Survivors - Jean Lorrah [60]
So there it was: Nalavia’s people were undemanding and unaggressive because they were drugged and hypnotized. They turned to video entertainment and intoxicants to put feelings into their emotionally deadened lives, while in turn the video programs told them what to believe, even if today’s assertions contradicted yesterday’s.
He had to find Tasha! Nalavia could have her drugged by now. Why hadn’t he insisted on being taken to join her on her supposed “agricultural tour”?
No. As long as Nalavia thought he did not suspect anything, Data remained free. But if the President did not produce Tasha by dinnertime, Data could no longer pretend to be fooled. Before then, he must find out where Tasha was being held, and rescue her.
So he prattled to his guide about school systems in the Federation until they were back at the Presidential Palace. Then he excused himself, “to dress for dinner,” and hurried to his room, first assuring himself that Tasha was not in hers.
Finally he had time to take apart his combadge. There was nothing wrong with it-except that it wouldn’t work! His tricorder confirmed external interference to the signal.
In an hour, when it was time to go to dinner, the masquerade would end, for Data could not pretend to accept whatever lame excuse Nalavia gave for Tasha’s continued absence. Desperate now, he accessed Nalavia’s computer again, even though it was in use. He hoped that simply spying through the tricorder would not be detected, and might provide him a clue to Tasha’s whereabouts.
There were business dealings going on at one terminal, military orders being issued at another. The main communications terminal was not in use when he began listening … but after a time someone accessed it to call “Droo.” When Droo answered, the caller said, “She’s fuming, Droo. You better have found that Yar woman!”
“I tell ya, she’s nowhere on the grounds!” Droo replied. “She musta got clean away-no tellin’ where she’ll be by now.”
“Damn you-it’ll be my-“
“It is your head, Jokane,” Nalavia suddenly interrupted on her private line. “Report to foot patrol duty. And Droo, you have my authority to conscript half the army if need be. I can’t stall the android much longer-get that woman back here by sunset, or you’ll be guarding an ice mine on an asteroid. If I’m going to deal with Starfleet, I cannot have one of my hostages at large!”
Chapter Seven
TASHA YAR WAS Starfleet Security trained. Once she was certain that no one was going to attack her in the night, and that the door was indeed barred, not locked in some way that could be picked or jimmied, she prowled the bare but adequate room that Darryl Adin had her locked into, only long enough to ascertain that there was no escape.
The building was stone, with hand-laid parquet floors of the kind made only in times when manual labor is cheap. Without a tricorder, she could not be sure there were no hidden sensors, but she could not imagine where they would be installed unless parts of the wall were false. The stone felt real, and gave back a solid thump when she struck it. The wooden door frames had the patina of genuine age, and she could detect no tampering with them.
There were no windows, and the only doors were the one to the hall and one leading into a primitive but functional bath. The only mirror, small but clear, was in there, hung above the basin, but it was not positioned to take in the bedroom, making it an unlikely candidate for spy device.
The bed consisted of a thick pad on a wooden frame, covered with soft blue linens. Yar took it all apart, felt every bit of the mattress, and then remade the bed. There was nothing, and no devices on its underside.
What would they expect to find out by spying on her anyway? Dare had her combadge. She couldn’t communicate with Data. Dare would expect her to do exactly what she was doing, and then, when it became obvious that she could not get out, rest so that she could face whatever happened in the morning.
There was no closet, only a peg rail. A soft blue