This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS ? POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, NY 10020 Visit us on the World Wide Web http://www.SimonSays.com/st http://www.startrek.com Copyright © 1988 Paramount Pictures Corporation. All Rights Reserved. ? STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures Corporation. ? This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc., under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures Corporation. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 ISBN: 0-7434-1215-X POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc. Dedicated to MDK, who has put up with this madness of mine for the past twelve years and is resigned to the fact that it may never go away. Acknowledgments I wrote Dreams of the Raven over the course of two years, with no thought of publication until the manuscript was finished. In a moment of absolute insanity, I volunteered to write The Children of Hamlin in three months. Writing to the demands of a deadline was an entirely new experience, and I could never have succeeded without the help of the following people: Daphne Kutzer, who knew I could do it and exhibited great patience as I continually told her why I couldn’t. She read every word and kept asking for more. Pat Hoffmann, who held my hand long-distance and got me over the rough spots. Dave Stern, who asked me to write a Star Trek: The Next Generation novel and let me change my mind after I said no. Denise Tathwell, who knows the crew of the NCC-1701D better than I do and made sure I got them right. And special thanks to Apple Computer for developing the Macintosh. (If you have to ask, you wouldn’t understand.) Chapter One Day is a concept born of planets spinning captive about a sun. In deep space, far removed from the light and heat of flaming stars, the kingdom of perpetual night reigns . . . “CAPTAIN, WHAT ARE you doing awake at this hour?” The words pricked the fragile bubble of thought that carried Jean-Luc Picard through space. He pulled back from the void, back inside the protective shell of the ship’s hull. His gaze focused on the clear glass of the port window and met his own reflection: dark, piercing eyes set in a lean face, its strong features heightened by a high forehead and closely cropped fringe of gray hair. The fingers of his hands, resting lightly on the clear glass of the port window, were stiff with cold, their warmth drained into space. He lifted his palms from the chill surface, and turned to face the woman who had entered the observation room. “I might ask the same of you, Dr. Crusher,” he said. Beverly Crusher walked up beside him and peered out the window. The captain continued to look at her. “It’s all in the title. I’m a doctor; we’re always awake when everyone else—almost everyone else—is asleep.” She yawned and ran a smoothing hand back over her long and somewhat tousled red hair. “What’s your excuse, insomnia or ship’s duty?” “Philosophy.” But the formless, almost mystical emotion that had welled within him had slipped away, and he had no desire to call it back now that she was here. “How serious was the medical call?” “Not serious enough to warrant a report to the ship’s captain, if that’s what you’re asking.” She shivered and wrapped the blue medical jacket more tightly around her slender frame. Picard stepped away from the chilled air lining the port wall, and out of the lounge into the corridor beyond. Crusher, her easy stride matching his own, kept pace beside him. The curving passageway was empty and still; the soft glow of deck lights tracked a path for their boots. “Nevertheless,” he said, “I’m always concerned about the welfare of the crew.” “Then you’ll be relieved to know that Lieutenant T’sala’s firstborn is resting quietly after a somewhat nasty bout of colic.” “Ah, colic.” Picard arranged his features to convey what he hoped was sympathetic interest. “I didn’t think Vulcan infants were prone to colic.” “Well, strictly speaking, Surell’s condition involves a circulatory rather than gastric distress, but the result is a baby that cries very loudly for hours on end. It might as well be colic.” Crusher threw him a quick glance and smiled. “But these aren’t the usual concerns of a ship’s captain, are they?” “Perhaps not,” he conceded with an answering smile. Even in the subdued light of the corridor he could detect the glint of amusement in her eyes. Such very blue eyes. Picard cleared his throat with a self-conscious cough. “How have our new passengers taken to life aboard the Enterprise?” “The Oregon Farmers?” The doctor sighed. “Well, of course, Starfleet certifies that all emigrant populations are medically fit. And it’s to be expected that there will be some emotional adjustments when faced with such a different environment as a starship . . . ” “Dr. Crusher,” broke in the captain. “What seems to be the problem?” “No problem yet,” she said. “But Troi reports that one of the young Farmers seems to be unusually fascinated by starship technology. He’s been severely reprimanded by the community for exploring the ship.” “I see.” Picard pondered the implications. “Poor young man. I gather the Oregonians are rather suspicious of modern technology. Still, I dare say it’s not too serious. In another day they’ll all be on their new planet, safe from the corrupting influence of—” He stopped suddenly in the corridor, his prediction unfinished. “What’s wrong?” “Can’t you feel it?” Picard balanced the weight of his body on both feet, reading the subtle movements of the deck. “The Enterprise just changed course . . . and increased warp speed.” His right hand flew up to the silver emblem pinned to his chest, activating his communications link with the ship. “Picard to bridge . . . ” “Riker here, Captain. We’ve received a priority distress call from a Federation starship. They’re under attack” “Who is attacking them?” demanded the captain. “The Ferengi?” “Unknown. It’s an automatic signal, probably from an ejected buoy. We’re still trying to raise a response from the ship itself.” “Very well, Number One. I’m on my way.” Picard broke contact and erupted into a fast-paced walk. “Good night, Captain,” Crusher called after him. “Oh, yes,” Picard paused in mid-stride and looked back over his shoulder. “Don’t wait for me,” she said without changing the pace of her leisurely stroll. “The Enterprise is your patient, not mine.” Picard managed a parting wave, then walked on, duty wiping all thought of Beverly Crusher from his mind. Wesley Crusher had been creeping silently through the cabin day area when the beep of an emergency medical call pulled his mother out of her bed. Ducking back into his room, he listened to the muffled sounds of her conversation with T’sala and the accompanying shrieks of a Vulcan infant who was too young to control pain or distress. His mother left their quarters a few minutes later. After counting to thirty, Wesley peered out of the cabin and checked to see if she was still in the vicinity. To his relief, she was gone—nevertheless, his heart was beating faster than normal when he stepped out into the corridor and headed toward the turbolift. He surely felt old enough to manage his own time without having to account to his mother, but she might not agree. So the easiest course was to keep her from finding out he was leaving their quarters. The ship was quiet this late at night, but there were still people moving from one section to another. No one he passed was bothered to see him—despite his youth, Wesley was as tall as many of the adults and his striped cadet shirt emphasized his connection with the crew. His reputation as an earnest, precocious student helped lull any remaining suspicions. Dnnys was waiting at the appointed place, a deserted crew lounge on Deck 21. “I thought you weren’t coming.” “I was delayed,” said Wesley. A knowing grin broke out over the other boy’s face. “Yeah, I almost got caught, too. But after the last whipping Tomas gave me, nobody believes I’d try to leave the passengers’ quarters again.” He snapped to mock attention. “So where do we start, Mr. Crusher?” “Engineering,” said Wesley. He had mapped out their course while lying in bed, passing the time until the rendezvous. “I can get you into certain nonrestricted areas, but you’ve got to be on your best behavior because you’re going to be noticed.” “Who me?” asked Dnnys with wide-eyed innocence. He looked down at his traditional Farmer clothing of faded blue pants of roughly sewn cotton and a wool overshirt with a red and black patchwork pattern. “I would have brought a change of clothes, but I don’t think it would have made much difference.” Wesley pointed to the Farmer boy’s shaggy brown hair. “You’d need a haircut, too.” Dnnys shrugged off his appearance. “Can we visit the bridge?” “No way,” said Wesley emphatically. “The captain has declared it off limits to all kids. Before I was an acting ensign, he yelled at me for even looking at the bridge from the turbolift.” He paused, then continued. “I didn’t mean to boast. About being an ensign, I mean.” “You didn’t,” said Dnnys. “Not much, anyway. If I could work on a starship’s control center, I’d crow like a morning cock.” He paced to the threshold of the lounge. “Come on, let’s get goin...
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