"Captain," came Worf's stentorian voice, "we have received the list from Starfleet of the guests who will be in attendance at the.
festivities." The last word sounded as if he were uttering a profanity. "I will be studying it and giving my recommendations and security needs to you within an hour. I thought you might wish to examine it as well." "Yes, absolutely, Mr. Worf." Picard turned in his chair to face his computer screen. Names of ambassadors, their pictures, and their home planets scrolled past him, and he nodded curtly as each went past. "I have a good feeling about all this, Number One," he said. "A celebration such as this one helps to remind us that the purer emotions, such as love, are the great constants of the galaxy." Riker smiled. "You certainly seem happier about this than any time I've seen you recently, Captain." "This crew has been through a great deal, Commander. We can use a genuine celebration. And you," he said without looking away from the computer screen, "are seeming a bit more chipper, I might add." "Perhaps you should consider becoming a counselor, Captain. Talking to you is certainly..." And then he saw Picard go ashen. "Captain, what's wrong?" "Oh no," said Picard softly.
"Captain--?" Riker's view of Picard's screen was blocked as Picard muttered, "Daughter of the fifth house..." "Fifth house?" said Riker in confusion, and then he realized. "Fifth house of... Betazed." "Holder of the Sacred Chalice of Riix," Picard continued, ostensibly reading from the computer screen but, in fact, quoting from memory.
"Heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed," intoned Riker. "Are you saying...?" "It appears that the mother of your untaken road will be joining us," sighed Picard. "Lwaxana Troi is being sent by Betazed to be their representative at the joining of the houses of Graziunas and Nistral aboard the U.s.s.
Enterprise." "Do they ever miss an opportunity to send her off planet?" Riker wondered.
Picard glanced at him. "Would you?" "Captain, are you all right?" "A headache, Number One," said Picard tiredly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Just a headache. God help us if she's still in phase." "Yes, sir. Can I get you something?" Picard turned to the food dispenser just behind him.
"Earl Grey tea. Piping hot." Within an instant the small hatch slid open and a cup of tea extended out. Picard took it and sipped it gingerly. "Take the conn, Number One. I'm going to be indisposed for a few minutes." "Yes, sir," said Riker, standing. He was feeling his old, confident self. Picard, on the other hand... "Captain, if you want to talk about it..." Picard barely afforded him a glance, but what he did see in his captain's eyes was loaded with significance.
Without saying anything further, Riker turned and walked out of the ready room.
As he walked out onto the bridge, Geordi glanced up from the engineering station, where he was doing a systems check before heading back down to the bowels of the engine room. As opposed to earlier, Riker now seemed more relaxed, even jaunty. Then the door to the ready room hissed shut, and Picard did not emerge.
Geordi frowned and sidled over to Riker as the first officer took the command chair. "Where's the captain?" "He's a bit under the weather," said Riker neutrally.
But Geordi wasn't falling for it. "He's depressed, isn't he. Isn't he?" "A little," admitted Riker.
Geordi stared at him and then said firmly, "Don't try to pin this one on me." And he went back to the engineering station.
Wesley limped into sickbay as his mother emerged from her office. She looked at him with a mixture of annoyance and concern, trying to maintain the stern decorum that a chief medical officer should have when faced with a crew member who had clearly injured himself taking unnecessary risks. At the same time, she was still a mother who had to fight the impulse to-- well--mother him.
It wasn't hard to figure out. Wesley was standing there, leaning on one of the sickbay beds, decked out in full skiing regalia. The only thing he didn't have was ski poles. Naturally not, because the holodeck would have provided those. Just as it had, apparently, provided him with-- "A twisted ankle, I think," said Wesley apologetically. "Took a wrong turn down a slope." "Wesley," sighed his mother, getting her instruments. Wesley hoisted himself up onto the table.
Wesley rolled his eyes. He knew that tone of voice. "Mom, please. Don't give me that "you've got to be more careful" speech. I'm not a kid anymore." "Well then don't act like one." She slapped him affectionately on the shoulder and ran an instrument over the ankle that he had extended and propped up on the table. "What were you doing on the slopes, anyway?" "Nothing." "Try again." He sighed. "Okay, I was showing off a little." "For who?" She couldn't keep the amusement out of her voice.
"You don't know her." "Should I?" "I don't think there's going to be much need to," Wesley sighed again. "I didn't just turn the ankle. I kind of went heels over head into a bank of snow. With my feet sticking out and my arms every which way it was a mess." "I can just imagine." Her instrument hummed softly, and Wesley could feel the muscles reknitting and relaxing under the sonic ministrations.
Wesley sighed. "Mom, am I ugly or something?" She looked up at him in surprise. "Of course not. You're a very handsome young man." "Then, what's wrong with me? Why am I having trouble getting something going with a girl?" He looked down. "Maybe it's this gray uniform.
I bet things would go better if I had a Starfleet uniform. A full ensign's uniform." "Well, they do say clothes make the man." She smiled. "In your case, though, I wouldn't worry. In gray, or red and black, or sackcloth, you'll find somebody. In this whole galaxy, there's somebody for everybody." "You really believe that?" "Of course I do." "But the way things are now, I'm hoping that the somebody for me is on this ship. I mean, if she's on Rigel 6, she's not going to do me a whole lot of good." She laughed. "Wes, don't try to outsmart yourself, okay? Trust in yourself and the machinations of fate, and let everything else sort itself out. Try the ankle." He slid off the table, gingerly putting his full weight onto the foot. He nodded with brisk approval. "Feels great, mom.
Thanks." "Pretty girls should be turning your head, not your ankle," she told him reprovingly, putting her instruments back in their holders. "Still, showing off on a ski slope is mild, I suppose, compared to what one of our upcoming guests did to impress a girl." "What do you mean?" "Come on, I'll show you." She gestured for him to follow her into her office. She couldn't help but admire the determined, confident manner in which he walked. It seemed barely yesterday that he had been nothing but knees and elbows as his long-limbed growth had outstripped his ability to coordinate his movements. Not anymore.
"The captain met with us a few minutes ago," she told him, sitting in front of her desk, "while you were busy displaying your form on the ski slopes. We're hosting a wedding for the Tizarin." "The merchant race? The guys who are like honest Ferengi?" "That's them." Various medical documents flashed on her screen. "Whenever we're having an assortment of races coming on board, I always review the medical profiles. That way I'm prepared should anything happen. For example, remember when we had that representative from Chumbra III on board, and he suddenly seemed to go into a deep coma? Now, if I hadn't realized that he'd simply entered a chrysalis stage prematurely, and the proper procedure was to pack him in ice, who knows what might have happened?" "Yeah, I remember. And as it was, he came out of chrysalis as a female." "Exactly. Now, the Tizarin don't appear to do anything quite that drastic. But I've been studying their culture as well. The would-be groom, Kerin, had to run a virtual gauntlet in order to satisfy tradition that he was serious with his intentions towards his desired mate. Alone, in a shuttle, he had to get through several fighter squads--and the Tizarin are the toughest space pilots in the galaxy. Then he had to confront the girl's father." "He must really love her," said Wes.
"And she's a girl from a rival family," his mother told him. "It's what I was telling you.
There's someone for everyone, and you never know where you're going to find them." "How old is this Kerin guy?" She glanced at the records. "In human terms, about nineteen." "He's nineteen and he's engaged to be married already?" said Wesley incredulously. "I haven't even found a girl who'll give me more than a glance, and this guy is playing fighter pilot to get to his future wife. Is he in too much of a hurry or am I just taking too long?" She laughed and put a hand on her son's arm.
Male egos were such fragile things. The slightest word could send them spiralling down in flames. The reason for this probably was rooted in adolescence, when boys had to suffer the humiliation of watching girls mature faster and with more grace, turning from approachable objects of scorn into mysterious objects of desire. It was an unexpected uprooting of The Way Things Were, and she suspected that most men never fully recovered from that jolt in their formative years.
"Everything happens in its own time, Wes. Just hang on to that." Wesley nodded and turned to leave, flexing his ankle experimentally once more and nodding quick approval. Then he paused and turned back to his mother. "Mom, are you saying that dad was the special guy for you?" Bev Crusher smiled. "He was certainly special, all right. You know, when we first met, he reminded me a lot of a certain teenage boy that I met in later years." And she ruffled Wesley's hair.
Automatically, extremely self-conscious of keeping his appearance Just So, Wes smoothed out his hair. "But what you're saying, mom, is that... if dad was the guy for you, and he's gone--" "Am I alone in the universe?" she finished with a raised eyebrow. "I hope not. And as long as I have you and this ship and co-workers like the ones I have, it makes loneliness that much easier to handle." He nodded and walked out of the sickbay.
And Beverly Crusher's smile slowly disappeared. She leaned against an exam bed and sighed.
"God, I'm depressed," she said.
Chapter Four
Guinan stared out of the viewports of the Ten-Forward lounge, and she was smiling. Just outside, seemingly so close you could touch it and yet, in fact, hundreds of kilometers away, floated the great ship of the Graziunas family.
She knew that out of her view, on the other side of the Enterprise, was the House ship of the Nistral--powerful and bristling with weapons for their protection, for a life in space, although attractive, was infinitely filled with peril.
At the same time, there was a grace and beauty to the flowing designs of the ships.
She spotted, here and there, the telltale orange-and-blue trim that were the colors of the Graziunas. And she remembered that the Nistral were silver and black. With those skin color combinations, she wondered what the children were going to look like when.
Suddenly her eyes narrowed.
Something was wrong. She tilted her head, like a dog listening to a sonic whistle. Her legs didn't seem to move as she glided across the room. It was a slow, careful movement on her part, as if she were searching for water with a divining rod. She knew by heart every inch of Ten-Forward, and yet she studied it now again, cautious and unsure.
There was a little tickling in the back of her mind.
She couldn't place it, couldn't judge it, couldn't figure it. But there it was, just the same.
There... what was?
She thought she could pinpoint what was bothering her if she just had a few more moments to.
"And this is the Ten-Forward lounge!" came Picard's voice.
Guinan spun like a cat and within the blink of an eye had composed herself utterly. She smiled, pushing aside her concerns, as the captain entered along with a party of four.
It was easy to tell who was who. One of the men, husky and powerful looking, was clad in bursts of orange and blue, as was the woman next to him.
Another man was dressed in silver and black, as again was the woman who accompanied him. The house allegiances were clear.
"Guinan," said Picard, sounding his most suave, "may I present Graziunas and his wife..." and he inclined his head slightly in the direction of the silver man, "... and Nistral and wife, of the house of Nistral. This, gentlemen and ladies, is Guinan, the hostess of the Ten-Forward lounge. This is our somewhat relaxed meeting place, where the crew can go to interact, socialize, consume superb drinks and food, and enjoy one another's company away from the rigors of day-to-day starship life." He smiled. "Have I covered everything, Guinan?" "I can't think of a thing to add, Captain," Guinan told him, bowing slightly in the direction of each of the newcomers.
The orange-and-blue-clad Graziunas was quite husky compared to the silver-and-black-clad Nistral. Nistral was taller, with a powerful build but a slim and tapering waist. He had a beard but no moustache, close-cropped black hair and glistening silver skin. When he smiled he showed a lot of teeth, and his eyes were set low and back in his face. As opposed to the massive Graziunas, Nistral looked like he was built for a hit-and-run type of battle.
Now, why was she thinking of battles, Guinan wondered.
Nistral's clothing was a complex intertwining of black and silver threads that almost seemed to shift, depending upon the angle you looked at him from.
The wives of each of the men, on the other hand, seemed studiously generic, as if they'd been produced by a cookie cutter. Both women were tall and aristocratic-looking, and perhaps the Nistral woman was slightly shorter than the Graziunas, but that was about it. Most of it was in the clothing, Guinan felt. They wore simple gowns that were, naturally, tailored in their respective colors, and close-drawn hoods covered their heads, giving no indication of their hair color or even if they had any hair.
