Chapter Two

IN SPARKLING COLUMNS of dancing molecules, the away team of three women, two men, and an android materialized in the central square of the village of New Reykjavik on the planet of Selva. One by one Captain Picard, Commander Riker, Lieutenant Commander Data, Ensign Ro, Doctor Crusher, and Counselor Troi stepped forward and surveyed the tiny village, home to barely over two hundred souls.

After having read about the settlers and their ideals of self-sufficiency and simplicity, Deanna Troi expected to see a quaint hamlet with, perhaps, sod houses and mud-packed roofs. Instead she saw a fortress. The houses and public buildings were ugly and built of corrugated galvanized metal. The walls of the compound towered at least fifteen meters into the air and were also constructed of fortified metal sheeting; they were topped with barbed wire and jagged metal stakes.

Turrets that were little more than stilt houses guarded each corner of the fort and the lone vaultlike gate. The square had three black trees in it, but they looked forsaken and lonely compared to the riotous profusion of plant life that towered over the gleaming walls and undulated into the distance. The trees in the square and those close to the walls had been drastically pruned so that no one could hide in them and leap into the compound from their branches.

A child of about six or seven stood looking curiously at them. “Have you come to kill the drummers?” she asked.

Will Riker knelt down to meet the child eye-to-eye. “We haven’t come to kill anyone,” he answered. “We’ve come to make peace. Isn’t that better?”

“No.” She shook her head firmly. “My daddy says there won’t be any peace until they’re dead.”

Before this disturbing conversation could continue they were surrounded by adult colonists and children of various ages. All of them sported the same nondescript but practical brown clothing, and they all wore a wary expression that said “We don’t trust strangers.” They looked uncomfortably like prisoners to Deanna Troi, especially with the barbed wire and walls surrounding them.

The counselor noticed several of the colonists staring at Ensign Ro, as if they trusted her least of all. But the slim Bajoran seemed oblivious to their scrutiny as she studied the readings on her tricorder.

President Oscaras came striding out of the crowd. “Welcome!” he bellowed. “Had we known when you were coming, we would have arranged a formal welcoming party.”

“We don’t wish to interrupt your daily routine,” Picard said, forcing a smile.

Oscaras shook his head with frustration and declared, “That’s our problem. We have no daily routine, because we can’t go out of the compound! We had intended to subsist solely off the wealth of this planet—you could live off the sap contained in those trees—but the savages have made it impossible. The replicator we have was only supposed to tide us over until we got crops planted and harvested, but now we depend upon it for everything—from the clothes on our backs to the food we eat. As I told you on your ship, we never intended to manufacture phasers, but that is what the replicator is doing now.”

“Do you have a transporter?” asked Data.

“No,” answered Oscaras. “That is one concession I refuse to make. At least we will get exercise by carrying our goods and walking.”

Beverly Crusher knelt down to examine the little girl who had spoken to Riker.

Smiling warmly, she maneuvered her medical tricorder from the girl’s dirty face to her skinny legs. “I’m a doctor,” she assured her. “I just want to make sure you are feeling all right. How do you like living here?”

“I want to go home,” the girl answered honestly. “Back to Iceland.”

A red-haired woman who looked like a grownup version of the child cupped her shoulders and spoke to her disapprovingly, “This is home for you, Senna. You know that. You shouldn’t complain.”

“But she asked me,” the girl protested.

“Actually,” said a young man in the crowd, “there are a lot of us who would like to go home.”

His announcement was met with a mixture of boos and muttered approvals.

“Enough of that talk!” snarled Oscaras. Under his stern gaze the murmurs died down. “The crew of the Enterprise hasn’t come here to listen to our complaints or take us back to Earth. They’ve come here to make this planet habitable by ridding us of those vermin who plague us!”

That statement was followed by cheers. Picard glanced uncomfortably at his crew, then cleared his throat. He kept harrumphing until the cheers faded.

“I hate to inform you,” he began, “but the Klingons have as much right to be on this planet as you do. There’s good indication that they’re refugees from a war and survivors of a crash. If so, they’ve been here nine years longer than you have. What we will endeavor to do is to reach them and persuade them to live in peace with you.”

There was hooting and mocking laughter from some, while others stood dumbfounded, staring at the strangers as if they had two heads. Deanna sensed a bewildering array of emotions, from despair and acceptance to rage and disbelief. Clearly, this was not the happiest colony in the Federation, and she tried to have compassion for the stress they had been under from the constant threat of attack. She tried to imagine their joy in first arriving on this pristine planet, only to be replaced by fear and bigotry after the attacks started.

“You could sooner talk to the trees,” scoffed one man.

A woman turned her anger on Oscaras. “You told us they would help. They’re siding with them—the savages!”

The president scowled. “I said I would call the Federation for help, nothing more. They don’t know what we’re up against. They even have a Klingon on their vessel, although they had the decency not to bring him. I say let them go into the forest and search for the Klingons! They will soon learn there is no way to deal with these beasts.”

This solution was clearly not popular with anyone, and loud arguments commenced.

Some of the colonists began to wander away from the impromptu town meeting, their faces reflecting disgust and resignation. Deanna felt driven to do or say something that would lighten the somber mood of their arrival on Selva.

The Betazoid pointed to the stockade that surrounded them. “We want to help you tear down those walls,” she declared. “Isn’t that what you want? To be able to wander freely on this world you’ve chosen for yourselves? More deaths and hatred won’t achieve it.”

“Can’t you capture them?” asked the red-haired mother of the six-year-old. “Take them back to their own people. That would be all right with us.”

Several colonists seized upon this idea and voiced their approval. Picard held up his hands to quiet them.

“We are contacting the Klingon High Council to inform them of this situation,”

he explained. “But there’s very little we can tell them—we have to find the Klingons and learn more about them first. I must warn you that capturing the Klingons and expelling them from this planet against their will is a last resort.”

“Give us better weapons and scanners!” shouted a burly man. “We’ll finish them off without you.”

Judging by the cries of approval, this was the most popular suggestion yet, thought Deanna. Oscaras shook his head at his visitors as if these sentiments, grotesque as they were, couldn’t be helped.

“There is Marta,” he said, pointing to a pretty blond woman. “She lost her husband in the first attack. And Joseph—his wife was on a science team that was studying the chucks, which is our name for the predominant mammal on the planet.

She was killed for the food in her pack. Ask Lucius to show you the souvenir he got from his encounter with the drummers—a scar that runs from his neck to his navel. And Edward, what happened to your son?”

An old man licked his dry lips before replying, “They mauled him to death—like animals.”

Captain Picard swallowed before answering. “We’re not here to defend these attacks. You’ve lived with this terror for many months, and we’ve only just found out about it. But Klingons are allies of the Federation, and the same laws protect them.”

“But they have no laws!” protested Marta.

“Then they haven’t been brought up as Klingons,” answered Picard. “What do you really know about them? Nothing. Except that they attack you, seeking food. Have you ever left them food or tried to make peace?

The old man, Edward, shook his head. “You are right, Oscaras. Let them go into the forest. After they’ve lost a few sons and daughters they may listen to reason.”

“Perhaps we should speak to the captive,” suggested Data.

A dark-skinned woman approached Data and sniffed him suspiciously. “What are you?” she asked.

“An android,” he replied. “I was created by Doctor Singh—”

“Not now, Data,” interrupted the captain. “We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other. I believe, President Oscaras, that we should see the captive as soon as possible.”

“Come,” said the bearded man. “I’ll give you a quick tour of the compound on our way.”

Oscaras led his visitors past the largest of the corrugated buildings, which seemed to Deanna like a fortress. “That building houses our replicator, subspace radio, science lab, and sickbay,” he explained. “I don’t believe there’s anything in there that you aren’t familiar with. Families have their own dwellings, and the younger unattached men and women live in dormitories on the other side of the square. That other large building is our communal dining hall, and it also serves as a courthouse and recreation room.

“In our original plan,” he continued, “families were supposed to have houses and plots of land interspersed throughout the forest. Obviously, we had to abandon that idea. We are a little pressed for space, so families have been asked not to have any more children until we resolve this problem.”

“Do you know how many Klingons live out there?” asked Riker, making a sweeping motion that took in the forest.

“They attack in small groups,” said Oscaras, “and we’ve never seen more than a handful at a time.”

“If the Klingons are the group we think they are,” said Picard, “there would be slightly under fifty of them.”

Oscaras gave a hollow laugh. “If there were fifty of them,” he scoffed, “they would have killed us all by now.”

He stopped outside a windowless corrugated shed that looked more beaten and weathered than any other building in the compound. The walls near the thick metal door bulged as if something inside had been trying to batter its way out.

“You keep him in here?” asked Beverly Crusher, clearly shocked.

“It’s better than he deserves,” answered Oscaras, scowling, “and certainly better than he’s used to.” The president of the colony lowered his voice to add, “If it had been left to the majority, the Klingon would have been executed for murder by now.”

Picard frowned. “Capital punishment has been abandoned for centuries on Earth.”

“If there were creatures like this on Earth,” said Oscaras, “they would have to reinstate it. I warn you that the prisoner has been placed in restraints, but that’s for his own safety. He threw himself against the walls with such force that we feared he might injure himself.”

As Oscaras reached for the heavy bolt that locked the door Deanna saw Captain Picard and Data exchange glances, and Data nodded slightly. The android must have been given a secret order, she knew immediately. She had told herself to remain calm and nonjudgmental about anything she might see on this planet, but the raw emotions of hatred and terror emanating from the crude shed made her sick to her stomach. Involuntarily, she stepped back as Oscaras yanked the bolt and opened the door.

It was dark and foul-smelling inside the shack, like a primeval cave. Captain Picard wrinkled his regal nose but stepped forthrightly into the darkness.

Oscaras motioned the others to stay back.

“There won’t be room for all of you inside,” he said.

“Let Doctor Crusher and Counselor Troi enter,” ordered Riker. “Data, Ro, and I will remain here.”

Doctor Crusher was already pushing her way inside, and Deanna reluctantly followed. The counselor’s reluctance was not based on fear or disgust, but rather on the certainty that her opinion of human beings, who constituted half her heritage, was about to be downgraded.

“Let’s have some light!” ordered Picard.

“Sorry,” said Oscaras. He reached inside the doorway and grabbed a battery-operated lantern. He turned it on, then returned it to its hanger on the wall.

Deanna gasped as the light revealed the inhabitant of the decrepit shed. Against one rusted wall, restrained by straps and a crude straightjacket, sat a pathetic young Klingon surrounded by bits of rotting food and his own feces. He blinked and turned away from the unaccustomed light. Then he drew his thin, dirty knees up to his chest as if he was about to be beaten.

Picard swallowed hard, mustered a smile, and said, “chay’. tlhlngan Hol Dajatlh ‘a’?”

The Klingon blinked at him in amazement and shook the strands of dark, matted hair from his face. Finally he lowered his legs slightly and seemed about to speak—but instead bared a set of jagged teeth and hissed.

Beverly Crusher looked twice as mad as the bound Klingon. “Release him immediately!” she ordered Oscaras. “This is no way to keep an animal, let alone a humanoid.”

Oscaras poked his head in the door and mustered all the tact at his disposal as he replied, “I would advise against that, Doctor. He has bitten several of us, and he would instantly attempt to escape.”

“Wouldn’t you?” she snapped back. “Release him immediately so that I can examine him.”

“You can make a preliminary examination while he’s restrained,” Oscaras countered. “Or may I suggest we stun him with a phaser first?”

Deanna watched the Klingon, who seemed to be quite interested in this exchange.

Probably it was the first time he had seen anyone argue with his chief captor.

His eyes, though reddened and wild, looked intelligent, and she judged his age to be about thirteen by Earth standards. Despite the filthy conditions of his imprisonment, he maintained a sort of primitive dignity—like photos she had seen of magnificent wild creatures that used to be housed in places like this on Earth, called zoos. She was certainly glad the captain had not brought Worf along. Seeing this, he would have throttled several of the colonists by now.

“I have a better idea,” said Picard. “Let us beam him aboard the Enterprise where Doctor Crusher can examine him at her leisure in our sickbay. Also, we’ll see if Lieutenant Worf can communicate with him.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” answered Oscaras. “He is due to be tried now that you are here. Also, we are hoping that some of his confederates will try to get him out. He howls when they begin drumming, so they know he’s here.”

“Do you refuse to release him in our custody?” asked Picard, as if clarifying the point rather than pressing it.

“I’m afraid I must,” answered Oscaras, “for the moment. I’ll take it up with the colonists, but the decision is mine.”

Beverly Crusher looked angry enough to bite off Oscaras’s head, but Picard flashed her a look that warned her to be calm. The captain was planning something, thought Deanna, and that kept her from adding her opinion to the matter.

The captain turned to the Klingon prisoner and said, “pich vlghajbe’.”

Again, the boy blinked at the captain in surprise, as if one of these groomed and flat-headed savages couldn’t possibly know his language. This reinforced in Deanna’s mind the theory that the Klingons of Selva had raised themselves since they were small children, not knowing anyone else in the universe existed until the settlers arrived. Then their world and everything they knew had been turned completely on its head, and they had reacted violently.

“Lu”,” the boy grunted.

Picard smiled slightly and left the shed. Beverly gave the boy an encouraging smile and followed the captain out, as did Deanna.

Oscaras did not look pleased. “What were you saying to him?” he asked accusingly.

“I will arrange Klingon language lessons for you,” answered the captain testily.

“In the meantime, I don’t want any harm to befall that prisoner.”

“You can rest assured of that,” said Oscaras. “So what is our course of action?”

“We’re going to return to the ship to discuss that.” answered Picard. He tapped his communicator badge, which responded with a chirp. “Six to beam up.”

“Aye, sir,” answered the voice of Chief O’Brien.

Oscaras stepped back as his six interstellar visitors dematerialized on the spot.

Picard and party stepped quickly off the transporter pads, and the captain motioned to Data. “Take the controls,” he ordered. “Get him up here immediately.”

“Thank you.” Beverly said with a sigh of relief. “I’ll arrange a secured bed for him in sickbay.”

O’Brien stepped away from the transporter console as Data took his place and entered the coordinates. “I am omitting his restraints,” the android reported.

“Number One, phaser on light stun,” ordered the captain.

The bearded first officer drew his phaser and checked its setting. They waited tensely while a scrawny, crouched figure materialized on the transporter platform. The Klingon’s eyes stared wildly at them for a moment, then he realized that his restraints were gone. He leapt to his feet and bounded off the transporter platform with a swiftness that took everyone by surprise. He was almost out the doorway by the time Riker took aim and stunned him with a glowing ray of light. The young Klingon staggered for a moment, and Data rushed to catch him. The android lifted the unconscious boy in his arms as if he were an inconsequential piece of foam insulation.

“To sickbay,” said Beverly, leading the way.

“Bridge to Picard,” came the familiar voice of Geordi La Forge.

The captain tapped his communicator. “Picard here.”

“President Oscaras wants to talk to you. He sounds awfully angry.”

“Does he?” Picard smiled. “I’ll take it in my ready room. Tell him to wait until I get there.”

The captain strode out of the transporter room followed by Riker and Deanna Troi. That left only Chief O’Brien and Ensign Ro.

“What happened down there?” asked the ruddy-faced transporter operator.

Ensign Ro didn’t hide the concern in her voice as she replied, “We may have chosen sides.”

Captain Picard settled into the chair behind his desk and flicked on his viewscreen. The flustered face of Raul Oscaras glared at him.

“How dare you abduct our prisoner?”

“I’m sure I could find any number of regulations that would permit me to do what I did,” replied the captain. “In fact, I could probably find some that would allow me to place you under arrest. Federation rules are quite strict on the treatment of prisoners, and it doesn’t matter how angry you are at them.”

President Oscaras’s expression softened somewhat, but he remained defiant.

“Captain, may I ask you how you are keeping the Klingon? He is either in restraints or under sedation, I know.”

Picard frowned, “He’s under the doctor’s care. The fact of the matter is that someone must befriend that young Klingon. You are obviously not the ones to do it There are a great many life-forms in that forest, and we have no way of knowing which are Klingons and which are sloths, chucks, or whatever else may be down there. You, in nine months of looking, haven’t found their tribe. If you actually seek a resolution to this problem—and not just revenge—you had better start cooperating with us.”

Looking humbled, Oscaras bowed his head. “You are right, Captain,” he admitted.

“We haven’t gotten off to a very good start. I had hoped the visual record of the latest attack would be enough to show you what we are up against. Perhaps you got some idea from talking with our people today about how horrifying this has been for us. You live on a starship, and if you find something unpleasant, you simply pick up and go to another part of the galaxy. We can’t do that. Our frustration is total.”

“I realize that,” said Picard, softening his own attitude. “You’ve been in a state of war, and war is dehumanizing. I can assure you that I have negotiated peace on a huge scale, between entire worlds, but that may have been easier than trying to solve this problem. We don’t even know where to find the other combatants.”

Oscaras held out his hands pleadingly. “Give us another chance, Captain,” he asked. “Will you and your officers please come back for dinner tonight? You may keep the Klingon captive as long as you like. Nothing more will be said about it.”

“Very well,” said Picard. “We’ll beam down in six hours. Out.” The captain turned off his screen, then pressed another button. “Lieutenant Worf, will you please come in here?”

“Yes, sir,” came the deep voice.

Already on the bridge, the Klingon entered the captain’s ready room immediately.

He stood waiting at attention.

“Please sit,” said Picard. “Have you heard about what happened down on the planet?”

“Very little,” answered Worf. “I understand that we brought the captured Klingon aboard and that he’s in sickbay.”

“He was caged like an animal,” said Picard frankly.

The Klingon gritted his teeth and growled under his breath.

“I felt the same way,” said Picard, “but now I’m realizing that this handful of humans and Klingons has been at war with one another. I talked to people down there whose husbands, wives, and children were brutally murdered by the Klingons. The settlers have become desensitized and dehumanized. In all likelihood the Klingons have been brought up with no laws but those of their own survival. Have you talked to anyone on the High Council about this?”

“Yes”—Worf scowled—”I talked to Kang. As I feared, they don’t wish to bring up the loss of the Kapor’At colonies. The records are sealed, the histories rewritten, and that’s the way they want them to stay. I suspect there may be a way to secretly repatriate the survivors to the home worlds, but there will be no official help. No official acknowledgement.”

“Then we’re on our own.” Picard nodded grimly. “Worf, you must befriend that boy down in sickbay and gain his trust. I believe he remembers some of the Klingon language, and the more that comes back to him, the better we’ll be able to communicate. Doctor Crusher and Counselor Troi will give you all the help they can, but he’ll never trust them as he will you. And you were right—you will have to go down to the planet and find all of them.”

“Yes, Captain.” Worf nodded. “I am ready.”

“You’re relieved of bridge duty and all other assignments for the duration of this mission. Let me know when you’re ready to begin your search on the planet, and what you need. Dismissed.”

“Yes, sir,” said Worf, nodding. He stood, started for the door, then turned to say, “I have known what it is to be orphaned and cut off from my own people. To lose my laws and heritage. My adoptive parents returned them to me, and I will do the same for the survivors of Kapor’At.”

“I have no doubt,” said Picard. “Good luck.”

Worf could hear the howls and screams emanating from sickbay when he was still several meters away from the door. He began to jog and reached the doorway just as Beverly Crusher tumbled backward into his arms. She nearly jabbed him with the hypo in her hand.

“Thank God you’re here!” she gasped. “He broke out of his restraints.”

Worf gently moved the doctor aside and strode into sickbay as another howl erupted. He saw a scrawny, dirty Klingon slashing his clawlike hands at two attendants who were trying to ward him off with trays. The crouching figure seemed determined to use screaming and sheer noise to keep his attackers at bay, and Worf marveled at his lung power.

His back was to Worf, and the elder Klingon was able to study the younger one for a second. He could almost sense the frightened youngster trying to figure out where he was and what he was going to do about it He had decided for certain that he wasn’t going to let any of them touch him.

Worf motioned the attendants back, then showed that he had a certain amount of lung power himself as he bellowed in his deepest voice, “yitamchoH!”

The adolescent Klingon whirled around and stared in amazement at something he had never seen before —an adult Klingon! His mouth gaped open between sunken cheeks, and he stumbled backward as Worf walked slowly toward him.

“Do you have a name?” Worf asked in Klingon.

The boy shook his head—not in answer but in disbelief, as if he couldn’t conceive of another creature like himself, speaking a version of his tongue, in a place as strange as this. He lunged at one of the attendants and grabbed his tray. He held it in one hand and drummed on it with the other, his long fingernails beating a frenetic tattoo. The boy accompanied his drumming with howls and guttural groans, as if Worf was an evil spirit that could be driven away. The security officer stopped his advance, hoping that might stop the awful racket.

“Can you speak?” Worf asked with exasperation, “or only make noise?”

The boy stopped for a moment and muttered, “Am I dead?”

Worf laughed, and the unexpected sound of his laughter disarmed the young Klingon even more. It also caused him to increase his drumming and howling.

“Enough,” Worf pleaded, still speaking Klingon. “We won’t harm you, I promise.”

“Or laugh at him either,” Doctor Crusher suggested. “Just keep talking to him, as gently as possible.”

The sight of the older Klingon and the red-haired female speaking to each other seemed to transfix the adolescent, and he stopped his frantic drumming. He waited, his frightened eyes shifting warily from one person to another.

“I am Worf,” said the security officer, tapping his chest. “Do you have a name?”

“Turrok,” answered the boy.

“Turrok,” said Worf. “Welcome to the Enterprise.”