Chapter Five
"Son?" Kerin jumped a couple of feet in the air when he heard his father's voice. He had been leaning against a corridor wall on board the Nistral ship, totally lost in thought. "Yes, father!" he said quickly.
Nistral looked down at his son. "Something on your mind, Kerin?" "No, sir." "How's Sehra?" For a moment a dreamy expression passed over his face and he said, "Great." Then he quickly composed himself and cleared his throat. "She's.
uhm, she's fine, father. She was here earlier. But she's gone now. She went back to the ship of Graziunas." The head of the house of Nistral started to walk down the corridor, his son obediently falling into step alongside him. Nistral studied his son thoughtfully. "And what," he asked slowly, "did you do together while she was here?" He wanted to boast. He wanted to shout. He wanted to.
"Nothing, father. Just... talked," said Kerin.
Nistral raised an eyebrow. "Indeed." "Yes, father. Just... talked." "Your mother and I... we also just talked, shortly before our wedding." "I'm sure you did, father." "We had some very... intimate conversations," his father said.
He said it with enough significance and meaning that it managed to penetrate even the romantic haze that had covered Kerin's brain. He looked up at his father--really looked--for the first time since the conversation had started.
"How intimate?" asked Kerin.
Nistral stopped in front of his chambers. The doors hissed open as he said, "Where do you think you came from, Kerin?" Kerin's mouth moved but no sound came out.
"I certainly hope you were more cautious," his father said dryly and disappeared into his room.
Kerin leaned against a wall. "Me too," he said.
Picard, Troi, Data, and Riker hurried toward the transporter room where Lwaxana Troi awaited in all her opulence. It was clear from Deanna's expression that her mind was whirling, trying to sort out what the Rigellian pilot had told them.
Picard empathized with her. There was something about the presence of one's parents--the ones who nursed you through sickness, who wiped your nose and your bottom--that caused all the childhood traumas and insecurities to come racing back to you, no matter how accomplished and secure you were.
Probably, he reasoned, because parents know where all the skeletons are buried, and one never knew when a parent would unearth that skeleton for the purpose of taking one down a peg.
Suddenly an image of Lwaxana Troi endeavoring to change diapers flashed into his mind.
Not likely.
He did not ask Deanna any further about the mourning reference on the assumption that if she knew, she would tell him.
Riker, on the other hand, didn't hesitate.
"Deanna, you don't have a sister, do you?" he was asking in confusion. Troi had the shortest stride of any of them, and yet she was a good four paces ahead of them.
"Not that I know of," she was saying. "I don't understand. In mourning, for her daughter. Could she think I'm dead? What could have happened? How could she--?" Then her voice trailed off and she slowed down. In an instant the hurrying officers had gone right past her. They stopped, looking at her in confusion.
"Counselor--?" Picard prompted.
"I think I know what it is," said Deanna.
"I'll tell you, but..." "But what?" said Riker, concern etched on his face.
She looked up at him with those luminous eyes.
The road not taken.
"You have to promise," she said, "not to laugh."
O'Brien's fingers strayed over the transporter controls. He was running the possibilities through his mind. Could the beams be reset, he wondered, so that they would transport someone not from the platform, but instead from a location, say, precisely five feet in front of him? Yes, certainly they could. And then be made to rematerialize somewhere else in the ship?
Like at the farthest possible point from the transporter room.
As these thoughts ran through his head, Lwaxana Troi stood precisely five feet in front of him, expressing her distaste for being kept waiting.
She was dressed entirely in black, although her dress was covered with elaborate spangles that gave it a shimmering, undulating appearance. The one dash of color was a circle of blazing red, an amulet that was positioned directly above her heart.
Her luggage was at her feet. O'Brien looked at it nervously. Lwaxana Troi's luggage was legendary. One might even say.
feared. No one had ever seen what she packed in it. The consensus was that it was anvils.
Near her was the looming form of Mr. Homn.
O'Brien couldn't remember Homn ever having said anything. Perhaps he simply couldn't get a word in. Perhaps he felt it better just to maintain silence and, in so doing, draw as little attention to himself as possible. For whatever reason, he was simply there, ever present, ever patient.
"A true hardship," Lwaxana was saying, "that at a time when I am undergoing this personal tragedy, I must still put on a pleasant face in representing my people at a joyous occasion. But I do not shirk my duties, or cringe from my responsibilities. That was not how I was brought up, and that's not how I brought up my daughter... the gods bless her soul." O'Brien, against his better judgment, cocked his head slightly and said, "Something wrong with your daughter?" The transporter room doors hissed open, the sound neatly covering O'Brien's own sigh of relief. Deanna Troi entered first and stopped a couple of feet short of her mother. Her hands were on her hips and she was regarding Mrs. Troi with a look of stern annoyance.
"Mother," she said in a reproving tone.
If Lwaxana Troi took notice of it, she gave no sign. Instead she extended her hands to Deanna and spoke in a voice laced with grief. "My little one... I'm so sorry." Deanna sighed mightily and took the extended hands. "We will discuss this later," she said firmly.
"I imagine we will. Jean-Luc!" she said cheerfully, brimming with anticipation. "As handsome as ever." Picard raised an eyebrow. For a woman in mourning, she was certainly capable of turning it on and off. Here was someone who was in consummate control of herself, which is why the business with phase was so disconcerting.
"Mrs. Troi," he said, bowing his head slightly. "I extend my sympathies in your time of grief." Deanna shot her captain a look, which he caught, but he shrugged slightly. Counselor Troi had explained precisely what was on her mother's mind, but nonetheless, protocol required Picard making some indication of empathy--no matter how much he might disagree with the state of mind of the... mourner.
"Thank you, Jean-Luc. I knew that you," she said, glancing significantly at her daughter, "would understand." "You remember Commander Riker," said Picard, "and Commander Data." She barely gave Data a glance, but she looked Riker up and down. "Commander," she said.
"You're looking fit." "Thank you, ma'am," he said.
"Oh, please, not "ma'am,"" she protested. ""Ma'am" makes me feel positively old. Do you think I'm old?" "Yes," said Data briskly.
They all looked at Data who, utterly unaware that he was supposed to lie in order to spare feelings, continued, "In comparison to the average Betazoid life span, you are--" "Exhausted!" said Picard, stepping in. "You and Mr. Homn-- Oh, good day, Mr.
Homn." He had momentarily forgotten the manservant's presence. It was remarkable how someone so huge could seem simply to fade into the background. "You look exhausted. Let us show you to your quarters." "Excellent idea, Captain," said Lwaxana Troi, still looking daggers at Data. Data, for his part, remained serenely oblivious.
Mr. Homn bent to take her bags, but Lwaxana immediately put a hand up. "Now, Mr.
Homn," she scolded, "we are guests on this ship, and as I know from experience, the captain wouldn't dream of allowing guests to carry their own luggage." "Want me to transport it to their quarters, sir?" said O'Brien.
Picard glanced at his transporter chief.
From the look in O'Brien's eyes, Picard had the distinct impression that O'Brien might "accidentally" materialize the luggage in orbit somewhere.
"Not necessary, Mr. O'Brien," said Picard with relaxed pleasantness, because he had anticipated this. "Mr. Data, if you wouldn't mind..." "Not at all, Captain." Data stooped and easily hefted all the luggage. "Is there any more?" he asked politely.
Lwaxana shook her head in amazement. She knew that Data was an android, but nevertheless, his build was so unassuming that it had never occurred to her just how strong he might be.
Picard smiled inwardly. The only other person who could have so easily handled Lwaxana Troi's formidable wardrobe was Worf. Somehow he couldn't see asking the Klingon to carry Mrs.
Troi's luggage. Picard did not doubt for a moment Worf's loyalty or dependability.
By the same token, it was madness to tempt fate.
The first time he'd encountered Mrs. Troi, he had graciously offered to tote her bags and almost thrown his back out as a result. The second time, Riker did the honors, and Picard had never heard his first officer grunt in quite that way.
This time, Picard was prepared.
As usually happened when Deanna's mother showed up, it appeared that a chesslike battle of wits was about to begin on the Enterprise. In a perverse sort of way, Picard almost welcomed it. It was stimulating to try and keep one step ahead of the formidable Lwaxana Troi.
By the same token, he could have done without the effort, and certainly hoped that nothing else would arise to further distract him from the pleasant business of uniting two young people.
Deanna barely waited until Riker, Picard, and Data had left her mother's guest quarters before she turned towards Lwaxana, her slim body shaking with barely contained fury.
"Mother," she began dangerously.
Lwaxana barely seemed to be paying attention as Mr. Homn began to unpack for her. "Now, what for the first reception?" she wondered out loud.
"The black with the green stripe or the black with the red stripe?" Deanna walked around to face her mother. "This is intolerable." Now Lwaxana looked at her, a mixture of bemusement and tragedy in those large eyes that were so like her daughter's. I am sorry you're so upset, Little One, her mother thought at her.
"Stop calling me "Little One"!" said Deanna fiercely. "You owe me an explanation!" I didn't quite hear you.
Deanna blew air through thinned lips. You owe me an explanation, she projected to her mother.
Lwaxana gave a small smile. "So you can still send. Just wanted to make sure." "You wanted to quiet me down," Deanna told her.
"Whatever. Now, Lit--Deanna--you have to understand, my hands are tied. There's nothing I can do. Tradition is tradition." "It's a tradition," Deanna said, sitting down nearby, trying to compose herself, "that hasn't been really in use for two centuries. It's provincial, even archaic." "I have certain responsibilities, my dear," Lwaxana informed her haughtily. "Perhaps others can ignore the Ab'brax, and heaven knows I would if I could. But being a daughter of the fifth house carries with it tremendous responsibilities. And one of those responsibilities is to uphold all the traditions of Betazed." "No matter how ridiculous, or how embarrassing. Mother, the Ab'brax...!" Lwaxana shrugged. "Take it as seriously or frivolously as you wish, Deanna." "How am I supposed to take something where you're telling total strangers that you're in mourning for me!" Deanna said in exasperation.
"I can tell all your associates as well, if it will make you feel more comfortable." Deanna brought her palms together, fingers steepled, to try to compose herself. "What will make me feel comfortable," she said, "is if you stop acting as if I'm dead!" "Not dead in the physical sense, Little One!" said Lwaxana consolingly. She gently stroked Deanna's cheek. "Just dead in the hope that you will contribute to the propagation of our people, and to the hope that you will ever find a mate to share the rest of your life." "Oh, that's all." "Why, yes. That's not so terrible, is it?" Deanna sighed and leaned back, softly thudding her head against the wall. "I don't believe this." "You had your opportunity," Lwaxana said with a shrug. "Several opportunities. I found you a mate, but that didn't work out..." "Are you blaming me for that?" "No one's to blame, precious. These things happen. Then, of course, there's that lovely Commander Riker." Her lips twitched in amusement. "He still wants you, you know. Would give his left eye to have you. I can read him clear as glass." Deanna thudded her head a couple more times.
"You're still in phase, aren't you," referring to a time during which older Betazoid women's sex drive is quadrupled, or more.
"It's in remission," said Lwaxana blithely. "My abilities to read minds are as sharp as they ever were." "Yes, that's what I thought," said Deanna ruefully. "Mother, the Ab'brax was from a time when life spans were shorter, and when a woman's niche in society was to be married, have children, and tend house. So if you weren't married by a certain age, it was anticipated that you would never marry and the family would go into mourning..." "Precisely," said Lwaxana.
