The Children of Hamlin - Carmen Carter [62]
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