The Children of Hamlin - Carmen Carter [37]
Myra waved away his protest like a bad odor. “This is a farm and a farm means work. The youngsters have been idle for too long; they’ve forgotten the value of hard labor. I’ll refresh their memories.”
Under Myra’s constant proddings, the entire group drifted toward the buildings. Tomas marched next to his sister, using his bulk to shield her from Leonard’s attentions. Any objections to the use of the simulation were forgotten.
All preparations for the rendezvous with the B Flat had been made, but the time for Deelor to take control of the bridge had not yet come. Suspended between actions, he and Ruthe could do nothing now except wait.
Deelor sat still as a crouching cat, muscles coiled for a sudden spring. He hadn’t moved from his chair for over an hour, but his mind flitted restlessly between the immutable past and an all too variable future.
Ruthe, on the other hand, was stretched out on the cabin bed listening to the mellow strains of an unaccompanied cello from the ship’s music library. She was obviously content with the present.
“Riker likes you,” said Deelor suddenly.
“Does he?” She looked up at him idly, lost in the music. Deelor wondered if the Choraii would think more highly of humans if they could hear this Bach suite or a Mozart concerto.
“How can you tell?” she asked.
“The way he looks at you.”
“Do I have to do anything about it?”
“No. Not if you don’t want to.” The sarabande gave way to the gavotte, her favorite passage of the D Major suite. He knew enough to keep silent until it was over. At the start of the gigue he continued. “He thinks we’re lovers.”
“Who does?” she asked.
“Riker.”
“Oh, him.” She frowned suddenly. “Is that why he asked me to play for him? Because he likes me?”
“In part. However, he was probably under orders to gather more information about the Choraii.”
Ruthe curled into a ball, a sure sign that his words had disturbed her.
“What did you tell him?” Deelor was careful to project a casual curiosity. If she sensed any tension in the question, she would stop talking altogether.
“I don’t remember.”
She probably didn’t, The past held as little interest for her as the future. Deelor rose from his chair. With a quick tap to the room controls, he cut off the music.
She sat up abruptly. He had her undivided attention.
“Ruthe, you know my position. If the captain and his crew see through your agreement with the Choraii, I won’t be able to back you up. You’re acting without official approval. For your own sake, be very careful around Riker and the others.”
“I don’t like him anyway.”
“Neither do I,” laughed Deelor. “But I like you.” He sighed at her wary look. “And no, you don’t have to do anything about it.”
With a light tap at the ops panel, Data displayed a graphic representation of the Choraii energy net on the main viewer of the bridge. He tapped again, and the sprawling blue web glowed. “This is only a theory,” the android cautioned the two officers seated at the command center.
“Yes, I understand,” said Picard, squinting at the sudden brightness of the screen’s image. He absently rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Please continue.”
“The Choraii net is constructed of flexible strands of energy. I believe it is possible to capture one of those filaments and by bending it create a weak area that can be pierced by a specially constructed probe.”
“For what purpose?” asked Riker, studying the schematic drawing of Data’s design that appeared on the viewer. An animated sequence brought the probe in contact with the net.
“To draw on the net’s energy source.” As Data spoke, the blue lines lost their glow. “We can either bleed the energy out into space or use its power ourselves. In either event, the drained field will be ineffective against our shields.”
“Sounds risky,” said Riker frowning. “What if we can’t control the flow?”
“There is a thirty-four percent probability of an explosive overload,” agreed Data. “As I said, the model is theoretical and may require some adjustment during actual operation.”
Picard