frame filled out with solid muscle? “Besides, you should be glad someone can do this job.” Patrisha had defended her son’s decision to assume maintainance of the antiquated equipment during the long voyage to New Oregon since the community would have been hard pressed to afford a qualified technician. Now she saw firsthand the boy’s easy familiarity with the stasis equipment and wished his actions were not so visible to the other Farmers.

She and Tomas watched as Wesley repeated the same motions with other cells, frequently looking to Dnnys for instructions. Clearly the Farmer boy was the main operator of this equipment, not the starship ensign.

Another observer joined them. “He’s your son, all right.” Patrisha did not mistake Dolora’s comment for a compliment.

A high-pitched buzzer signaled that the first cell was emptied of its preserving fluid and the gathering of men and women stirred and whispered as they waited to learn the condition of the contents. Dnnys flipped open the cover and reached inside the container. He

pulled out a pink newborn rabbit, then another. “They’re alive,” he announced with pride when the small, fleshy bundles squirmed and squeaked.

“Damnedest birth I’ve ever seen,” declared Old Steven, and spat onto the ground for added emphasis.

Patrisha saw Dolora’s mouth tighten, a sure sign her aunt had heard the cursing. Old Steven was the only Farmer who dared curse in Dolora’s presence. The two of them no longer kept company, but he had fathered her children and that sentimental connection apparently bestowed a certain immunity on the man’s actions.

“Hey, look at this!” cried Wesley with great excitement. He had unlocked a cell with a litter of puppies. Their eyes were closed, and when he picked up one with black and white markings, it nuzzled against the palm of his hand in search of milk.

Myra snatched the puppy away from him. “Get to work before the boy kills them all,” she snapped, passing the animal on to Charla.

Patrisha moved forward to take the next one. Galvanized into action by the woman’s sharp tongue, Farmers carried away animals as quickly as the stasis workers could deliver them. The puppies were followed by a litter of piglets and clutches of chicken and duck eggs ready to hatch. All the newborns, bereft of their mothers, would have to be hand fed and tended around the clock. After ten months of enforced leisure the colonists were called back to duty.

The hard labor would continue for the rest of their lives.

“And day after tomorrow we start decanting the horses!” said Wesley. His mother was looking straight at him as he talked, but she didn’t react at all. “Mom, you’re not listening.”

“Aren’t I?” said Dr. Crusher, then sighed. “No, I guess I’m not.”

She laid aside her medical padd and sighed.

“And you haven’t been to see the Oregon farm either.” He shifted a bulky package from one arm to another. “I’m heading there after my last class. Want to go with me?”

“I’m sorry, Wesley. I know you worked hard on the holodeck project and I really want to see it, but . . . ”

“But you’ve been working hard, too,” Wesley said without resentment. “In fact, you look kind of tired.” Just a few months ago he wouldn’t have noticed.

“I haven’t had much sleep lately.” In fact, Wesley couldn’t even remember the last time his mother had been to their cabin. “But as soon as things calm down here, I’ll come see the farm.”

“The captives, they’re not doing too well, are they?”

She didn’t answer the question. “You’d better hurry or you’ll be late for your physics class.”

“Astronomy,” Wesley corrected her as he backed out of the office. He paused at the doorway. “Mom, if a friend asked you for a favor, one that maybe meant getting him into trouble with his family . . . ”

“What was that, Wesley?”

“Nothing,” he said. “’Bye, Mom.”

Dr. Crusher waved an absentminded good-bye to her son, then picked up her padd again. It seemed heavier every time she lifted it. She checked the next item on her agenda—a listing of those in the patient ward. Most of the beds had been cleared that morning.

She was especially looking forward to releasing the next patient.

“Get back to the bridge,” she ordered. “Your last exam shows you’re fine.”

“That’s what I’ve been telling you all along,” said Lieutenant Yar, jumping off the bed. “I never felt any effects from the drug.”

“Beyond fainting,” pointed out Crusher. Fortunately, Yar’s exposure to the narcotic had lasted just a few minutes. If only Jason could have recovered so easily, but he had spent the last fifty years aboard that ship and short of returning him to the Choraii … The glimmer of a solution began to form. “Did the drug affect your memories of the ship?”

“Oh, no. I’m not likely to forget that experience very soon.” Crusher was pleased by the lieutenant’s answer, but Yar was too elated over her medical release to ask why. “About Troi . . . ”

“I know she’s tired. I’ve already chosen someone to help her out with the boy,” said Crusher. Too many details kept interrupting her thoughts, but Yar’s departure would reduce the interference considerably. “And, Tasha, stay out of trouble. I don’t want to see you in sickbay again for a long time.”

“Don’t worry,” said Yar, speeding toward the door. “I’m not coming back.”

Dr. Crusher stood in place, developing her sketchy idea into a more solid concept. Her next step was to sound out Data. He answered her com link call and listened patiently as the doctor outlined her requirements.

“Yes, technically the project is feasible,” said Data after due consideration. “I have access to most of the pertinent information.” He explained what else he would need to know.

“Tasha may be able to provide some of that,” said Crusher thoughtfully. “But Ruthe definitely can.” If the woman would agree to help.

“Do you wish to begin now?”

“Not yet, Data,” said Crusher. “I’ll let you know when.” She was still waiting to hear from Deelor about her first proposal. If Ruthe refused that one, she would never agree to the second.

Lisa Iovino tracked down Counselor Troi by listening for the howling of her young charge. The woman and child were in the dietician’s cubicle, which its resident nurse had evidently fled in search of more peaceful surroundings. Troi was too absorbed in what she was doing to notice Iovino’s approach. The doctor had the opportunity to observe for a few minutes.

The counselor was seated at the food synthesizer table with the squirming child on her lap. A wide assortment of dishes had piled up in front of them, most of them barely touched. The missing portions were spread over Troi’s face and chest.

“Here, try this one,” she coaxed, holding a spoon heaped with mashed potatoes. The boy opened his mouth to scream. With perfect timing she popped the spoon inside.

After a moment’s silence he spit the food back at her, adding a new ingredient to the soiled uniform. Then he began to cry again. Troi looked close to tears as well.

“I’m the relief crew,” announced Lisa, moving into the room. “Dr. Crusher said you needed a break.” Her own opinion, after seeing the counselor, was that the break was long overdue. The boy’s piercing screams had echoed throughout the medical section for hours.

“But he’s not used to strangers,” said Troi wearily. Children were very direct in broadcasting their emotions, and shielding herself from this boy’s unhappiness had taken a great deal of energy. “I’m afraid he’ll be frightened if I leave.”

“Well, he certainly can’t get any louder no matter who is with him.” Iovino reached out and gathered up the crying child from Troi’s arms.

The transfer startled Moses into temporary silence. He stopped crying long enough to survey his new keeper, then broke into a suspicious

suspicious whimper. He clutched tightly at the soft green blanket in which he was wrapped. It was liberally smeared with a sticky goo, as was his tear-stained face.

“Not very hungry, are you?” Iovino asked the boy.

“On the contrary, he’s very hungry.”

The boy turned his face back to Troi at the sound of the counselor’s voice. Despite his steady sobbing, Moses was listening intently to the conversation between the two women, but Troi wondered if he could understand their words. The sound of human voices spoken in a liquid atmosphere was probably quite different from what he was hearing now.

“He’s just not used to our food,” Troi continued, wishing the Choraii trade had included some of their common dietary staples. She could sense the child’s frustration at the unfamiliar taste and texture of what she had offered him. “I’ve tried soups, pudding, ice cream, pureed fruits, and vegetables.”

“Hell eat eventually,” said Iovino. “Children don’t starve to death if there’s anything edible in arm’s reach.”

Iovino’s soft brown hair and peaches and cream complexion projected an appearance of innocence and sweetness, but Troi could tell that the intern’s matter-of-fact answer was a more reliable indicator of her personality. “This is a special child.” The counselor hesitated, unsure of how much more she could tell without breaching security restrictions. “He’s had an unusual upbringing.”

“Yes, I know,” said Iovino. She had read an obviously edited medical file on the mysterious shipwrecked survivors. The child’s case history was not very detailed and certainly not up to Dr. Crusher’s usual exacting standards, which meant unanswered questions were probably meant to remain unanswered. “Just leave him to me.”

Despite her mental and physical exhaustion, Troi was somewhat reluctant to deliver Moses into someone else’s care until she realized that the child had stopped crying. She lowered her empathic shield and read his puzzlement. Just what about the newcomer had roused his curiosity, she couldn’t tell. “You’re very good with children.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” sighed Iovino. Moses fixed Iovino with an unblinking stare and hiccuped. The young intern patted him absently on the back to ease the spasms. “I come from a large family, a very large family.” She shook her head at the memory of her homeworld. The sprawling continents of LonGiland had been populated in just a few hundred years by its prolific colonists. “Early marriage is a deeply entrenched tradition, so I’ve been taking care of younger brothers and sisters, not to mention nephews and nieces, all my life.”

“But you joined Starfleet instead of following in that tradition,” said Troi thoughtfully. “I know how difficult that decision can be. I broke with the customs of my own people also.”

“I haven’t entirely escaped,” laughed Iovino. Moses had fallen asleep in her arms. “Everyone in sickbay keeps harping on my rapport with children. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up in pediatrics.”

    *

The argument had begun in the outer area of sickbay, but Dr. Crusher saw the hastily averted glances of her nursing staff and realized her temper was getting out of control. Either the ambassador was being unusually exasperating or her lack of sleep was affecting her emotional control; Crusher preferred to assign the blame to him. She guided Deelor into the privacy of her own office.

“I can’t keep him fully sedated until we reach Starbase Ten,” Crusher continued. “He’s already been under far longer than I would like.”

“Try lighter doses,” suggested Deelor.

“Dammit, I don’t need your medical advice—” But that was exactly what she had been asking for. She took a deep breath and spoke more calmly. “I tried reduced dosages but being in a partially drugged state just increases Jason’s confusion. He’s slipping away from me.”

“It happens.”

“Not to my patients!”

Deelor shrugged. “I can’t help you.”

“But Ruthe can.”

“I asked, but she refused.”

Crusher abandoned any attempts to contain her anger. “Then ask again!”

“No!” Deelor matched her heat with his reply. “Surely you realize what that request entails?”

“I’m trying to save Jason’s life.”

Their shouting covered the sound of approaching footsteps. Captain Picard walked into the room and paused, waiting for some explanation of their behavior. When it was not forthcoming, he broached his own concerns for coming to sickbay. “I’ve received your medical report concerning the Choraii atmosphere. What is the nature of this drug?”

“Chemical analysis indicates that it’s a mild narcotic,” answered Crusher distractedly. “It may have contributed to Lieutenant Yar’s collapse after her return from the B Flat, but she doesn’t show any prolonged ill effects and I’ve released her from sickbay.” The doctor’s frown was directed at Deelor. “However, I’m still trying to determine whether Jason or the child are undergoing withdrawal. My tests on a possible chemical dependence have been inconclusive.”

“And you believe Ruthe may have more information?” So Picard

had overheard enough of their conversation to guess the issue under contention.

Crusher nodded assent. “Only she won’t give me the opportunity to ask questions.”

“Ambassador, you’re the only one who has any influence over her,” challenged Picard.

“Me?” Deelor scoffed. “I’ve known her a long time, but don’t mistake that for influence. Ruthe follows her own will.” By his tone, Crusher suspected he admired that trait in her.

The captain persisted. “I realize that Ruthe opposed the transfer, but surely she won’t let Jason suffer for our actions.”

“Ruthe wants nothing to do with the captives.”

“Why?” asked Picard.

“I can’t answer that,” Deelor said.

“Never mind,” said Picard angrily. “I’ll ask her myself.” He moved toward the office door, but Deelor blocked his way. “Are you ordering me not to try, Ambassador?”

“No,” said Deelor at last, and stepped aside.

He and Crusher settled into an uncomfortable silence as they waited for the captain’s return.

Picard’s request for entry was granted, but Ruthe was not in the front room of the cabin and he was forced to go in search of her. He walked through a suite empty of personal effects. The captain knew Deelor and Ruthe had lost all their belongings when the USS Ferrel was destroyed, but evidently they had not made use of ship’s stores to replace any of those items. Deelor, at least, had procured a new suit of clothes, but the translator was always wrapped in the same worn gray cloak.

Picard found Ruthe in the back bedroom. “Dr. Crusher has some questions regarding Jason’s condition.”

“It’s nothing to do with me now.” She sat on the room’s single bed, hugging her knees to her chin. “I told you not to bring him on board.”

Her pose was not seductive, but Picard would have preferred conducting their conversation in the day area of the cabin. The informality of their surroundings implied an uncomfortable degree of intimacy. “And Jason’s death would prove your point. Is your pride worth a man’s life?”

“My job is to translate, nothing more. The Hamlin captives are not my concern.”

“You can’t simply deny responsibility because it is inconvenient or even distasteful,” argued Picard—but he could see that he was not getting through to her. Ruthe plucked fitfully at the disheveled covers of the bed as her initial defensiveness gave way to restlessness. “You said the Choraii value their humans, but they’ve harmed Jason.”

This accusation drew Ruthe’s immediate attention. “Why do you say that?”

“Dr. Crusher has found traces of an unknown chemical substance, a drug, in the Choraii atmosphere, which has affected him. It may have also affected the child. Under the circumstances, I can’t regret my decision to bring them both aboard and I will strongly recommended to Starfleet that we make every effort to recover as many other adult captives as possible.”

Ruthe uncoiled her body, standing straight up on the bed, glaring down on the captain. For a moment, Picard thought she was going to attack him. Instead, the woman leapt down to the deck.

“Show me this drug” She drew the billowing folds of her cape back around her body and followed Picard out of the cabin.

When they arrived at sickbay, Beverly Crusher assumed the neutral

neutral manner of a medical professional, but not before Picard caught the look of relief in her eyes. He also saw Deelor’s surprise . . . and a hint of displeasure at the captain’s success.

Ruthe repeated her demand to see the drug, and Crusher handed the translator a small glass vial holding a few milliliters of amber liquid.

“I noticed the scent when Lieutenant Yar returned from the Choraii ship.”

Ruthe unstopped the end and took a tentative whiff of the contents. “Cinnamon,” she whispered.

She remained frozen in place, cupping the vial in her hand, until Deelor called to her. “Ruthe?”

“I’d forgotten.” Her eyes were still focused on some inner vision. Then Deelor’s touch on her arm pulled her back to the room in which she stood. She slipped the top back onto the vial, sealing in the aroma.

“You’ve encountered this drug before?” asked the captain.

“Years ago,” Ruthe said. “When I was a child.”

Picard did not understand. “But how is that possible?”

She slipped the vial into the folds of her cloak. “I was born on a Choraii ship.”

Chapter Fourteen

“SHE DOES’T USUALLY tell anyone,” said Deelor as he and the captain walked into the Ready Room. With a pointed look at the doorway of her office, Dr. Crusher had made it clear she wanted to speak to Ruthe without the distractions of an audience. “And it wasn’t my secret to reveal.”

“Yes, I can understand that,” Picard said, nodding. “The surprises on this mission never seem to end,” he added.

The captain took his place behind the office desk, leaning back in his chair and swiveling to the side in order to talk to Deelor, who was admiring the lionfish. “When was she rescued?”

“In the first exchange, fifteen years ago.” Now that her origins were known, Deelor decided there was little point in keeping back the details. “She was one of the five captives traded to the Ferengi.” By settling down onto a chair, he exchanged his view of the aquarium for that of the star window behind Picard.

“And all three of the adults died,” recalled Picard. “No wonder Ruthe refused to help bring Jason back to the Enterprise. What of the other child?”

“Alive and well. She was younger than Ruthe and adjusted to living with humans rather quickly.” According to their case histories,

Ruthe’s transition had been more difficult, but that was none of Picard’s business.

“Well, I certainly admire her courage,” said the captain. “This mission must be a painful reminder of her own captivity.”

“She volunteered for the work. With her help, the Federation has recovered five Hamlin offspring over the last few years.” Though Deelor suspected that several captives had slipped away before he learned of her aversion to trading for adults.

“I suppose the opportunity to help rescue other Hamlin survivors makes the distress worthwhile,” said Picard.

“Yes, it must.” At least Deelor had thought so at first. Yet once the exchanges were complete, Ruthe never asked about the children. That thought brought another to mind. “How did you persuade her to come to sickbay?”

“Reverse psychology.” Picard outlined the strategy he had used. “So the only way she could fight my decision to rescue more adults was to come to sickbay and prove they aren’t being mistreated by the Choraii.”

“Yes, of course. Quite clever, Captain.” Deelor had spent his career manipulating people in just that manner, and often his life, as well as his mission, depended on that skill. Such a simple ploy should have been obvious to him. Why hadn’t he thought of it?

Once the question had been posed, he touched on an answer and immediately shied away from it. Deelor always traveled alone. He didn’t need complications.

Dr. Crusher had never spoken to Ruthe alone before. At close quarters, without the distraction of Andrew Deelor’s strong personality, the woman’s reserved manner was even more accentuated. The lack of expression would go unremarked in a Vulcan, but in a

human such behavior was oddly disturbing. For the first time Crusher saw Ruthe as more than just a passenger. She was also a patient.

“The drug is harmless,” said Ruthe as she handed the vial of cinnamon-scented liquid back to Crusher. “The Choraii were probably trying to help with the transfer. Without its influence Jason would have been much warier of Lieutenant Yar’s approach.”

The doctor was not mollified by the translator’s interpretation of the drug’s purpose. “That may be the case, but it increased his agitation when he was beamed over.”

“They always react violently at first, even the young ones.” Ruthe cocked her head. The faint cries of a child could be heard through the walls of sickbay. “Is that the other one?”

“Yes,” sighed Crusher. Iovino’s magical touch was no substitute for food, and the boy still wasn’t eating.

“The cinnamon would calm him down.”

“He needs food, not drugs.” The doctor fought to keep anger out of her voice. She couldn’t afford to alienate the translator now. Instead, Crusher used the subject to lead into a discussion of Ruthe’s past. “What did you first eat when you left the Choraii ship?”

Ruthe shrugged indifferently. “I don’t remember.”

Crusher had expected continued resistance. Even without the psych profiles in her medical file, the doctor would have guessed that Ruthe’s emotional distance served as a shield, protecting her from a painful past. Yet Jason’s best hope for survival lay in getting Ruthe to remember what she would rather forget.

“I have a plan for treating Jason, but I need your help.”

“I’ve already answered your questions about the cinnamon,” said Ruthe. “That’s all I agreed to do.” She turned her back on the doctor.

“I want to recreate the Choraii interior on a holodeck,” said

Crusher calmly. “If Jason can return to a familiar environment, he might be lured out of his emotional withdrawal.” She watched for the slightest sign of a reaction from Ruthe, but the woman was difficult enough to read face-to-face. Trying not to exert any obvious pressure, Crusher continued the explanation. “Data has enough sensor-scan information to determine the broad characteristics of the bubble structure and the composition of the atmosphere. Lieutenant Yar can provide some idea of the interior, but not many details. You’re the only person who can confirm the authenticity of the final effect.”

“That child is very noisy,” said Ruthe. “Don’t you get tired of all that crying?”

“Yes, I do.” Don’t force, Crusher reminded herself.

Let her choose to help on her own.

“Try grapes.” Ruthe turned back around to face the doctor. “Or anything round with a soft center. The Choraii food always came in bubbles.” Having delivered that one piece of advice, she left sickbay.

Dr. Crusher tapped her com link. “Data, I’m ready to begin the holodeck project.” Ruthe hadn’t said no, and that was promising enough to start work.

At first glance the construction of the room was simple, its boxlike dimensions established by plain, undecorated walls and an uncarpeted flooring. Appearances were deceiving. The holodeck was one of the most highly sophisticated technological features of the Enterprise.

This particular holodeck was smaller than the one that held the Oregon farm, and the illusion it created was confined to the center of the room. A single transparent bubble quivered in place, its curving lines flattened at the contact point with the deck. The slick surface

surface glistened in the sourceless ambient light used to illuminate the early design stage of the project.

Inside the sphere, Tasha Yar hung suspended, treading water with lazy strokes, her blond hair drifting like a halo around her head. She waved one hand and the simulation faded, dropping her down to the deck with a thump.

“Data!” she cried in protest. Rising from the crouch that absorbed the shock of her fall, she swept aside a lock of hair trailing down over her eyes.

The android looked up from the control panel at the entrance to the room, his brows contracting in puzzlement. He caught the irritation in Yar’s voice, but it took him a moment to construct the reason for the emotion and infer that an apology was necessary. “Sorry. The gravity field is tied to the other program parameters. An entry portal will be necessary eventually, but I have concentrated on the interior of the Choraii vessel. However, I can take the time to … “

“Don’t worry about it.” Yar brushed absently at her uniform, then stopped when she realized the material was dry. When Data had suspended the program, all the liquid had been removed along with the exterior shell. “The feel of the program is getting better, though.”

“Could you be more specific?” he asked.

“The temperature feels right and so does the density of the liquid. I think.” She concentrated on recapturing the physical sensations of her brief visit to the Choraii ship. The memories, which she had thought were indelible, blurred a little more with every exposure to the holodeck projection. “But something’s not the same.”

Data opened his mouth to speak, but Yar held up a hand to stop him. “I know, please be more specific,” she said. The android nodded and she tried again. “The buoyancy is still wrong.”

“In what way?” asked Data. Dr. Crusher had provided samples of

the interior atmosphere, a few milliliters wrung from Yar’s clothing, but the properties of the substance were difficult to determine from such minute quantities. As the mass of the liquid increased, its qualities changed. This mutability was fascinating from a theoretical point of view, but frustrating for his attempts to duplicate its effects.

“I can’t tell. It just feels off.” Yar hurried on with more items before he could try to pin her down. “And the walls are still too stiff.”

“Ah. That particular logarithm is also very interesting,” said Data as he adjusted the program parameter for the bubble construction. “The Choraii exhibit an amazing ability to control surface tension.”

“And can we try it with the color added?” asked Yar. “Maybe that will help make it seem more real.”

Data nodded and entered another series of numbers into the control sequence. The broad structures of the Choraii ship were set, but these subliminal details played an equally important role in establishing a proper credibility. Unfortunately, human imprecision was further lengthening the time-consuming process. If Data had beamed over to the B Flat instead of the lieutenant, the project would be completed by now. He initiated the program run once again.

“Hey!” Yar was pulled up into the air without warning as the low-gravity field reactivated. A translucent orange sphere popped into existence around her.

When Wesley Crusher entered the Farmer holodeck, the sunlit meadows were still wet from morning rain and a faint rainbow stretched across the sky. The idyllic vista was completed by the sight of white lambs bounding over the rich carpet of moist green grass

and a leggy colt racing around a grazing herd of calves. Walking through scattered patches of wildflower, Wesley wondered how soon the mushrooms would come up and whether anyone would notice them.

“Fine weather we’re having,” said Old Steven when Wesley passed by the orchard. The man was sitting on a fallen log, carefully peeling an apple with his pocketknife.

“It certainly is,” answered the boy. He couldn’t tell whether Old Steven meant the comment as a compliment or a simple observation. In either case, it would be rude to admit credit. He walked on.

Wesley was a frequent visitor to the farm, and despite his starship dress, the ensign managed to blend remarkably well into the Farmer community. He cultivated the same purposeful stride that Dnnys used on his way to chores, and kept his opinions to himself like a well-behaved Farmer boy. Eventually even the most hostile of the colonists had grown accustomed to his presence. Most were content to ignore him; others, like Old Steven and Mry, were openly friendly in their greetings.

“Dnnys is up in the loft,” said Mry when Wesley entered the barn. She was in charge of feeding the rabbits and was busily preparing bottled milk for their next meal.

Scooping up one of the young animals, Wesley stroked the long ears and marveled at the soft texture of their fur. “You get wool from the sheep and milk from the cows, but what do you do with the rabbits?”

“We eat them,” said Mry.

He looked down at the soft brown bundle. “Eat them?”

“Of course. Why so surprised?” She reached her hands out for the animal he held.

“I don’t know.” He gave over the rabbit, but not without a pang

of remorse. “I guess I just assumed you were vegetarians.”

“They are cute at this age,” agreed the Farmer as the rabbit licked at the bottle. “But they also taste good. And the fur is warm.”

“Watch out!” cried a voice from above, but not soon enough for Wesley to sidestep the load from a pitchfork. Dnnys peered down over the edge of the loft and grinned at the sight of his friend coughing his way out of the loose hay. “Come on up where it’s safe.”

Wesley scrambled quickly up the ladder. At close quarters he could see the strain behind the Farmer boy’s smile.

“How did I do?” whispered Dnnys. He stabbed the pitchfork into a cut bale, rustling the dried grass to cover the sound of their voices.

“I checked the test answers this morning. Passing grade, but just barely.”

Dnnys frowned for a moment, then sighed in resignation. “If I had more time to study, I think I could do better.”

“I know you could,” said Wesley. “You’ve picked up the math concepts really quickly and you’ve got a lot of practical experience from your journey. Now all you need is more practice.” He took the pitchfork from Dnnys’s hands and tossed a load of hay over the edge. “So get to work. I can’t cover your chores for more than an hour.”

Dnnys scrambled to the back of the barn and pulled a book out from under a loose board. The pages fell open to the middle of the volume. Squinting in the dim light of the loft, the boy began to read.

Iovino plucked the last green grape from a denuded stem. Several other bare branches were scattered about the table. “Grape?” she asked, enunciating clearly.

Moses nodded vigorously and reached out for the piece of fruit. Snatching the food from her hand, Moses placed the grape against tightly pursed lips, then sucked. It entered his mouth with a faint pop. He held out his hand for more.

“That’s enough grapes for now,” said Iovino. The boy had eaten nothing else that day, but it was a good beginning on solid food. He even recognized the sound of the word. Another more serious difficulty remained, however. He refused to swallow liquids. Perhaps the food on his homeships had provided sufficient water, but on board the Enterprise he was chronically dehydrated.

Iovino had a plan for changing that.

Making a deliberate show of her actions, exaggerating all her body movements to capture the boy’s attention, she reached for a glass of water on the table. A brightly colored straw stuck up from the rim. Iovino slowly lifted the glass up to her mouth and sucked noisily on the straw until her cheeks were puffed out with the water she held in her mouth.

Pushing her face up to his, Iovino squirted the liquid right at Moses. Water dribbled down from his forehead over his face and cheeks and down his chin. He laughed with delight at the trick.

“You like that one?” she asked. “Want me to do it again?” He didn’t react to the words, but when she lifted the glass again he crowed.

She repeated the sequence several times, then presented the boy with the drinking straw. He didn’t need any coaching on its use, which added an interesting note to his sparse file, and filled his mouth with water just as she had. His technique was better than hers. A jet of liquid splattered against Iovino’s nose.

“Very good,” laughed the intern. “Now it’s my turn again.” The game continued back and forth until they were both drenched. She refilled the glass and offered Moses the straw, but this time slipped

her hands up to his mouth before he could spew out the water. Her thumbs sealed his lips and an index finger pressing in on each cheek forced the water down the boy’s throat.

He didn’t laugh, but before he could cry Iovino offered him a chance to play the same trick on her. She swallowed a mouthful of liquid when his clumsy fingers poked at her face. “Wasn’t that fun?”

Moses evidently agreed, because he sucked from the straw and puffed out his cheeks but didn’t spit out the contents. Instead, he waited for the doctor to play her part in this new game.

Dr. Crusher read parts of Iovino’s report aloud to the captain, but out of deference to the intern’s dignity she refrained from showing him the visual record. The sight of the boy gleefully squirting water into Lisa’s face had provided the chief medical officer with some much needed comic relief, but the scene would remain private.

“A resourceful approach,” agreed Picard. He smiled at the doctor’s description of the water fight, but he was disturbed by the drawn quality of Beverly Crusher’s face. Fatigue accentuated her high cheekbones and washed the color from her fair skin.

“She’s one of my best doctors,” said Crusher proudly, unaware of Picard’s scrutiny. “The boy is making good progress under her care. He may be walking by the time we reach Starbase Ten. Of course, it helps that he’s so young. Children have an amazing ability to adapt to new environments.”

Fifteen years ago the translator had gone through the same rehabilitation. Picard tried to calculate the time difference, but her present age was difficult to determine. “How old was Ruthe when she was rescued?”

“The results of her initial medical exam indicated she was about ten, but that estimate could be off by several years. There’s practically

practically no information on the effects of the Choraii environment on early physical development.”

“Ten years old,” said Picard thoughtfully. “Imagine learning to breathe air, to walk and talk, to drink water, all for the first time at that age.”

“Worse yet,” said Crusher, “imagine that effort at over fifty years of age.” Her expectations for Jason’s rehabilitation were more modest: to keep him alive. The holodeck project had seemed promising at first, however Yar’s recall was limited and Data was increasingly guarded about the chances of designing a convincing simulation.

“Beverly, you’re limping,” said Picard sharply as he watched the doctor cross the room to her desk.

“I hadn’t noticed.” Now that he brought it to her attention, Crusher felt a dull throb in her right leg. The realization didn’t trouble her. She had experienced intermittent pain since injuring the leg two weeks before.

“I thought the wound had healed.” The laceration had been deep and the resultant loss of blood very nearly proved fatal. In fact Picard had never really admitted to himself how close Beverly Crusher had come to dying on the planet Minos.

“It has healed. I’ve just been on my feet for too long.”

“Aren’t you the one who warned me about feeling invincible?”

Crusher laughed wanly. “I feel more like a squashed bug.”

“Then get some sleep, like the rest of us.” He refrained from telling her how tired she looked.

Dr. Crusher was too preoccupied to listen to the advice. She turned to him and for a moment her professional composure dropped away, as if she were lowering a piece of armor that had grown too heavy to hold in place. “Jean-Luc, if we don’t succeed in

creating the Choraii ship holo, I don’t know what else I can do for Jason.”

Her voice betrayed a quality of fear Picard had never heard before, not even when her own life had been in danger in the caverns of Minos. Then, as now, he had no answers.

The simulation released Yar from its hold. She had learned to anticipate the fall now and landed upright on two feet without losing her balance. Her legs ached from the repeated impact and the deck was marred by scuff marks from her boots, but she was too proud to ask Data to add the entry portal ahead of schedule. Especially since her performance was hindering their progress.

The android looked at her expectantly, waiting for a comment.

“I can’t tell anymore,” cried Yar, throwing up her hands in despair. “Warmer, colder, more pressure, less pressure. Data, we’ve tried it so many different ways that I’m all mixed up now.” At one time her mind had retained a crisp, clear image of the Choraii ship, but that picture could no longer be trusted. Whenever she reached out to touch it, the image shifted away like a desert mirage.

“Perhaps we should work on the viscosity index next,” suggested Data. “You said that was near completion.”

“When did I say that?” groaned Yar. “Data, it doesn’t make any sense to go on.” She turned her burning face away from the android.

Data possessed an infinite store of patience, and he would have continued for as long as necessary, but he felt the futility of their efforts as well. “Dr. Crusher will be disappointed.” Human emotions often puzzled him, but he had detected Dr. Crusher’s reliance on this project. And her urgency.

He called up the projection image again and studied its appearance critically. Regardless of the interior programming, the exterior

of the Choraii bubble matched his visual records. “Perhaps this will be sufficient for the treatment.”

“Maybe,” sighed Yar. She tried one last time to summon a memory that had not been overwritten with the trial and error of their design experiments, only to sense a further retreat of that reality; her brief experience had been too fragile to withstand hard use.

Data resigned himself to the fact that the project had reached its end. He prepared to lock in his most recent model when the startled look on Yar’s face alerted him to the presence of a third person.

Neither of them had heard Ruthe’s approach. The translator appeared as if from thin air at the holodeck entrance. She stood silent and unmoving, mesmerized by the translucent orange sphere inside. Then, as if pulled over the threshold against her will, she took one step closer, then another, gliding across the floor until she was within an arm’s reach of the image.

Ruthe stretched out a hand to touch the bubble’s surface. When her fingers met resistance, she pulled back as if burned by the contact. She turned to face Yar. “How can I get inside?”

Chapter Fifteen

RUTHE FLOATED FREELY in the warm ocean at the very center of the Choraii cluster. The innermost sphere was large, several times her length, bounded on all sides by the flat ovals marking its joining with the spheres around it. With lazy strokes she swam up to the faceted surface and kicked her feet against the smooth shell, stretching the flexible fabric. The spring of the wall’s return pushed her across the interior to the far side. Her steepled fingers pierced an entry membrane to another sphere. She glided through to the other side and heard the pop of the closing gate. Stamping the flat of her foot against the nearest surface, she gained another burst of speed. She sped onward in that manner through a succession of spheres.

Her race through the cluster of bubbles had begun for the sheer joy of it. She moved in time to a lilting music which rippled through the surrounding liquid and shivered across her skin. She tumbled and bounced with careless ease until a darker, deeper thrumming sound began to drown out the dance. Fear chased after her. The game became a hunt and she was the prey.

As Ruthe swam onward, the spheres of the cluster grew smaller. She shot through them faster and faster, but the chase continued. Kick, glide, kick glide. When she saw the defracted light of stars sparkling and glittering through the curved hull, she knew she was

trapped in the outside layer of the Choraii ship. The sound of snapping gates grew louder as her pursuer drew closer. A current washed over her, carrying an unfamiliar smell, one that reeked of danger.

Terror overcame all reason. Ruthe dove through the last wall, screaming as she hit the icy cold vacuum of space beyond and the liquid was sucked from out of her lungs …

Deelor scrambled through the dark of the cabin, led by the sounds of Ruthe’s screams to the corner where she had been sleeping. He wrapped himself around her thrashing body and called her name over and over again until her cries gave way to sobbing and she stopped struggling against his embrace. Gradually, as he stroked her hair and continued a constant whisper of reassurances, the tension in her muscles eased. Toward morning, when she fell back into a restless sleep, Deelor left her side.

“Don’t look down,” said Yar as she led the others into the holodeck.

Beverly Crusher automatically checked her feet She was standing over a black pit, light-years away from the stars shining below. Fighting against a wave of vertigo, the doctor raised her eyes and concentrated on the orange sphere suspended in front of her. Data had suggested placing the Choraii bubble in a cosmic setting and Crusher had agreed that it would add to the reality of the experience. The result was stunning. And disorienting.

“You were warned,” said Troi with a sympathetic smile.

“Now, remember, don’t fight against breathing in.” Yar didn’t bother to disguise her obvious enjoyment at the opportunity to quote the doctor’s advice back to her. “Just inhale the liquid. Nothing to it.”

“Thank you, Tasha,” said Crusher dryly. She reminded herself

that this was only a holodeck simulation, not an actual Choraii ship, but that knowledge was of little help once she had slipped through the entry portal into the alien environment. Bobbing gently in the liquid interior, her body refused to accept her mind’s order to breathe.

With expert breast strokes, the doctor swam to Jason’s side. Yar had transported him directly from sickbay to the center of the projection. He was still floating in a ball, but one less tightly curled than before. Crusher reached for the scanner strapped to her side and began her medical inspection. A wide pass over his body showed that his system had fully metabolized the last trace of sedatives; brain activity indicated that he was aware of her presence. That was a definite improvement in his condition.

Crusher swam back to the portal, but just before leaving the bubble she forced herself to take a quick breath of the atmosphere, filling her lungs with the unaccustomed weight and pressure of liquid. Crusher’s respect for Yar increased severalfold. The security chief had guts.

“It’s working,” said Crusher upon her exit. She gathered up her hair and wrung out the remains of the watery interior. Rivulets of liquid coursed down over her uniform, pooling on the surface of the invisible deck. “He’s coming out of it.”

“Yes,” agreed Troi with less enthusiasm. The emotions she sensed from Jason’s awakening were far from reassuring.

Patrisha was still holding the textbook in her hands when Dnnys entered the room.

“That’s mine,” he said tightly.

“I’m sorry, Dnnys. I didn’t mean to pry.” She laid the book down on the cabin dresser, next to the clothes she had pulled out from the

drawers. “I was packing your things for our arrival on New Oregon. You’ve been so busy lately . . . ” Her finger trailed over the title of the book. “I can see why now.”

He dropped his gaze to the floor. “I’m not sorry. Whatever the punishment, I won’t say I’m sorry.”

“No, I wouldn’t expect you to,” sighed Patrisha. “If Tomas hasn’t beat any sense into you by now, there’s no hope left.”

Her son’s head jerked back up, his eyes flashing with anger. “You don’t believe in their silly rules. Why should I?”

Patrisha felt her throat tighten with fear. “Is it that obvious?” she asked.

“Maybe not to the others, but I could tell.”

“And this book. What will you gain from reading it?”

“A mechanics license,” said Dnnys. “And passage off New Oregon on the first freighter that needs an extra hand.”

Jason could be seen from the outside of the Choraii bubble, but only as a pale, ghostly shape drifting from one place to another. His eyes were closed and he did not react to the three people who watched him and talked about him in low voices. Although his arms and legs had unfolded from around his body, their movements were listless and limited.

“What if Data repeats the bubble pattern and creates a cluster?” suggested Beverly Crusher. Her brows had pulled together, marking her forehead with worry. “The structure would be even closer to the original. . . ”

“That won’t help,” said Troi. “The construction of the sphere is not the issue. He is reaching out for something we cannot provide.” Once again, though with some trepidation, the counselor thinned her emotional shields and felt what Jason felt. She searched for

words to describe his yearning, the sense of abandonment, but her voice choked with tears.

“He’s listening for the Choraii,” said Ruthe quietly.

She stood apart from the other two women. “Even though he knows they’ve gone.”

“Will you play for him?” Crusher asked. “Maybe your music can reach him.”

The translator stood still for a moment before speaking. “When I was little and my mother and I still swam through the waters of our homeship, she would tell me the story of Hamlin. How a child heard the song of the Choraii and laughed and clapped with joy at the glorious sound of their music, even though everything around her was turning to dust and fire. And the Choraii saved the child, and all the other children, so they could listen to the melodies for the rest of their lives.”

“How horrible,” cried Troi.

“Do you think so?” wondered Ruthe softly.

“Ruthe,” Crusher asked through the tightness in her throat. “Please help us save Jason.”

The woman shook her head. “You missed the point. The weak breath of my flute can’t compare with the music of the singers. Besides, all I feel are sad songs.” She turned and walked out of the holodeck.

“Damn her,” said the doctor angrily.

Troi reached out and grabbed hold of Crusher’s arm. “Beverly, this is affecting her, too. When Ruthe first came on board, she had insulated herself from all feelings. Now she is being forced to relive her past through Jason and through the child. I can sense so many emotions coming to life in her. We must be very careful in what we ask her to do.”

“Well, it doesn’t make any sense to me,” said Riker as he and Data strolled through the corridors on their way to the bridge. “How can you even have a religion if you can’t talk about it?”

“Some cultures forbid discussion about sex and yet they manage to reproduce.” Data hadn’t meant to provide amusement, but the first officer laughed at the remark.

Data shook his head. “You never evince the same response at my jokes.”

“That’s because they’re never funny,” Riker said, and laughed even harder.

“The subject requires much study,” admitted Data.

“I’m not sure you can develop a sense of humor by studying,” said Riker. He caught sight of a familiar form and sought to overtake the woman walking ahead of them. “It comes naturally.”

“Like sleep?” Data absently matched the first officer’s lengthening stride. “That is also a difficult concept. So far I have failed to comprehend the appeal of unconsciousness.”

Riker was no longer listening. “Deanna.”

Troi didn’t turn until he had called her name twice over. “What’s wrong?” Riker asked sharply when he saw her face.

“I’m just tired,” said the counselor. Her hand lifted up and touched the dampness on her cheek. “Oh, I’ve been crying.”

“Deanna … “

“I’m fine, Will. I’ve just spent too many hours with the Hamlin captive. He’s so lonely, so filled with despair.”

Acutely conscious of the side glances of passing crew members, and of Data’s undisguised curiosity, Riker was still unwilling to abandon Troi. “I’ll walk you to your cabin.”

“Thank you, Will,” said Troi, then quickly added, “but I’d rather

be by myself just now. These are only borrowed emotions, but until I untangle their influence … I’m vulnerable.” Quickening her pace, Troi followed two passengers into a turboelevator.

“Deanna!”

The doors snapped shut between them.

“I also have a number of questions concerning the production of tears,” said Data. “Perhaps this would be a good—”

“Not now, Data,” snapped Riker, and broke into a fast walk.

“Then again, perhaps not,” said Data to himself. He added another query to his running list of perplexing human behaviors.

Dr. Iovino wiped the water off the front of her uniform. “I guess you’ve had enough,” she said, pulling the glass away from Moses. She hadn’t yet convinced him what fun it would be to stop playing the drinking game with his meals.

“No!” shouted the boy emphatically.

“I thought you might say that.” She talked to him constantly and his understanding seemed to be growing rapidly, almost as if he were already familiar with the language, yet he had been slow to talk. At the moment he possessed a vocabulary of one word. “In case you’re interested, your behavioral development is right on schedule.”

“No!”

“Exactly my point. That’s why it’s called the ‘terrible twos.’ Right?” Then she answered her own questions so that together they cried out the inevitable, “No!” Moses giggled with delight at the chorus of their voices.

A shadow fell across the floor and Iovino looked up to see who had entered the room. She recognized the woman as one of the survivors of the USS Ferrel and suspected that Ruthe was somehow connected to the child’s unexplained appearance in sickbay. She

seemed something like a shy child herself. Lisa ignored Ruthe’s presence and continued talking to the boy.

“Look what I’ve got.” Iovino held up a piece of chocolate. Moses had made the leap forward to solid food and this was one of his favorite items. “Do you want some?”

“No!” he declared happily.

She whisked it behind her back and waited for his reaction. When he started to whimper, she spoke very clearly. “But you said you didn’t want it.”

Despite his sulking, he listened carefully to what she said.

“Do you want some?” Iovino proferred the treat again. “Yes?”

His lower lip stopped quivering. “Yesss,” he said with an exaggerated sibilance. He grabbed the treat from her hand and was all smiles again.

“He looks happy,” said Ruthe with a hint of surprise in her voice.

“He’s got a good disposition. Moses will do fine wherever he ends up.” The doctor frowned at her own comment. She had been so busy with his present welfare that she hadn’t really thought about his future. Suddenly, she was curious as to what would happen to this strange child.

“I wonder if they’re all like him.”

“All of who?” asked Iovino. Now the surprise was hers.

“The other children. I’ve tried not to think about them, but maybe they’re happy, too.”

The woman left as abruptly as she had appeared, leaving Iovino alone to ponder that tantalizing scrap of information. Thoughtfully, the doctor watched Moses eat the last crumbs of candy. He nibbled with dainty bites that left his face remarkably clean for such a young child, but then, the boy hated to get dirty. Wet was all right, however. “Just think, Moses. More kids like you.”

“Yesss,” he said with great conviction.

Jason slipped out of life quickly and quietly.

He floated in peace for a full minute before the medic team reached the holodeck and shattered the illusion of the Choraii sphere. A knot of people, with Beverly Crusher at the center, gathered over the man laid out on the hard surface of the unadorned compartment. Harsh mechanical chatters and raised voices echoed between the flat walls as the emergency revival equipment was activated over and over again.

Ruthe watched the doctors fight over the pale, still body, but she knew their frantic efforts were in vain. Jason had escaped.

Dr. Crusher was slumped over the desk, her head cradled in her arms, but Picard saw there was too much tension in her spine for her to be asleep. He took another step forward into the office.

“Beverly?” She straightened in place but didn’t speak to him. “You’ve lost patients before,” he said softly.

“Injured ones, yes,” she answered at last. “With wounds too severe for me to heal or diseases that can’t be cured. Those deaths are unavoidable. But Jason was well and I couldn’t keep him alive.”

“It was my decision to bring him on board.”

“I’m not blaming you. I’m not even blaming myself.

At the time, it seemed the right thing to do, but Ruthe knew better. We should have left him where he was.”

“In captivity?” His abhorrence of the Hamlin children’s circumstances was not easily dismissed.

“To him, this was captivity,” she said, waving at the enclosure of the ship’s hull. “Jean-Luc, Jason committed suicide. Not outright, not by damaging his body, but simply by deciding to die.”

Picard listened to the tremor in her voice with deepening concern and was struck anew by her pallor. “You’re much too tired for this discussion.”

“I can’t sleep,” she said brusquely, rising from behind the desk. “I’ve got work to do.”

“You won’t bring Jason back to life by running around sickbay.”

“I’ve got other patients to care for.”

“Don’t you trust your own staff, Dr. Crusher?”

“Well, of course I—”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Actually, I think I’m too tired to sleep.”

Picard knew the feeling. After a certain point, exhaustion fed on itself and the mind raced on without regard to the body’s need for rest. “A sedative would change that.”

“Don’t practice medicine without a license,” she advised, heading toward the office doorway. “And I won’t give orders on the bridge.”

He let her brush past him and stalk out into the anteroom, then followed in her wake. She didn’t go far before another doctor waylaid her.

“What is it, Iovino?” Crusher asked impatiently.

“I have a question about Moses.”

Picard waited until the young intern was standing by Crusher’s side, then he called out, “Beverly . . . ”

She looked back toward him. With admirable slight of hand, Iovino whipped out a hypo spray and placed it against the chief medical officer’s arm. Crusher jerked away at the sound of the hiss, but not before the contents had been injected into her system.

“What the hell are you doing, Iovino?”

“Following my orders,” said Picard, walking up to them. He had hoped to avoid this surprise tactic, but given Crusher’s obstinacy,

there seemed little alternative. Fortunately, Dr. Iovino had readily agreed to the maneuver.

“Dammit, nobody orders my medical staff around but me,” Crusher stormed at Picard. He was unmoved by her fury. She turned on Iovino. “Retranine?”

“Ten cc.”

“I should put you on report for this.”

“Just don’t spit at me,” said the intern without any remorse. “I’m tired of being spit at.”

Crusher swayed in place. The sedative was already taking effect. With a sigh of exasperation, she said, “Five cc would have been more appropriate.”

Iovino shrugged. “I knew I had to inject through your jacket.”

“Oh, right,” said Crusher. Her head was suddenly very heavy.

“Come on.” Picard took her firmly by the elbow. “I’ll walk you to your cabin.”

The night-shift crew on the bridge was small. Data supervised the helm while Lieutenant Worf controlled the aft deck. Other support personnel were close at hand, but the Klingon did not call for assistance. He ran another check on the communications board, his third so far, and reported the results with an impassive expression. “No response.”

“Damn.” Riker leaned forward in the captain’s chair. “Data?”

“We are within contact range, sir,” said Data, turning from his position at the ops control. “The lack of radio transmissions indicates something is amiss.”

The first officer ticked off the possible reasons for New Oregon’s silence. “Equipment malfunction, ion storm interference . . . ”

“That possibility had already occurred to me,” interceded Data. “I ran the requisite sensor scan and found normal ion levels.”

Riker continued with, “Frequency confusion . . . ”

“Checking all communications bands,” declared Worf as his heavy hands touched lightly on the console surface. “No transmissions from that sector on any frequency.”

Riker sighed heavily. “Which leaves us with equipment malfunction on the planet surface or . . . ” He let the unfinished phrase dangle in air.

“Further conjecture would be highly speculative,” Data pointed out.

“I know, Data, but we’ll have to assume the worst until we know otherwise; standard procedure demands that interpretation. What’s our estimated arrival time?”

“Fifteen hours, twenty-three minutes—” Data paused, then continued hurriedly, “And five seconds.”

Riker was too busy thinking to cut Data off. A lot could happen in fifteen hours. “Increase speed to warp seven.”

“Warp seven,” confirmed Data, and the ship responded with an almost imperceptible shudder.

The captain would feel it though. This time Riker hit the com link before Picard could demand an explanation. “Captain, request your presence on the bridge.”

Chapter Sixteen

DR. Crusher was the last member of the crew to receive a summons. She rubbed at sleep-weary eyes and tried to make sense of the tableau on the bridge. A full crew complement was assembled. Worf and Yar were hunched over the tactical console, too caught up in their observations to acknowledge the doctor’s entrance. They worked with the concentration typical of an alert status. With growing unease, Crusher walked down to the command center, where the captain stood huddled in discussion with Riker and Andrew Deelor. Both Geordi and Data were at the forward stations.

Picard looked up at her approach and broke off his conversation with the other men. He had waited until the last minute before calling the doctor, allowing her to get as much rest as possible, but it was time for her to learn what had happened. She was the only medical officer with the proper security clearance for the work ahead.

Crusher studied the image on the main viewer—a beige planet streaked with pale green bands. “New Oregon? We’re ahead of schedule.”

“Yes,” said Picard. “There’s been a problem.”

“Problem? What kind of problem?”

“We believe the colony was attacked.”

The flat tone of Picard’s voice should have alerted Crusher to what was coming, but her mind rejected the implications. “Why have I been called to the bridge? I should be down on the planet with my medical team.”

Riker opened his mouth to reply, but the captain silenced him with an uplifted hand. Picard preferred to break the news himself. “It’s too late for any medical assistance, Dr. Crusher.”

“No survivors?” Stunned, she sank down onto a chair. An exhaustion of spirit as well as body swept over her. Sickbay had already been prepared for the upcoming medical check of the colony’s Federation workers, over twenty terraform engineers, mechanics, and technicians. “All of them dead?”

Picard forestalled any false hope. “There are no life signs left on the planet surface. Even the vegetation is dying.” By the time Geordi La Forge had brought the Enterprise into orbit around New Oregon, sensor scans had proven that the need for urgency had passed. The radio bands would continue to be silent.

“How? Why?” Crusher asked, then found the answer for herself in Andrew Deelor’s presence. “The Choraii.”

“Possibly,” said Picard. “Data detected a faint trace of organic particles on the outskirts of the solar system. The evidence is still circumstantial, but highly suggestive. We won’t know for certain until the away team has checked the surface.”

Data turned from his ops console. “I have established transporter coordinates for both the terraforming station and the Farmer outpost. What is left of them. I sorted through considerable scattered rubble for a clear spot that would accommodate a landing party.” He pointed to an ominous red patch on his sensor screen. “And weather conditions will be quite harsh. The atmosphere-control fields have failed.”

“Two teams,” ordered Picard briskly. “One to each location.” One of the hardest lessons of command had been to accept the away team as a substitute for his own presence, to use it as his eyes and ears and hands. Riker would quote safety as the reason for keeping the captain on the bridge, but Picard had come to realize that he usually could do his job better at a distance, calling alternately on the resources of his ship or the mission crew.

Riker quickly assembled the first group. “Data, Yar, check out the Farmers’ settlement.”

The designated officers abandoned their stations, leaving La Forge and Worf alone at opposite ends of the bridge. The first officer pointed to Deelor and Crusher next. “We’ll cover the control station. The greatest devastation will be there.”

Crusher pushed herself up from the chair, drawing on a reserve of energy that was nearly depleted. “I’m supposed to save lives,” she said to no one in particular. “But lately I’ve done nothing but record death.”

Riker’s landing party materialized on a broad, featureless plain. Cold, driving rain lashed down over them, and clouds of deep purple hid the overhead sun from view, turning mid-afternoon into late evening. Beneath their feet, a thick carpet of plants lay rotting in the water-logged soil. The first officer scanned the horizon for signs of habitation.

“Over there,” said Deelor, pointing to a spot several dozen meters away.

Riker lowered his gaze. Terraforming stations were built for utility rather than for beauty, but the structure on New Oregon now lacked both qualities. The squat tubes and bulbous domes of the operations center had been torn apart and smashed flat.

Leading the approach to the attack site, Riker picked his way through the standing water which covered the ground. Despite his caution, he stumbled over a piece of debris hidden in the mud. Reaching down, he pulled out a chunk of contorted metal. Its original function was impossible to determine, but the falling rain washed away the covering grime and revealed charred patches on its surface. Riker handed the fragment over to Deelor, who inspected it with great interest.

“The outer layer is completely carbonized,” he observed. His thumbnail scratched a thin bright line across the surface.

“I’ll look for the bodies,” said Crusher, and walked on slowly. Her eyes swept over the burned construction materials. When her tricorder beeped suddenly, she took a closer look at a blackened lump in her path. “I’ve found something, Commander.”

“That’s a body?” asked Riker when he had answered her call. His face paled and he swallowed convulsively.

The doctor nodded and held up her tricorder. “Elevated calcium levels indicate the presence of bone inside.” She waved the instrument over the outer perimeter of the collapsed station. “I register several more corpses over there, buried beneath ashes and rubble. Also burned.”

“The fire must have been very intense to cause this much damage,” said Riker.

“Not fire.” Deelor kicked aside a loose metal plate lying next to the body. “The signs of a pressure impact are unmistakable. A hammer blow from a force field crushed the area. That was followed by an acid bath.”

“How can you be so sure?” asked Riker.

“I’ve seen records of a similar pattern of destruction on another planet. It’s Hamlin all over again.”

Data monitored the open channel of Riker’s communicator, comparing Deelor’s description of the terraforming station to the blackened ruins of the farming settlement. Spars of timber lay rotting in jumbled piles. The hard rain had turned tilled fields into seas of mud.

“The Choraii have been here as well,” Data reported to Picard. “There is very little remaining of the wooden structures. Even less remains of the people who lived in them.”

“I joined Starfleet in order to stop things like this from happening,” said Yar, surveying the destruction. Her mouth settled into a hard line. “This time we arrived too late.”

Once again the conference room was filled to capacity. Captain Picard contrasted this briefing session with the one that had occurred some two weeks ago and noted the differences. Wesley Crusher, who usually made a point of sitting away from his mother, had headed straight for her side in search of comfort. Counselor Troi, also shaken by the news of the colony’s destruction, was less obvious in her need, yet she was seated next to Riker. Their close proximity would mean little to most of the room’s occupants, but the captain recognized its significance.

One person was conspicuously absent. Picard turned to the ambassador. “Where is Ruthe?”

“I didn’t have time to tell her about the attack,” said Deelor, and quickly added, “she wouldn’t have any useful information to offer anyway.”

Picard dismissed the rationalization and touched closer to the truth. “You can’t keep this from her. She’ll have to hear of it sooner or later.”

“Then let it be later,” the ambassador murmured uneasily. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

The first few minutes of the meeting were spent reviewing the observations of the landing teams. Data summarized the common pattern of structural damage at both sites with his characteristic precision. Picard wondered what feelings, if any, lay hidden behind the objective account. He did not doubt that the android was capable of emotion, but the captain also considered that Data, like a young child, might be unable to connect the planet-side disaster with his own life. Perhaps that association process could not begin until Data had lived through a personal tragedy. Dr. Crusher was equally professional in her presentation of the autopsy results, but with one free hand she gripped her son’s arm.

At the conclusion of Crusher’s evidence on acid burns, Deelor further clarified the Choraii attack based on his knowledge of the Hamlin Massacre. “It had to have been a large ship, much bigger than the B Flat. Only the oldest of the Choraii ships can survive entry into a planetary atmosphere. We’re not sure of the exact dynamics involved, but evidently the spheres compress under atmospheric pressure until the non-organic components of the hull become concentrated, forming a rigid metal exterior.”

“Whereas a young ship, with smaller bubbles, would compress to the point of crushing its crew,” deduced Data. “Or lack sufficient metallic components to complete the hull.”

“But why the attack?” demanded Riker bitterly. “Hamlin was a mining colony, but New Oregon is . . . was strictly agricultural. What metals could the Choraii have expected to find?”

“We may never know.” Deelor’s dark brows pulled together. “If they were running low on supplies, they could have acted out of sheer desperation. Or maybe just curiosity. Their last pass through

this solar system would have occurred before the terraforming process. The changes on the planet’s surface may have attracted their attention.”

“And the wanton killing?” asked Picard. “What excuse for that?”

Deelor stiffened. “I’m not defending them, Captain.”

“But will the Federation continue to develop diplomatic relations with the Choraii?”

A chorus of protests broke out from the crew as they assimilated the far-reaching implications of the raid on New Oregon.

“Impossible,” declared Lieutenant Yar, overriding the others. “First Hamlin, now New Oregon. I saw what they did to the Farmers’ settlement. The Choraii are butchers!”

Picard continued, his voice still deceptively soft. “What price for diplomacy, Ambassador Deelor?” And for the secret of the aliens’ stardrive.

“That’s not up to us to decide,” said Deelor steadily. “It’s the job of Starfleet admirals to weigh ethical considerations against the demands of defense. Until they change existing policy, I will follow standing orders. Which means that for now, the New Oregon incident is to be treated like any other Choraii encounter. All information is under strict security restrictions.”

“You can’t keep this a secret!” cried Riker. “Terraform Control will need to know their team was killed. And there were Farmers down there as well. We can’t hide those deaths from our passengers any longer.”

Deelor frowned. “Yes, entirely too many people on board the starship are aware of the results of the landing parties’ probe. We have no choice but to tell the Farmers of the attack, but for now the identity of the attackers is unknown.”

Picard resented Deelor’s easy dismissal of that most difficult of

duties to be discharged: announcing death. As captain, this responsibility was traditionally Picard’s, and he loathed it above all others associated with his rank.

He stared across the table at Beverly Crusher, focusing on her profile, thinking of her face as it had appeared years before when she first learned of her husband’s death. Picard had delivered the news in person. His unannounced arrival, without Jack by his side, had been enough to warn Beverly of what was coming. Shock had clouded her eyes even before Picard began to speak. She probably never even registered the actual words, but he remembered them all too well  . . . 

The captain pulled away from that morbid train of thought, but his concentration had been shattered. Deelor’s closing comments were only so much noise to be endured.

Troi was the first to approach the captain at the conclusion of the briefing. “Captain, I would like to accompany you on your visit to the Farmers.”

Picard nodded curtly. So the counselor had sensed his turmoil. Troi was an invaluable resource in judging the emotional health of his crew, but he was uncomfortable when that same empathic talent was used on him. She probably sensed that reaction as well.

“Captain Picard?”

“Yes, Mr. Crusher?” said Picard, turning to the young ensign. Another reminder of Jack’s death. “What is it?”

“I thought you should know that one of the settlers on New Oregon was Farmer Patrisha’s daughter.”

“Thank you, Ensign,” said the captain. The boy was right; the information was important. It also made Picard’s duty that much harder.

At least he always knew where to find Ruthe, thought Deelor as he crossed the threshold of their cabin. She hadn’t left the room once since Jason’s death.

Looking up from the floor where she had curled for a nap, Ruthe said, “You’ve been gone a long time.”

“I’m sorry,” Deelor replied, not sure whether she had uttered the words as an accusation or merely as an observation. Usually she viewed his movements with indifference. “I beamed down to New Oregon.” Then he told her why.

“When did it happen?” she asked after he had finished a brief description of the raid.

“Nearly a week ago. At least, that’s Dr. Crusher’s best guess from her study of the condition of the bodies. Data’s estimate is a little more conservative. He claims the attack occurred at least four days ago, but won’t commit himself to any greater length of time.”

Ruthe stretched lazily; bare feet peeked out from under the folds of her robe. “Then they could still be in the area. Will we try to contact them?”

“Not with the Enterprise. Captain Picard wouldn’t welcome the suggestion. Perhaps we can get another starship when we reach Starbase Ten.”

“The Choraii will be gone by then,” said Ruthe scornfully. “They may follow a circuitous path, but they follow it with great speed.”

She didn’t ask any more questions, but then, Deelor’s talks with Ruthe never lasted long. She lost interest so quickly. Nearly an hour of silence passed between them before Ruthe uttered her final comment on New Oregon.

“The ship must have been very large.”

When he heard her say that, Deelor feared Ruthe shared his own suspicion.

“She’s alone,” Troi told the captain as they stood in the corridor in front of Farmer Patrisha’s cabin.

Picard hesitated, one hand raised halfway to the door chime. “Perhaps some of the other colonists should be with her when I break the news.”

The counselor considered what she knew of the woman inside. Their few encounters had been brief, nevertheless Troi felt secure in her understanding of that strong personality. “No. Actually, I think she would prefer to be alone at this time. She is not always comfortable with the members of her community. In fact, Patrisha’s sense of isolation from the other Farmers has been growing stronger over the journey.”

“Very well, Counselor. I’m sure you know what’s best.” Picard was out of his depth in this situation, and depended heavily on Troi’s judgment. For his own sake, Picard was just as glad there would be no further delay. If he waited any longer, he would start to worry whether he lacked the proper somber mien or whether he had overcompensated and looked too severe. Taking a deep breath, he activated the door chime.

When they had leave to enter, Picard and Troi walked into a cabin that had been stripped of personal belongings. Luggage containers were stacked neatly in the center of the cabin day area.

“Why haven’t we been allowed to land?” asked Patrisha. “What’s gone wrong?”

“The colony on New Oregon has been destroyed.” The blow could not be softened with any preamble, but Picard spared Patrisha the harsh details of the Choraii attack. He told her that her daughter was dead, but not that her last seconds of life had been

filled with searing pain. Not that there was nothing recognizable left of the body.

“Our landing party has confirmed there are no survivors,” Troi explained gently.

“We’re very sorry,” added Picard when there was nothing else left to say. From that point on, matters went much as they always did on these occasions. His words were met with initial disbelief, then accepted with growing anguish. Some people immediately dissolved into tears, but Patrisha was one of the quiet ones. The wrenching grief would come later, after the starship officers had left. Troi was right; this woman would not have welcomed any additional company.

After an awkward silence, Patrisha finally spoke. “Captain, what would have happened without the schedule delays?”

Over the years, Picard had trained himself to avoid such profitless speculation, but he understood the concern that prompted her question and he answered the query with respect. “Your entire community would have been wiped out. One hundred unarmed colonists, even twice that number, could not have changed the outcome in any way.” Small comfort perhaps, but all that he could offer.

“I haven’t seen Krn in nearly two years,” said Patrisha. Her face was blank and expressionless. “Two years since she and her lover volunteered for the scouting trip. Krn and I were fighting so often that I was actually relieved to see them go.”

Picard exchanged glances with Troi. There seemed no graceful way to leave, and the counselor silently indicated they should simply listen for the moment. Picard did not want to hear any more, but he would endure it. His discomfort was nothing compared to Patrisha’s pain.

“Yet Dvd always tried to patch things up between us. He wasn’t a

typical Farmer. He was a silversmith, an artist . . . ”

Silver. That one word jumped out at Picard, overshadowing all that followed. He could trace the chain of Troi’s startled reactions as the counselor sensed the surge of alarm in his mind and then made the connection herself. Refined metal, in small quantities, but sufficiently pure to serve the needs of the Choraii. The captain was so distracted by the discovery of the motive for the alien attack that he almost missed the significance of what came next.

“He was a gentle man and so devoted to their daughter that she called him uncle.”

“There was a child?” asked Picard sharply.

“Yes, my granddaughter, Emily. She would have turned four soon after our arrival.” The intensity of the captain’s question penetrated Patrisha’s shock. “Why is that so important?”

Picard couldn’t answer her. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

Ruthe paced back and forth in front of the windows of the observation deck while the assembled group settled into place. Out of habit, Ambassador Deelor and Captain Picard both walked toward the seat at the head of the conference table, but the diplomat gave ground with an ironic smile and moved to another chair next to Dr. Crusher. Riker and Data, just returned from a second trip to the storm-tossed surface of New Oregon, were the last to sit down. Ruthe stopped pacing but remained standing.

“We have no proof the girl is still alive,” said Picard, opening the discussion with his greatest concern.

Riker was more optimistic than his captain. “We haven’t found her body.”

“Which doesn’t mean she wasn’t killed,” warned Beverly Crusher with a frown. “She was only four years old. Her body could have

been completely destroyed by acid, or so badly damaged that we simply couldn’t identify the organic remains as human.”

“They wouldn’t kill a child.” Ruthe uttered this belief with conviction.

“I wish I could believe you,” said Picard. “But the Choraii slaughtered the entire community on New Oregon just as they slaughtered the miners of Hamlin. They’re proven killers; why should they scruple over one child?”

“You don’t understand,” said the translator. “The Choraii consider human adults to be untractable and dangerous. Like wild animals. And if animals are in possession of something of value, well, then it is necessary to remove them. Killing is easiest. But human children are worth saving because they can be gentled.”

Picard grimaced at the explanation. “A reprehensible attitude, but one that will work to our advantage this time. We must assume the Farmer girl has been taken aboard the Choraii ship.” He locked eyes with Andrew Deelor. “What does existing policy dictate in this situation?”

“We’ve moved beyond the realm of policy,” admitted Deelor with a shrug. “The imagination of Starfleet admirals had not extended to the possibility of another abduction, so the decision for action is ours.”

“I say we go after them,” said Riker at once. “Now, while Data can still detect the organic particles of their trail.”

Data was more cautious. “But once found, what course of action do we take? The ship that attacked New Oregon is even larger than the B Flat. How do we force them to give up the child?”

“Not force,” said Ruthe, stepping up to the table. “Persuasion.” She turned to Picard. Her voice was tight with urgency, and her hands dug deeply into the upholstered chair between them. “When

we find the Choraii, I can convince them to give up the girl.”

Data continued the role of devil’s advocate. “If you do not succeed, the Enterprise could end up in a battle it cannot win. All for the sake of a child who may be lying dead in the ruins of New Oregon.”

“But what if she’s alive, Data?” asked Crusher. “I’d be haunted by the uncertainty of Emily’s fate until the issue is settled one way or the other. We have to make certain.”

“The Choraii have her!” cried Ruthe vehemently. “And she’s been with them for nearly a week now, carried off to an alien world that isn’t her home. We must go after their ship and get her back.”

“Agreed,” said Riker, hitting the tabletop with a clenched fist. “Besides, we stand a good chance of winning any fight they start. Data and Worf are still refining their countermeasures against Choraii technology.”

Picard suspected first-hand exposure to the destruction on New Oregon colored Riker’s desire for a pursuit of the attackers. That and the natural exuberance of a young officer. Both motivations had merit if they were kept in perspective. “What are your views, Ambassador?” asked Picard, curious as to why the man had not expressed an opinion yet.

Deelor had stared at Ruthe, absorbed by the intensity of her pleading, but at the captain’s prodding he shook himself out of his reverie. “I have complete confidence in Ruthe’s ability to negotiate with the Choraii. The encounter can be peaceful.”

Picard held up a hand to forestall Data’s rebuttal. “Nevertheless, the potential for violence still remains.” He lowered the hand with a gesture of finality. He had followed the debate intently, listening for any comments that would influence the decision he had reached hours before in Farmer Patrisha’s cabin. His mind remained

unchanged. “Number One, instruct the bridge crew to prepare for battle configuration. The stardrive section will pursue the Choraii ship.”

“Yes, sir,” responded Riker with enthusiasm, ready to spring into action as soon as the captain declared the meeting over.

Picard observed Ruthe’s exultation at the resolution. Her smile was stiff and unpracticed, lasting only a few seconds, but her eyes shone bright and impassioned.

Chapter Seventeen

“PREPARE TO INITIATE separation sequence.”

Picard’s warning echoed through every corner of the Enterprise.

“Begin.”

With that simple word, the massive latches joining the disk-shaped command module to the engineering hull were uncoupled, sundering the structural unity of the starship. The two sections slowly eased apart while metal links retracted into their housing. Then, powered by its twin engine nacelles, the stardrive section sheared away from the saucer in a wide swinging arc and broke free from the orbit around New Oregon.

Riker followed the accelerating flight of the departing engineering section on the viewer of the main bridge. With a sigh he settled back into the captain’s chair.

“I wish I could have gone with them, too,” said Troi softly from her position next to him.

The first officer shrugged away his disappointment. “Someone had to stay with the ship . . . and the Farmers. The Choraii could always double back and endanger the saucer section.”

“But you’re more worried about the captain and the others. You want to share their danger.”

“Yes,” admitted Riker. “But if Ruthe does her job properly, they won’t be in any danger.”

Captain Picard surveyed the battle bridge from the command dais. This captain’s chair was a broad, solid throne, and he sat with back erect; a thin furrow on his brow marked his unconscious effort to adjust to altered surroundings.

The stardrive bridge echoed the layout but not the graceful design of the saucer’s command center. Utility demanded a room of reduced dimensions, with less distance between the compact duty stations. The main viewer was smaller, the ramp to the aft deck was replaced by a high step. Instrument readings were displayed across the back wall, but all other walls were smooth and featureless.

The bridge officers had moved to their accustomed positions, but few provisions had been made for passengers. Andrew Deelor no longer had a chair next to the captain; he stepped to one side and leaned against a span of bridge railing instead. Ruthe chose to sit cross-legged on the deck by his feet. Beverly Crusher had claimed a vacant seat at an auxiliary station.

“Sensors detect definite indications of the Choraii’s passage,” announced Data from the helm. “Navigation coordinates established.”

“Proceed at best warp speed, Mr. La Forge,” ordered the captain.

“Aye, sir,” answered the pilot, and set the Enterprise on a matching path to the alien ship. However, in less than an hour he was forced to slow the starship to impulse speed.

“Sensors are losing the trail,” reported Yar from the tactical console.

Picard acknowledged the woman’s statement with a curt nod. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” he added deliberately, shaking off the

influence of the sterile confines of the battle bridge. “Mr. Data?”

The android alone appeared unaffected by the oppressive interior. He replied with his customary enthusiasm for commentary. “The Choraii ships shed a continual stream of decayed organic particles, much as human beings shed dead cells from their outer layer of skin. However, over time, the concentration of residue disperses as the inertia of the drifting particles carries them in different directions, so . . . ”

“So we’ve arrived too late to track this ship’s departure from New Oregon,” said Picard, jumping ahead to the conclusion of Data’s exposition.

“We can’t turn back now,” cried Yar. “There must be a way to keep after the Choraii.”

“We shall find them,” said Picard, announcing his agreement with a studied calmness that subdued Yar’s hotheaded manner without open rebuke. “Mr. La Forge, can you sense any pattern in the progress of their ship?”

“Definitely,” said Geordi. His visored eyes tracked the curving path marked on the conn navigation panel; the end of the line was already fading away. “But the movements are very complex. I doubt I could get very far without a sensor feed.”

Ruthe sprang up from the deck and approached the helm. Peering down over the pilot’s shoulder at the console panel, she studied the visual display for a moment, then shook her head. “If only I could hear where they’ve been.”

“Ah,” said Data with a self-satisfied nod. “That can be easily arranged. I have established rough musical equivalents for the travel coordinates.” He tapped his ops panel to call forth a record from the language computers. “Unfortunately, the reconstructed rhythm is arbitrary and lacks the free-flowing variation of Choraii song.”

“If there is a melody, I will find it.” Eyes closed, breath stilled, Ruthe listened twice to the sound of the starship’s journey from New Oregon to their present location. “It’s a traveling song,” she declared at last. Her eyes fluttered open.

“You’ve heard it before?” asked Deelor.

“It’s a popular melody sung by many of the ships in the local cluster,” said Ruthe. “We don’t have to follow the trail any longer. I can play the rest of the song and show you where it will end.”

The translator pulled the sections of her flute from out of her robe and strung the instrument into its full length. Pursing her lips over the embouchure, she blew lightly and called forth the same notes the computer had played, but the stiff mechanical quality of the rendition was transformed into a fluid musical line. Ruthe continued the song past the point where the computer had stopped, carrying the melody on to its conclusion. As the last note died away, she lowered her flute. “That’s where they’re going.”

“Reversing the translation process now,” Data said, then checked the output of the language computer. “Final destination coordinates computed.”

“Set a direct course for that location,” ordered Picard. “Warp eight.”

With a satisfied smile Ruthe sank back down on the deck. She held the flute in her lap, but her fingers continued to slide over the silent stops as if she sang to herself. Except for the flutter of her hands, she sat motionless.

Wesley Crusher crashed down onto the hard dirt of the open barnyard but absorbed the shock of his fall with an outstretched arm, just as Tasha had taught him. Then he automatically raised the other arm to guard his chest from the blows that followed the

tackle. Dnnys was a clumsy fighter, easily blocked, and Wesley could have thrown him off with ease. Instead, the ensign concentrated on self-defense.

“Tell me!” shouted Dnnys. He was too blind with fury to notice his fists never connected with their target. “Why was the captain asking about Emily?”

Wesley blocked another blow. “Stop hitting and I’ll explain!”

Dnnys pulled back from his attack. “I’m sorry,” he stammered as his anger subsided. “But she’s my niece. You know what that means to me, to any Farmer uncle.”

“That’s why I think you should know,” said Wesley, sitting up. He brushed at the bits of dirt and straw clinging to his tunic, stalling for time as he phrased his answer to fall within the limits of his security oath. “There’s a chance that Emily’s still alive. She may have been taken off the planet.”

“You mean the raiders have her?” asked Dnnys. His flushed face drained of color.

“Yes,” Wesley said, skirting dangerously close to a security breach. “She’s being well cared for, but getting her back is going to be difficult.” He gingerly touched a stinging patch of skin on his cheek and wondered if the scrape would be healed before his mother returned. The thought of his mother on the battle bridge was more painful than the bruises. Wesley never gave much thought to danger when the two of them were together on the ship, but waiting for her return filled him with worry. Was this how his mother had felt while Jack Crusher was on board the Stargazer?

Dnnys shook his friend by the shoulder. “When will we find out?”

“I can’t tell you, because I don’t know,” said Wesley, throwing off the hold and scrambling to his feet. “Come on, I have to finish your

chores before sunset.” He wanted to think about something other than the outcome of his father’s last voyage.

The Enterprise had reached a patch of space no different from any other within a distance of several light-years. No different at that moment, reflected Andrew Deelor. If the Choraii followed their usual habits, the situation was subject to change without any prior notice.

“This is the place,” announced Geordi. “I’ve double-checked the navigation settings.”

“Sensors do not detect any traces of organic particles,” reported Data. “Either our coordinates are incorrect or the Choraii have not yet arrived.”

“We are at the right place and they will come,” said Ruthe without rising from the deck. “The song is a long one.”

“Not that long,” Lieutenant Yar exclaimed. “I’m picking up a faint radio transmission. Boosting reception to the maximum.” She released a thrumming sound into the air.

The bridge crew stopped in mid-motion, entranced by what they heard. The throaty chorus was far deeper than that of the B Flat singers; it possessed the broad resonance of a cathedral organ and a wide range of voices which rose and fell in complex harmony. Deelor waited for Ruthe’s reaction; she displayed none that he could observe. Either she was indifferent to the character of the sound or she already knew what to expect.

“Not a single note,” said Picard with surprise as he listened to the undulating music. “More like a chord.”

“A D major chord, to be precise,” noted Deelor. He stepped up to the captain’s chair. “We’re in trouble.”

The quiet statement snapped Picard’s attention away from the Choraii song. “Explain.”

“Pitch is an indication of a ship’s age. In addition, listen to the number of voices,” Deelor instructed. “Only five different tones are present, but I suspect many of the parts are doubled or even tripled. A conservative estimate indicates eleven singers, which means the ship is very old and therefore very powerful. More than a match for the Enterprise.”

Ruthe’s answering song caught him by surprise. She had mounted the aft bridge and played as if from a stage. The tripping notes from her flute hovered several registers above the drone of the Choraii D major chorus as she wove an intricate counterpoint to their melodic line.

“Captain, shall I broadcast her response?” asked Yar, lowering the growing volume of the Choraii transmission.

Picard hesitated. “Is something wrong, Ambassador?”

“What?” Then Deelor realized he had been frowning as he listened. “No, nothing’s wrong.”

The captain waved an assent to Lieutenant Yar. Ruthe played on and the tempo of the intertwined sounds quickened.

“They’ve heard her.” Deelor’s own heart began to beat more rapidly, as if striving to match the pulse of the music.

“And here they come,” announced Geordi from the helm. His energy-sensitive visor had picked out the first glimmer of the approaching vessel on the battle-bridge viewer, but by the time his warning drew the crew’s attention to the screen, the image of the Choraii ship had tripled in size.

Deelor caught his breath at the sight. Even without any reference point in space, he could sense how massive the ship must be. Whereas the B Flat had been composed of some two dozen neatly

packed bubbles, the D Major was a jumbled conglomeration of over a hundred spheres. An elongated stream of large bubbles formed the central mass, with smaller ones tucked into crevices and dotted here and there over the outer edges. Deelor had never faced a ship of this complexity before.

“Reduce magnification,” ordered Picard as the D Major filled the frame, then spilled beyond its borders. His brow furrowed. “So these are the destroyers of New Oregon.”

The approaching cluster tumbled in space. As a new side rolled into view, Deelor spotted several purple spheres nestled in the exterior layer. “Captain . . . ”

“Yes, I see them,” said Picard tersely. “Data, prepare your neutralizing probe for launch. Just in case we end up inside another energy net.”

“Neutralization efforts would be ineffective,” said Data. He further reduced the screen magnification as the Choraii ship threatened to outgrow the frame once again. “The net draws power from the mother ship and the D Major can release a far greater energy surge than can be siphoned off by the probe.”

“Which means their net would crush us faster as well.”

“Captain, we would still have time to drill through the spheres with our phasers,” said Worf.

“Yes,” agreed Data “But my calculations indicate a seventy-eight point five percent chance that such a scenario would end in mutual destruction.”

“That’s enough talk of battle,” said Deelor impatiently. “This is going to remain a peaceful encounter.”

“So far, the peaceful intentions have remained ours and ours alone,” said Picard bitterly. “The Choraii loot and destroy and then we pay them for their ill-gotten gains.”

The flight of the D Major came to an abrupt halt. The glowing orange spheres quivered with the strong currents of their liquid interior.

“Ambassador . . . ”

Deelor hushed the captain with a wave of his hand.

“Listen.” The journey song had ended, but Ruthe continued playing with the Choraii, modulating without a break into a new melody. “They’re singing the greeting.”

Shifting his weight in the captain’s chair, Picard leaned closer to Deelor and spoke more softly. “The exchange sounds friendly.”

“Yes, it is.” So even the captain could detect the joy of the meeting. “Once Ruthe establishes our good intentions, we can—” Deelor broke off.

“What’s happened?”

“Ruthe has begun a third melody,” explained Deelor. She hadn’t looked to him once for a sign of what to do, yet apparently she was moving beyond the ritual preliminaries. In what direction? Deelor tried to make sense of her exchange with the Choraii, to untangle the mix of high flute and booming organ voices, but the scales they used were unfamiliar and his understanding of the exchange faltered.

Dr. Crusher edged up behind him. “Do they have the child?”

“Yes, I think so,” answered Deelor, less certain than he sounded. He had lost track of the melodic line and could grasp only scattered phrases of meaning.

“So how do we get her back?” Picard’s voice rang out over the bridge. All singing had stopped abruptly, replaced by an unvarying bass hum emanating from the D Major.

Snapping off a section of her flute, Ruthe answered the captain. “Arrangements have already been made for the girl’s return.” The

translator rapidly disassembled the remainder of her instrument and tucked the pieces inside her cloak. “Emily was found when they plundered New Oregon for silver. She isn’t a bonding gift, so they are willing to let her go for the proper price.”

The palms of Deelor’s hands grew moist. He rubbed them dry against his uniform. “What price is that?”

“Three pounds of gold, some few ounces of zinc and platinum.” Ruthe stepped down from the aft deck. “I’ll beam over while the metal is gathered.”

Deelor was too shaken to reply. He had trusted Ruthe with his life over and over again; he would do so now. Yet he knew her well enough to sense a lie in what she told him. A lie to what purpose?

Picard stepped down from his chair to confront Ruthe. “I don’t like the appearance of this transaction. They’ve agreed too easily.”

“Would you rather fight the Choraii?” asked Ruthe, arching one brow. “I’m not so certain you would win.”

A full beat passed before the captain spoke again. “Lieutenant Yar, Dr. Crusher, please accompany Ruthe to the transporter chamber.” Picard fell back and the translator swept past him.

Deelor stared after her until the doors of the turbo cut her off from his sight. “I trust Ruthe’s judgment.” Then he wondered if he had jumped too quickly to her defense and betrayed his growing unease to the captain. “She knows what she’s doing.”

Picard settled back into place, his feet braced firmly on the dais, his hands gripping the armrests. He focused his attention on the viewer. “You may trust Ruthe, but I don’t trust the Choraii.”

Tasha Yar felt uneasy about opening a window in the ship’s shield for the critical seconds when Ruthe would transport over to the Choraii ship. Her tension eased very little even after the deflectors

snapped back into place; she couldn’t relax while the massive vessel loomed so near to the Enterprise.

“I hate this part,” admitted Yar leaning against the console. “Last time we waited for nearly three hours before Ruthe’s contact signal.”

Crusher sighed heavily. “If the ritual swim through the B Flat took hours, how long will she take to go through the D Major?”

“Days, weeks . . . ” A high-pitched tone jerked the security chief back to the controls. “The beam signal,” Yar announced, swiftly reversing the procedure that had sent Ruthe out of the ship only minutes before.

“It’s too early! Something must have gone wrong.” Crusher rushed to the dais as white light flooded the chamber once again. When the blinding beam died away, the doctor found a young girl standing on the platform. And only the girl. Around her neck she wore the chain with Ruthe’s com insignia.

“Get her out of the way,” cried Yar as she hastened to broaden the reception beam around the coordinates. Each second she spent adjusting the controls increased the ship’s risk.

Crusher swept the child off the platform, drawing the small body to her chest with a fierce hug, rejoicing in the recovery of at least one life from the devastation on New Oregon. The face that had peered out from behind water-soaked brown tresses bore a strong resemblance to Dnnys. “Emily!”

“I was having fun,” answered the girl happily when the doctor loosened her embrace. Emily had made the transition to breathing air without assistance. “Can I go back to play soon?”

“No, honey. You’re going home,” said Crusher, trying to smile back. Had the Hamlin children been this untouched by their parents’ deaths?

“Is that nice lady coming, too?”

Ruthe. The doctor looked across the room. Yar’s hands were on the transporter controls, but they weren’t in motion any longer. “Tasha, where is she?”

“I couldn’t lock on to her,” said the security chief. Her face was wooden, her eyes downcast. “Shields are raised.”

“The entire ship registers as a life form,” boomed Worf across the smaller bridge. “Sensor readings are garbled. I can’t pinpoint her exact position in the interior.” He checked another section of the tactical console. “Still no answer on hailing frequencies.”

“What can have happened over there?” Picard had doubted the Choraii’s intentions from the start, but he mustn’t let his suspicions override judgment. A misreading of the alien motives could embroil both ships in unnecessary combat. “Would the Choraii send over the child without receiving payment first?”

“It’s possible, I suppose. Perhaps as a statement of extreme arrogance.”

Another thought increased Picard’s concern. “Or would she have snatched the child away without the Choraii’s knowledge?”

“No,” said Deelor firmly. “She’s not that foolish.”

“We’re blind to what’s happening over there, but unless they make a hostile—”

“Captain,” broke in Data. “The D Major is moving away.”

“Helm, full speed pursuit!” ordered Picard. He followed quickly with a shipwide announcement. “All hands to battlestations.”

The Enterprise surged forward after the Choraii bubbles. The wide gap between the two vessels began to narrow, but very slowly.

“Ambassador, we can’t force Ruthe’s return,” said Picard. “Not without placing her in grave danger.”

Deelor nodded. His face was pale but composed. “Just get their

attention and buy me some time, Captain.”

“Understood.” Picard took a deep breath and issued his next order. “Worf, lock tractor beams as soon as the Choraii are in range.”

Worf’s clawed hand hovered above the tactical console like a raptor, then swooped downward. Contact. Deck tremors racked the starship as a half-dozen tractor beams latched onto the spheres of the D Major. White bridge lights guttered out; bloodred emergency lights flickered to life. On the viewer, the Choraii ship shuddered to a slow halt.

“Humans, release us!” Deep, slurring voices thundered like an angry Greek chorus.

“You still carry one of our people within your ship,” shouted Deelor, but his solo tenor was weak in comparison. “Return her to us.”

“You mean the lost one? We were forced to give her up many years ago, but now she’s come back.”

“Damn her,” cursed Deelor under his breath.

Picard signaled Worf to cut off communications.

Silence blanketed the bridge. “Ambassador, what do they mean by ‘the lost one’?”

“I suspected this earlier. There are only a few ships in the local cluster that are large enough to land on a planet, but I thought sure Ruthe would tell me . . . ” He trailed off distractedly.

“Tell you what?” demanded Picard.

“The D Major is Ruthe’s homeship. She was born and raised there.” Deelor raked his fingers through his hair, leaving a wake of angry spikes on the top of his head. “She must have known as soon as she heard their song, but she didn’t tell me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I would never have let her beam over.” Deelor waved urgently to Worf and raised his voice to resume his exchange with

the Choraii. “We’ll give you any metal you want. Just let Ruthe return here.”

“No, Wild One. This is her home. She agreed to stay if we gave you the young one in her place.”

Rising from the captain’s chair, Picard brought his deeper voice to the ambassador’s service. “We will not accept her sacrifice.”

“But it’s not a sacrifice, Captain.” Ruthe’s words quavered and echoed, distorted by the liquid that filled her lungs. “I’m here of my own free will.”

“No, I don’t believe you!” cried out Deelor. “You’ve struck a bargain for the girl and this is the price.”

“A small price.” Her laugh rippled through the waters.

“An unacceptable price,” countered Picard angrily. “The Choraii have brought death to so many people without thought, without remorse. How can we abandon you to live with them?”

“But I can stop the killings. I will sing them your songs! Songs of Mozart, and Beethoven, and all the others! I will show the Choraii that even beasts can make music. Once they recognize your worth, they will learn to ask for what they need.”

“This action is too drastic, too final. There are other ways to—”

“You still don’t understand. I have always wanted to return here, to my real home. I’ve betrayed many of my kind in the search for this ship, but only the children, because they are young, and can forget. I was too old to forget and too young to die for the memories.”

“Is she telling the truth?” demanded Picard of the man standing frozen beside him. “Can this be what she really wants?”

“Yes,” whispered Deelor hoarsely. “Damn her, yes.”

Ruthe’s voice sang out again, more insistent than before. “Let us go, Wild Ones. We have many songs to sing.”

“Lieutenant Worf,” said Picard in a low voice. “Let them go.”

The Klingon quickly obeyed, releasing the D Major from the tractor beam hold. The bright lights and chattering sounds of the battle bridge, muted by a lack of power, sprang back to full intensity.

“They’re not leaving,” observed La Forge of the alien craft. He lowered his hands closer to the helm controls.

A deep humming sound reverberated from the communications link with the D Major. Resonant Choraii voices swelled into a dirgelike song, flooding the bridge with their music. One high soprano echoed the somber melody.

The oppressive sound raised a prickle of apprehension in the captain. “What’s happening?”

Deelor didn’t answer. Instead, Data turned from the helm. “I believe that is their way of saying good-bye.”

Chapter Eighteen

NEW OREGON’s SOIL was still sodden from the long rains, but the standing water had finally drained away from higher ground. The smell of rotting vegetation remained, masking the sweeter scent of new growth. Scattered patches of bright green promised a return of grasses and shrubs; they would grow faster than before, feeding on the decay of the first generation. The violent winds that had racked the surface were now reduced to gentle breezes, and overhead a midsummer sun shone through clear skies of azure blue.

While starship technicians had labored to restore the planet’s weather controls, the Farmers had put their steel shovels to work, but not for planting seeds of grain. A dozen graves scarred their new land.

On the morning of her seventh day on this world, Patrisha carried a sprig of greenery to Krn’s gravesite; when the flowers bloomed, she would bring a bouquet. The ritual was an old one, stretching back to the beginnings of their community, and a familiar one to the woman who had spent her own childhood visiting her mother’s grave. Perhaps, as grass spread over this pile of fresh brown dirt, her sharp pain would fade and she would come here out of habit rather than aching need.

Patrisha looked up at the sound of heavy footsteps. Her cousin’s

boots were caked with mud, his hands red and swollen from unaccustomed labor, yet Tomas had recovered a measure of his dignity in the last week. Although he was still an aggravating man, he was also a Farmer. He belonged here.

“I was looking for Dnnys, but I hear he’s gone up there.” Tomas pointed an accusing finger straight up into the sky. “By transporter!”

“Blame me if you must blame someone. I gave him permission to go.” The leaves of the twig on Krn’s grave were already wilting in the heat. “He’s saying good-bye to his friend.”

“The boy was too long aboard that ship,” pronounced Tomas, although with more resignation than spleen. “Take my word for it, he won’t abide by our creed anymore. Soon he’ll dream of leaving the community.”

“I won’t ask him to stay,” Patrisha replied quietly.

She had lost her own faith many years ago, but not soon enough to forge a life elsewhere. Her place was here on New Oregon, with Krn’s daughter, because there was nowhere else to go.

The last meeting between Wesley and Dnnys was uncomfortable for many reasons.

Dnnys had never experienced a molecular transport before, and though he had always scoffed at Farmer stories of bodies mangled by equipment malfunctions, he was overcome by a last-minute terror when the beaming lock took hold of him. The boy materialized on the transporter platform with a pale face and trembling legs, certain that both Wesley and the console operator could see his cowardice.

For his own part, Wesley felt an unreasoning guilt for the good fortune of living aboard a starship. He had tried to share this advantage, but when he observed the sour expression on his friend’s face,

the ensign wondered if the Farmer wouldn’t have been happier knowing less about the life he was missing.

After an awkward silence, Dnnys stepped down from the dais. He carried several books in his arms. “I won’t be needing these anymore,” he said gruffly, and thrust the engineering texts into Wesley’s hands. He scowled to cover the welling of tears in his eyes, then made an effort to explain his actions. “All my life, I’ve been without an uncle. I can’t leave Emily without one, too.”

“I figured you’d decide to stay,” said Wesley, untroubled by the return of his gift. He stepped over to a table by the operating console and exchanged the Farmer’s books for another set which he had prepared. “So I brought along these.”

Dnnys accepted the new books. “What are they?” he asked, though without real interest. There seemed little point in reading anything Wesley could provide; a Farmer’s life would leave him little time for dreaming.

“The technical specs on the terraforming station.” Wesley was pleased to see his friend look down with sudden astonishment at the books he held. “A replacement crew is already on the way to rebuild the control center, but terraform engineers are in short supply, so the station will probably be understaffed.”

“And anyone who can help . . . ” started Dnnys with the beginnings of a smile.

“ . . . will be very welcome,” finished Wesley with an answering grin.

No more time remained for them to talk. “We’re about to break orbit,” announced the transporter operator. “You’ll have to go now.”

Dnnys stepped back onto the dais, books clutched tightly to his chest. As the whine of the transporter rose in pitch, he thought of

one last pressing question. “How long does the finishing stage of terraforming last?”

“A lifetime,” called out Wesley. And his friend was gone.

Ships of the sea sailed out of harbor with the tides, but the Enterprise was free to leave New Oregon at a time of the captain’s choosing. Picard chose to leave when the lights of the ship’s interior were dimmed to the level of a setting sun.

“Engage,” he ordered, leaning back against the cushioned contours of his command chair. Given the lateness of the hour, some captains might have delegated this duty to their first officer, but no departure was routine for Picard, and he was always present when his starship left planetary orbit. He would remain on the bridge for a few more minutes, savoring the promise of adventure which lay hidden in each new beginning.

The captain listened without comment as Counselor Troi engaged in mild banter with Will Riker. The barbs flew back and forth from either side of the command center.

“A conference is not a recreational event,” said Troi. “The gathering serves an important professional purpose.”

“Right, like finding out how many psychologists can fit in a transporter booth?” shot back Riker.

His derisive comment raised a muffled laugh from Tasha, listening from her perch on the aft deck. “Deanna, I watched you pack for the trip and some of the clothes you chose . . . ”

“Tasha, hush,” said Troi sharply.

Picard exchanged smiles with his first officer, but was careful to keep his back to the counselor. Unfortunately, she could probably sense his amusement.

“If you will excuse me, Captain,” Troi said with studied politeness

politeness. “I have some more preparations to make for my journey.”

Riker’s grin faded slightly when the counselor rose to leave. “Deanna, I was only joking.”

She turned back, and Picard wondered what impending mischief was hidden in her innocent smile.

“If I remember correctly, you have first-hand experience in determining how many first officers can fit in a shuttlecraft.” Troi sailed off the bridge now that the crew’s attention was riveted on Riker.

Picard could not resist an attack of his own. He raised an inquiring eyebrow and watched his first officer squirm.

“It was an experiment in emergency evacuation procedures,” said Riker. He managed to keep a straight face during this explanation, but his ears were turning bright red. “And the answer is twelve.”

Data swiveled his ops console to face the commander. “If the object of the exercise was to determine maximum passenger density, then even the smallest shuttlecraft model can accommodate more than twelve people.”

“Yes, but at the time we could find only twelve first officers who had shoreleave on Mardi Gras. So we had to make up the difference with some of the locals.”

“You were on Mardi Gras?” Picard reflected on his own shore-leave experiences on that particular planet. “Are you sure Data is old enough to hear the rest of this tale?”

“Sir?” The android looked somewhat confused by the captain’s comment. Geordi’s laughter only added to his puzzlement.

Riker grinned broadly. “Well, he has expressed curiosity about human interpersonal relationships, Captain. How else is he going to learn?”

“Then by all means continue, Number One,” said Picard. “And that’s an order.”

As chief medical officer, Crusher was responsible for the staffing of her sickbay. She prided herself on having assembled an ensemble of first-rate medical personnel for the Enterprise. Assignment to the new starship was already considered a prize, one much sought after by Starfleet doctors and nurses, so turnover in her department was exceptionally low. Nevertheless, the nervous intern who stood before Dr. Crusher’s desk was requesting a transfer.

“How did you learn about the other children?” demanded Crusher. Her voice was sharp with disappointment; Lisa Iovino’s departure would be a genuine loss to sickbay. “Never mind, it doesn’t really matter.”

“Can I join them?” persisted Iovino, not at all sure where she was asking to be sent. All that mattered was that the children were there.

“Yes,” sighed Crusher, She admitted to herself that the Hamlin children had a greater need of the intern’s talents than did the starship crew. “I’m sure I can arrange your transfer to the proper facility.” Ambassador Deelor owed her that much. “And the authorities at Starbase Ten will fill you in on your eventual destination.”

“Thank you, Dr. Crusher,” said Iovino, looking a little dazed at the speed with which her life was changing from its prescribed course. “I never planned on working with children professionally, but these kids—”

“Lisa!” The howl from the medical ward was quickly followed by an ominous crash. “Lisa?”

“He’s supposed to be asleep,” said the intern, racing for the door. “I bribed him into walking, but now he’s starting to climb.”

Still smiling over the destructive antics of the rambunctious Moses, Dr. Crusher left sickbay for a long-overdue field trip. Her

own child, no longer a boy so much as a young man, met her at the entrance to the holodeck. Beyond the gates, she glimpsed a sunset sky streaked with magenta and blue. Enough light remained for a stroll over the rolling hills.

“It was even better when the animals were here,” said Wesley as he and his mother approached the first run of fences. The farm seemed eerily quiet, as if a sorcerer had cast a sleep spell over the land.

Beverly drew in a deep breath of the honeyed air. Old memories, overlaid by her life with Jack and a career in Starfleet, stirred to life. “Oh, I can imagine what it was like. After all, I was born on an agricultural colony.”

Her son unlatched a wooden gate and they passed through. He took the time to close it, even though no lambs would get loose now. Standing in the empty main yard, Wesley pointed out the pens for pigs and the hutches that had held the rabbits. The dripping of a leaky water pump echoed loudly when he stopped talking. Absently rubbing a callus on his hand grown from drawing water for the horses, Wesley tried to make sense of his labors. “I still don’t see why they’ve chosen to live this way. The whole point of technology is to save people from so much hard work, to give them time to do other things.”

“Yes, I suppose,” said Crusher. “But I can understand the Farmers’ reluctance to use complicated machinery. The people of my homeworld would have suffered far less if they hadn’t been so dependent on technology.” The devastation on Arvedda III had occurred before her own birth, but Crusher’s grandmother had passed on the memory of those harsh years. “When essential equipment broke down, they were helpless. The survivors were forced to relearn the old ways on their own, without teachers.”

“I hadn’t thought about that,” said Wesley.

They rambled on in companionable silence until their circuit of the room brought them back to the gates. With one last look at the darkened fields, Wesley shut off the program.

Picard crossed the threshold of the observation lounge, then stopped short when he saw a shadowed figure standing by the windows. He traced the outlines of the silhouette. “You’re up late, Dr. Crusher. Another call from Tsala’s firstborn?”

“No, I’m just brooding,” the woman replied, but she smiled at Picard when he walked up beside her. “Careful, my mood may be contagious.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“I was thinking about Ruthe,” said Crusher. “She’s lived with humans for the last fifteen years. Jean-Luc, what if she’s changed too much for a return to life with the Choraii?”

Picard felt the muscles of his neck and shoulders The Children of Hamlin tighten under the heavy weight of her question. “Then she will have no place left to go.” The sadness of that knowledge overwhelmed him for a moment before he shook his head. “No, that’s not true. She will have to learn to live in both worlds.”

The doctor carried the thought even further than he had intended. “That’s what we’ve done here aboard the Enterprise. We’ve left our homes and chosen to become wanderers, just like the Choraii.”

“We’re a trifle less bloodthirsty,” said Picard dryly.

“But I grant the similarity.” And the comparison helped to still the last of his doubts at having left Ruthe behind. “Have you finished brooding, Beverly?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Good,” Picard said. “Then you’ll appreciate hearing about one of our first officer’s adventures.” The story would make its way through the entire population of the starship by the end of the next day, and the captain wanted the chance to tell it at least once.

Andrew Deelor hadn’t slept, but he waited until the arrival of morning before throwing off the cover from his body and rising from the bed. He wasn’t hungry but he would go in search of food rather than remain here any longer. Gathering up the crumpled cloak that had served as his blanket, he headed toward the cabin door.

As he walked the length of the passenger suite, Deelor realized Ruthe had made no imprint on the interior. Her only possessions had been the cloak and her flute, and she had dropped both to the floor of the transporter chamber. He had given the flute to the young Farmer girl. Children taken from Choraii ships developed into exceptional musicians; perhaps her brief time with them would have an effect. Now all that was left of Ruthe was the worn garment he held in his hands. A faint trace of cinnamon still clung to the fibers.

Deelor stuffed the gray cloth into a disposal chute and left the cabin empty-handed. He traveled light and the weight of her cloak was more than he could bear.

Look for STAR TREK fiction from Pocket Books

Star TrekŽ: The Original Series

Enterprise: The First Adventure ˇ Vonda N. McIntyre

Final Frontier ˇ Diane Carey

Strangers From the Sky ˇ Margaret Wander Bonanno

Spock's World ˇ Diane Duane

The Lost Years ˇ J.M. Dillard

Probe ˇ Margaret Wander Bonanno

Prime Directive ˇ Judith and Garfield Reeves-Stevens

Best Destiny ˇ Diane Carey

Shadows on the Sun ˇ Michael Jan Friedman

Sarek ˇ A.C. Crispin

Federation ˇ Judith and Garfield Reeves-Stevens

Vulcan's Forge ˇ Josepha Sherman & Susan Shwartz

Mission to Horatius ˇ Mack Reynolds

Vulcan's Heart ˇ Josepha Sherman & Susan Shwartz

Novelizations

Star Trek: The Motion Picture ˇ Gene Roddenberry

Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan ˇ Vonda N. McIntyre

Star Trek III: The Search for Spock ˇ Vonda N. McIntyre

Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home ˇ Vonda N. McIntyre

Star Trek V: The Final Frontier ˇ J.M. Dillard

Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country ˇ J.M. Dillard

Star Trek Generations ˇ J.M. Dillard

Starfleet Academy ˇ Diane Carey

Star Trek books by William Shatner with Judith and Garfield Reeves-Stevens

The Ashes of Eden

The Return

Avenger

Star Trek: Odyssey (contains The Ashes of Eden, The Return, and Avenger)

Spectre

Dark Victory