Kerzoinky Blue Part 2 -- Kerzoinky To You, Too
1.
"I have two hours," Gwaheer said, sitting on the edge of a chair facing her. Deanna sat upright on the couch and nodded, biting her lower lip. He'd showed up on schedule, next day, same time, and she hoped he didn't sense how nervous she was.
"I owe you my thanks for what you've done," she said. "You forced me to recognize that I do still have some unresolved feelings about my relationship with Worf."
He smiled -- not in amusement, but in relief and affection. She'd regained her familiarity with his face, as she continued remembering the rest of what had been blocked all these years. Of course, now that she wasn't a small child, she noticed more about him than before, and in different terms. His flat nose had more minute horizontal ridges than a Bajoran's, and a lower profile from brows down to where the tip of his nose rose above wide nostrils. In the relatively-bright light of her quarters, his round pupils were nearly pinpoints in the centers of his wide turquoise eyes, and streaks of pale gold, not normally visible when his eyes were dilated, radiated outward from the pupils.
"Sun in your eyes," she said abruptly.
"What?" He tilted his head, one ear pointed at the ceiling.
"It's what I called the gold streaks in your eyes, when I was little."
"Oh, yes. I see you've been thinking about that."
"I spent hours last night, remembering. I'm glad you came back."
His sunny eyes were very expressive; his pupils resized themselves, dilating then shrinking again. "Are you going to speak to one of the other counselors about your feelings, now that you've admitted you have them?"
"I considered that. I wouldn't be comfortable speaking to Blevins, and Lieutenant Timon wouldn't be suitable, either. I don't think she would be comfortable counseling a superior officer. She hasn't yet found her footing as a counselor." Deanna sighed. "And talking to Beverly would be comfortable, but she hasn't been trained so thoroughly in counseling. So, I was hoping you wouldn't mind."
"What makes you think I'm qualified?"
"You told my father you were trained for it, and that you'd done a lot of interspecies work. You said you've specialized in humanity, and you've also known my family long enough to understand the basic Betazoid psyche. You correctly diagnosed my problem in the first place."
"All right, enough -- you want me to help. How can I refuse?" He laughed, in short, airy bursts. "I have to warn you, though, that I'm often very busy."
"What do you do, exactly?"
He flattened his ears against his head, a gesture that, from his expression, must signify resignation and distaste. "I wish that I could provide you with more details, but that isn't possible at this time. Do you want to begin to discuss your problem now?"
She nodded. "The sooner I start, the sooner I'll finish."
"True. Tell me, first of all, how the song I gave you made you feel."
"I think it shocked me more than anything else."
"What part of the song hurt the most?"
Deanna looked at the floor and realized she'd started hugging herself already, arms crossed defensively across her stomach. "All of it."
"Do you think it described your relationship with Worf?"
Remembering proved more difficult than she'd thought it would be. "I don't know. He first showed interest in me on his birthday, after returning from a bat'leth tournament. He'd gone through some sort of . . . anomaly, that split the space-time continuum and subjected him to a few different alternate realities -- in some of them, he and I were married."
"And that led him to explore the idea of it in this reality. Did he ever tell you as much, or is that not an observation he would make?"
"No, he never said it in so many words. I guessed that must have been the catalyst. And I knew that Will disliked the relationship from the beginning, not because he was jealous, but. . . well, maybe it was. I never found out exactly why."
"Will Riker, you mean. Let's leave him out of it for the moment. How would you characterize your relationship with Worf? What was it you liked best about it?"
"I loved him." She paused, and he waited, while she struggled to keep herself from crying. "He was so affectionate and kind. He went out of his way to show his feelings. And the. . . physicalness, not just the sex, but the way he was *there.* He felt solid, and protective."
"Did that change?"
"Gradually. There was no drastic shift, just a slow pulling away, as if I'd disappointed him somehow. He was there, and behaving the same as before, only. . . . It was like he'd been. . . I'm sorry, there aren't words for it."
<Show me, then. I'm listening.>
She looked up, into his eyes. They dilated slowly, and the golden rays shortened and became zigzags. "You can trust me, *kahzan'kahliu.*"
"I'm not very good at this. I'm only an empath, and I can't project, as my mother does."
"Close your eyes. Allow me to help."
"I trust you," she said, more to herself than to him. With her eyes closed, she waited, her heart fluttering.
She felt nothing, but heard his thoughts instead. <Remember the first time I took you flying, how frightened you were, and how you clung to my arm. You had to let go so I could hold you. I never dropped you. I will not drop you. It may be uncomfortable to remember, but it is necessary, and I am with you. Yes?>
<Yes. Is this going to be similar to how I helped my mother with her memories of Kestra?>
<Don't distract yourself with your analytical tendencies. Why did you choose to be with Worf?>
The Klingon's face came to mind. Worf, in a good mood, in an affectionate mood, laughing. Worf with light in his eyes, smiling. The feeling of being held in such strong arms, the smoldering kisses. . . .
<Now, how did you feel after it became obvious something was wrong?>
She had trouble finding those emotions. The sense of wrongness pervaded, but no specific memories surfaced. She felt frustration. Defeat.
The shift came suddenly; a wall disintegrated, and she shuddered under the brunt of cascading memories. Gwaheer was still with her, just his presence with no emotion -- how did he do that? -- but he allowed her to regain her control and sort through it all on her own.
She picked a memory of walking with Worf through the corridors after an intense shift on the bridge, watching the captain negotiate with a hostile first contact. Worf had kept his frustration and anger at the aliens under tight control, and she could feel it seething beneath his stern exterior. She'd tried to draw him out; he had retreated to the holodeck and fought with holographic creatures until exhausted, then arrived in her quarters expecting food, sex, and no questions -- he'd gotten two out of three, then lost his temper when she finally succumbed to her concern over his silent brooding and asked a question.
<You understood why.>
<I understood that he needed to vent his anger. He knew that I would understand.>
<Would you say, then, that he believed the two of you were well-suited because you would always understand his emotional needs?>
<That would be a fair assumption.>
<What did he do to meet your emotional needs?>
Her mind returned to the first memories of Worf smiling, but Gwaheer stopped her short. <You have to return to the beginning to find what you needed. That is not how it should have been.>
<He tried, as much as he could. He is a Klingon. He wasn't used to providing for the needs of a Betazoid. I understood that and tried to help him. He did take a lot of my suggestions.>
<But he failed. He knew that he failed. It doesn't take empathic ability to know when a loved one is unhappy.>
Gwaheer brought up a memory she'd put aside. Worf, bringing her roses. She'd thanked him and kissed him, and they'd talked for a bit. But as Worf turned to go she'd sensed sadness -- and she let him go rather than try to draw him out.
<But every time I tried to question what I sensed of his feelings, he would get defensive and resentful. I stopped doing it because we often argued when I tried.>
<You don't think he might have been a little jealous of the advantage empathy gave you? He thinks in advantages and disadvantages. To him, everything is competition, even relationships. He couldn't sense your feelings.>
<I didn't think of it that way.>
<What was the last argument you had?>
She remembered Worf packing his bags for Deep Space Nine. She'd found out about his transfer that way, returning to his quarters for some inconsequential thing she'd lost and thought she might have left behind by accident. She'd blundered in on him. Scowling, he'd shouldered the bag and demanded to know what she was doing there.
<It wasn't the breakup. We'd separated the week before, quite amicably. I don't know exactly why he was so angry at me for being there to see him go.>
<What did he tell you?>
The words were coming back to her even as he asked.
*Where are you going?*
*That is not your concern.*
*You don't have to be so hostile, Worf. I only -- *
*Out of my way.* And he strode out, leaving her alone in his former quarters now bare of the weapons that had festooned the walls, bare of any sign that a Klingon and his son had lived there. She had found her green eye shadow on the floor, kicked into a corner beneath a counter. She had picked it up, then sat on the bed for a moment, only to leap up and hurry out when she felt tears pricking her eyes.
<How did you feel?>
<I don't remember.>
<You suppressed it. Try to put yourself back there. Imagine you didn't get up and leave.>
She did so, at first without result. It was difficult to keep up the image in her head. Her mind wanted to reject the situation.
<Find a focal point to keep you there. A feeling, a scent, something you touched. Remember a sensation.>
She looked down at the eye shadow, imagined turning it over in her palm then closing her fist around it. She imagined the edges of the container digging into her fingers. Tears flowed. Emotions raged.
*He didn't even tell me he was going! He didn't even come to say that final good-bye. I should have known he wouldn't 'talk to me later' as he claimed, that he'd just find a way to avoid it. Just like he always avoided confronting anything to do with his emotions. Or mine. I should have known from the way he didn't seem able to cope with Alexander's feelings -- *
It wasn't right. Those accusations were unfair. She couldn't have thought those things.
Gwaheer's presence faded from her mind. Deanna fell back into herself abruptly, gasping, feeling tears on her face and the couch cushions beneath her. Gwaheer regarded her dispassionately with his sunshine eyes. He hadn't moved from the position he'd been in when she closed her eyes.
"You should take time to continue this on your own. Use the technique I showed you to fasten yourself in the memories and allow yourself to experience the feelings you denied before." He tipped his head toward her, ears forward. "You must remember that the emotions are the important thing. Don't assign blame to anyone. Take ownership of the emotions you suppressed. Your ideals and your feelings clashed while you were with Worf; it's very important that you come to an understanding of why."
"Okay," she whispered, feeling strangled by the remnants of the emotions she'd just experienced.
"How do you feel about what I just did?"
"I. . . I wish I could do that. Make a patient face something, without feeling as though his mind has been invaded. I can only sense things, not manipulate."
"I didn't manipulate, either. That would be highly unethical. I kept you company and pointed out what was there, that's all."
"But you revealed the memories I couldn't find."
"You did that. I was merely an observer. It is my job to direct, facilitate, but never to manipulate." He smiled, his pupils shrinking until the rays of sunshine showed in his eyes. "You're looking red-eyed. Perhaps you should wash your face."
"I'll be right back. Why don't you get us something to drink?"
When she returned, the room was empty. She stood in the bedroom door gaping, hurt that he hadn't said farewell, and then the front door chimed. "Come in."
The panels slid back. Jean-Luc Picard stood in the corridor, wearing one of the civilian outfits he'd taken to wearing off duty, especially when escorting Beverly to a shipboard concert or play. He tugged at the cuff of a white sleeve irritably. Though his impatience and discomfort with having to admit he needed help flared across her empathy like a bonfire, he addressed her with his usual outward calm in his usual crisp tones.
"Deanna, I hope I'm not intruding."
"No, come inside, please. Is something the matter?"
He entered briskly and sat in the chair Gwaheer had been in, taking little notice of the fact that it was separated from its fellows and facing an unusual direction. Deanna returned to the couch, taking stock of his emotional turmoil.
"Have you had a disagreement with Beverly?"
He looked at her sharply. "Yes, but that isn't the problem I'd like to discuss. I realize you're off duty, on vacation. . . ."
"I understand. Would you care for something to drink?"
"No, thank you." He paused. Coming to her had never been easy for him; independent as he was, he resisted counseling. Teaching him to recognize its usefulness had been a slow, painstaking process. And now that he'd come to trust her, he begrudgingly returned to her even when his instincts drove him to retreat into solitude.
"What did you and Beverly disagree about?"
"I've been having. . . nightmares. Again."
"About?"
Between the nightmares and Beverly, he was anxiety in motion. Rising, he paced around the table, trying to calm himself to speak. "The same as I told you last time we talked. I dream that my crew is being assimilated around me. Last night. . . I dreamed that Beverly was among them. In fact, they ignored the rest of the crew. They went straight to her, and when she'd been assimilated -- " He paused, to regain control and re-establish a more regular breathing pattern. "She looked like the queen. She came after me."
There was one thing that neither Beverly nor Jean-Luc discussed with Deanna -- their feelings for each other. Beverly behaved as though Picard were a good friend and nothing more; Picard did the same. And so Deanna schooled herself to ignore the emotions she knew were there, out of respect for the choices her friends were making, and never reacted or questioned.
And now, Jean-Luc was closer than she'd ever seen to admitting something. His agitation wasn't just about the Borg. It was about Beverly. He was afraid, and Beverly was at the heart of it. The nature of the dream told her as much.
"That must have been very disturbing."
"I can't -- I won't -- I have to find a way to make it stop. I can't dream like that again."
"Did you tell Beverly about it? Is that why you disagreed?"
"No!" He would be tearing his hair out, if he had any, Deanna thought, waiting for him to stop pacing and face her again.
He stopped in front of her at last. Then he sat, slowly, propped his elbows on his knees, and bowed his head.
"Counselor, I may have done irreparable harm to my relationship with Beverly. Last night, I . . . we spent the night. . . together. She was with me when I had the dream. I reacted badly to her concern. I snapped at her." And now the hurt welled up in him, raw and jagged, and Deanna ached with him. That would explain why she hadn't seen Beverly at all that day; they were supposed to have lunch together, and the doctor had stood her up, probably not wanting Deanna to sense the problem.
"Did you try to explain to her why you behaved as you did?"
He shook his head. "I can't face her. Not yet. I need to do something about these dreams, if there's anything you could suggest, a meditation technique, anything. . . anything. . . ."
"There is one thing. Let me call Beverly and the three of us will talk about it."
"No! Absolutely not!"
Deanna put a hand on his arm. "You said you wanted help. I think you should let her be part of the solution. You've always wanted to do things yourself, but in relationships, we help each other with things like this. You have to give her the chance to be there for you."
"I can't expect her to tolerate something like that again," he exclaimed bitterly. "To subject her to that -- that inarticulate *thing* I became!"
"I know you feel as though you've had all your dignity stripped from you -- in the beginnings of a new relationship, even a new phase of an old one, we all want to put our best foot forward and be exactly what the other person expects. . . ."
Deanna paused, distracted for a moment by how that might have applied to herself and Worf, then reapplied herself to addressing the turmoil in Jean-Luc's eyes. "I know it isn't easy to change a friendship into something deeper. I could dissect your dream and analyze you, but I think the best approach is for you to talk to Beverly, if not with me, then with her alone. Instead of pushing her away, you need to let her know you understand how she feels and that you want to not let your reaction to the dream happen again. And if you don't share how you feel with her, she *will* feel as though you're pushing her away again."
Jean-Luc sighed. "I suppose you're right. I suppose I knew that, too."
"But you needed to talk it out with someone first. And I'm sure you realize that there is no easy fix for your dreams about the Borg. You've had them on and off for years. I do think you have shown great improvement, however." Deanna smiled at him. "I'm glad you're finally doing something about your feelings for her, Jean-Luc."
"*Merde.* Of course you would have to know already, wouldn't you?"
"I'm afraid so. I know you don't like to think about all the implications of having an empath around, but my mother's example notwithstanding, we Betazoids do respect the privacy of others, especially those with no telepathic ability." She paused, considering what to say next. "Yesterday, you told me to keep you informed."
It got his attention, completely distracting him from his own crisis. At this point he was ready for it. He would come back to his own difficulties more objectively later, after he'd thought through their discussion some more. Jean-Luc Picard was one of her less troublesome patients; all she had to do was be an objective sounding board, then provide a focus for his internal self-analysis. His well-developed self-awareness usually took over from there.
"Has he been here, then?"
"Yes, he has. Just before you arrived, in fact."
"Beverly mentioned you had told her a little about him." He was curious, and a little amused. "She said he sounds. . . interesting."
Deanna felt a brush of something against her empathy, and turned her head, searching the room. Over Jean-Luc's shoulder, she saw a wine glass appear on the table.
"Would you like to meet him?"
"Is that possible?" Intrigue overlapped concern. He sat up straight, once more the self-possessed, confident man she knew so well. "I was of the impression that might violate some regulation of his."
"So did knowing my father. I suppose agreeing to return to see me does, too. It isn't deterring him. The more pertinent question would be whether it violates our regulations to say nothing about his presence here."
"There are no regulations against receiving visitors on the *Enterprise,* of course." Jean-Luc thought for a moment. "I should think that, if there is no reason for me to believe he has any hostile intentions, it would do no harm to speak with him."
Another glass of wine had appeared on the table behind Picard as he spoke. Deanna knew that they had to be appearing as Gwaheer put them down; anything he held would be within the cloaking field around him. And then he spoke to her, confirming his presence.
<I will be coming from your bedroom. It's best if we do not make an issue of the cloaking device, or of my being present in the same room as the two of you spoke; it would violate his sense of personal space.>
Deanna nodded and stood, moving around the captain and picking up the glasses. She disposed of them as if they'd been used and left out. Then she went to the bedroom door and touched the control. The door slid open, and Gwaheer strode into the room past her.
Picard stood up, alert and wary, appraising the alien quickly as he could. It took seconds for his composure to settle in. Deanna sensed his focus; he hadn't forgotten the alarm Gwaheer had caused, nor the hints of Ryxi observation of Starfleet, but diplomacy and recognition of potential ramifications of this first meeting prevailed.
Gwaheer allowed himself to be studied for a few moments. "It's a pleasure to meet you at last, Jean-Luc Picard."
Jean-Luc stared at Gwaheer a few moments longer. "You're speaking in flawless Standard."
"It's only polite. Your translators would not keep up with Ryxian."
"How do you know that?"
Gwaheer glanced at Deanna. "/Does the translator ever cause difficulties with Betazoid translations?/"
Deanna noted his lip movements -- he spoke in Betazoid -- and shook her head. "Betazoid usually translates very poorly into Standard, especially since much of it also has a telepathic component that no non-telepath could understand. As you already know, or you wouldn't ask." She turned to Picard. "The point he's making is that some languages are rendered less accurately than others. I could hear him speaking in Betazoid upper language while the translator rendered his sentences in Standard. It doesn't match, and the words lose something in the translation."
"Upper language?" Jean-Luc echoed. "I've never heard of that."
"It's difficult to explain. For someone with no telepathic ability, not even empathy, it's impossible to truly understand. When Betazoids speak to one another, they think to one another -- it's as though the same message were being broadcast on multiple frequencies. Gwaheer can do it quite well."
"So you're implying that Ryxian is not easily translatable by our computers. But why not simply explain why?"
Gwaheer tipped his head toward Picard, pointing an ear at him as well. "I provided you with a perfect example of why. We often use examples to make the point. Our language is riddled with allusions and metaphors. The translator would render the words, but you have no cultural basis from which to understand them."
"Rather like the Tamarians," Jean-Luc mused.
"Sokath! His eyes uncovered!" Gwaheer exclaimed, covering his eyes then holding his hands palm-out.
<Curiosity, warp ten, engaged,> Deanna thought, seeing the reference to the Tamarian language light new interest in Picard's eyes. The captain sat down, and Gwaheer pulled another chair from the table for himself. The rest of the conversation would go smoothly; she could sense the captain lowering his guard as he scrambled to assemble questions to ask.
"Drinks?" she asked, heading for the
replicator.
2.
Gwaheer stopped at his front door. Ryxian days were slightly longer than those aboard the *Enterprise*. At the moment, both time frames were in the night phase; though he had left Picard and Deanna relatively late by their reckoning, it was still early on Ryx. The sun had set and stars glittered overhead, but the moon hadn't risen yet.
Zakhad wasn't home. All the windows were dark. Probably had a medical emergency to attend, he thought, moving indoors and through the house without difficulty. The nightlights along the hall were superfluous. He could see easily with little light, and when he couldn't see, his sixth sense could find.
His office light went on as he entered. Adjusting his pupils, he sat -- how nice to have a seat with no back to get in the way! -- and checked messages. Four from his subordinates, one from Zakhad explaining her lateness, one from a peer, and one from a former patient.
Leaning across the desk, he slid open the window, and a breeze eased the stifling stale air and brought with it the sweet odor of *shefain* in bloom. He remembered Zakhad's urging to take some to Deanna. As usual, her suggestion made sense, and he was slow to realize it. He left the last message playing. Outside, he walked through the trees, looking up through the branches. The blossoms caught the starlight and held it in tiny glittering receptacles.
Deanna would love them. Reaching up, he cut through a smaller branch with a thumb claw and returned to Deanna's quarters with a thought.
She had lowered the lights, and left the door between the rooms open. He could sense her, already asleep, in the other room. Ordering a slender vase with a heavy bottom took a few whispers into the replicator, but when he saw the branch glittering in the dim starlight through the viewports, he knew it was worth it. Seeing it in the morning wouldn't be good enough; by then, the petals would be wilting and the glitter would be gone.
"Deanna," he called, then returned to
his office in an eyeblink. Smiling, he replayed the messages and sat down to answer them.
3.
Jean-Luc waited, not allowing himself to fidget. When Beverly came to the door, she stood blocking the way and looked at him expectantly. As early in the morning as it was, she was already in uniform.
"We need to talk," he said gravely.
She softened and let him in. His first urge, to grab her and kiss her, passed slowly. Sitting stiffly on the end of the couch, he let his eyes settle on the carpet.
"What happened night before last was unforgivable."
She came to him and sat close, but didn't touch him. "Why were you so upset?"
He looked at her -- big mistake. Those blue eyes. He molded his left hand to her cheek, brushing her cheekbone with his thumb, resisting again the temptation to kiss her. "Did I hurt you? I don't remember -- I lashed out with my arm, but -- "
"Only my feelings." She closed her eyes against the tears. "I thought you woke up and found me there, and that's why you were angry. I thought you regretted -- "
"No, *mon ch\xE9ri, mon amour,* I cannot regret that." Pulling her into his arms, he was elated to find that she reciprocated, albeit hesitantly. "I dreamed again that the crew was being assimilated. But this time, you were among them." He couldn't tell her the details. That would mean reliving it, and breaking down in front of her was the last thing he wanted. "I was afraid because I realized that it could happen. As long as you are here, on this ship, you could die in the line of duty. We'll meet the Borg again -- you could be taken from me."
"Jean-Luc, you can't play that kind of mental game. It's not fair."
"I don't claim that it's a rational thing, Beverly." Jean-Luc kissed her hair. "Which is why, if you'd like, I'm willing to talk to Deanna about it, with you."
Beverly pulled back and looked him in the eye. "Are you serious?"
"I'd like to address this anxiety at its onset, instead of waiting for the indignity of being dragged kicking and screaming into the Counselor's office. I want you to be there with me."
"Are you sure of that? Jean-Luc, what's come over you?"
He laughed and pulled her head to his shoulder. "I thought that was obvious."
"You're beginning to scare me."
"Please tell me that won't result in another years-long standoff between us."
"Oh, no. It's just how your attitude has changed. It makes me wonder what's going to happen next."
"Well, breakfast, of course. We have a meeting at nine hundred hours. You'll probably treat a few minor injuries, or file some reports, and I'll probably wander around the bridge watching a screen full of stars, then study progress reports."
"I hate it when you're deliberately obtuse."
"Then why do you sound so amused by it?"
She kissed his cheek and stood up. "So what do we want for breakfast?"
Over coffee and croissants, they discussed a few common concerns, and predictably the subject of the first officer arose. "I still think Steichen needs some major attitude adjustment," Beverly said around a bite of pastry.
"I won't argue with you. Counseling doesn't seem to be helping. I meant to speak to Deanna about it, but I was a bit distracted when I saw her last night."
"Distracted? By what?"
"I met her elusive friend last night."
"Really?" She leaned forward, dropping the remaining half of her croissant on her plate. "What did you think?"
"He's very different, and not at all as I'd imagined, after your second-hand description of him. He's *fascinating.* All the places he's been, all the history he's seen. . . . He's nearly two centuries old. He speaks our language as well as we do. And aside from all that, he's very personable." Jean-Luc took a sip of coffee. "I think you would like him."
"How did we go from wanting to discover how and why he was able to pop on and off the ship like magic, to being fascinated?"
He smiled, buttered another croissant, and reached for the jam. "Deanna trusts him completely. Listening to them talk -- she's so open with him there. I've never heard her talk about her childhood, yet one slight reference he makes will set her to remembering something about her father or grandfather. At first, I wondered -- anyone who could place a block on someone's memory could do much worse. But there's nothing about her that suggests she's under any outside influence, and he's not tried to intrude on my own mind. I think, given all this, that he means no harm to any of us. Least of all to Deanna. In fact, I think he's rather taken with her."
"So when do I get to meet him?"
"I'm not sure when he'll be on board again. You would have to ask Deanna."
Beverly grinned. "I'll just do that,
then."
4.
Deanna rose late on the final day of her vacation and took her time over breakfast. No dreams had plagued her sleep, and no one bothered her until just before lunch time. She put her book aside when the door chime sounded. "Come," she called, rising and leaving the bedroom.
Beverly entered. "Are you ready? Sorry I stood you up yesterday. I had an urgent case come up."
"I know," Deanna said, suppressing a smile.
"You know? What do you know? Jean-Luc spoke to you about it? What did he tell you?"
"Counselor-patient confidentiality. You'll just have to ask him what he told me."
Beverly frowned. Both of them knew Jean-Luc wasn't likely to speak to her about what was discussed in counseling. Then the doctor saw the tree of teardrops on the table and gasped. "What are those?"
"Flowers. Aren't they pretty?" The pale yellow petals were wilted, but still smelled as sweet, and the tiny clear sacs of liquid dangling beneath each bloom were still there. Beverly touched one, awed.
"Do you know what they're called?"
"No. But watch this -- lights off."
In the darkness, as before, the droplets refracted the starlight like tiny prisms.
"Can you imagine whole trees of these? It must be beautiful," Beverly murmured.
"If all goes well, you'll see some of them. Assuming these are from Ryx. I guess he could've gotten them anywhere."
Deanna brought the lights up again and they sat on the couch.
"Deanna, level with me. Is Gwaheer really just your friend?"
"Yes, he is. An old friend of my father's, and a friend of my mother's, and now I finally have a chance to get to know him as an adult. He's also trying to help me with unresolved emotions I haven't dealt with. You were right, he's right, and I was wrong -- I have issues. So stop making it sound like I'm on a fast track to romance."
"Oh, I don't know, you could be. It's happened before."
"Please don't remind me of stupid mistakes. I'm really not in the mood."
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Beverly looked down at her own shoes. "A question? I promise it's not about Gwaheer."
"All right."
"Jean-Luc said he was willing to come to you for joint counseling with me. Do you think we should?"
"What do you think?"
"How did I know you were going to ask me that? Okay, thanks anyway. Let's go, or all the good tables will be taken." She made as if to leave. Deanna stopped her with a hand on her arm.
"You're not going to get anywhere in any kind of counseling if you can't answer the question."
"I think I want to do it." Beverly faced her at last, naked anxiety in her blue eyes. "I'm worried about him, Dee. I'm worried about *us.*"
"Why don't we discuss it with him later today?"
"You're right. But I want to do it yesterday. I've waited so long. . . ."
Deanna smiled. "I know just about how long. You're both too stubborn for your own good."
Beverly grimaced. "Was it that obvious?"
"Only to me. But one of the things empaths and telepaths learn early is how to ignore certain things. Can you imagine what it's like, trying to sleep on a ship full of angry, frustrated, agonized, or amorous crew, when you can sense every emotion on board? I have to adaptively block out unwanted noise. I've been blocking the two of you for ages, Beverly."
"Oh." Her face nearly matched her hair. "Well, let me just say that I'm very happy you aren't a telepath."
Lunch was short, as Beverly had to get back to sickbay, and Deanna lingered in Ten Forward for a while before returning to her quarters and the book she'd been reading.
She woke to find herself curled up on the couch. Slightly disoriented, she sat up and checked the time. Gwaheer had said he would be back about this time. She looked around and jumped. He was standing between the table and the viewports, looking at her.
"I didn't mean to startle you. If you'd rather go back to sleep. . . ."
"No, that's all right. I must have dozed off." She took note of his expression. "You look tired, too. We could postpone, if you like. I don't want to be a burden to you."
He blinked, and his pupils widened. "Don't think that way, Deanna," he said softly. "Not for an instant."
Deanna couldn't move. She thought about Beverly's theory that he was interested in her. She realized she'd stopped breathing. Letting her eyes land anywhere but on him, she looked away and tried to inhale surreptitiously. "Where should we start?"
"Wherever you wish."
"What happened to directing me?" She finally looked at him again. He was as impervious as always; she couldn't sense what went on behind his calm demeanor. But now she would wonder. Why couldn't Beverly have just kept her mouth shut?
"Why don't you tell me how you feel about last night's session?" He turned a chair and sat facing her.
"I think I know what you're trying to get me to see. Worf had such a different approach to any relationship that it took too much conscious effort for him to maintain ours."
Gwaheer's smile told her she was correct, but he waited silently. Finally, he said, "Anything else?"
"I didn't recognize that at the time. I thought I could compensate for the differences between us, and I thought we could overcome them working together, through communication and compromise."
He closed his eyes. She felt a flicker at the edge of her consciousness and closed hers as well. With all her attention turned inward, she sensed his presence with her and waited for the next question.
<Why did you love him?>
It sounded like ground they'd already covered. She thought about the early stages of the relationship, but he stopped her.
<The last half of the relationship. Why did you love him?>
Deanna thought about it for a long time. When she looked back at the disagreements and disgruntled expression Worf had added to his uniform in the latter part of their time together, she couldn't understand it herself. <I suppose I was waiting for him to go back to being what I thought he was.>
<Good -- you're beginning to identify your unconscious expectations. Do you think he was simply his putting his best foot forward at the beginning?>
Deanna smiled. <I know he was.>
<Is the same true for you?>
<I had more patience with him than I should have. Is that what you mean?>
<My thoughts are inconsequential. What do you think?>
<I think if I had less patience with him, I would not have been with him as long. I wouldn't have been so hurt.>
As she said it, flashes of Worf in a rage crossed her mind. She flinched.
<No. Let it come.>
They were in his quarters. She'd accidentally cut her hand on a knife and because it was a specific knife, he'd insisted that she follow some ceremony before putting it back on the wall. Feeling put upon and peevish, she'd simply put it back in the brackets and turned away.
Deanna, without intending to, blacked out the memory.
<No. Face it.>
She was facing Worf, whose face contorted and lips drew back. *You disrespect me! Get out of my sight!*
She'd run from the room, all the way back to her quarters, and later he'd come to apologize, though he hadn't seemed completely sincere. He was still angry.
So petty.
<Was it petty? Or were you showing disrespect to avenge the lack of respect he showed for your customs?>
He was accusing her of passive-aggressive behavior, and though she scrambled hurriedly to find a defense, she couldn't. He was right. <It seems so obvious to me, looking back at it like this, that we weren't suited. Yet I kept trying. I didn't want to give up.>
<Why?>
<I wanted him to be what I thought he was. I thought I could tolerate his behavior. It. . . felt like failure. A counselor who could not have a happy relationship.>
She opened her eyes, and found she was hugging herself again. Bitter tears streamed down her face. "All of them failed," she blurted. "All the relationships I've had have ended in tears. I couldn't even get married when someone else arranged it for me."
He let her cry, kept his eyes trained on the floor, and only spoke when her sobs had abated. "So a successful relationship is one which ends in marriage?"
"I don't know -- I suppose Will could be counted as a success. At least we remained friends afterward. But when we went to battle the Borg and Worf came aboard from the *Defiant* he didn't even look at me."
"You value mutual respect and wanted to maintain a cordial relationship, and he refused. This hurt you further. Is that accurate?"
"Yes. We were co-workers and friends long before we were lovers. He didn't act as though any of it ever happened -- not even the friendship."
"What would set this issue to rest for you? If he came to you and apologized, perhaps?"
Deanna sniffed. "That isn't going to happen."
Gwaheer paused, as he usually did before taking the conversation in a different direction. "The song I gave to you. Did that accurately represent your feelings after the relationship ended?"
"I think the worst part of it was the part about. . . ."
Darkness swirled in her thoughts. She tried to remember the things she'd thought about earlier in the day, the specific memories she'd regained from the pit she'd been digging for them in her metaconcious.
The floor. Cold, against her back. A throb in her head where it had struck the corner of the bed. Apologies, frantically whispered. The hum of a regenerator.
"The floor, lying naked on floor -- there was one incident. He lost his temper and struck me across the face. I didn't expect it. And he apologized, he was so kind for days after that to make up for it."
She opened her eyes. Gwaheer's expression was unreadable. He rose and looked out the viewport, then took a few steps toward it.
"Was that the last time he lost his temper?" Such a clinical tone -- unlike his usual concern.
"No. But -- "
"Don't make excuses for his behavior, Deanna. The cultural differences were there, but the fact that you clung to the ideal that rational behavior on both your parts could overcome those differences is what's caused your problem. There are cultures that will never be compatible with yours. You found one of them."
"But there have been Klingon/human pairings before."
"Are you human, or Betazoid?"
"That's a silly question."
"You've never had to think about it, have you? Because your father was willing to live on Betazed and allow your mother free rein in teaching you to embrace Betazoid ways. Because he died when you were small, before you could learn from him what being human really is. You think because you have human friends, good ones, with whom you never experience misunderstandings, that you know what being human is really like."
"That sounds odd, coming from you," she said acerbically.
"I've been studying humanity for a long time." He still wouldn't look at her, staring instead at the stars. He spoke distantly. "There are aspects of humanity that defy explanation. You can't ask a human to talk about it, either. They think they know themselves, but they continually surprise themselves. They insist they've done away with things like greed, poverty, hate, ethnic boundaries, and yet, they continue to have difficulty with them. Poverty of the soul, greed for control and power, hate for those who would come against them -- and I've read reports and transcripts that include comments that sound a lot like racial hatred, or prejudice, if you will."
"Those are exceptions."
But her ire twisted into despair, at his sad expression. He smiled ruefully. "I continue to be optimistic and say the same. But not all men react as your captain does. Many -- most -- take it personally when a Cardassian tortures them, or blows their ship out of space."
Deanna's mouth went dry. "You're right."
"But we digress -- all of the Klingon/non-Klingon pairings you could cite would not alter the fact that yours did not work. You cannot judge yourself against the success or failure of other relationships. You can only look at how you felt, and why, and learn from it."
She swallowed nervously. "I feel betrayed, misled. I feel that I knew what Worf wanted, and that I could have provided it if only. . . ."
"If only he'd told you how?"
"It's -- not -- fair!" She gave in to rage -- at Worf, and at Gwaheer's impervious shields that wouldn't let her sense what he felt. "Not fair! He wanted me. I wanted him. Why couldn't we find a way?"
Gwaheer let her cry. That he could stand so impassively while she sobbed only made it harder. She ran from the room, stumbled through her bedroom to the bath, washing her face angrily. Was she really angry at Worf, or Gwaheer, or at herself?
When she returned, Gwaheer had turned his back completely, head bowed, his posture suggesting defeat.
"Gwaheer?"
He was murmuring something she couldn't understand. Moving quietly, she came to stand beside him. As if on cue, his mumbling ceased.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Perhaps it was not wise to do this now."
"Is something wrong?"
"Nothing you need concern yourself with."
"Nothing I need to, but I'm concerned anyway."
He glanced at her, smiling wearily, then looked out at the stars. "I know. I'm sorry, *kahzan'kahliu.* You were right. I'm tired."
Deanna let her eyes drop. Shivers danced down her back. She was too aware of him, and crossed her arms in self-defense, as if that would contain the urge to touch him.
"I should go," he said quietly into the silence. But he didn't move.
"I didn't think," Deanna said at last. "I let passion remove my common sense. That was why Worf happened. So much for. . . ." She pressed her knuckles against her lips, pushing against her teeth, trying not to cry again.
"For?"
"I really am my mother's daughter, aren't I?" she burbled, coughing out a sob. "I'm capable of thinking! Why didn't I do it?"
Again, he didn't move to comfort her, which only made it worse. When she'd recovered somewhat, he pried her left hand from her face and held it, stepping around to face her. "So what will change, in the future? What will you do differently?"
"You mean am I going to change my approach to relationships? I don't know if I can. It seems so -- so wrong, to reject someone because of a few differences -- "
"How many married couples have you counseled?" He caught her other hand and held both her hands, turning them palm-to-palm with his.
"I don't know exactly. A lot. Starfleet careers don't always make it easy for couples."
"How many have had irreconcilable differences and split up?"
"A few. Mostly because one or both of them didn't want to sacrifice some other part of their lives to maintain the. . . ." Deanna stared at him, not certain if she understood or not. "What are you saying? Can't you just tell me, instead of making me hunt for the answers?"
"They aren't my answers. They have to be yours. Remember this game?" He pointed with his chin.
She looked down at their hands. Her palms were resting on his, and he'd let go of her. His fingers twitched; she yanked her hands away. Her father had played this game with her until their hands were red. Putting her hands over Gwaheer's again, she pulled away when his right hand began to move, but not quickly enough. He caught her right hand between his hands.
No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't pull away fast enough to avoid being caught. They switched roles, and though she concentrated, she couldn't trap his hand once.
"My reflexes are too quick. My distant ancestors lived in the treetops in a rainforest, where the reward was to the quickest. Detecting danger before danger could find us, catching our prey before it detected us, reacting instantaneously or else die a painful death tangled in tree limbs, or a quick one colliding with a tree trunk -- we are still genetically programmed for such things, though I'd guess we're less effective than our smaller forbears. I can't change those things about myself. I can try to compensate, by slowing down. I often do. It isn't so hard for me to do, but it takes a little effort. Other compensations would take more effort."
Finally she caught his hand and held it sandwiched between hers triumphantly. "So Worf couldn't change the fact that he's a Klingon, even though he tried. And to make me happy, he would have to change the essence of who he was."
"Deanna, stop focusing on Worf for the moment. Think about you." He sounded impatient, and when she looked up, she saw frustration in his face.
"So what do you mean, then?" she snapped, a bit more irritably than she'd wanted it to sound.
He stared at her. Out of reflex, she tried again to sense what he was feeling and failed, and this time, his impervious shields felt cold -- or perhaps that was her perception based on the look on his face.
Gwaheer dropped her hands and turned away from her.
"I'm sorry," she blurted, suddenly thinking she might not see him again if she didn't say something. Whether she was sensing that or not, it appeared she might have been right; he hesitated, turning his head slightly but stopping just short of looking over his shoulder. One ear flat, the other angled toward her, he wrapped his tail around his leg loosely.
"I'm sorry," she repeated, less desperately. "I'm not used to such a roundabout way of discussing something. I know you tend to communicate by example, but it's frustrating me when I'm not understanding what you mean."
"I think I should have listened to you in the beginning and postponed the session," he said softly.
"We'll continue later, then."
"Yes," he said faintly. And without conviction, she thought. Then he vanished.
Rubbing her aching eyes, she sat at the table
and looked up at the teardrop tree. The flowers had lost most of their petals, until all
that was left were the glimmering teardrops.
5.
"You're upset."
"What makes you say that?" Gwaheer came to an abrupt halt just short of leaving his brother's office. Sakhara had moved between him and the door, staring at him. "Fine. I'm upset. What about it?"
"It's Deanna, isn't it? Something happened last night."
"She is -- was -- a patient. I'm not even sure she's that any more. I can't believe I let myself think I could be objective enough to help her."
Sakhara's ears drooped a little from their stiff, upright position. "You can't counsel someone you feel for. You know better. Perhaps you should let me talk to her."
They warred silently with each other for a few moments. Gwaheer exhaled noisily. "I appreciate your willingness, but I think it will be unnecessary. I don't believe it could work."
Sakhara stepped in his way when he tried to dodge around him. "You can't be saying this, 'hiri. There's too much of you invested in this. It's consumed you. Have you bothered to even let her know how you feel, before you make this decision?"
"It's best ended before it's begun. Trust me."
"The question is, can you trust yourself."
"You were the one telling me the idea was foolish and risky. Now you're arguing the opposite?"
Sakhara made an annoying clucking noise with his tongue. "You were ready to sacrifice your career for her, and somehow I think that much has not changed. Something she said has frightened you."
Gwaheer stared at the floor.
"You want to try. What is keeping you from it?"
"She follows passion without reason. She wounds herself by her own decisions."
"Like you? Like me? You didn't ask so many questions with Rehia."
"Rehia wasn't like her. Deanna tried to mate with a Klingon."
"*Tkretsch!*" Sakhara threw back his head and bared his teeth. "The woman sounds perfect for you!"
"Stop laughing at me. There is no such thing as perfect."
"Now who is giving up hope? You'll introduce me to her, I hope."
Gwaheer grimaced. "Not if I can help it. I promised Ian I'd look out for her as much as I could."
"Talk to her, 'hiri. You have to. Is she interested in you?" Sakhara butted him, forehead to forehead. "See how I ignore your insults and console you instead? I'm being sincere. It's for your own good. Talk to her."
"Let me out, or I'll teleport out."
6.
Deanna was on her way to the bridge when the red alert sounded. She stood at the nexus of several corridors, in shock for a moment, reeling a little. Too many red alerts in the war had trained her to react with immediate and nearly-overwhelming trepidation. How Pavlovian. Fortunately, her Starfleet-trained reflexes took over within seconds.
Typical this would happen her first day back on the job, she mused, striding toward the turbolift. Some cadets happened to be in the lift; hating the eagerness on their faces, she said not a word, put her hands behind her back, and stood straight and impassive.
"What do you think it is? Borg?" one of the girls whispered.
"I thought the Borg were from somewhere in the Gamma Quadrant," the other said. Both of them glanced at Troi. When no answer was forthcoming, the male ensign grinned -- did all young men in Starfleet try to imitate Will Riker, or was it just coincidence that this one had a rakish, devil-may-care grin?
"We're exploring more or less along the coordinates through which the Borg cubes traveled, so far as we know." He straightened his shoulders. "And the Borg are from the Delta Quadrant."
Deanna kept her innocuous, pleasant smile in place, ignored them, and left the lift at the bridge. The chatter from the three cadets fell silent as the doors opened and resumed as they closed behind her. She hesitated at the top of the bridge, behind Stollen at tactical, and glanced at the view screen. An alien ship, unknown configuration, she guessed. She'd certainly never seen anything like it. None of the races known to the Federation painted their ships with such vivid, neon colors.
"They are still not responding to our hails," Stollen said. "But they are not charging weapons, nor are they raising shields."
If she didn't know better, she'd have thought the Vulcan was puzzled. Deanna went to her station and found Steichen in the captain's chair. She almost asked where the captain was; Steichen should have gone off shift already. But it was obvious Picard wasn't here, and that was all that mattered at the moment. He would be there shortly.
"The ship is moving," Ramsey reported. "Closing on our position. They've halted again." She glanced back at the first officer, noticed Deanna, and sent her a beseeching glance before turning to her console.
"Why are we at red alert?" Deanna asked. She took time for a glance around the bridge. Most of the crew on duty were unseasoned, new to the *Enterprise* and only a few months out of the Academy. None had had the bravery to confront Steichen. Stollen and Ramsey remained the exceptions; Ramsey seemed uncertain, and Stollen probably awaited further data before taking action.
The bridge grew deadly quiet -- not that anyone had been talking, but Deanna sensed the waiting, the trepidation, the uncertainty. She stood in front of her station, hands behind her back, and faced Steichen eye to eye.
He stared at her, blue eyes cold as asteroidal ice. "The ship is in danger," he grated, as if irritated by her need for an explanation.
"We're exploring, and that isn't a Dominion ship, nor is it a Borg ship. These are potential allies, and -- "
"Are you questioning my judgement, Commander?"
At least he was addressing her by rank. That meant she had a little more leverage. As much as she liked to be the ship's counselor, sometimes officers didn't realize she was one of them, and it put her on a slightly-unequal footing. "Yes. I am."
Steichen looked as furious as he often did in counseling, but kept whatever angry retort he held behind his teeth to himself. "You are not the officer of the watch. You weren't here when we encountered -- "
"I relieve you, Commander."
"This is an emergency situation, and the first officer -- "
The lift doors opened, and he glanced up, distracted. Deanna didn't have to turn to see the Captain's face to know he was alarmed and feeling guilty for being late. He appraised the situation in less time that it had taken Deanna and arrived at her side in moments, taking in the stare-down going on between her and the first officer.
"Captain, Commander Steichen believes we have a reason for red alert." From her tone, she made it clear that she didn't agree.
Picard glanced at the view screen, at Stollen, at Ramsey -- none of which contradicted Troi's assessment of the situation -- and turned to look at the alien ship. "Cancel red alert. Hail the vessel."
"Canceling alert, sir," Ramsey echoed stiffly, a smile ghosting across her face.
"They are still not responding," Stollen said. "May I suggest that we are confusing them, sir? Raising and dropping shields and charging then disarming our weapons is not a standard greeting in any known culture."
Picard studied the ship a moment. "I assume this matches nothing in our database?"
"It has the same hull material and weaponry as a Romulan warbird, but it does not match any known configuration," Ramsey said. "If it's Romulan, it's a long way from home, and a completely new design. And they have a resident abstract artist on board."
"Why are we just standing around talking? The ship is in danger!" Steichen wasn't shouting, but the effect was the same. A tension-filled pause ensued. Deanna turned from studying the alien ship to stare at the first officer. Picard did the same.
When the captain didn't speak, she asked, "What would lead you to believe we're in danger?"
Steichen spun about and leaned to type in a series of commands into his console.
"Commander," Picard exclaimed. "I demand an explanation!"
"If you're not going to do anything, I will." Steichen had a martyr's resolute expression, tinged with regret but determined to go forward in spite of all obstacles. He stepped forward, toward the screen. "Computer, transfer command functions to me, subroutine Steichen alpha alpha, authorization Steichen six - one - two - gamma - alpha - zero."
"Confirmed," the computer announced pleasantly.
"Commander Stollen, escort this man off the bridge," Picard snapped.
"Sir, ops isn't responding!" Ramsey exclaimed. She glanced at the puzzled ensign sitting next to her. "And neither is the helm!"
Picard's fury mounted rapidly. Deanna sensed the tension and fear growing around her like a wind storm, and all eyes, she noted, were focused on the captain. Stollen came down on Steichen's side of the bridge, only to stop short when the first officer put a hand phaser in his face. Where had he gotten a phaser? This wasn't a spur-of-the-moment plan. Picard glanced at Troi, as anger gave way to grim recognition of that.
"Gregory," Deanna said. Trying to project calm, she wished for the hundredth time since she began to work with the man that she were a full telepath. Something in his mind blocked her every attempt to read him, and that hadn't changed.
"No psycho-babble," he exclaimed. He didn't even look at her; with a twitch of the phaser, he backed the Vulcan a few steps. Stollen looked to Picard.
"Gregory, there's no need for this." Deanna carefully moved closer. Unexpectedly, he lashed out with an arm, throwing her backward. She collided with the arm of the captain's chair. Sinking into the chair, she clutched her side and tried to master the pain of what must be broken ribs; she'd heard the cracking.
"You're facing a court-martial, Commander," Picard announced. "This is mutiny. A one-man mutiny, at that, and -- "
"Mutiny? Is saving the ship mutiny? I've had a commendation already for saving a ship, I'll have another soon, and you'll all feel like fools for not -- "
"The ship is moving off. Going into warp," Ramsey interjected quietly.
Steichen whirled. "Warp seven," he snapped. "Follow the enemy ship." The familiar vibration in the deck plates began, and the stars streaked.
"Computer, belay that order," Picard shouted.
"Authorization required."
"You won't be able to get it, either," Steichen said. "If I've got to save the Federation single-handedly -- "
"We aren't in the Federation! This is unexplored space, dammit! Stand down, or you'll be spending the remainder of this tour in the brig!"
Picard would be in her office again soon, Deanna thought. This was completely uncharacteristic, this losing control and abandoning his usual formal demeanor, even in the face of great danger. He'd gotten past this, in the years they'd served together. Losing control, of himself, of his ship, was Jean-Luc Picard's greatest fear, but until recently he'd always kept that fear at bay.
Picard backed a step as the phaser swung around. Steichen waved Stollen back dismissively and took a step toward the captain. Deanna struggled to her feet in spite of the pain. It felt like sharp knives piercing her; the agony shortened her breaths to gasps.
"You're relieved of duty," she exclaimed, trying not to let her voice give away how much she suffered. She almost managed to sound stern. "On medical leave, until further notice."
As she guessed, her words had little effect. He didn't even bother to look at her. Gathering her resolve, she prepared to rush him from behind. If she could tackle him, the captain would be close enough to disarm him before too many phaser shots were fired.
Suddenly his arm bobbed, and the phaser was gone. He stared at his empty hand, clearly shocked. Picard gestured at Stollen and the Vulcan responded as if catapulted forward.
Surprisingly, Steichen dodged, then shouted, "Computer, emergency transport to the battle bridge!"
"Security to the battle bridge!" Picard exclaimed as the commander dissolved into particles. Stollen was already moving for the lift. "Medical team to the bridge! Counselor, are you all right?" He was at her side in an instant, guiding her into the nearest chair, which happened to be his.
"My ribs. I'll be fine. We should go -- "
"You'll go to sickbay. It's obvious he's disturbed, but restraining violent maniacs and getting around computer lockouts isn't a part of your job description." He glanced around the bridge. "Wonder where that phaser went?"
A thump on the floor got their attention. The phaser rolled and bumped the toe of the captain's boot.
"The Fair Folk are among us," Picard
muttered. He picked up the phaser and left the bridge as the medical team, led by Beverly,
arrived.
7.
Keeping up with Picard wasn't easy. Not that the human ran faster, but Gwaheer had to dodge every other body in the corridor and not make discernable noise, a neat trick for someone with wings to bump into and a tail to step on.
The battle bridge on any Starfleet vessel was a smaller, less upholstered room with a smaller viewscreen and fewer stations to man. However, though he'd seen the battle bridge on the 1701-D, he'd not been in the one on the 1701-E. Not having proper bearings meant moving through the ship cloaked and risking detection rather than simply teleporting. It was considered too dangerous, under normal circumstances, to move through more densely-populated areas of a starship while cloaked.
But he couldn't leave yet, not while the computer was still under Steichen's control. In for a penny, in for a pound, as the ancient saying went. Pulling the phaser from the man's hand had been impulse; since he would be as responsible for the impulse as if it were premeditated, he might as well finish the job and make it mean something. It would be a transgression committed for no reason if Steichen managed to catch up with the Chel'whit'iei vessel and destroy it.
Progress halted in the corridor outside the entrance. The Vulcan and several others in the goldenrod undertunics of security stood holding phasers. Stollen stepped forward.
"The only alternative would appear to be forcing our way in. He will not respond, nor can we override the computer lockout."
Picard had tried his own override codes in the lift to no avail. He had then contacted LaForge, but the engineer hadn't been optimistic. Sidling around the cluster of officers, Gwaheer huddled against the wall, coiling his tail close and hoping no one would bump into him.
He sought the mind behind the wall. It wasn't hard to find. Rage, at the captain for not seeing the danger they were all in. Frustration at the rest of the crew for not obeying him. From what Gwaheer could discern, Steichen honestly thought he was acting in the best interests of the ship. And there were more disturbing things present in the man's wildly-active brain, artificial constructs and instruction sets that should not be there. Someone had tampered with Steichen in the recent past. Since he recognized the changes, it was very possible it had been done by another Ryxian.
With no time for further examination, Gwaheer pressed against a specific area of Steichen's mind and felt him sink into slumber. He turned his attention to the group in the corridor, then leaped to the side frantically, trying to evade the blast of a phaser.
The sputter of circuitry and tearing sound of phaser fire attempting to tear a hole in duranium alloy drowned out the sounds of his fall, luckily. He scrambled to the opposite wall and checked himself for burns, and was relieved to find none. Curling up on the floor out of the way, he watched the Vulcan grapple with the doors and shove them open partway. They had fired at the control panel, near where he'd been standing. He was lucky he moved when he did.
After the group had slid through the narrow opening one by one, Gwaheer tried to do the same and found his wings and the depth of his keel made it impossible. He put his head through, gathered enough sensory information, and teleported inside, placing himself in a corner near the view screen where the crew would be unlikely to walk. The usual headache associated with too much teleporting was beginning in his forehead. He would have to find an analgesic soon.
Steichen slumped in the command chair in the center of the room, his fingers curled and resting on the console on the chair's arm. "He's asleep," Picard exclaimed incredulously.
"Perhaps the effort of single-handedly executing a mutiny of a Sovereign-class vessel tired him," Stollen commented wryly. One of his subordinates guffawed. The bitter smell of excited humans faded, Gwaheer noted, to be replaced by the less-noticeable odors of amusement and calm. Stollen alone had remained calm throughout, his odor as faintly musky as Vulcans always smelled.
"LaForge to captain," came the engineer's disembodied voice. "I've gotten around the lockout. Reducing speed to impulse for the time being."
"Well done, Commander." Picard turned to Stollen. "Take Steichen to sickbay and keep him under guard. I want a full report on his condition."
Two of the security officers picked Steichen up bodily, and Gwaheer hurriedly reinforced the command to sleep as the man was carried from the room. Picard dismissed the others and contacted engineering again to have repair crews sent down to fix the door. Then he looked around the battle bridge as if expecting to see something.
Or someone, Gwaheer realized. The captain's eyes traveled the height and breadth of the room. "Is anyone here?" he murmured.
"Yes."
"Gwaheer?" Picard oriented on his voice and with surprising accuracy came within a few paces of him.
"My agent came to me when it started," he said quietly. "I came myself at that point. The ship Steichen confronted belongs to a local species. It could have been a disaster, if either of you had fired."
"A disaster for whom?"
"The Federation has suffered great losses. Misunderstandings with the Chel'whit'iei are not what the Federation needs."
Picard sighed. "Then I appreciate your help." He nodded at the chair where Steichen had been sitting. "You put him to sleep. Did you know he was keying in more computer lockouts and beginning a saucer separation?"
"No. It didn't matter what he was doing. The odds were that it would be detrimental to the welfare of you and your crew, so I did what I could. Watch Steichen closely. Don't allow Deanna to work with him alone."
Picard's eyebrow rose at the admonition. "May I ask why?"
Gwaheer chewed his tongue hard enough to cause pain, to punish himself for saying anything. Once again, his feelings had overridden good sense. If not for his comment about Deanna, the question wouldn't have arisen. He could hedge, or he could disclose what he knew about Steichen. The desired outcome of his dealings with Starfleet personnel in mind, he opted for the latter.
"He has been altered somehow. He believed fervently that everything he did was in the best interests of the ship and crew. I found traces of tampering, but without probing deeper I can't tell when or how, or by whom. Deanna can't do anything about that."
"Who could?" Picard asked wearily. He resigned himself, reluctantly, to depending on an invisible and mostly-unknown alien, Gwaheer sensed. Still, he accepted it with more grace than he would have as a younger man.
"It would have to be a more experienced telepath than I. Tell me, where did Steichen serve prior to becoming your first officer?"
"He was on the *Persephone* during the Dominion war and received a commendation for heroic acts in the line of duty. Why?"
"This had to have been done to him recently."
"I suspected war-induced trauma. He's behaving as though he had to save the ship single-handed, and that's evidently what he did on the *Persephone.* But you think he was instructed, perhaps compelled, to do this?"
"Trauma may be a factor, but there's more than that at work. He acted too rationally." Gwaheer sensed others approaching. One of them was Deanna. The other was the second officer, Ramsey, a woman with reddish-brown hair and a stern expression. She was the first to sidle through the door.
"Sir."
Picard turned too quickly. She'd startled him. "Commander," he said.
"I wanted to apologize for allowing Steichen to do as he did," Ramsey said, advancing to within an arm's length of her captain and coming to attention. "I should have done something. I thought about saying something the minute he ordered red alert, but I thought he might be acting on privileged information."
Picard stared at her a moment. Gwaheer smiled; the captain had great control over his demeanor. None of the anger or frustration he felt was apparent to Ramsey as he responded to the officer's apology.
"Commander, we are on a mission of exploration. There is no need-to-know basis here." He paused, as if appraising the upright woman before him. "As you are our acting first officer, I expect that this won't happen again."
Ramsey, to her credit, didn't display the surge of excitement she felt. "No, sir, it won't."
"I suggest you familiarize yourself with your new duties, and I expect to have your recommendations for a second officer by 0800 hours tomorrow. Put us back on our original course. Dismissed."
Ramsey responded with a crisp "aye sir" and turned to go. Deanna smiled congratulations at the commander. "Why are you here?" she asked the captain once they were alone.
Picard hesitated; Gwaheer knew he expected him to say something. When he said nothing, Picard straightened his uniform, gestured at the console, and smiled at Deanna. "I was studying what Steichen was doing. How are you?"
"A little sore, but on the mend. Captain, are you certain everything is all right?"
"I'd feel better if I had chosen a first officer who wouldn't go mad and take over the ship."
Deanna nodded, biting her lip. "I'm sure you expected more from someone who saved a disabled ship in the middle of a firefight. I think we all did. But you couldn't predict his actions today."
"Counselor, tell me, was there any sign of such a massive dysfunction, anything that might have given you a clue beforehand?"
Deanna's wide eyes told of her regret that she hadn't been able to predict Steichen's actions. "As I mentioned before, he's had some sort of training in shielding his mind. I've not been able to sense his thoughts, and very little of his emotions come through to me."
Gwaheer let them talk, ignoring the words, concentrating on slow, silent steps toward them. He stopped just out of reach, just as the faint scent of Deanna's perfume became discernable. His arrival on the bridge had coincided with hers; he'd been impressed by the way she'd confronted Steichen.
He'd been working from a flawed perception of her, based partially on what he'd learned from reports and partially on Lwaxana's perceptions. Like many a mother, Lwaxana had a fixed notion of what her daughter was like. Deanna wasn't the same woman who'd been prone to emotional outbursts, who had signed on as counselor of NCC 1701-D.
Gwaheer watched her face and found himself leaning closer to catch more of her scent, and less of Picard's. Hybridization often resulted in interesting mixtures of smells; Betazoids were chemically similar, but not quite the same, as humans. Deanna's unique physiology seemed to have combined the best of both.
It really was too bad he wouldn't be back to see her.
"You stood up to Steichen," Picard was saying. He and Deanna headed for the door.
Deanna sniffed. "For a former member of the Tal-Shiar, it was nothing."
Both of them laughed as they sidled through the door. Gwaheer stood for a moment wondering about how a Betazoid could possibly be a member of a Romulan agency -- and a bloodthirsty one at that -- then shook himself and followed them, teleporting to the other side of the door.
The ship's corridors and turbolifts felt cramped, especially when he was forced to share them. Curled on the floor of the lift as far as he could be from Jean-Luc's and Deanna's feet, he endured, in spite of the overwhelming melange of odors collecting in the confined space. Human odors weren't unpleasant in normal doses; any smell could be nauseating when it was this strong. It got worse when they felt strong emotions, such as rage or fear. Of course, it wouldn't do to let them know this. They tended to think body odor in any amount was unpleasant.
The lift opened, admitting a rush of fresh air, unfortunately tinged with more odors. Steichen must have awakened on the trip to sickbay. As he paced four-footed behind the captain and Deanna down the corridor, Gwaheer detected anger, then fear, then --
Gwaheer wrinkled his nose and grimaced. Was it normal for humans to lose control of bodily functions when restrained and frightened?
Crusher was wrinkling her nose, too, as one of the handful of people in medical blue took away a bag of what must have been soiled clothing. Steichen lay on a biobed in a patient's gown and restraints, glaring at the doctor. When he saw the captain and counselor, he struggled against his bonds, groaning and straining.
"Doctor?" Picard turned from the prisoner.
"His brain functions are degrading. There's no physical reason for it that I can find, he's simply manifesting symptoms. If this continues, he's going to lose most higher functions within the hour, and probably lose motor control shortly after." She nodded to a woman of oriental lineage, and the woman pressed a hypospray against Steichen's neck. He relaxed, panting, his eyes half-open.
"In other words, he's dying a slow death." Picard turned to Deanna. "Counselor?"
"She's right," Deanna said distantly, her wide eyes unfocused. "It's almost as though he's becoming an animal, even as we speak. He's out of control."
Alarmed, Gwaheer bent his senses on the prisoner. He took a step forward reflexively and nearly collided with a nurse. He failed to move out of the way fast enough and the man's foot came down on the tip of his tail.
The nurse reacted at once, sidestepping and recovering quickly enough to not drop the tricorder and regenerator he was holding. He looked around at the floor as Gwaheer retreated to the corner nearest the head of Steichen's bed.
"Something wrong, Bruce?" Crusher asked.
"No, Doctor. I just thought. . . I thought I stepped on something. Must be my imagination." The nurse went his way, passing two security guards standing near the door.
Picard and Crusher exchanged glances. The captain turned to the guards. "You can wait outside, now that he's sedated. Dr. Crusher doesn't appreciate a lot of onlookers in sickbay."
"Alyssa, the cortical stimulators," Crusher said as the guards left. The oriental woman complied. When the devices were placed on Steichen's forehead, Crusher glanced at the monitor overhead and at her patient. "It's helping, but it's not enough. He's stabilizing but not improving."
"Maybe we should try a neuropathway induction," Alyssa suggested. "It might reverse the degradation."
"I wish I understood what's causing it." Crusher frowned. "I don't like taking shots in the dark. We'll run another full diagnostic before we try anything. He's stable for the moment."
Picard stood at the foot of the biobed, and Deanna hovered opposite the doctors, staring down at Steichen's face. Gwaheer sat on his tail to keep it from lashing about. If he attempted to scan anyone, Deanna would sense his presence. He watched her face, and grew more concerned. Pained lines developed around her eyes. Close as he was, he could smell her again. Tension radiated from her; he could practically taste it.
Steichen lunged suddenly. Deanna jumped backward, and Picard leaped to her side. "Counselor?"
"I can't do it," she exclaimed. "No matter what I try. I don't understand what's blocking me. I was trying to at least reassure him, but it's not working."
Gwaheer rose to his full height. Picard suggested that Deanna rest and see if Steichen responded to Dr. Crusher's treatment, but she stared at Steichen's face, looking grief-stricken. She was a typical empath, allowing herself to be completely caught up in the patient's emotions, ignoring any instruction to the contrary. What kind of training had she been given, that she couldn't block effectively?
Gwaheer had to see this through; if, as he suspected, the deliberate manipulation of Steichen's mind had been done by a Ryxian, reparations had to be made. He would have to find a way to reverse the damage, if there was one, preferably without revealing his presence to them. Yet if he waited for Deanna to give up and go away, it might be too late for Steichen. And the effort would drive her to despair and exhaustion. Watching her try to make up for not detecting Steichen's mania by overextending herself now was too excruciating.
Stepping away from the wall, he waited until the doctors were both bent over a readout on the biobed, then decloaked.
Picard noticed him first, without surprise. "I had wondered," he said simply. Deanna recovered from her surprise quickly and pled with her eyes for his help. And now that he wasn't worried about detection and lowering his own shields, Gwaheer could feel the raw, twisting agony emanating from the man. Probably hallucinating and half-conscious, Steichen was fighting everything, himself included, and trying to shake off the mild sedative. No wonder Deanna couldn't tear herself away. Beneath the pain, a confused part of him was crying for help.
Beverly and Alyssa looked up simultaneously; both gasped and took a step backward. Gwaheer smiled with what he hoped was reassurance, then glanced at the displays himself as if he'd just arrived. Steichen's eyes opened, moving from Deanna to Beverly but not registering Gwaheer's presence.
Dread tasting bitter on his tongue, Gwaheer waved a hand in front of the man's eyes. Nothing. It was as though Gwaheer still had the cloaking device on.
"*Tkretsch,* he doesn't know I'm here," Gwaheer said, mostly to see if Steichen would react. He didn't. The block was complete. "Captain, do you trust me?"
"You're going to tell me that he'll die if I don't," Picard said grimly.
"Worse. He'll be a murder victim."
8.
Deanna paced around like a caged cat. They'd moved Steichen into one of the wards in the back for more privacy, leaving Dr. Ogawa minding main sickbay. Beverly, though monitoring Steichen, kept glancing at Deanna. Finally she put down the tricorder and came after her.
"Dee, what's wrong?"
"What do you mean?"
"The cool counselor act doesn't work with me. I've known you too long."
Deanna looked at Jean-Luc. The captain stood at the foot of Steichen's bed, pointedly ignoring them. She glanced at Beverly again, then turned away.
"I'd rather not talk about it right now." Deanna resumed pacing.
"You mean when Gwaheer is about to return any second," Beverly mumbled. "You had some sort of disagreement, didn't you? He hardly looked at you."
Deanna closed her eyes against the prickling of tears. Bad enough that Beverly was right, and Gwaheer hadn't spoken a word to her. Being questioned about it was simply unbearable. "Not now, please, Beverly?"
"Later, then."
"Captain," Gwaheer's voice said, and Deanna wished he made noise or something when he teleported into the room. She turned to find him standing with another Ryxian and the captain. The second Ryxian was shorter, his blue a shade lighter than Gwaheer's and his hair, pulled together in a curious basket-weave braid, fell nearly to the base of his tail.
"This is my brother, Sakhara," Gwaheer said. "Luckily, the one most available to me on short notice happens to be the best choice for the job."
"Spare us the excruciating flattery, 'hiri," the newcomer said blandly, glancing around him. His eyes lingered on Deanna and Beverly; smiling, Beverly went forward and was introduced to the newcomer by Gwaheer.
"And this is Counselor Deanna Troi," Gwaheer said, indicating her with a hand gesture. His eyes remained on his brother.
"A pleasure to meet you," Sakhara said, smiling with an interest he hadn't shown Beverly. His dark eyes lacked the gold streaks; the only resemblance between them was in the bone structure of their faces, the narrow jaw and wide, almond-shaped eyes. He appraised her briefly in return, then went to Steichen's side, bowing his head as if trying to smell the problem. "You do find the bad ones, don't you, 'hiri?"
"Is it fixable?" Gwaheer moved to Sakhara's side.
"That depends. I don't know how many other traps have been set. You've already triggered one, apparently."
"What?" Beverly exclaimed. Sakhara looked up at her.
"Not on purpose. When such despicable tactics as this are employed, there are often multiple triggers for initiating either amnesia or death. Putting the subject to sleep is the first thing any agent would do, were he discovered. That Gwaheer chose that method to halt his mutiny was predictable and understandable." Sakhara placed a palm over Steichen's forehead and closed his eyes.
Deanna moved closer to observe. She glanced at Gwaheer; their eyes met, finally, and again out of reflex she probed. For the first time, his shields gave way a little.
<I was in a poor mood last night. Forgive me.>
Regret, a little shame, penitence, hope -- they were all he allowed her to sense. She quickly set aside her surprise and tried to muster her limited mental abilities to answer.
"Too much interference," Sakhara announced, sitting up. "I can't concentrate. Out of the room, 'hiri."
"I thought you might need my help." Gwaheer looked at Steichen's slack-jawed expression.
"Maybe next time. I can handle this." He glanced at Deanna. "And take your empathic friend with you."
"Perhaps you could take him on a tour of the ship, Counselor," Picard suggested. "If security is no longer an issue."
"Since one of my counterparts is presently meeting with Federation representatives to discuss the possibilities of an alliance, it isn't. So I would enjoy a tour very much, thank you, Captain." Gwaheer cast a lingering look at the patient before turning to follow Deanna out of sickbay. He walked alongside her down the corridor, garnering strange looks from passers-by.
"Your brother is a talented telepath?" she asked.
"His focus has been on healing and therapy, and though I've had similar training, he has far more experience in this sort of thing."
"I can understand why he would want me to leave. I don't understand why he wanted you to. I know you're better at shielding yourself than I am."
Gwaheer sniffed and kept his eyes on the corridor ahead, still not looking at her. "He was not annoyed by 'interference.' That was a convenient excuse your friends might accept."
"I don't understand."
They reached a turbolift and entered, finding it empty. He turned to her at last as the doors closed behind them. "I owe you an apology," he said slowly, his eyes meeting hers only briefly before his gaze slid to the floor. "I knew better than to think I could counsel you myself. I only wanted to help."
"But you have helped me. More than anyone else I could have counseled with would have been able to."
"I lost patience. I allowed my feelings to interfere." He stared at the wall.
The computer interrupted. "Destination?"
"Where would you like to start the tour?"
He sighed heavily and seemed to resign himself to something. "Somewhere we can talk privately."
Deanna took him to her quarters, her tension blocking her throat and making it difficult to breathe. Gwaheer seemed no less anxious; rather than sit down, he paced a wide circle around the room, looking at the floor.
"How much do you know about the Ryxi?"
For a moment, she was almost disappointed. But certainly the question had to be leading up to something less innocuous. "Just what you've told me. You express yourself in song often. I know some of the different mental talents some of you manifest, and that you observe other races. I know you don't bear any malicious intent, or you would have shown it by now."
Gwaheer stopped near the viewports and stared out at the stars. "All correct. I'd like to explain my behavior to you, but to do that, I need to tell you more about Ryxi culture. Is that all right?"
"Certainly. I'd love to know more about it."
"We place a great deal of importance on friendships and family. Relationships are crucial; without friendship, without personal relationships, there are no business transactions. Before the Ryxi sign any agreement with another race, we determine whether or not personal relationships are possible between individual members of our cultures. That is why I was able to know your family."
"You were part of the effort to determine whether a treaty with the Federation was possible," she summarized. "And other agents did the same with different races throughout the Federation?"
"Yes. It's taken some time for us to conduct the survey because the Federation continues to expand." He paused. "Sometimes, after a treaty has been made with other races, our agents bring home an alien spouse."
"That happens, as my parents know firsthand." Deanna wondered with fluttering heart if the point he was trying to make was what that hinted at, or if he had some other, more obscure message. Bracing herself for the worst, she sat on the end of the couch and waited with her hands folded in her lap.
"The difficulty with a Ryxian bringing home an alien spouse, usually a wife, is that most often, the alien was raised in a monogamous culture."
"And the Ryxi are polygamous," she concluded.
"You know that already?" Surprising him won her a sidelong glance.
"No, but it isn't anything new. There are other polygamous cultures in the Federation. I've known humans who have married into polygamous cultures, and there have been polygamous societies on Earth. It's been tried on Betazed as well, though it's a rarity these days. It's not an original idea."
"Given. The specific problem of which I speak is one of interpretation. The Ryxi appreciate the fact that our choices determine our future. Every action begets a consequence. Choosing a spouse unwisely can be devastating to a family. Especially if one is choosing a second or third wife -- each successive wife changes the dynamic of the family, and it's important for the wives to respect and care for one another. Marriage is in actuality a series of choices for us. At any time, one's spouse could legally choose to leave and marry another. There are no ceremonies or legal procedures to marry or divorce."
That left the question of how they did marry, but Deanna decided to wait for the rest of the explanation before asking. Perhaps the explanation would be forthcoming. He continued, sounding calm and rational, but the tip of his tail twitched constantly.
"Socially, however, the choice to leave can have devastating ramifications. The difficulty non-Ryxi have is in recognizing that though legal consequences are nearly non-existent, the social consequences can mean losing one's children, losing friends, even losing a second wife along with the first."
"Because relationships are so important?" she guessed. "When one relationship suffers, especially one so close as between spouses, all of them do?"
"Yes," he blurted, turning around at last. "Yes. If a marriage is dissolved, the children of the two become orphans and are claimed by the clan. Losing one's children is the ultimate shame. And a man who cannot keep peace in his household is of questionable character."
Deanna digested that information for a moment. "And you are telling me this because?"
"I have an obligation to provide you with this information before telling you how I feel about you."
She blinked, unable to do much more than that. He really was interested in her! Putting together the facts as he'd presented them, she added it up and got three.
"You have a wife," Deanna whispered.
"Yes."
"Have you told her about me?"
Gwaheer made a wrenching, anguished noise she decided must be tortured laughter. "Oh, yes. Zakhad wants to meet you. She's anxious and eager, but trying to be patient."
"What do *you* want?"
She thought he would disappear; he looked as though he wanted to escape, looking around for a moment as if he were a trapped wild animal. He smiled with the grim mirth of a man resigned to his fate and sank to the floor, reverting to four-footed mode.
"What do I want? I wish the question had a simple answer, *kahzan'kahliu,* but it doesn't. You are asking for a simple sentence. I do not feel in sentences. I feel in songs, and I could sing for three days and not finish. I want to take myself back in time, and meet you a decade ago."
"Meet me?" she echoed breathlessly.
"I made a mistake, Deanna. I agreed to counsel you because I wanted a reason to see you again. I told myself it was to help the daughter of an old friend and I intended to keep my relationship impartial and platonic. I tried -- but I lost patience with you because I lost focus. I allowed myself to ignore my feelings, only to have them betray me." As he spoke, his head dropped, until his hair fell forward and she couldn't see his face. "You aren't the only one who indulges in denial."
Deanna swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to ignore the burning in her eyes. "You weren't going to come back, were you? You didn't intend to explain why, except Steichen brought you back on official business. You would've vanished out of my life, only this time you wouldn't have left a block in my memory, and I would have missed you."
His head came up, and his tail moved across the carpet in a long, slithering arc. He peered at her through his long blue hair, then rose and paced across to sit at her feet.
"I thought for a while that I would do that. But I couldn't," he whispered, brushing her cheek with the tip of his tail. "I would have changed my mind. Don't cry."
Deanna forced a laugh and tried to raise herself out of her anger with levity. "Because you knew my mother would tie your tail in knots for hurting my feelings?" She grabbed the appendage before it could sink to the floor.
He looked at her fingers wrapped around his tail. She would have let go, but the tip insinuated itself up her sleeve, and the free remaining two feet of tail followed, twining itself around her wrist.
"Because I won't hurt you, not knowingly. Because I would regret never knowing what might have happened. I would miss you."
Deanna loosened her grip and, with her thumb, tested the muscle beneath the blue skin. His tail tightened around her arm slightly. His eyes held her attention -- the gold streaks on brilliant blue, the confusion of emotion. But she still couldn't touch his emotions with her empathy.
He put a hand on her knee, claws in, and sat up straighter. "Deanna?"
"You've never let me in," she said, brushing her fingertips across his forehead. "Will you?"
He looked away at once. "Not yet."
How frustrating! She indulged in it, getting angry again, even trying to project the emotion at him. Surprisingly, he didn't react.
"You're not even paying attention to my emotions, are you?"
At least he looked at her again. "I've only touched your mind a few times. I started ignoring the free-floating thoughts that escape your own control. I will only attempt contact when I have permission."
"Then how is it you seem to know how I'm feeling most of the time? You react too intuitively -- or I'm not as good at concealing my emotions as I think."
He stood, withdrew his tail, and perched on the edge of the cushion next to her, raising his wings out of the way and ending up with them stretched behind them along the length of the couch.
"The rest of the information you should know helps explain that."
"Oh."
"No need to sound frightened," he said, smiling. "If polygamy didn't send you screaming from the room, it would hardly be shocking to find out I can tell how you feel by using my sense of smell."
"You can *smell* emotions?"
"Once I've spent enough time with you to be familiar with your chemistry, yes. Unlike humans, Ryxi don't find body odor disagreeable. Under certain circumstances, it's quite. . . attractive."
"Attractive?" She was too distracted to say anything intelligent, thinking about how many ways her body must have given her away already.
His thumb caught her chin and raised her gaze to meet his eyes. "Stop worrying about it. And promise you won't tell your mother. I have the feeling she'd be offended."
He'd brought her face within centimeters of his, whether he'd meant to or not, and she froze, uncertain, watching his pupils dilate and the gold lines contract. It became obvious that he wouldn't take the initiative; in fact, he started to look away. Tilting her head, she countered the movement and kissed him lightly. When he didn't move, either to retreat or reciprocate, she pulled back to look at him, puzzled.
Amusement was the last thing she expected. "I'm sorry," he murmured, smiling, ears at acute angles. "I've never been kissed before."
"What? Never?" She allowed a short laugh. "Would you like me to teach you?"
Gwaheer tipped his head away from her. "An intriguing thought. Perhaps I should finish my explanation, however."
How much of it could be left? "All right."
"I mentioned we don't have marriage ceremonies, didn't I?"
She nodded, intrigued once more.
"There are ceremonies surrounding marriage, but not an actual wedding. It's a tradition that prospective wives are introduced to the parents of the groom beforehand, and vice versa. It used to be that permission was required from both sets of parents. It's also a tradition that, following the. . . inception of the marriage, the clan pay a visit to the couple one by one, bringing gifts and sharing a drink. Which, in a large clan, can stretch out over weeks and often result in a series of hangovers, unless unfermented beverages are insisted upon."
"But the marriage itself is private?"
"Correct."
Deanna rolled her eyes. He was making her fish for information again. "So what do you do? Sing? Recite vows or poetry? Exchange tokens?"
He bowed his head, this time, she thought, to stifle laughter. "No, that's not exactly it, though some Ryxi do those things as well. If Jean-Luc and your friend Beverly were Ryxi, they would be married."
It took a moment to work it out. She had to think through everything he'd told her and recalculate. "You can tell, by body odor? And that's how. . . . Oh. I see."
"Yes."
"And that's why so many people from other cultures might take your marriage tradition too lightly. The idea that a sexual relationship could create a marriage. . . ."
"There are always exceptions and sometimes individuals create their own alternatives, but that's the accepted way. And the cessation of a sexual relationship usually means the end of a marriage. Not always, but usually."
"So which came first, the polygamy or the marriage tradition?"
"That's something similar to the old Earth chicken-and-egg question. I don't think we'll ever know which came first. And there are other factors involved in why we are polygamous."
Deanna sighed and chewed the inside of her cheek. "So is there anything else I ought to know before I can make an informed decision about whether I really want to kiss you or not?"
"What do you want to know?"
"Just one wife? Any children?"
He shook his head slowly, staring at her. "Two wives, one deceased. One daughter. Two grandchildren. I didn't expect this reaction from you."
"I'm not my mother. I don't tend to consider other cultures barbaric based on whether or not they wear clothes to their wedding ceremonies." She grinned. "Though yours meets that criteria as well as Betazoid tradition, I suppose."
They laughed, and he stood up, folding his wings as though shaking a burden from his back. "I suppose I should demand the tour, while I have the chance. Something tells me I'm going to have a hectic schedule in the coming months. I may not have another opportunity."
"Maybe we should start in Ten Forward. Guinan will be happy to see you, and it's past lunch time." She rose, then hesitated. "You thought I would be put off by what you've told me."
"Honestly, yes." He looked solemn. "You may yet find it unacceptable. But I did have to tell you, and it makes me happy to see you've taken it so well."
Deanna smiled. "You said Ryxi don't make choices lightly. You must believe I'd get along with Zakhad, and from what I know about you, you're probably right. I should at least consider the possibility. What's wrong?"
He opened his mouth, then let it close again. On the third try, he bowed his head. His ears drooped forward. "How great is love, and how little am I," he whispered.
"Gwaheer?"
His tail restlessly coiled about his feet. Unfurling his wings, he inhaled and gave a shallow, contained flap. "The tour," he exclaimed, taking a step toward the door.
Deanna got in the way. "If you won't let me sense how you feel, at least tell me what that was about."
"Is this part of your resolution to speak your feelings rather than subjugate them?"
"Dodging the issue loses points."
He looked down at her hand, at her fingers splayed across his chest, then took another step and kissed her lightly, lips brushing her cheek just in front of her ear. "I thought you would never consider me. I've been torturing myself about it and trying to convince myself not to come back, as you guessed. Then you not only accept it, you trust my judgement? I am. . . ashamed."
Too aware of his breath tickling her skin, Deanna turned her head with dreamlike slowness. Their lips met briefly. She opened her eyes and found he gazed at her, pupils dilating and contracting erratically. Smiling, she pressed her mouth to his and gave him his first lesson in kissing. He learned quickly. Within a few moments, he was holding his own, pulling her closer and cradling the back of her head in his hand. They parted, eventually, and Deanna loosened her grip on his hair.
"The tour?" he whispered.
"Of course." She didn't hide her disappointment.
He gripped her shoulder when she tried to step away. "It's not that I dislike it. Quite the opposite." Now that he mentioned it, it was obvious how much he liked it, from the pressure against her upper thigh.
"Maybe we shouldn't leave just yet, then. Would you like something to drink -- maybe a cold shower?"
"You can be such a brat."
"Is that a problem?"
"It could be. Remind me to explain to you
the fine art of Ryxian flirting."
9.
"You're worried about your friend," Sakhara said.
Beverly's slow strides faltered. "How do you know that? Am I that easy to read?"
They walked along a corridor toward the arboretum. The computer had indicated Troi was there, and Sakhara wanted to speak with his brother. Sakhara's two-legged gait was slower than hers; she had to consciously slow her steps.
The Ryxian seemed thoughtful. She'd struck up an easy, casual acquaintance with him during the hours they spent hovering over the inert body of the former first officer.
"Actually, I've not sensed anything from any of you, telepathically. That's rude and unethical." He glanced at her, smiling faintly. "You asked if I had met Deanna or Lwaxana before. That's usually a precursor to other questions of similar nature, indicating either interest or concern, and since you probably aren't interested in my brother or me in anything but a scientifically curious way, it's probably concern. And since he has managed to become enamored of Deanna in such a short period of time, your concerns are probably justified, from your perspective."
Beverly kept walking to prevent herself from gaping outright at him. She wasn't sure what to say, or even how to feel -- for some reason, she felt as though her privacy had been invaded, even though he'd spoken of Gwaheer and Deanna.
"I did not intend to anger you, Doctor."
"If you're not reading my thoughts, you're reading my emotions."
"In a way. But again, I'm not using any mental skill to invade your privacy. Your body chemistry changes with your mood."
"What?"
Sakhara smiled at that. "We can detect your emotional state by smell. It takes practice to read alien chemistry, of course, but I've worked with humans often enough."
Beverly did stop and stare at him then. Fortunately, the corridor was empty. She tried to think of something polite; then, failing that, something halfway courteous; then something that wasn't angry. But of course, he could tell she was embarrassed, thanks to her flaming face and that probable change in chemistry her body was automatically undergoing.
"That just isn't fair!"
"I realize it's probably offensive to you. But it isn't that you smell bad, or that you smell much at all. I'm better able to detect it than you, that's all. And only in close proximity. If it helps, I'll ignore it completely. I won't infer anything from it again."
"That you'll mention aloud, you mean."
"You can't help reading my body language as though I'm human, can you? Think of it as something similar."
They continued toward the doors at the end of the corridor. "So do I have a reason to worry about Deanna? Or are you biased, and not going to tell me if I do?"
"Biased?"
She rounded on him, halting their progress again. "Well?"
"Why are you so worried about her?"
"She's an idiot when it comes to being in love."
"So ask her, and if she's an idiot, she's in love." Sakhara's eyelids drooped. She wondered if he were intentionally concealing his feelings on the subject; his expression was blank as he could make it. "They're well-matched in that particular type of idiocy, anyway. Whether that should cause anyone to worry seems irrelevant, since they're both mature adults."
Beverly suppressed a surge of anger, then managed a brittle smile. "You're right, of course."
"But you're still worried. I was, too."
"You were worried about Gwaheer?"
Sakhara's ears swivelled into less tense, level positions. "He's spent most of the last sixty years being mostly oblivious to women in general. Then he sees her, and the next thing we know he's completely distracted from all else. And she's not Ryxi -- inter-racial marriages rarely work for us. My own didn't. I have cause for concern."
"What exactly are you worried about?"
They resumed their journey. He seemed deep in thought, his tail bobbing in a fixed curl behind him. "I don't know if she'll be able to adapt. Not that she'll be expected to abandon her own culture, but ours is. . . quite different than most."
"I can imagine. Having wings is enough of a difference in itself." Beverly thought about Deanna's ill-fated relationship with Worf. "I suppose I shouldn't jump to conclusions -- I don't actually know that they've even told each other anything. Deanna insists they're friends and nothing more. But there's something passing between them, in their body language, in the way they look at each other. . . . It worries me mostly because her last relationship ended awkwardly, or so I'm guessing, because she never talks to me about it. And that worries me because she usually does. . . . I'm sorry, I probably shouldn't be telling you this."
Sakhara grinned at her. "I never reveal confidences, Doctor. I would not have admitted Gwaheer's feelings for her, if they weren't already so obvious to you."
They entered the first of the greenhouses, and at once, the humidity rose considerably. Greenery in hanging baskets and trays surrounded them. He looked around with greater interest in the next room, a larger area with multitudes of flowers in trays on shelves.
"If it's any consolation to you, he's not going to allow her to make any rash decisions, regardless of his own feelings," he said, leaning to sniff red trumpet-shaped flowers dangling on a vine.
"Allow her?"
Sakhara nodded. "The Ryxi believe that correct choices are extremely important, and that choices affecting family and clan are the most important of all. If she makes a rash decision to marry him, and he concedes to it, he and his family may suffer for it."
"Why are you talking about marriage all of a sudden? Isn't it far too soon for that -- or is there some tradition that prevents a more casual relationship than that?"
"From your perspective, that's true. Ryxi relationships are never considered casual. We devote a great deal of energy to them. To you, our decisions would be difficult to understand. Gwaheer married his first wife within a week of meeting her. They were well-matched, and he suffered terribly when Rehia died. His second wife was Rehia's choice for him, and that worked equally well. But both marriages were made with great consideration."
"So he's been married twice?" Beverly did a double-take. "And. . . wives choose their successors?"
Sakhara studied a rose bush nearly as tall as himself, touching one of the many red buds. "Successors? No. But they've been known to bring home prospective second wives. He should have remarried by now, by Zakhad's estimation, and certainly she's done her best to see to it. She's even asked my wives for help in finding another match. But -- *tkretsch,* you didn't know we were polygamous, did you? I'm sorry."
Beverly smiled weakly. She really shouldn't be shocked, she chided herself, not after all the oddities she'd come across during her years in Starfleet. "It's all right, I'm just -- "
"Worried about your friend," he repeated. Turning, he took her hand, his padded knuckles feeling strangely oversized and lumpy around her fingers. "I've run on too much. I shouldn't have, but it's a measure of how comfortable I've become with you. You've had plenty of experience in coping with other cultures, and it shows. You aren't afraid of me, as other humans I've met have been. Let's find Gwaheer. And if you have any other questions I could answer for you, I hope you'll feel that you can ask me."
He dropped her hand and went into the next room. The Enterprise - E had a smaller arboretum, but still, the auditorium was large enough to grow a small forest and some rolling lawns. Sakhara didn't hesitate; he started down the left branch of the path that traveled the circumference of the room. Beverly followed him, half-curious yet half-dreading how they would find Deanna and Gwaheer.
They found Deanna, sitting alone near a pond. She must have been deep in thought. Normally, she would've sensed their approach and looked up long before they reached her. Sakhara glanced at Beverly uncertainly.
"Counselor?" Beverly asked. "Deanna?"
The smile Deanna turned on her was genuine. The prior tension Beverly had noticed in her must've been resolved. "Hi, Bev. Sakhara -- how is Steichen?"
"Not well. I had to stop, before I became too fatigued to help him. I'll continue later. Where is Gwaheer?"
"I showed him through Ten Forward and worked through the main parts of the ship, until we reached engineering. Then Geordi demanded to know how Ryxi agents have been escaping detection so easily, and Gwaheer started a long conversation with him about that. I excused myself. As far as I know, he's still talking to Geordi."
"I need to talk to him." Sakhara took three steps, then knelt before her, resting a hand on the stone bench. "He mentioned he was attempting to counsel you."
"That's ended, I think. Conflict of interest." Deanna averted her eyes to avoid Beverly's I-told-you-so stare.
Sakhara's right ear twitched in Beverly's direction. He continued to look at Deanna's face. "Did he tell you about Zakhad?"
"Yes. She sounds like a wonderful person."
Beverly swallowed her reaction and fidgeted. Deanna sounded a little embarrassed, but that may have been due to her previous denial of her feelings for Gwaheer and Beverly's presence.
Sakhara nodded. "If you feel the need for an objective ear, I'm a good listener. Or, you could always talk to your friend, here. I think she'd appreciate that. If you'll excuse me, I'll be following the computer's directions to engineering."
He stood and headed back the way they'd come, winking at Beverly as he passed her. She watched him get as far as the first bend of the path, then turned to find Deanna watching her. The counselor slapped the bench and scooted over to give her plenty of room.
"So what's the story?" Beverly asked breezily, taking the spot.
"You're not going to gloat?"
"Dee," she sighed. Taking Deanna's arm, she bumped shoulders with her. "I'm your friend. I'm worried. You wouldn't talk to me about what happened with Worf, and given all the other personal and private things we've discussed in the past, that really struck me as odd. And then this guy with wings starts leaving things in your room, which frightened you, and then he suddenly turns out to be an old family friend. And you still aren't talking to me."
"I'm sorry. You were right about my state of mind. I had a lot more trouble with my feelings about my relationship with Worf than I thought."
"So you're okay about that now?" Beverly watched her friend's face in profile. Deanna stared into the water in front of them, but didn't seem upset or embarrassed, just wistfully regretful.
"I hope so. It was so amazing, what Gwaheer did -- he never made it feel intrusive or manipulative, never actually did anything other than be there, but he showed me how to remember things I'd suppressed. I honestly didn't remember some of what happened with Worf. It was as though I were suffering post-traumatic amnesia. He helped me get past my own defenses."
"I'm glad he was able to do that for you."
Deanna looked her in the eye finally. "I would have come to you, if I'd known there was really that much of a problem. I honestly thought it was nothing but stress."
"I don't know if I could've helped you. Sounds like it took a telepath to do it. And you know I'm completely bereft of any such ability." She managed a smile, which became more genuine as Deanna responded in kind. "I'm a bit uneasy, though, about Gwaheer. Maybe you're jumping in too fast."
"Don't worry about me. It's not that serious yet."
"So you're at least admitting an attraction, finally."
"I'll have to, if it's so obvious you picked up on it. I've learned my lesson, Bev. No matter how emotional I get, I'm going to take my time and think this through. That's probably what I should have done with Worf. We had a lot of passion in the beginning, but the kind of relationship I want can't be sustained by physical attraction alone."
Beverly grinned. "Well, listen to you! You really got a lot of thinking done, sitting here alone."
"I have a lot more to do, yet. I hope I can count on you to lend an ear?"
"And to force it on you, if you're being stupid?"
Deanna laughed, a refreshing sound Beverly hadn't heard in a long time. "If you have to."
"Say, does Gwaheer play poker?"
"I don't know. He's such an Earth trivia buff, he might."
"Let's find out. I'd like to get to know
him better, and I can't think of a better way. And maybe his brother can sit in,
too."
10.
Picard hated long, slow diplomatic functions. He nearly dismissed Ramsey's suggestion that they host a formal dinner party for the Ryxi. But Gwaheer was a fascinating resource on human history, and he'd probably be freer with information now that negotiations were pending, so the idea did have some appeal.
Which was what brought him, in formal dress uniform, to Beverly's door shortly after alpha shift. Almost the same second he pressed the announce button, the doors opened.
The doctor wore a gown.
"I hate the uniform," she said beseechingly. "Do you honestly think I should be court-martialed for wearing this instead?"
He backed a step and let his eyes linger on visible cleavage and leg. She'd managed to match her eyes. Rather than resort to sequins or elaborate decoration, she had chosen sheer material that, at first glance, looked plain, but as she moved it shimmered. He sighed.
"Beverly, I don't have any personal reservations about it. Quite the opposite. But regulations. . . ."
The next door down, which happened to be the counselor's, slid open. Deanna stepped out and sauntered down the corridor, a tiny, mischievous smile twisting one corner of her lips upward. Her dress was barely a dress -- it appeared she'd taken a piece of shining green satin, wrapped it around her body, and tied the ends in a knot over her left hip, so tightly that her left leg and shoulder were left bare.
"Please tell me Starfleet hasn't changed uniforms again," he exclaimed, trying not to ogle. "Counselor, is that really wise? There are *men* on this ship, after all."
"Most of whom won't be at the dinner party. We have a female doctor, a female first officer, a Vulcan, and Geordi. Since you haven't yet decided on the new second officer, we don't have one of those yet. What should I worry about?"
That she had avoided mentioning the Ryxi didn't escape Picard's notice. She probably had one of them specifically in mind when she put on the dress. "I should order both of you into regulation attire." He sighed again, noticing their non-regulation hair styles. Too much time had gone into those high-piled, hair-sprayed sculptures. It would be a shame to ask them to dismantle their careful preparations.
"But you're not," Deanna said, smiling and tilting her head coyly. "Be happy it's not a Betazoid wedding." She took his left arm, and Beverly took his right, and the two marched him toward the turbolift.
"Only because Gwaheer and Sakhara are not a formal delegation -- "
"Hush, captain, it's party time," Beverly said.
The dining room lacked their guests, but the security chief and engineer were there. Stollen nodded to acknowledge their presence and remained standing near the viewport as if he were on duty. Geordi blinked several times, shook his head, then approached Troi.
"Counselor, are my eyes malfunctioning, or is that half a dress?"
"Yes. Would you like to see it?" She made as if to untie the knot.
"Unh. No, thank you," Geordi blurted, backing away a step.
Deanna smiled at Picard -- the tease had been for his benefit.
"You really do take after your mother, don't you?" he asked, smiling.
"Oh, please," she huffed, then launched herself for the bar. The bunched material on her hip bobbed as she walked.
"Ogling is unbefitting of you, Captain."
Geordi grinned at Beverly's scold. "Come on, Doctor. He's not blind. And it's pretty obvious she's not caring much if she's ogled."
Picard lead Beverly to the bar. She let go of his arm, keeping a discreet distance between them, and picked up a short blue glass. Guinan nodded and smiled a greeting to them.
"Have you met our visitors yet?"
"Yes, Captain. The counselor brought Gwaheer into Ten Forward earlier today. And I remember his brother." Guinan glanced at Troi, who stood at the end of the bar sipping her strawberry margarita.
"Remember?" Picard selected an unfamiliar drink with an umbrella sticking out the top. Guinan usually put one or two new drinks out every event, just for variety.
"I met him once. Very nice guy. Their little brother's a terror, though."
"So you're a friend of the family?" Beverly asked brightly.
"You could say that." Guinan raised her head at the sound of the door opening.
Turning, Picard saw that their guests had joined them. Gwaheer surveyed the room from the door before entering, then was shoved out of the way by Sakhara, who grinned and stepped around his brother.
Picard crossed the room. "Good evening. I realize that the circumstances that brought you here meant sidestepping protocol, so I'd like to take this opportunity to issue a formal welcome to the *Enterprise.*"
"Thank you, Captain," Gwaheer said. He smiled benignly and pointed at the drink. "That looks familiar."
"Guinan has plenty where this came from." Picard stood back and gestured at the bar. Gwaheer walked on.
Sakhara turned to the captain and bowed slightly. "Has the doctor given you our report?"
"Yes, thank you. And I must tell you how much we appreciate your willingness to work with Steichen. It appears he would have surely died without your intervention."
"It's a sad thing," Sakhara said. His pleasant expression sagged into weary lines. "It took some talent to create that maze of triggers and traps. Whoever did it should have turned his ability to more constructive pursuits."
"Do you think you will be able to find out who it was?" Picard strolled toward the bar with the Ryxian.
"Once we are finished unraveling the traps, we can begin to access memories, unless they have been wiped completely from his long term memory. Though judging from his previous rational behavior, that isn't likely. He would have suffered impaired function before now."
Lenore Ramsey finally made her appearance. She, too, wore a gown -- red, with sequins. Apparently the non-regulation attire had been a conspiracy among the women. And, Picard thought, the conspiracy made for a more aesthetically-pleasing dinner party.
Sakhara picked up a second drink and took it to Lenore, greeting her with a smile. Startled glances passed between Beverly and Picard, Deanna and Beverly, and then Deanna looked to Gwaheer. He ignored Sakhara and sniffed his drink.
"It's wrong."
"What do you mean, wrong? I followed your instructions," Guinan said indignantly.
"You substituted."
"Unless you go get me some *hilea* blossoms, I have to substitute. I did the best I could. If you can't be nice, go find another bar."
Picard opened his mouth to say something about her sudden and uncharacteristic rudeness, but Gwaheer's expression stopped him. The Ryxian was smiling at the hostess, with a new quality in his expression that Picard hadn't seen before.
"But I like *this* bar. I suppose the drink is acceptable enough."
Guinan tucked her hands in her voluminous sleeves. "Don't you have better things to do than stand around the bar?"
"I like the scenery." Gwaheer's tail swooped sinuously to the left, curling until the tip hovered near the apex of his wing.
"Sorry, you won't get that here." Guinan turned sideways and raised her chin, looking at the ceiling.
Ears standing out from his head, the Ryxian rolled his head across his shoulder, pointing his right ear at the ceiling. "You fly well."
Guinan sniffed, crossed her arms, and closed her eyes. "You're grounded."
Gwaheer backed a step, pivoted on his toes, ducked his head, and gracefully exited stage left, going to speak with the Vulcan, who had observed the entire spectacle from the corner nearest the viewports with mild interest.
"Why do I get the feeling that was some sort of ritual?" Beverly mumbled.
"Not a ritual, just communication." Guinan turned around and began mixing a drink in an empty glass. "I'll teach him to insult my drinks then flirt with me."
"When did it become flirting?" Deanna asked.
"Counselor, when you're talking to a Ryxian male -- *any* Ryxian male -- and you're unattached, everything they say is flirting. They can't help it. These two here are just being more subtle and well-behaved than usual." Guinan added a squirt of something to her creation. "Take Sakhara over there. Looks innocuous, but the way he's got his ears angled just so, and his tail's curled with the tip in the air? He knows Lenore's unattached."
Beverly opened her mouth, then shut it again and reddened. Her wobbly smile fell short of convincing nonchalance by a parsec. "But if that were true, why haven't they flirted with me?" she asked lightly.
Guinan didn't look up from what she was doing. "Apparently, they know you're involved with someone."
Beverly looked at Picard, and both of them turned hostile stares on Deanna. She went wide-eyed. "I didn't! I swear!" she hissed. Coming closer, she leaned toward them, and Beverly stepped in, forming a huddle. "Besides, I don't have to. They can tell by analyzing body odor."
Picard snapped to attention. "What!" Luckily, it came out as an airless whisper.
Guinan leaned across the bar and whispered, "If you think you're having a private conversation, you might want to consider that there are three sets of exceptionally-keen ears in the room."
Picard surveyed the room, feeling the heat in his own face and noting Beverly's crimson cheeks. Sakhara seemed caught up in conversation with Lenore. But Stollen and Gwaheer, though standing with Geordi and paying attention to something the engineer said, both glanced their direction. Gwaheer excused himself and sauntered across to place his empty glass on the end of the bar.
"Here you are," Guinan said, putting her latest effort out.
"So you've changed your mind?"
"Does duranium melt at room temperature? Drink."
He sniffed it. "You used synthehol. Again."
Working at lightening speed, Guinan put together another drink that looked just like the first, only this time she pulled a bottle from beneath the bar. She put the new drink on the bar with such force the glistening purple liquid nearly splashed over the rim of the glass.
Gwaheer sniffed, then sipped. "Better. Thank you, madam. Let me know when I'm able to fly again."
"Check back in a few centuries, when I'm senile."
His ears shot up. "Really?"
"No. Not really. Get your tail off my bar." He'd draped his tail over the end of the table. Guinan picked up a corked bottle and brandished it, and he pulled his tail down, sidestepping.
"You're a cruel, cruel woman, Guinan."
She closed her eyes and crossed her arms. Undaunted, tail tip waving in the air behind him, he returned to the conversation he'd left.
"You can't turn your back on them," Guinan muttered, turning to Deanna. "That only encourages them, and if you happen to be standing within arm's length, it's actually provocative. You have to close your eyes and stand your ground."
"But what if you're surrounded by a group of them?" Deanna asked, apparently unperturbed by Gwaheer's interest in Guinan.
"Back up to a wall, or better, into a corner."
"What's so provocative about turning your back?" Beverly asked.
Guinan rolled her eyes. "And she's a doctor. You haven't noticed any anatomical clues that might explain it? Like, they're really four-footed?"
Beverly snapped her gaping mouth shut. "Oh."
"Gives new meaning to getting a piece of tail," Picard mumbled into his drink.
A few plinks from the piano distracted them. No music had been scheduled; the baby grand in the corner was being commandeered by Ramsey, who muffed a few notes here and there but was apparently fairly proficient. Sakhara had stretched himself across the top of the piano like a huge cat, tail waving in the air.
Gwaheer left the far corner and wandered over as the first officer began an old tune. "Do you know anything by Eric Clapton?"
"Who?" Ramsey asked.
"How about Nat King Cole?" Sakhara suggested. Gwaheer frowned at him, but Lenore nodded.
"He was one of the greats. Classic twentieth century music. How do you know about him?"
Sakhara grinned and let his tail droop. "Our father collected his music."
Lenore started a new song, and both Ryxi nodded in tandem. Gwaheer smiled, coiled his tail into a makeshift stool, and sat, putting his drink on the floor nearby.
"Start over," Gwaheer said, and
Lenore complied. This time, both Ryxi began to sing in a slighty-raspy, throaty baritone
duet.
*The very thought of you and I forget to do
The little ordinary things that everyone ought to do
I'm living in a kind of daydream, I'm happy as a king
And foolish though it may seem
To me that's everything. . . .*
And on they went. Picard smiled and found himself enjoying their sometimes-off-key renditions of a handful of songs he'd never heard before. Most were love songs, and quite sappy ones at that. But some of them touched a nerve. He glanced at Beverly; she stared into the air, a tiny, happy smile on her lips. She sensed his attention and met his gaze, the smile growing. Suddenly he felt the urge to say something, to do something -- sing, quote poetry, or dance her around the room. Propose a toast to second chances. Drink champagne. Go walking on a starlit night, with her hand warm in his.
The feeling passed too quickly. Geordi, coming out of the corner where he'd been standing, halted nearby. His uniform was of the newer formal style, apparently designed by a demented Starfleet fashion consultant; trying to bring that long, dress-like tunic back into style should've been punishable by banishment to Ferenginar. Just another grievance against Starfleet, on a long list of them.
Had he really been on the *Enterprise* long enough to see uniform styles go right round back to where they'd started? Picard sipped his drink and let his mind travel backward. He was getting too old for this. Maybe he should accept the first offer of admiralty, or resign and go back to the vineyards. He was slipping, easing off regulations -- Deanna crossing his line of sight to speak to Geordi was enough to remind him of that -- and who knew what would happen in Starfleet next.
Maybe he was suffering the same morale disintegration that seemed epidemic in the ranks. Rumor had it some good officers had cracked under pressure; available information, or rather the lack thereof, seemed to support it. The news wire made no mention of them, and their names hadn't been among the lists of casualties from the war. He'd even gone to the trouble of looking for many of them.
Then there was the higher number of voluntary counseling sessions. At her request, Deanna had been given a small staff, without question. And then there was the first officer, though it seemed he had been helped along into madness.
Steichen hadn't been his first pick; he would have preferred to keep Riker. But good officers were in high demand, and the best of the firsts were getting kicked up to command. Captains on the verge of promotion were held back. Building up the fleet was the highest priority these days, much to its detriment. Just four months ago, a ship had left Utopia Planitia and gone straight into service without a shakedown, only to suffer a malfunction that necessitated jettisoning the warp core. No, it wasn't the same Fleet any more, not by a long shot.
He glanced at Beverly again. She aged gracefully, unlike himself. Any more, it pained him to look in the mirror in the morning. He looked especially haggard and ancient after another of his occasional nightmares. He'd seen himself aging, when under the influence of the Kataan probe and living an entire lifetime as Kamin. It wouldn't be long, and he'd be and old man. Was Starfleet really where he wanted to grow old, especially the present Starfleet? And was it fair to Beverly to begin now, under such uncertain circumstances, what they had denied themselves for so long?
<Damn it, I feel old. I look old. Maybe I'm too old for beginnings. Maybe I should just age gracefully, and let things begin to end.>
Then Beverly smiled, turning to him, and her eyes held such warmth that he found himself smiling in return. This time, the urge to sing and dance lay dormant. He felt weary, drained, bereft of any emotional fire. Her smile waned, a sign that his own was inadequate; redoubling his efforts brought the sparkle back to her eyes.
Lenore stopped playing at last, and the onlookers clapped politely, Picard joining them late as he returned from his sad reverie. She held up her hands, smiling and blushing. "I've been playing by ear for the last three songs. Sorry, I'm afraid I don't know any more." She picked up her drink and left the piano; Troi and LaForge complemented her, and the three fell into conversation.
Gwaheer sat down at the piano and stared at Picard. The captain wondered if he were being scanned, and immediately hoped the Ryxian hadn't noticed his lengthy woolgathering session. A few moments passed, until Gwaheer dropped his gaze to the keys before him, contemplating something with a frown. Sakhara, taking on a solemn demeanor himself, slid off the piano and brought his empty glass to Guinan.
"He seems angry," Beverly mumbled in Sakhara's general direction, watching Gwaheer.
Sakhara looked at her. "Brooding. He's good at it. Of course, he's got a lot of good reasons to be. Now he's going to play some depressing thing, just watch."
"He can play the piano?" Beverly asked.
"Just bits and pieces he's picked up sitting in closed bars. I'm sure there are stories of haunted pianos in most of the places he's gone on assignment. And what he does play is usually missing notes. It's easier to play your music with five fingers than four." Sakhara's mouth twisted. "He can't resist it, though. We Ryxi are all obsessed with music of some sort, and he's fanatical about yours."
But when he did sing, Gwaheer didn't touch the
piano keys. He looked as though he were praying, with bowed head and closed eyes, and his
voice grew husky. Slowly, he spun out the melody around the words, gradually adding gentle
chords from the piano. As he did so, all eyes turned to him, all mouths shut, and all
smiles dwindled.
*In every heart there is a room
A sanctuary safe and strong
To heal the wounds from lovers past
Until a new one comes along
I spoke to you in cautious tones
You answered me with no pretense
And still I feel I said too much
My silence is my self defense
And every time I've held a rose
It seems I only felt the thorns
And so it goes, and so it goes
And so will you soon I suppose
But if my silence made you leave
Then that would be my worst mistake
So I will share this room with you
And you can have this heart to break
And this is why my eyes are closed
It's just as well for all I've seen
And so it goes, and so it goes
And you're the only one who knows
So I would choose to be with you
That's if the choice were mine to make
But you can make decisions too
And you can have this heart to break
And so it goes, and so it goes
And you're the only one who knows.*
Silence reigned. Picard realized he'd stopped breathing; swallowing, he moistened his dry mouth and put his half-empty glass on the bar. He didn't look at Beverly, shooting a look at Deanna instead. She stood erect and white-faced, staring at Gwaheer. Ramsey and Geordi were looking at the floor; Stollen had raised an eyebrow. Sakhara and Guinan stared at each other across the bar with an intensity that suggested telepaths discussing something in the privacy of their minds.
Beverly was the first to recover. "I don't know about you all, but I'm getting hungry," she announced with a smile.
Thank heavens for Beverly.
Dinner went along well enough, once the effect of the song eased. Picard asked a leading question of the Ryxi, about flying, and the brothers launched enthusiastic descriptions of the joys of unlimited freedom in the skies.
"Snowstorms," Gwaheer exclaimed. "White above, white below, and the gentle kisses of snowflakes on the backs of your wings. Sometimes on the undersides as well in wind."
"Clouds, while flying loops." Sakhara described a narrow, upright oval with a hand. "Cirrus as an obstacle course. Cumulonimbus, as a test of navigational skill."
"Low altitude, down the cliffs, with the air pushing you down and the stone a tail's length away."
"Hide and seek in the cirrocumulus." Sakhara tossed his head and grinned.
"Dead leaf drop, into a thermal, tail centered."
"What's that mean?" Ramsey asked.
"A dead leaf on the wind has no control where it drifts. You angle the wings like this." Gwaheer held up his hands, back to back, forming right angles with his fingers. "You drop your lower body to vertical and use it as a center. Body weight takes you down, minute adjustments to the outer phalanges keeps you gliding, the thermal picks you up. The result, if the thermal is strong enough and the flier is skilled enough, is a slow spiral, sliding to the side."
"Do you do a lot of acrobatic flying, then?" Picard asked.
"Only when there's time to eat and rest afterward," Sakhara said. "It's an energy-intensive process. Straight flight and gliding can be more efficient than walking, but swift flight and rapid changes of direction burn enormous amounts of energy and put strain on joints and bones. It's also very easy to lose control and crash."
"But acrobatics can be addictive." Gwaheer tipped his head back and stretched his wings out to either side, behind Troi and Beverly on his right and Stollen on his left. Picard realized that though the Ryxi had shifted and partially-unfurled their wings many times during their stay aboard the *Enterprise*, they'd never opened them completely. Gwaheer's wingspan easily reached fifteen feet, and the joints were still bent slightly. And Picard had assumed they had bat's wings, membranes stretched on bone, but the outermost joint bore four slotted flaps. As Gwaheer moved them gently back and forth, gaps formed between phalanges.
He folded them quickly; Picard almost expected to hear a snap.
"I wish I could fly," Ramsey said. "I'll bet it's exhilarating. The closest I've ever gotten was hang-gliding, but hang-gliders aren't so maneuverable."
"You could fly. The We'lassi created artificial wings for themselves, and the design would be easily adjusted." Sakhara picked up his glass.
"Humans are denser than We'lassi." Gwaheer turned to Ramsey. "We'lassi are also from Ryx. We evolved in the rainforest canopy, and they on the ground."
"Really? It's quite rare to find multiple sentient species co-existing on the same planet naturally. In fact, I don't remember more than two other instances." Beverly studied Gwaheer with new interest.
"The different layers of a rainforest could be considered different worlds," Sakhara said. "And we did have conflicts, with both the We'lassi and the Rewlani."
"So there were *three* sentient species on your world," Ramsey exclaimed.
"The Rewlani were tree dwellers, but without wings. Their upper set of limbs became arms." Gwaheer seemed reluctant to discuss this further; he put a forkful of pasta in his mouth quickly, even as Beverly asked her next question.
"So you all co-existed in the same rainforests?"
"Not always. Most Rewlani lived in the southern hemisphere, at first. They were related to Ryxi, we believe," Sakhara said.
"You speak of them in past tense," Stollen said.
Sakhara opened his mouth, but Gwaheer spoke first, leveling a cool glare at his brother briefly as he did so. "The Rewlani are extinct." His eyes shifted to Picard, the gold streaks straightening as his pupils shrank. "The Borg took them."
The bald statement dropped silence on them like a hammer. After a short interval, Deanna asked, "How long ago?"
Picard guessed that if anyone else present had asked for more details, they might have been denied. Gwaheer shifted uncomfortably in his specially-replicated chair and propped his elbows on the table, abandoning the pretense of eating. "Our home planet is -- was -- in what you call the Delta Quadrant. We left it over a thousand years ago, because of the Borg. They were in their early stages, not yet the great collective they are now, but formidable -- and we had only a little experience with hostile races. We were not prepared, having recently sustained losses due to confrontations with the Vaadwaur. The Rewlani were the ones most suited to battle, and so they were always the ones who did most of the fighting. They stayed and fought, while Ryxi and We'lassi boarded every available vessel to escape. The Rewlani were excellent pilots, skilled strategists, and they fought off the first cube. Long range scouts detected more Borg on the way, so the exodus continued, and the Rewlani regrouped. Casualties were heavy the first time; the second engagement decimated them. The exodus was incomplete. Millions died, but most were Rewlani. Only three hundred forty-six survived, and those because they were piloting rescue ships. And when we were under way, and the losses were totaled, most of them committed suicide."
Picard's mouth felt dry. "I'm very sorry to hear that," he said, with feeling.
Gwaheer raised his head, eyes lidded, his face settled into harsh, angry lines. "You must forgive my demeanor, Captain. The memories are strong even to this day. Realize that this was only a few generations ago for us. Those of us who are telepathic pass along these memories, to remind us of what could happen if we allowed technology to become our only pursuit. It was the greed for more innovations, more mechanization, that turned the Borg into what they are. We remember them before it all began, but at the time, we were unaware of what was happening to them."
He paused, for a long time. Geordi, then Ramsey, averted their eyes. Stollen waited patiently; Deanna bit her lip, and as she looked at Gwaheer, he continued the story, eyes focused on the table before him.
"They were a plain little people, with a talent for great feats of engineering. They made weapons that other races would go to great lengths to purchase. Then they discovered there were more advanced races who had better devices, and started attacking and stealing. The next step was out of desperation; they'd taken, by luck and by outnumbering it, a single ship with such advanced technology that they couldn't understand it. They used some of the implants they'd developed to enslave the surviving crew. It only worked partially; the crew resisted. And so they connected a few of their people via implants to them, linking them, and formed the collective mind from which the Collective grew. The melding of the alien psyche with their own went horribly wrong. The aliens had developed nanotechnology to work cooperatively with their bodies, and the nanomachines attacked their systems. Harnessing the knowledge and the power of the alien's minds once they gained control, they brought the nanomachines' destruction to a halt, but it gave them an idea. They started using them to assimilate other species. They started with the remainder of their own people."
Picard cleared his throat. "How have you learned all of this?"
The desolation on Gwaheer's face struck a chord in Picard -- he knew that feeling. He felt it after every night of reliving assimilation.
"We've only unraveled much of what we know of the Borg in the last few centuries," Gwaheer said. He nudged his fork with a claw and stared at his mostly-empty plate. "It took us that long to recover from the decimation of our home world and the long journey from there to the Beta Quadrant. We Ryxi don't have the ability to temporarily block out trauma, as humans seem able to do. A quarter of our population tends to be telepathic, and fewer are empathic, and during the exodus, most of that portion of our people died, either of psychic trauma or by their own hand. We. . . ." He closed his eyes. His head drifted down until his forehead rested on the table, and Deanna looked at him in concern and confusion, apparently unable to sense what was going on.
"'hiri, don't," Sakhara pleaded softly, leaning across the table. "You shouldn't do this to yourself."
"You do it." Muffled, but firm. And then he disappeared.
Sakhara frowned, ears sloping down and back. "Telepaths of any species who mate with other telepaths tend to form strong bonds. When one of a pair is assimilated, the other. . . hears. The Collective overwhelms them, and there are no implants to adapt the body to cope with it."
Deanna's confusion changed to stricken horror. "Rehia?"
Sakhara nodded, turning from her to Picard. "Gwaheer's wife Rehia was also a surveillance agent. She volunteered for an information-gathering mission at Unamatrix Two and was lost. Someone had to find her and kill her, to break the link and save Gwaheer," Sakhara finished sadly. "Even so, he almost didn't survive."
"I know what it's like," Picard said. "He must have wanted to die."
"It wasn't the last encounter he had with the Borg, either. When you were assimilated, Captain, he came to the *Enterprise* personally. When your crew rescued you, he risked detection to attempt helping you. He sat in sickbay and did what he could telepathically, mainly stimulating memories of your life in an attempt to restore the neural pathways to prior configurations, yet allow you to keep some memories of the experience. We've since adapted what he did and begun an effort to recover as many drones as we can. A population of various assimilated races is growing on Ryx, and many are slowly coming out of the subconscious state they've been in. I've been using a similar technique on Steichen."
"But when we rescued the captain, Gwaheer must have realized that Rehia might have been rescued similarly," Deanna exclaimed.
"Yes, at the time it did cause him grief. But since then, we have discovered that even when Ryxi have only been assimilated a short time, they don't recover. The Borg decapitate our wings and tails. And the loss of the tail means loss of balance in a two-legged stance. Crawling through life with no wings is insufferable indignity."
Picard sighed. "I owe him a great deal, if -- Sakhara, did he break regulations helping me?"
Sakhara's wings rustled in an approximation of a shrug. "I'm not an agent. I'd guess he was lightly reprimanded, but what he did helped us find a way to actively fight the Borg from within. It's become a regular procedure. Some of us find a cube, beam in during sleep mode, and teleport out a handful of likely-looking drones. Many die before we finish getting the implants off. Some take years to recover. But many have been rehabilitated, and we are ready to return them to their homes, if they still have them."
"Have you made any advances toward getting rid of the Borg?" Beverly asked. She hated the Borg passionately, and more so now that she'd seen firsthand what Picard's present nightmares were like. She couldn't imagine what they'd been like initially.
Sakhara sighed. "We are asked that often. Doctor, there can be any number of responses to being attacked by the Borg, but they usually fall into three categories. If anyone survives, that is. The remnant can go into hiding and become paranoid and xenophobic. We nearly did that. We began watching other races because of that, but our observation became less fearful and more curious and scientific. Another response is for the survivors to become hyper-vigilant. Battleships are turned out, crews are trained, sometimes martial law goes into effect. Less often, they retreat, regroup, and start over. But of the three, hyper-vigilance is the most dangerous."
"You do not believe it is possible to adequately strengthen one's ability to defend against the Borg?" Stollen asked.
Sakhara's cynical smile wasn't pleasant. "The Borg seek out advanced technology, and the more weaponry you develop, the more they want it. And they leave sensors behind them wherever they go, so if they have visited a planet, they don't have to send out a cube for another survey. They're content to wait for you to recover and become interesting again."
A searing, cold pain formed in Picard's gut. "How?" he whispered, thinking of Earth, home of Starfleet Command, where most likely the latest technological advances were discussed on a daily basis.
"Have you ever walked on a beach?"
"Sure," Geordi exclaimed. "You mean they've hidden probes on the beaches?"
"No. They've covered the planet with probes the size of grains of sand. Think of sand, and how hard it is to get it out of folds of your skin, or your clothing. A sprinkling of their sensors across the most populated areas is usually sufficient. They are deployed in small canisters programmed to open once they're safely through the atmosphere. Dropped into the cloud cover, the sensors are often caught in droplets of rain. They form a sensor net. A carefully-placed set of satellites are beamed into the heart of asteroids in the solar system, to pick up and magnify the signals from the sensors. When the data is uploaded into the Collective, a simple algorithm to seek for references to technological data seeks and analyzes the information."
"Do you have the specs on those sensors? Is it something we could detect and disable?" Geordi asked.
"I don't have access to that information. But Gwaheer does, and he fully intends to see that the Federation gets it. I suspect he may even do so without official sanction, if for some reason negotiations fail."
"Won't that get him in trouble?"
Sakhara sniffed. "Probably, but one never can tell. He's done foolish and dangerous things before that might have ended his career, if not for the memories of what the Borg did to our great-grandparents. Gwaheer's superiors have gotten in the habit of letting Gwaheer do as he will, especially as concerns the Borg, and it's because he's made so many advances and defenses possible that they continue to do so."
"So he's here, and you're here, because he has gained the favor of your government?" Picard sipped his drink and noted the look on Deanna's face out of the corner of his eye. She was deep in thought, her eyes distant.
"Your officer is a different issue. If the origin of his condition was the fault of one of our people, we have a responsibility to do something about it. Gwaheer did sidestep some procedural regulations to bring me here, but because we might have lost Steichen if something hadn't been done immediately. Making reparations for damage done by an agent is usually the responsibility of his supervisor, but since Steichen is now on your ship, Gwaheer is within his rights to step in."
"How is Gregory?" Ramsey asked. At last, the conversation would turn! Picard bitterly thought how odd it was that now, Steichen's condition seemed a less serious topic. He wanted to know more, had to know more, about what the Ryxi knew of the Borg, but not here and now.
"We should be able to awaken him tomorrow morning. He's still critical, but I'm optimistic. More so than I was before, anyway."
The door opened. Gwaheer returned and crossed to the bar, and spoke quietly to Guinan as she mixed a drink for him. Picard thought everyone must be holding their breath; the atmosphere seemed charged with anxiety as he came to the table. Deanna watched him anxiously. He smiled at her, apparently none the worse for wear, and glanced at his brother. Pulling out his chair, he started to sit, then froze and put a hand to the back of his head.
"'hiri, you're a fool." Sakhara tossed a hypospray on the table. It clattered across and came to rest next to Gwaheer's glass. "Take that and let the good captain put you up for the night. You've done too much popping around the quadrant for your own good, as I suspected."
Gwaheer sat down and didn't touch the hypo. "No."
"As much as I'd like to see my family, I'm not going to let you take me anywhere. You're too good at hiding symptoms, which means if you're starting to show them, you're incapable of good judgement. I have no desire to spend the final seconds of my life surveying the interior of a star because you lost your bearings."
"If that's the usual remedy, it puts me to sleep, and impairs my judgement even more."
Sakhara rose, planted his hands on the table, and leaned forward. "I don't work for you, 'hiri. Out of that peculiar masochism I seem to have for letting you pull me into your unusual circumstances, I'm here as a favor to you. So if I have to wrestle you into a corner and force you, you're taking that, and you're going to rest."
The brothers glared at one another. Picard contemplated interrupting for the sake of peace, but hesitated, glancing at the counselor.
"If you're that tired -- and I can tell you are -- why don't you do it?" Deanna asked. "I can show you to the guest quarters."
"Do it. I'm not backing down." Sakhara leaned even more, pointing his ears forward as if emphasizing his threat.
Still glaring, Gwaheer snatched up the hypo. His expression softened as he looked around the table at his hosts. "I thank you all, for an enjoyable evening."
"The pleasure was ours," Ramsey said sincerely.
Weariness began to show on his face, but because he was allowing it to, Picard thought. Gwaheer smiled at Lenore and nodded once. "You should practice piano more often. It relaxes you."
"You're right, it does, but there's been so little time."
"We live only to discover beauty. All else is a form of waiting. And the beauty you make is the most precious of all, as sometimes it requires self-sacrifice."
He stood, and Deanna rose with him. "Sakhara?" she asked.
"I will return to sickbay and stay with the patient. He may be stable, but that could change at any moment. I do not know my way well enough to reach sickbay quickly, and sometimes seconds do count. In fact, Doctor, if we could go now to check on him?"
The dinner party broke up, all participants departing for their individual destinations. Picard took a turn around the bridge. Lieutenant Remington was on shift, and came to attention the instant he saw the captain.
"Quiet watch, Mr. Remington?"
"Yes, sir. We've launched long range probes on schedule. We should be receiving data on the next system by morning." Something about the man's eager, yet controlled, demeanor reminded Picard of Data. Not that Remington really resembled the android, but the slight similarity got his attention. Picard smiled.
"Carry on, then. Good night, all."
Sporadic responses from the gamma shift crew followed him up the ramp and into the lift. He reached his quarters, having dawdled as much as he could, and began removing his uniform on the way into the bedroom. Beverly sat on the end of his bed, smiling.
"You settled him in that quickly?" he asked.
"Once we got there, he seemed to want to go right to sleep. He only glanced at Steichen and thanked me for showing him the way." She sighed and took his hand as he sat down. "Are you all right?"
"It was a shock. I won't deny that. But it would explain why I feel so comfortable about Gwaheer, so. . . open. It's because he really is familiar to me, in some unconscious way. He touched my mind before -- perhaps it created a resonance, like the one I felt for so long after the meld with Sarek. And it explains how he seems to know so much personal information about me. That evening earlier this week, when I first spoke to him, he never directly referenced anything, but I got the impression that he understood more about me than he showed. He brought up things that he knew I would be interested in." He stroked her knuckles with his thumb absently. "It makes me wonder, if he was able to help me so much in my recovery then, could he help me now?"
"With the nightmares, you mean?" Beverly stroked the back of his neck. Shivers trickled down his spine. "Maybe we should talk to Sakhara about it. He'd know if it's possible, and he'd probably even be willing to help you."
"He would defer to Gwaheer. I'm not the same type of case as Steichen; I'm not dying of neural trauma, and the Borg didn't happen to me as a result of Ryxi interference. From what they've told us so far, Gwaheer has more authority and more leeway for such acts."
"Have you ever heard what Gwaheer's actual rank is?"
Picard thought for a moment, raising an eyebrow. "You know, I don't believe I have."
"I asked Sakhara earlier. He simply didn't answer. I pushed him, and he said he didn't understand our ranking system well enough to put it in terms we would understand. It sounds like a dodge to me, and I've got to wonder why."
"I'll ask Gwaheer tomorrow."
11.
When Gwaheer came to, he couldn't remember falling asleep. One of his wings seemed to be against something; shifting that aileron, he discerned that the something must be a wall. He was on his side, wings loose behind him. Distant remnants of a roaring headache made his head feel hollow. Ah, the hypospray. The aftereffects of too much teleporting. Now he remembered Deanna helping him the last steps down the corridor, practically carrying him into the bedroom. And that had been before she'd injected him with the medication Sakhara had given him.
Then he realized he wasn't alone. During the aftereffects of a bout with severe teleportation sickness, the nose got particularly sensitive, and his sinuses ached with the scent of perfume and body odor. A curved bit of anatomy pressed against his nose -- an ear. Deanna's ear. Her hair pressed against his cheek; his head rested on it where it spilled across the pillow.
Cracking one eye open, he adjusted his pupil for the darkness and saw her cheek, a smooth, unmarked surface rising from her masses of black curls. She slept soundly. He raised his head. Her lips were upturned at the corners, as though she were keeping a lovely secret. Overhead, the stars glittered coldly down on them through a viewport.
He couldn't move without waking her; one arm, a foot, and his tail were trapped beneath her. Somehow he'd literally wrapped himself around her in his sleep. Why was she here? What mischievous impulse had possessed her, for her to climb into bed with him? His sense of smell was confused, but to his relief, they hadn't coupled; that would have been obvious.
She'd pulled a blanket over herself, and partially over him, and as she shifted slightly in slumber, he recognized where his hand must be -- there weren't too many ways to manage a handful like that. He removed his hand.
"Deanna!"
She was awake in an instant. "What?" Her alarm cut the sweetness of her odor, thankfully. It was making his sinuses pound.
"Why are you here?"
She sat up. Pushing her hair out of her face, she looked down at him. "I was worried about you. And besides, every time I started to leave, you started to talk."
Panic sent his tail into convulsing coils at the foot of the bed. "Talk?" It was tempting to dip into her thoughts and find out exactly what he'd said.
Blood rushed to her face. "Yes. I. . . didn't understand all of it."
"I must have been worse than I thought. But I did stop?"
"Oh, yes. The medication took effect quickly, really. But I didn't know if it might wear off, or if you. . . ." She looked away. "It seemed to me that you might. . . come looking for me. If I didn't stay. So I. . . ."
"Took off your uniform and climbed in with me?"
Wrong time for a wry, half-amused statement. She bit her lip and swung her feet to the floor. Sitting up, he slipped an arm around her midriff and used the other hand to brush aside her hair. He kissed the back of her neck softly.
"I don't know what I said last night. I'm sorry it caused you concern." He rested his chin on her shoulder. "I hope you can forgive me and set aside whatever it was."
"I'm going to have a hard time with that." She was crying.
Gwaheer sighed heavily. "Perhaps I need to know what it was I said."
"You said. . . you love me," she whispered. "That you wanted to always be with me. That you'd do anything for me. And then you were mumbling, you mentioned Zakhad a few times, and some other words that the translator must have gotten wrong. Something about gardening."
"And Th'ela'zoy?"
"Yes." She hiccuped and pressed her hand to her mouth. "I couldn't make out some of the last few things you said, but when I tried to leave, you called my name. I got as far as the corridor, and then I heard you calling me telepathically."
Th'ela'zoy's Garden was a lengthy love poem, full of gardening metaphors and eroticism. It was just another bit of cursed luck that his subconscious had managed to pick that one out of all the poetry and songs he knew. But more disturbing than that, he'd lost control of his mindspeak, and probably dropped his shields. She'd probably sensed more than enough to know exactly how he felt about her, and then some. And that was why she was so upset now.
"Are you angry at me?"
"I don't know," she moaned. "I don't know how to feel. I don't. . . ."
Gwaheer moved to sit next to her, and as he did so he saw a long scratch on her thigh. A significant one, that had started to bleed again when she got up. "You're hurt!"
"It's nothing."
He noticed, as he checked his feet and verified that one of his claws was stained red at the tip, that her uniform lay on the floor next to the bed, and her shirt was torn. He picked it up.
"Did I do this to you?"
"It's not -- "
"Don't! Damn Sakhara! I told him I didn't want the -- Deanna, *kahzan'kahliu,* look at me." He tipped her head up as gently as he could, hand trembling with suppressed rage. "I'm sorry. I'm not angry at you. My behavior was inexcusable. It doesn't matter what drug I'm taking, you should not have been subjected to this. I should have sent you away, or asked someone else to show me to my room -- I knew what those injections could do."
"You were so tired," she protested. "You probably didn't realize -- "
"I didn't recognize how far gone I was, that's true. But I had enough coherence to do something, before -- "
"You didn't hurt me. Those rips -- you were pulling on my shirt. I took it off to keep you from tearing it up. When I removed my uniform, you finally went to sleep, and didn't talk any more. And the scratch on my leg must've happened while we were asleep. I didn't feel it."
Gwaheer threw himself on his back, not caring that it hurt his shoulders and wings -- he deserved the pain. That scratch. Normally, he would know he had someone else in the bed, and be sure to close his feet and lock the joints before falling asleep. Damn tranquilizer.
Covering his face with his hands, he tried to think of what to do. Deanna hovered between humiliation and disappointment, unsure of whether to appreciate the fact that all they'd done was sleep --
Why could he tell how she thought? He'd resurrected his shields upon awakening, and blocked out sensations from the decks above and below and the rooms around them. Yet all he had to do was send a light thought her way, and he could touch her. The connection was real. He'd been so careful not to let this happen, only to have Sakhara sabotage his efforts with an ill-timed sedative.
"Time," he whispered.
"Oh-four-hundred and twenty-six minutes," the computer replied.
<Deanna.>
She turned, sniffled, and contemplated him with dark eyes. "What?"
<How do I feel?>
Her eyes widened. <You are angry, with yourself. But I wasn't able to sense your emotions -- > Her thoughts raced, distracting her from her angst. <But I've been able to, since we awoke. You are letting me?>
<Not intentionally.>
"What does it mean?"
"That I spent hours, sleeping with my shields down, with you in my arms. That the impulse that's driven me back to see you again and again has achieved its end."
"Some sort of. . . bond."
"Nothing so formal as the Vulcans do. Nothing planned. Just two sets of synapses finding each other irresistible. We could deny it and the connection would degrade, eventually."
"I don't want it to." Deanna lowered her gaze. "It's different from anything I've ever felt before. It feels. . . ."
"Not lonely. Like a part of you. 'When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind, but sigh'st my soul away; when thou weep'st, unkindly kind, my life's blood doth decay. It cannot be that thou lov'st me, as thou say'st, if in thine my life thou waste, that art the best of me. Let not thy divining heart forethink me any ill; destiny may take thy part, and may thy fears fulfil; but think that we are but turn'd aside to sleep. They who one another keep alive, ne'er parted be.'"
Tears fell one by one down her cheeks. "I'm afraid. No one's ever been this close to me. Is this what it was like? And you lost her, to the Borg -- "
She came to him, oblivious of her weight pressing his shoulders into the mattress to the point of pain, and sobbed in his arms. She was afraid, as she said, and mostly of rejection. This happened too soon, Gwaheer thought grimly -- her recent agonizing over Worf's abuse of her had left her too fragile. This shouldn't have happened. Gwaheer closed his eyes against the stars and cradled her, projecting reassurances until the tears were spent and they lay in silence.
At least it was only a weak link. Inadvertent ones could happen, just from working with someone daily, if one was careless. It could be undone. If she turned away from him, it wouldn't be like losing Rehia. Heartbreaking, yes, but a loss from which he could recover in less than twenty years. He could still remember when he woke and went about his business, and realized at dinner that it was the first day he hadn't awakened and automatically reached out for Rehia's presence. Twenty years after her death, in spring, with all the flowers blooming and the laughter of his nieces and nephew in the front yard, he'd cried in final farewell, sitting alone in his office at home.
But Deanna could be a part of his soul, if he allowed it. It would be so easy to open himself to her completely and make it more permanent.
<Gwaheer, I didn't know it would happen.>
<I know that. You should go. Spend some time thinking everything through. You haven't even met Zakhad yet.>
<I've been thinking about her. It feels familiar to me.>
"You've considered marrying a Ryxian before?" he exclaimed, rolling his head to peer at her face.
"When I was assigned to the *Enterprise* and Will was the first officer, I was still in love with him. I wouldn't admit it at the time, to anyone, but one of the reasons -- maybe the main reason -- I chose to join Starfleet was that I'd have a chance to see him again. I didn't count on watching him take lovers, one after the next, the entire time we served together. It hurt at first."
"And after a while, it didn't? Are you suggesting this is somehow similar to polygamy? You would have expected him to give up the others to get you back."
"I suppose so. But he's monogamous, and he would have."
"And when you finally decided to fall out of love with him, you chose Worf to help you do it? Will chose his career over you. You chose passion over basic compatibility. What about me? What kind of choice would I be?"
Faint ire stirred in her, and he felt it. She slid off him. He stretched and rearranged his limbs, rolling on his side.
"Isn't it a little late to be asking that?"
"This bond between us isn't love. Love is always a decision."
"I understand that concept, but love is more than just a decision."
"What we feel is part of love, for us. Perhaps it's even the most unconscious, powerful part of it, but it's not the whole of it. I could deny the attraction and the bond. So could you. Eventually, it would fade."
"But still, love is more than a decision," she insisted.
"It's a series of decisions. Would you have been happy, had Will married you? And would that happiness be different than the satisfaction you derive from your career now? If you had the chance years ago, would you have chosen to sacrifice your career for Will, to follow him from one assignment to the next? And would you have made the right decision? Would you have missed the satisfaction you have now?"
"Isn't that series of questions moot?"
"The current situation brings up the same questions -- if you married me, will you continue your career, or start a new one on Ryx? It would be possible, you know. I know of several opportunities that would be perfect for you. Or, would you remain in Starfleet, and spend most of your time apart from me? Or would you be happier if you do not marry me? There's no way to tell. But the decisions are there. The heart of them all is really whether you choose to love me, or not. And we haven't made that commitment yet, nor do I think we should."
"You aren't being fair. Why can't we just -- just -- "
"Because you said you didn't want to be hurt again. It seems you wanted a permanent relationship when you began with Worf, and that you view the termination of that relationship as failure because of that. You may not have been conscious of that desire at the time, but you are now. If I were human or Betazoid, there would probably be no difficulty with simply allowing it to happen. But I'm not, and it would be foolish to pretend otherwise."
"It feels wrong, to be so rational about it."
Gwaheer sighed. "If I allow you to put yourself into a relationship with me that I'm not certain you would want, simply to indulge an impulse, would that be an expression of love, or selfishness?"
She gave a strangled sob and put her palm over one eye. "Why do you have to be right about this?"
"Because someone has to be. And I have to let you know, it's taken extensive, responsible decision-making to lay here with you in this revealing state without taking advantage of the situation. We should tend that scratch, and you should find a whole uniform."
"I'll just go back to my quarters -- "
"You should call sickbay."
She bit her lip. Hiding something, he thought. "I don't want to."
"You can't walk like that. It might bleed more than that, if you use the leg."
"It's really not that bad." And she really didn't want to go -- probably didn't want Beverly to see the scratch and ask questions.
"All right. Stay here, then, and I'll be
back in a moment."
12.
"You always find a new and better way to amuse me, don't you, 'hiri?"
"One more word -- " Gwaheer grabbed Sakhara's tail in his foot and pressed lightly with his talons.
"All right, all right. But I told you this would happen." Sakhara looked at him with sympathy. "You haven't married her, though. I thought that would have been a logical conclusion to the experience. Took you all of a day to decide to marry Rehia, and you've had more than a week with Deanna."
"She can make decisions, too." Gwaheer studied Steichen's unconscious body, then took note of Sakhara's drawn expression. "You didn't get much sleep, did you? Maybe you should have taken your own medicine."
"It was tempting. He woke earlier, though, and I wouldn't have awakened for it if I'd been tranquilized. So what now?"
"I suppose breakfast, and another day on the *Enterprise* waiting for you to get somewhere with Steichen. I need to take this regenerator back to Deanna."
"I need some equipment. Are you feeling normal again?"
"Normal enough to travel? I have to be. I have to let Zakhad know why I haven't been home. I'll stop in and let Tierza and Roilan know where and why you are."
"On your way to some long meeting with superiors, probably. Will we see you by this afternoon?"
"I'll send someone back with your equipment if I'm delayed."
"And later, when you have the chance, I'd
like some lessons in seducing women while under the influence of -- OW!"
13.
"So how do you like working with a telepath?" Picard left Beverly's quarters in her wake. They walked together down the corridor toward the turbolift, on their way to their respective posts.
"Sakhara is very easy to work with. He's nothing like I imagined. So many other telepaths seem to develop quirks or abrasive personalities." She turned as she spoke; behind them, down the hall, Deanna's door opened. Picard looked too and stopped on the threshold of the lift.
Gwaheer emerged from the counselor's quarters.
Grabbing Beverly's arm, Picard propelled them into the lift and the doors closed on the scene. "Bridge."
"You're uncomfortable with it, too?"
He met Beverly's worried gaze. "You are, and it shows. It's not our business what any crew member does in her free time."
"That's true. But it was only two days ago that she insisted there was nothing between them! Jean-Luc, I can't shake the feeling there's something wrong about it."
"Why are you so concerned?"
She shrugged and crossed her arms, cupping her elbows in her hands. "Did you know the Ryxi are polygamous?"
He turned his head sharply. "They are?"
"Sakhara told me. Quite casually, in fact. He seemed to think I already knew."
"And does Deanna know?"
"I think so. But it worries me." Beverly frowned. "Betazoids tend to prefer monogamy, like most humans. To be honest, I've always thought Deanna would marry Will, some day when they re-evaluated their priorities. They've always been so close. Even when she and Worf -- " Beverly interrupted herself. "But this? Gwaheer's so different. I don't think interbreeding is even possible, at least naturally, and she's always wanted children. And Sakhara said he's already got a wife."
Picard listened -- what else could he do? "Beverly," he began.
"I know, it's not really my place to question. It's none of my business. But she's my best friend, Jean-Luc. I think she's rushing into something she's not prepared for, even after she swore she wouldn't, and I think it's going to end badly. Like she jumped into her relationship with Worf. I can't imagine them together, to this day. It had to be sheer impulse that started it."
"You recall those alternate realities Worf went through, don't you? In some of them, according to his report, he and Deanna were married."
"But who knows what the alternate Worfs were like? They could've been completely different people! I think they would have to be."
"So you feel an obligation to warn her -- to what? Slow down? Avoid Gwaheer?"
"I just feel I should say something."
"What makes you think she would listen to you?"
She thumped him on the shoulder and smiled in half-serious reproach. "Fine. I'll leave her alone about it. But don't be surprised if you have to lend an ear for my venting again soon."
"As long as I receive some form of compensation," he replied, raising an eyebrow and lacing the words with insinuation.
"You needn't worry about that, Captain." Beverly's mercenary grin warned him, but she was too quick for him to dodge. As the lift slowed, she goosed him, leaving him no time to react. She was already against the far wall of the lift out of sight when the doors opened on the bridge, grinning evilly.
Straightening his uniform, Picard sighed and
strode out of the lift to confront the demands of the day.
14.
Sakhara ran his hand across Steichen's forehead, and stepped back. "All right, he's waking up."
Deanna took the Ryxian's place at the bedside and touched Steichen's shoulder. "Gregory, how are you?"
Confused blue eyes focused on her face. "Counselor?"
"I know you're feeling a little disoriented, but everything will be fine. What's the last thing you remember doing?"
"I was on the bridge. There was a ship. . . we attacked. The shields went down. Kravitz. . . was bleeding. . . ."
That wasn't what she expected to hear. Apparently the last thing he'd done reminded him of another incident. Deanna looked over her shoulder at Sakhara, who stood against the wall out of the way. He'd said that seeing him might disturb Steichen.
"What ship were you on?" she asked.
"*Persephone,*" he gasped. "The Jem'Hadar are attacking! God, we've got to get out of here! We can't fight them!"
"What are you doing right now?"
His eyes jerked around, focusing on events from the past, and his anxiety increased tenfold. The biobed's monitors went wild. Beverly hurried in and halted just inside the door, looking at Deanna uncertainly; Deanna turned back to their patient.
"Gregory, what's happening? Can you tell me?"
"Can't move. What can I do? I can't think -- got to do something," he rasped, ending on a whining note as his voice rose an octave. "I can't move! Why can't I move my arm? God, they're dying!"
"I want you to look at me, Gregory. Look at me." When his crazed eyes came to rest on her, Deanna smiled reassuringly. "You're all right. It's just a memory of something that happened months ago. You're in sickbay, and you'll be fine. Do you understand?"
"Yes," he whispered. "But I couldn't move! It's my fault, I was at ops, I could have taken over when Kravitz died."
Deanna sensed Picard's presence in spite of the grief washing over her from Steichen. "Gregory, I want you to imagine you're sitting in front of a view screen, watching a play. Your favorite play."
It took a while to get him to settle down enough to comply. Eyes closed, Steichen concentrated, and she could sense that focus. Sakhara stepped up beside her, and as they watched a smile blossomed on Steichen's face.
<Give him a few minutes to relax.> Sakhara looked at the monitors, which settled into more normal patterns. Beverly and Jean-Luc approached silently and looked questions at them.
<Ready to try?> she asked, and the Ryxian smiled.
<You protest too much. You're quite good at mindspeak, for a mere empath. I'll put him into sleep if it gets too stressful and damaging. Go ahead.> Deanna nodded, smiling, probably blushing a little at his praise. She'd felt woefully inadequate since Sakhara had been helping them, and said as much during their discussion of how the treatment should progress.
"Gregory, I want you to reach out to the controls. Change the image on the viewscreen. Now you are watching what happened on the bridge when the Jem'Hadar attacked, as an observer. Do you see that?"
His mouth sagged open, and the readings on the monitors jumped. "Yes."
"Do you see what's happening, or are you looking at a still picture?"
"Kravitz is changing course. S'lorak is transferring power to shields and arming torpedos. The ships -- three of them. Too fast. We're already damaged from the last attack. Carson is giving the order to arm self-destruct sequence -- "
His entire body trembled, fists white-knuckled, and he grimaced. "The inertial dampers! God, no! There's blood everywhere!"
Horror. Fear. Deanna fought it, trying to regain composure. It felt like her nervous system was on fire with terror.
<Deanna.>
Sakhara's presence in her mind, minimal as it was, provided a welcome anchor. <Thank you.>
<Would you like to see what he's seeing? I don't think he'll be able to articulate it any further. He's not disassociating as much as you'd hoped.>
<I wish I could just see it myself. Yes, please.>
The experience defied description. She lost track of time, and when they finally separated, she found herself still standing at the bedside, her face wet with tears. They had been joined by two other Ryxians.
"Counselor," the captain said, obviously concerned.
"I'm all right. I don't think Steichen will be able to continue as a Starfleet officer. There's so much damage." Deanna swallowed. Her breathing finally slowed, and she wished she could do away with the redness of her eyes as easily. "What he went through -- the damage -- I wouldn't have been able to help him."
"Sakhara," Gwaheer exclaimed, then turned and left the room. Deanna looked at Sakhara.
"I knew I should have left you out of it." He addressed Deanna, but his gaze moved to the other Ryxian standing across the biobed from them. "I'm glad you're here. I may need medical attention soon."
The Ryxian sighed and shook her head. Deanna could sense she wasn't telepathic, or empathic. Deanna was also certain she was female, though there were no secondary sexual characteristics to go by. A long blue braid, wrapped around the crown of her head twice, dangled down her right shoulder, but that meant nothing, given Sakhara's preferred hair style.
Sakhara went after Gwaheer. "Men," the newcomer muttered, confirming Deanna's hunch. She smiled at Deanna and held out a hand. "I'm Zakhad."
"Deanna Troi, ship's counselor," Deanna replied. She shook the woman's hand numbly. Gwaheer must have brought her back with him. This wasn't the circumstance under which she had imagined meeting his wife. "Have you met the captain and Doctor Crusher?"
Zakhad turned to them. "Not formally."
"I'm Captain Jean-Luc Picard," the captain said politely. "And this is Doctor Beverly Crusher, chief medical officer of the *Enterprise.*"
Zakhad's smile got brighter. "Zakhad zel'Gwahiri Terlag'him. I'm pleased to meet you. Gwaheer said I should speak to you, Doctor Crusher. I'm also a doctor. He thought we could 'talk shop,' as he called it."
"I'd like that. Do you have much experience with the type of damage Sakhara has been treating?"
Zakhad's ears went back as she turned to look at the unconscious patient on the table. Deanna thought she was beginning to see differences in the angle of the ears in various moods, and wondered how much of their body language she really understood.
"I'm not a telepath. I don't treat such injuries, especially intentionally-inflicted ones. But I've been told Gwaheer has been neglecting himself, which is nothing new, and Sakhara is showing signs of fatigue as well. I'm here to monitor their conditions."
"Does this sort of thing happen often?" Picard asked. "Agents interfering this way, I mean."
"Our surveillance agents, the telepathic ones, are trained in basic pre-emptive diversion tactics -- making someone hear something that isn't there, for example, so attention is diverted from the agent's location. In the worst case of detection, a basic short term memory wipe. Nothing that would harm anyone. There should not have been such extensive manipulation as Gwaheer describes. Whoever did this will be punished, promptly."
"Gwaheer seems more skilled than that -- he can do much more than what you mention," Deanna said.
"He has more training and more experience. And even for those who have more skills, it's illegal to use them." Zakhad held up an electric-blue device about the size of a tricorder. It was a tricorder, Deanna realized as the Ryxian doctor began scanning Steichen with it. She then put the device down and went to a case sitting on the floor behind her. The device she removed from it looked like a helmet.
The tricorder docked in the back of it. Zakhad slipped the gleaming silver helmet over Steichen's head and touched a few buttons. "It's ready. Sakhara needs to finish programming it."
"What does it do?" Deanna asked.
"Sakhara will use it to reinforce corrected neural pathways, to keep them from returning to damaged patterns. It's somewhat like the muscles' reaction when your spine becomes subluxated. The muscles become accustomed to the new position, and will pull the vertebrae out of alignment again. Steichen's mind needs to be retrained to its original state."
A monitor beeped. Beverly stepped forward and touched the console over the biobed. "Heart arrhythmia. He's failing. Initiating life support -- where's Sakhara?"
"I'll get him." Deanna went to find the brothers; Alyssa Ogawa, minding main sickbay, pointed at the door to Beverly's office. The door was locked.
<Gwaheer, Sakhara, he's in need of assistance. Beverly just put him on life support.>
The door slid back. Thankfully, Gwaheer didn't look angry, and Sakhara was in one piece. Both of them looked solemn, however. Sakhara edged past as she entered the office.
She let the door shut behind her. Gwaheer, clearly expecting to join the others, looked puzzled. "Is something wrong?"
"Why were you angry? Steichen is a member of my crew. I told Sakhara before we started that I wanted to take part in his rehabilitation, as much as possible."
"I didn't know that. I thought he'd just invited you along. It wasn't necessary, and I suppose I expected him to be more protective."
"Why did you bring Zakhad with you?"
His ears lowered -- that indicated some degree of dismay, evidently, as she sensed that from him. "She wanted to come."
"She seems very nice. But I would have appreciated a little warning."
"There was no opportunity." His pupils shrunk and both ears canted forward sharply. "I'm sorry, Deanna. I told her it might be better to wait, but she was. . . excited."
"It's all right," she exclaimed, to soothe his anxiety. He looked at the floor like a penitent child. When she touched his hand, he almost jumped. "You're nervous."
"I am torn between a wife who wishes you
and I had married yesterday, and not making you feel rushed. I am afraid the two of you
will be incompatible. What do I have to be nervous about?" His brittle retort
crumbled a little as his face fell. "I'm sorry. We should return to the patient. I
must speak to the captain."
15.
Picard's ready room seemed smaller with Gwaheer in it. It didn't help that the Ryxian paced
"What will your government's response be, if he dies?"
Picard sighed. "It's hard to say. I used to think I could predict Starfleet's reaction, but lately it's not been the case. Things I've heard, the news over the wire -- I'm afraid I don't know what to believe, any more."
"It's difficult to believe one of our agents would do such a thing. We haven't had an incident like this in -- well, we haven't. There have been minor mistakes, errors in judgement, miscalculations -- never a deliberate attack on any of our subjects. And we have no idea what motive the man had in doing it." His tail lashed against the base of a chair with a resounding thud. Gwaheer looked furious, indignant, and perhaps a bit frightened.
"But you believe Sakhara can find out. The agent saved the ship, you said. Could that be a hint that perhaps his intentions were good, but that he made mistakes in trying to cover up his actions in Steichen's memory?"
"The traps were deliberate. There were more of them than either Sakhara or I expected. They were set to kill him before his condition was detected. It took many sessions to create such barriers and warp his mind so drastically, and what reasons there might have been for such manipulation of a second officer of a small vessel, I can't guess."
Picard ordered some tea from the replicator and offered Gwaheer a cup. At least it made the Ryxian sit down. "Perhaps rescuing the vessel was part of it. If Steichen were created a hero, he'd be promoted. Perhaps to a larger vessel."
Gwaheer pondered, then smiled appreciatively. Then frowned. "That implies some extensive knowledge of the Federation and Starfleet. It means a conspiracy, rather than a single senseless act. Perhaps. . . ."
The red alert startled them into nearly dropping their cups. Putting aside the tea, Picard rose and strode for the door. Gwaheer followed him and stood just outside the ready room, out of the way.
"Sir, we've just received a distress call from the *Rampage.* They're under attack, by unidentified vessels," Ramsey announced, rising from the center seat. "We've changed to intercept course and are under way at warp seven."
"How long before we get there?" The last news from Command placing the *Rampage* within the Beta Quadrant, but at a location far from the *Enterprise.* It would have taken warp nine to reach them the same day if that were accurate.
"Fifteen minutes, sir."
"Fifteen. . . ." He leaned over Remington's shoulder, noting that the lieutenant was pulling a double shift; he'd have to talk to Ramsey later about bridge schedules. "They issued those coordinates?"
"Yes, sir."
Picard went to his chair and sat down, then glanced at Gwaheer. "Please, sit down." He indicated Deanna's chair. "Perhaps you could give us some information?"
"As in, who might be attacking your ship?" Gwaheer showed none of the anxiety he'd displayed in the ready room. He balanced on the edge of the chair, curling his tail across his lap. "Likely it's Chel'whit'iei."
"The same as the ship we confronted?" Picard frowned. "We didn't harm them."
"Chel'whit'iei don't need that much provocation. You could compare them to the Pakleds, only with more balls on the pool table."
The helmsman stifled a laugh. Remington darted a disapproving look at her. Yes, the lieutenant was bucking for that second officer position. Picard exchanged glances with Ramsey.
Gwaheer smiled, but sobered quickly. "You'll want to come out of warp on top of them, and raise the shields at once. You may be able to intimidate them into fleeing."
They rode in silence for a tense ten minutes, and dropped out into normal space hovering over the *Rampage*. The Excelsior-class vessel was at full stop, and a dappled-red vessel had just finished a strafing run. It powered away at the appearance of the larger Starfleet vessel.
"It's not over. There are more of them -- too many minds out there." Gwaheer stared at the screen with a faraway expression. "Their crews are smaller than that. Four ships, at least."
"You're certain of that?"
Gwaheer looked at him and raised an eyebrow. "I am not familiar with Chel'with'iei, except for what my peers who deal with them have told me about them, but I am familiar with human minds, and I do have a sense of direction. The *Rampage* is below us, the *Enterprise* around us, and those slippery little cold minds out there are in front of us." He glanced at the stars. "And they're greedy. They want the ship they think they're entitled to, because they overpowered it."
"Arm weapons," Picard snapped, angry at how many times he'd given such orders in the last few years. "Hail them."
"Hailing frequencies are open, sir," Stollen announced.
"This is Captain Picard, of the Federation starship *Enterprise.* You are attacking a Federation vessel. Be advised that we will protect it if you do not break off your attack. We would like a truce."
A pause. "Any response?" Picard murmured.
"None, sir."
"Close it. Weapons status?"
"Phasers ready, and torpedoes loaded. Sensors picking up two vessels approaching at impulse."
One of them was the neon ship Steichen had confronted. "Fire a warning shot across their bow," Picard exclaimed.
But the ships dodged, accelerating wildly. Both angled up past the nose of the *Enterprise,* firing. The bridge rocked. Over the sound of impact and the klaxons, Stollen shouted, "Two more coming in from behind -- and three coming out of warp aft, five thousand kilometers!"
"Oops," Gwaheer muttered.
"Evasive maneuvers! Fire aft!"
Picard shouted orders and took in data, shouted more orders, reacting with well-exercised, rapid, rational countermeasures. It almost hurt to hear the damage reports; he'd thought he'd left the battles behind him for at least the duration of their simple mission of exploration. His ship shuddered around him. They took out three of the other ships, but the four remaining ships seemed to have expert pilots at their helms. The Chel'whit'iei targeted the *Enterprise*'s weapons with each salvo. After long moments of missing more often than hitting, another ship disintegrated into brief flares of glowing molecules, then another, then finally, after a barrage of phaser shots, a third. The fourth one, though damaged, came about for another run.
"Forward shields buckling!" Stollen paused. "Sir, phasers are offline. One torpedo tube operational, and reloading."
"Sir!" Ramsey stared at the screen.
The *Rampage* rose up between the *Enterprise* and the alien vessel, limping on thrusters. It yawed over, blocking the Chel'whit'iei.
"Damn it, Will!" Picard raged at the screen.
A clatter distracted Picard. Gwaheer was opening the bridge's small weapons locker, a disguised panel near the secondary science station. That feature hadn't been on previous incarnations of the *Enterprise,* and Picard hated having it there. How had the Ryxian known it was even there?
"What are you doing?" Picard's shout cut across the reports from ops and tactical.
Gwaheer turned and lobbed a hand phaser at the ledge that circled the bridge at nine feet, just below the observation dome. The phaser disappeared, then reappeared in the hand of another Ryxian, decloaking, who leaped down to the floor and hurried down to the front of the bridge, meeting Gwaheer near the ops panel.
Gwaheer reached down and tapped the controls, under the shocked observation of Remington, and when the lieutenant would have stopped him, Picard said, "No. Let him."
The Ryxian smiled at the captain ruefully and tapped the last command in. The view screen magnified, showing the alien ship in closer detail. The two Ryxians walked forward, ratcheting the phasers up to full. The whine of overloading phasers escalated rapidly.
"One," the second Ryxian said quietly.
"Two," Gwaheer added a second later.
"Three."
They vanished simultaneously, and reappeared on the view screen, floating in open space.
"Damn," Picard whispered, sitting back in his seat.
Both Ryxians caught the hull and propelled themselves rapidly forward, using hands and feet, phasers held in a wrap of their tails. They reached a hatch, yanked it open, pitched the phasers in, let go of the hull, and vanished.
"The alien ship is beginning its run," Stollen said, and his sentence was punctuated by a small fireball appearing on the ship, followed by a larger one.
"Sickbay to bridge."
"What is it, Doctor?"
The alien ship blossomed into a dissipating mass of molecules.
"We have two puzzling injured who just appeared -- "
"I'm on my way, Doctor."
16.
Sickbay was abuzz with the usual post-battle injuries, concussions and broken bones and bruises from being thrown around. One serious injury requiring surgery had taken Beverly from the back ward, where, with Steichen still unconscious on the table, Zakhad tended the two Ryxians with Sakhara assisting. Deanna helped by using the regenerator, with which Zakhad wasn't familiar, to mend a gash on Levda's arm.
"I knew I should have brought my whole kit," Zakhad grumbled, scanning Gwaheer's head. "I should have -- "
"Do you have to shout?" Gwaheer kept his eyes firmly closed and held his head in both hands. "My ears!"
"It's the *siv'a'salo te chort* -- there's nothing really wrong with him he couldn't have avoided," Sakhara said.
"The what?" Deanna asked.
"It takes a long time for one of us to develop teleportation sickness. I'd guess this is the end result of a week or so of overextending himself, and his line-of-sight hop into a vacuum probably didn't help."
Beverly came in, instruments in hand. "How are we in here?"
"Gwaheer's suffering a flare-up of his pre-existing condition, and I'm done with Levda's arm. Just superficial damage." Deanna stepped aside to show off her work.
"Thank you, Counselor." Levda smiled at her. "I liked your hair better when it was longer."
Deanna gaped at him for a few seconds. "Thank you."
"Leave her alone," Zakhad exclaimed, whacking the man's head with her tail. She had remarkable aim, to lash out with her back turned and still hit her target. He took it without comment or visible ire, glancing at Gwaheer.
Sakhara injected something into Gwaheer's shoulder. "There you go. The pain should be abating. No, I didn't put you to sleep again -- this is just analgesics. I expect this time you'll shuffle off to bed on your own. Or, you can choose to ignore my advice, and the recovery from your current condition will be longer and longer."
"Thank you for allowing me the privilege of the decision," Gwaheer replied sarcastically.
"Picard to Doctor Crusher."
Beverly tapped her communicator. "Yes, Captain?"
"Casualty report?"
She gave the statistics for the crew injuries, in detail. "And Gwaheer and his friend seem to be fine."
"Captain Riker and his first are beaming over. If you would bring Gwaheer and his friend to the senior officer's briefing room at your earliest convenience?"
"We'll be along shortly. Crusher out."
Deanna watched Zakhad fuss over Gwaheer. He accepted the attention with mild amusement and affection, though he complained verbally. Noticing Deanna's attention, he smiled. <She worries to keep herself occupied. It frightens her to think I take such risks; I don't think she understands it. She accepts it, though.>
<What happened up there? We were working with Steichen and the red alert frightened him.>
<The *Rampage* issued a distress call, and the *Enterprise* is badly damaged now as well. Levda and I. . . helped.>
"Gwaheer?" Beverly's voice interrupted them.
"Just a moment. Levda, return and make a full report. Find my brother, Ka'zor. Ask him to come to the *Enterprise,* or find someone else who can if he is unable. He should also check my computer and bring me my messages."
"*Solde win'hol, Kreh'talliath na reil.*" Levda was gone in an eyeblink.
Gwaheer followed Beverly out of the room, leaving Deanna with Zakhad and Sakhara again.
"I think I should take my own advice, and get a little sleep," Sakhara said tiredly. "This constant effort is draining me more than I thought. Why don't you take Zakhad on a tour of the ship?"
"I'd love that. I've never been on a starship." Zakhad's ears curved out in intense curiosity.
"We'll check back after lunch," Deanna said. She studied Sakhara for a moment; was he simply manipulating her into spending time with Zakhad? But he turned away and dropped to the floor in a corner, curling up and closing his eyes.
Zakhad followed her out of sickbay and into the corridor. Deanna hesitated; the ship was damaged, and the crew would be on alert. A tour was unrealistic.
"Do you know Guinan?"
"I've met her. Is she aboard?"
"Yes, she's our hostess in Ten Forward. Would you like something to eat? Guinan makes wonderful meals."
"I am a little hungry," Zakhad admitted.
Deanna led her toward the nearest lift.
17.
"When the inertial dampers failed, it sent the majority of the bridge crew into the walls," Picard said. "The only one who survived was Steichen, and only because he clung to his console a few seconds previous in anticipation of an incoming phaser blast."
Riker frowned. "Good God. The bridge must have been a blood bath."
"He was in shock, and couldn't bring himself to move. The Ryxian concealed on the bridge at the time also held on; he uncloaked when the inertial dampers came back online a few moments later. He leaped to the helm and programmed in the final commands that sent the *Persephone* out of the way and fired the remaining torpedo. At that point, reinforcements arrived and attacked the Jem'Hadar ship. Because of the extreme conditions under which Steichen survived, and because of his perseverance in the wake of such tragedy when others would have, and often did, freeze, he was awarded a commendation and promoted."
"Aliens have been spying on us all this time, and this is the first time one has interfered? I don't believe that."
"On the face of it, this seems an act of mercy. But we have reason to believe the agent who did this was acting with less than merciful motives." Picard hesitated, trying to couch the next revelation in terms that wouldn't inflame Riker's anger all over again. The younger captain had lost his temper upon receiving the news that they'd all been under surveillance for most of their career. Luckily, Gwaheer was taking his time in arriving.
The doors opened, admitting Dr. Crusher, and Gwaheer followed her close behind. "If there's nothing else, I have injured waiting for me," Beverly said. She smiled a welcome at Riker and Data.
"Yes, thank you, that will be all. We'll be dining with the senior officers of the *Rampage* tonight, by the way."
"Good. I'll look forward to it." She nodded to Gwaheer and left the briefing room.
"I sent Levda back to report, and to send someone else." Gwaheer looked at their guests with interest. "Clear skies to you, Captain Riker, Commander Data."
"This is Gwaheer," Picard said. "He's been our main contact with the Ryxi. He was one of the two who destroyed the remaining Chel'whit'iei vessel you were so determined to be destroyed by."
"Thank you," Data began, tilting his head in puzzlement. "I'm sorry, but is there no title by which you should be addressed?"
"Gwaheer will do." The Ryxian arranged his limbs and sat in the chair nearest Picard, facing the other two across the table. "*Kreh'talliath na reil na Kor'onnath Gwahiri Fehenzha Terlag'heza,* if you insist upon including my whole name and titles. And there is more if that does not satisfy your curiosity. But Gwaheer will do."
"What do your subordinates call you?" Picard asked.
Gwaheer smiled. "Do you mean how they address me, or what they call me when I am not present?"
Picard couldn't suppress his amusement. "How do they address you?"
"It depends on who else is present. *Kreh'talliath* is the less formal usage. We do not use militaristic rankings in surveillance, so there is no real equivalent in your terms. But I believe 'admiral' would be the closest analog."
"What explanation do you have for your spying on our people?" Riker exclaimed.
"Will -- "
"No, let him be angry." Gwaheer put his ears back and seemed sad. "It's a normal reaction. Our reasons, as we have already explained in part to Captain Picard, are various. Our experiences with the Borg, our curiosity, and sometimes our paranoia, are all part of what drives us to observe."
"The Federation has nothing to do with the Borg."
"Quite the contrary, Captain Riker. You may not like to believe this, but the Borg are not the only ones in the universe to follow that path to collective consciousness. Motives vary, but end results can be the same." Gwaheer glanced at Picard. "And the Federation is just as susceptible to following on that path as any. While collective consciousness is not necessarily a prelude to the destruction of other races, it can be. So we watch you."
"The hell we're susceptible!" Riker leaped to his feet. "The last thing we're going to do is become another Borg!"
Gwaheer stood slowly, his expression becoming wary and suspicious. "You say that as though you are certain. How do you know what is being done elsewhere in your Federation, by Starfleet?"
"Please," Picard said. "This isn't productive. Sit down. Gwaheer, if you would explain -- "
"I'm sure this will be interesting," Riker spat sarcastically. "Justifying the infiltration of -- "
"Captain! Sit down!"
Riker obeyed Picard's order as if he had to. Gwaheer watched Riker as he spoke, settling into his chair as he explained.
"Four centuries ago, our agents observed the assimilation of a species called the Sarchus. The circumstances were similar to yours -- they had fought off the Borg, several times, and feared another attack would destroy them completely. We introduced ourselves to them and warned them that if they continued experimentation with integration of Borg technology into their own as a possible defense against the Borg, they would risk complete assimilation. They were angry at us for observing them. They chose to ignore us. They insisted that their only salvation would be in knowing their enemy. Their experiments grew bolder and more risks were taken as they became increasingly desperate. The Borg technology they possessed turned a few of them into Borg, linked with the Collective, and cubes came. The rest of the population was assimilated."
Gwaheer let it sink in for a few minutes. Riker still glared, but Data was intrigued. "The inference would be that Starfleet is experimenting with Borg technology, in such a way that assimilation is possible," the android said.
"Correct. The Borg know this. It's why they haven't attacked since their failed attempt at preventing development of the warp drive on Earth. They're waiting for their prey to come to them."
"Their sensor net is telling them this is happening?" Picard asked.
"What sensor net?" Riker snapped.
Picard exchanged a long look with Gwaheer. The
Ryxian looked tired, and Picard concurred -- it would be a long meeting,
emotionally-charged as Riker was making it.
18.
Deanna, by the time they'd finished eating, found herself genuinely liking Zakhad. Early on, she'd managed to forget her connection to Gwaheer as they talked of their observations of patient psychology and compared Ryxi methods of counseling to the ones Deanna used. It turned out that Zakhad had experience treating the physical injuries of many humanoid and non-humanoid species. Deanna could conclude, from all the references and comments made in passing, that Zakhad was in fact the director of some sort of program to treat refugees. Of the Borg, Deanna assumed, though the Ryxian doctor never mentioned them.
The most enjoyable part of the meal was explaining the food, and by association, the function of Ten Forward, to her. Guinan had helped. And Zakhad referenced that part of the conversation as they left the room.
"You explain that most food aboard is replicated, but Guinan acted as though she prepared it herself."
"There are some fresh foods stored on board, for special occasions. Guinan might have used some of those for you, because you're a guest. Or, she may be acting that way to enhance the experience of eating in a restaurant. Ten Forward can be a place for crew to do something other than eating in their quarters, and fostering the pretense that they are eating food that couldn't be replicated in their quarters helps maintain the illusion."
"I am familiar with the idea of fiction, but to live it -- why would one wish to pretend on such a grand scale?"
"It gives us a way of reducing pressure on us. It separates us from reality to recuperate for while, and that helps us cope with the stressful situations in our reality. Stress on the job, personal crises such as death of a loved one -- removing ourselves for a while from those things helps us regain energy to confront them."
Zakhad still looked confused, but asked for no further clarification. She looked around curiously, as she had on the way to Ten Forward, and remained silent for a while. Deanna led them toward guest quarters, intending to show her to the cabin Gwaheer had been in, and the lack of distracting conversation allowed her thoughts to turn to spending last night in his arms, and to Zakhad taking her place tonight.
"You are troubled," Zakhad observed. Deanna looked up, startled, and remembered. That sense of smell. Body chemistry. Damn.
Zakhad's emotions were plain; she had no empathic talent, and no shields. Zakhad knew Gwaheer was interested in Deanna, yet she had presented Deanna with a variety of pleasant emotions -- interest, admiration, even affection. Zakhad's reaction overall was overwhelmingly positive and even a little eager.
"How much has he told you about me?"
Her ears swivelled to piqued-interest angles. "At first, he told me nothing. This morning, he explained everything, as much as I could understand it."
"How did you and Rehia get along?"
Zakhad smiled sadly. "We were friends for years. We took some classes together, once, and she took me along on social outings. I was always very shy and the school was far from my home province. We hadn't seen one another for nearly a decade when we met by chance at a clothing store in Ren. She came to see me a week after, and brought me home to meet Gwaheer." She paused. "But of course, you meant as his wives. We had no major difficulties."
"But you weren't jealous of the connection between them?"
They reached a lift and waited for three science department officers to exit, then rode to deck four. Zakhad watched the translucent panel as decks flashed downward. "How could I be?"
"You didn't feel left out?"
"There were times. . . but they never intentionally excluded me. Rehia told me once that if I ever felt excluded, I should stand on Gwaheer's tail and demand inclusion." She grinned mischievously. "It works well when he's very busy, too, though I don't have to do it often. And I never had to demand, really."
They paused outside the cabin while Deanna showed her the control panel, and went in. While surveying the bedroom, Zakhad's ears pricked and her nostrils flared.
"He didn't tell me you slept here with him."
Deanna didn't know what to say. She looked at the bed, the covers still in a pile where they'd left them. But Zakhad wasn't displeased; the idea seemed to make her intensely happy, Deanna sensed.
"I understand your misgivings," Zakhad said softly. Looking up from the bed, Deanna saw that she'd sobered and now regarded her with sympathy. "I don't understand completely what it must be like in your culture. But I understand that it is difficult to contemplate following a tradition not your own. Sakhara's wife, Tillen, often came to me to talk -- she felt uncomfortable expressing her fears to him or his other wives. I told her that her discomfort should be overcome and that she should talk to them about her feelings. They would never have disregarded them -- they wanted her as a part of their family. But she couldn't bring herself to open her heart that completely, and she returned to her homeworld."
"Have you known many Ryxi who intermarry? With other races, I mean."
Zakhad sat in a chair and glanced out at the stars. "It happens often enough. The hardest part is often the varying needs and definitions of privacy and intimacy. Ryxi wives are like sisters, but closer. We share responsibilities, we share a husband. We are friends, closer than any other. Being so close to one from a different culture is more difficult."
Deanna thought that Zakhad would have continued, but that she stopped short, unsure of the reaction her words might receive. "But you feel no difficulty between us."
She thought she'd seen a happy Ryxian before. Zakhad's bright smile and laughing eyes proved otherwise. "No."
Deanna couldn't help returning the smile. "I don't, either."
"Really? Do you think -- " Zakhad bit her lip, cutting herself short again. "I'm sorry. I promised I wouldn't."
"I have more questions, if you don't mind my being. . . personal."
Ears forward in a receptive attitude, Zakhad kept grinning as if it were the most appealing idea she'd ever heard. "Anything. As long as the answers remain private, between us."
Deanna sat on the bed and crossed her legs.
"I'm very good at keeping secrets. My first question -- what does *kahzan'kahliu*
mean?"
19.
Gwaheer thought that certainly Riker would eventually lose his anger, but it never happened. The captain hammered questions at him until Jean-Luc called a halt, quoting the necessity for preparing for dinner. It was a good thing. The fuzzy-headedness of teleportation sickness was returning, the headache shortly to follow.
"He'll get over it," Jean-Luc said, walking with him toward the nearest lift. Riker and Data had gone ahead of them, heading for the transporter room.
"Just the same, I will have to decline your invitation to dinner. I'm exhausted, and need sleep. I should be alert tomorrow when the escort arrives." Ka'zor had come and gone with the news that a Ryxi ship had been dispatched to take the Federation vessels to the nearest spacedock.
"Is that doctor's orders?"
"And a wife's declaration of intent to sit on me if I don't obey those orders. It's difficult to have a doctor as a wife. They tend to lecture you on related health issues until you obey."
"She knows about Deanna."
The undercurrent in Picard's tone became clear. "I have been reluctant to allow her to meet Deanna, but only because she can be very persuasive. I'd much rather Deanna made her own decisions." The lift stopped on deck four. "Until tomorrow, Jean-Luc."
Gwaheer sagged on the short walk down the corridor. Dropping to all fours halfway to his door, he actually stumbled, even in that more stable stance. He hesitated outside the door of his temporary quarters. Two very familiar presences were inside. Waking up a little, he entered and found Deanna cross-legged on the bed and Zakhad sitting awkwardly in a chair. Both of them smiled happily at him, until Zakhad's nostrils moved and Deanna's mind brushed his.
"How did it go?" Deanna asked, her smile drooping quickly.
"As you've already ascertained, not well. Do I look as tired as I am?"
Deanna moved over as he crawled up on the bed and collapsed on his side. "You look almost as tired as you did last night. What happened?"
"Will Riker is an angry man, and he's hiding something. I would have to use more than a little empathy to determine what. He's upset because we've been 'spying' on Starfleet, and even though I went through the entire history of the Ryxi, he wasn't satisfied."
Zakhad came around the bed. Folding his left wing closed, she kneaded the muscles between his upper set of shoulders with her knuckles, hard as she could. He bit back a yelp, clenched fingers and toes, and endured her efforts until the pain abated. Then a second pair of hands began to work on his scalp, rubbing in circles. Eyes closed, he let them work without interruption. His nosy questions could wait until he were coherent enough to verbalize them.
"We've been talking about you," Deanna murmured.
"For some time," Zakhad added.
"I think she's wonderful."
"So do I."
Gwaheer opened his eyes. What were they doing?
"You should trust your own judgement more often," Deanna said in his ear.
Gwaheer raised his head and looked at her quizzically. Then he turned the other way, and there was Zakhad. The three of them were crowded on the bed, laying on their stomachs, and the women were grinning too much.
"I'm too tired to figure out what you two are up to. What's going on?"
Deanna ran her hand over the back of his head, then pushed it down on the pillow Zakhad nudged under it. "He's really exhausted," Deanna said.
"Too exhausted," Zakhad commented.
His eyelids were dropping without permission. Yawning, he flexed instinctively, splaying fingers and toes, arcing his back and shifting his wings into a relaxed, locked position for sleeping.
His ear twitched as Deanna's lips brushed it. "Good night -- and by the way,
kerzoinky to you, too."
20.
"Hi, Dee."
Deanna stopped outside the dining room door. Beverly, also wearing the cursed formal uniform, waited in the corridor with crossed arms.
"What's wrong?"
"I thought I'd wait out here for you."
"Why?"
Beverly sighed. "I've got to know -- where do you stand with Gwaheer?"
"Beverly!"
"Will's furious," she exclaimed, tucking her hair behind her ear. "He can't get over the fact that the Ryxi have been observing us. Jean-Luc is in there trying to calm him down, and the rest of the senior staff are all sitting around being uncomfortable. Geordi, Stollen, Ramsey, me -- we all like the Ryxi. But Will isn't budging. Even Data can't get through to him."
"And you think because I'm in love with a Ryxian, I'm going to make things worse?"
Beverly made a frustrated noise. She was concerned, and now a little frightened. "You said you weren't going to rush into anything."
"I haven't. Rushing into it would have meant marrying him two days ago."
Dismay. "You *haven't* married him, have you? Is that even possible?"
"Not yet." Deanna stepped toward the door.
"Deanna, are you sure he's right for you?"
Telling Beverly about telepathic bonds would take too long, and she would never understand it anyway. "I'm sure he *could* be right for me."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Deanna sighed. "What it means is, I'm certain I could have lived a very happy life as Mrs. Will Riker. I probably could have been a happy Mrs. Wyatt Miller. Worf -- he was a Klingon. I didn't really think about that one, just felt about it, and predictably it didn't work. But I've talked to Gwaheer, to Zakhad, and a little to Sakhara. When things settle down, I'm going to Ryx. I've thought a lot about this. My choice, at this point, is to continue thinking about it. That's where I'm at."
Beverly calmed considerably. "Well, I hope you're up to hearing some badmouthing of your boyfriend."
Deanna went in first. The officers gathered inside were sitting around the banquet table, all but three of them looking mutely disapproving. Riker waved a fork at Picard, the two of them facing each other across the head of the table.
"The problem is, you're trusting them far too soon. How do you know Steichen isn't just their way of 'rescuing' a Federation citizen to get in our good graces? Maybe the whole thing was manufactured as part of a bigger plot."
"What pleasant dinner conversation," Deanna remarked, feigning a cheerful tone. She went to the empty chair between Geordi and Ramsey, assuming the one nearest the captain was for Beverly.
Will turned and lost some of his sullenness. "Deanna!"
"It's good to see you. And Data, how are you? Did you activate your emotion chip for the evening?"
The android's face altered perceptibly. Smiling, he said, "It's good to see you, Counselor. I'm doing very well, thank you."
Deanna plied the android with questions, not allowing a pause, and around them the other officers began to talk. When she noticed Will looking at her with a softer expression, she turned to him at last.
"And how have you been, Will?"
"Fine. Extremely busy, in fact, with the new ship. You ought to come over for a tour -- well. Maybe when we're in one piece, anyway."
"I'd like that. So what's it like, having a ship of your own at last?"
He finished chewing a mouthful of the vegetable -- something green and as yet unidentified; she wondered who'd done the menu -- and managed a weak smile. "It's been a challenge. Especially with a new ship, and a lower-than-usual ratio of experienced to new crew. If not for Data, I'm not sure what I'd do."
Data raised an eyebrow. He was getting better at doing it more naturally. "I would assume you would achieve the same results, regardless of the identity of your first officer. In fact, were your first officer anyone but me, you might see an increase in efficiency."
Picard frowned. "Data, upon what are you basing that assumption?"
"I find that most of the crew are uncomfortable with my being an android, sir."
"It's the same as when we first came aboard the *Enterprise*," Riker said. "I had my own reservations, remember? They'll get over it."
"I'm not so certain of that." Data shrugged -- another gesture he was getting better at. "I believe they would still dislike me."
"Give them time, Data," Deanna said. "They'll come around."
Geordi grinned. "And if they don't, just come on home. I for one would love to see you back aboard the *Enterprise.* I'll bet we'd have had that computer lockout licked in nothing flat, if you'd been here." The engineer looked across Deanna's plate at Ramsey. "No offense, Lenore."
"None taken. I'd love the chance to serve with the legendary Commander Data." Lenore smiled at the android.
"I have a question," Lieutenant McClain said. When he hesitated overlong, most of them stopped eating and turned to look at him. The engineer of the *Rampage* had a thin, deeply-lined face. His honest brown eyes held a haunted look Deanna recognized. He'd been in the war, and lost loved ones.
"Why are we here, and not hurrying to make repairs? With all due respect, sirs, we're two seriously-damaged ships sitting in space. What's to guarantee we don't have more of those -- those whatever-they-were on their way?"
"We are within the boundaries of what's known as the Conglomerate," Picard said, giving his standard reassuring-the-crew smile. "In this grouping of worlds, the Ryxi appear to predominate, and they've offered us the services of their repair facility."
"And you trust these people?" Raynor Gammin, the Counselor from the *Rampage,* was a full Betazoid. Deanna had intended to greet him as a countryman and fellow counselor later in the less-formal mingling after dinner, but the man's black eyes passed her over as if she were no more than just another outworlder. Typically, she sensed nothing from him but his presence -- those telepath's shields were in place and fortified as a brick wall.
"I have no reason not to trust them," Picard replied. "It was their help that saved us today. Oh, I suppose we might have prevailed without their assistance. I've been in dire situations with fewer resources before. But I didn't ask their help, they volunteered it, and they have also been helping us with another problem we've been having. Certainly if they meant us any ill, they would have done it long before we crossed paths with them."
"This other problem, that would be Gregory Steichen?"
"Yes. It would."
Gammin nodded. "Admiral Nechayev would like me to examine him."
Deanna's head jerked up from her plate. There'd been no mention of Nechayev's hand in this before. Jean-Luc would have mentioned it to Beverly, and Beverly would have said something. The fleet admiral's orders would be that important. "Why?"
"She reads the reports. She would like the opinion of a Federation telepath as to the Commander's condition."
Something was going on. It was feasible that such orders would be given, but the way Gammin spoke, almost haughtily, and the tension evident not only in Riker's expression but in the mood she sensed he was in, there was more to it than Gammin said.
Picard put on a smile and turned to Data, asking whether he'd started or joined a string quartet on the *Rampage,* and the conversation turned to that and other topics. Too aware of the unspoken tension in the room, Deanna contributed little. Near the end of the evening as the party was breaking up, Picard came to where she stood talking to Guinan quietly.
"Mr. Gammin is asking to see Gregory now." Then, in a lower voice, "Would you like me to come along?"
"Yes," she whispered, then, "Yes, of course, Captain."
And Riker followed them, hovering, not looking at her.
Just outside sickbay, she detected Sakhara's mind. Borrowing on her familiarity with him, she sent a brief emotive warning. He was standing at Steichen's side, relaxed and smiling, when the four of them came into the ward.
"This is Captain Riker and Counselor Gammin, from the *Rampage,*" Deanna said.
"A pleasure to meet you. I'm Sakhara."
"May I examine him?" Raynor asked, already staring at Steichen's prone body.
Sakhara glanced at Deanna dubiously, but nodded and stepped backward, rearranging his tail behind him.
Gammin stood for a moment, focused, and looked at Riker. "He's been tampered with extensively."
"Tell us something we don't already know," Sakhara said. "Someone made this man a mess of artificial barriers and compulsions. I've been two days unraveling them, or he'd be dead."
Gammin turned a stare -- no. He glared at the Ryxian. "Show me what you've done."
Sakhara constricted his pupils to pinpoints and laid back his ears in distaste. "Only if you bring in a witness."
"A witness," Gammin echoed. "You mean the empath?"
The Ryxian raised his head slightly and his ears took on a definite downward angle. "Witnesses," he amended. "Deanna, and your captain, Riker. It is not customary among my people to rely on a single telepath when another's work is called into question. If, as you are thinking, my work should be questioned, you will allow for witnesses."
"Stay out of my mind," Gammin hissed.
"Stay out of mine." The Ryxian's expression turned dark. Tucking his chin, he dilated his eyes and stared into Gammin's, a mercenary smile uptilting one corner of his mouth.
"If you require such safeguards, then who is supervising your work here?" Gammin gestured at Steichen.
"Counselor Troi is. Oh, don't disdain her quite so much -- there are those who rely on her judgement, and been rarely disappointed. You do yourself and your people very little credit by sneering at an empath." Sakhara seemed to bare his teeth purposely as he talked. "Empaths have an advantage over you. They learn to think, and not rely entirely on what they pull in from the brains of others. They aren't disoriented by the pounding of other's thoughts when they're tired. They can function where you cannot, Raynor Gammin. This one functions quite well, as you would see from her service record."
Deanna swallowed her reaction to the Ryxian's words and looked at Steichen, rather than at either captain, or at Gammin. Having everyone looking at her was uncomfortable. She opted to distract herself by looking busy.
She moved to the head of the biobed, ran a hand over Gregory's forehead, and tested the man's mind. An unconscious man still registered as a presence, and still had an emotional current ebbing and flowing through his subconscious. Steichen was more peaceful than he'd been that morning, waking or unconscious. As Sakhara had taken her along with him into their patient's mind and shown her how Ryxi worked, she'd gleaned a few of his techniques; she tried one now, a test of a reflex reaction, and got a response. Behind his closed eyelids, his eyes moved. Deciding to push her luck, she "reached" for the region she'd noticed Sakhara "touched" to manipulate Steichen's waking state.
Gregory Steichen opened his eyes. "Counselor?" he rasped.
"It's all right, Gregory."
"Tired."
Sakhara leaned and looked at the man's face. "What's your rank?"
"Commander. . . First officer," he said, as if pleasantly surprised. "On the *Enterprise.*" His eyes refocused on Sakhara's face. "It was you, wasn't it? In my head? I had a long conversation with someone. . . . You had me remember things."
"I needed your help to reconstruct your long term memory. How do you feel?"
"Like my body doesn't quite belong to me any more."
"That will pass. I think you should sleep now."
Picard had moved to Deanna's side, and Gregory turned toward the movement. "Captain," he exclaimed, raising a hand weakly.
"Relax, Commander. Do you remember what brought you here?"
"Yes." He sighed, looking remorseful. "I'm under arrest, aren't I?"
"No. It appears you were under someone else's control. Do you remember that?"
"Yes. He was. . . like you." Gregory looked at Sakhara again. "He kept showing up in my quarters. He would. . . I couldn't move. He did something to make me forget. But you did something that helped me remember all of it."
Gammin stared at Steichen, and when he noticed Deanna looking at him, he turned and left the ward without a backward glance. Riker watched him go, then stepped closer to the end of the bed.
"Deanna, what was that about?"
"Not now, Will. Gregory, do you feel up to talking about what happened on the bridge now, or would you rather rest?"
"I'm really tired. You won't let him come back, will you? Sakhara?"
"He won't come back. When you're feeling better, the counselor will help you with the fear." Sakhara rested his knuckle pads on Steichen's temple. "You should sleep. You can talk to the captain tomorrow."
A smile flitted across Steichen's lips -- the first real smile Deanna had seen on his face since his arrival on the *Enterprise.* Closing his eyes, he fell asleep within a few heartbeats. Deanna looked up at the monitors. Normal across the board. She beamed at Sakhara.
"Thank you!"
"If you don't mind, a room and a pillow would be more than ample repayment. I think I've been operating on stimulants for six hours now."
Picard held out a hand, which Sakhara shook with as much energy as he could muster. "Excellent work. I must admit, I -- "
"Sshh," Deanna said, gesturing him toward the door.
Riker followed them out of sickbay as silently as he'd come. He glanced at Sakhara questioningly. "Why did you pick me as a witness? I'm no telepath."
The Ryxian drew himself up to his full height, making himself as tall as he could. "You have doubts. About me, and about Gammin. You don't know which one of us to trust."
Riker's jaw jutted, then settled back into place. "You're reading my mind."
"Your thoughts are out here," Sakhara waved his hand in the air between them. "What I read of them are only on the surface. I'm exhausted. I've spent two days with little sleep repairing a badly-damaged mind. My own resources are running low, as is my patience with paranoia. I helped my patient; I'm satisfied with my work, and I'm impressed by Deanna's. I don't need your belief or your approval for that."
He turned to Deanna. "By the way, I didn't say that for Gammin's benefit. If you weren't so convinced of the notion that you're 'only' an empath, you could do much more than you think."
He turned and marched toward the nearest turbolift, and from the way his loosely-folded wings rattled, Deanna knew he really was tired beyond exhaustion -- all the Ryxi she'd met so far exhibited complete control of their limbs at all times.
"Counselor?" Picard's soft question brought her out of her startled state.
"I don't know what Gammin was doing. Being rude, yes. His attitude toward us isn't terribly unusual, either, I'm afraid. But it surprises me that someone with his attitude would be in Starfleet."
"Gammin isn't easy to work with," Riker said. "He's never been rebellious, however. And he's never been that belligerent with anyone on the *Rampage.*"
"Will, I can't stop feeling that you're keeping something from us. I wish you'd tell us what it is."
What she could sense of him retreated behind walls she'd helped him learn how to build, years before. "I'd better get back to my ship. We'll talk tomorrow, Deanna. Good night, Jean-Luc."
Picard watched the captain's retreating back disappear around the curve of the corridor, in the direction opposite where Sakhara had gone. Shaking his head, he exhaled noisily. "What is he doing? I've *never* seen Will act this way. The Ryxi offer us so many possibilities, so much history -- I'll admit that I'm somewhat uncomfortable about their surveillance of us, but Starfleet does record bridge events as well; nothing we do on duty is a complete secret, regardless of how classified it is."
They walked together toward the lift. "I don't understand it, either, Captain. I understand it less now than I did earlier. He's deliberately pushing me away from him."
When the lift doors opened, they found Sakhara standing inside.
"It's about time. I'm so tired, I forgot
that I had no idea where I was going!"
{ End of section 2, go to section 3 part 1 }