The Children of Hamlin - Carmen Carter [52]
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 firsthand 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