6
Deanna Troi rapped on the door to the captain’s guest quarters. It was early morning, the sun sending up strata of pink and orange over the horizon. The commander had to beam down at this time if she wanted to fetch Picard before her mother.
The door to the quarters swung open. Picard sagged with relief when he saw her, leaning his weight into the door.
“I told you I’d be here first thing,” she said.
“You did, and I must say I appreciate it.” Picard held the door open so that Troi could step inside. The room was small but lushly decorated in a style associated with the Third House: great swaths of silk hanging from the ceiling, a twinkling solar-powered chandelier, and plants. Lots and lots of plants, spilling out of stone pots carved with swirling, abstract designs.
Troi had to stifle a laugh; Picard, still dressed in his pajamas, looked out of place among all this finery.
“The opening ceremonies are scheduled to begin in an hour, sir,” Troi said casually.
Picard gave her a dark look. “I suspect you know the horror that awaits me in that closet.”
Troi smiled. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
She could tell, from the waves of discomfort rippling off Picard, that he did not agree.
“Come now, Captain.” She strode across the room, batting aside the flimsy, billowing silk. “It’s only for a few days. And remember. It is a great honor.”
She slid aside the closet door and found a froth of shimmery fabric waiting inside.
“Do you understand now?” Picard asked.
Troi pulled out the first item: a traditional First House–style gentleman’s tunic, the fabric a rich, jeweled blue that, when it caught the light, let off a rainbow sheen. The tunic paired with a set of white pantaloons and stockings, both dangling from their own hanger. White, high-lacing boots sat neatly at the bottom of the closet.
“It could be worse,” Troi offered. “You could be going to a Betazoid wedding.”
As Picard scowled, the commander could sense that annoyance wasn’t the only emotion roiling around in him. The captain was anxious. Maybe even frightened—the emotions shifted so rapidly that she couldn’t quite get a handle on them.
“Captain,” she said, laying the tunic out on the bed. “I can sense your anxiety. But remember that you aren’t going into the ceremony alone. I’m here to help you through it. And most of the Enterprise crew will be attending the ceremonies as well.”
Picard ran his hands down over his face. “I really could do without this particular honor.”
“Relax,” Troi told him. “Try to enjoy yourself… sir.”
This earned her another scowl, but at least when she offered the tunic to him, he took it with one hand.
She left his quarters so he could change, stepping out into the sunny, breezy day. The guests’ quarters were all grouped together, a tangle of rooms that blended into the surroundings. Troi could see glimpses of Isszon Temple in the curving gaps between the buildings, its white stone draped in colorful House flags.
Footsteps sounded on the path behind her, and she turned around to find the captain, his tunic buttoned up high to his throat, the long bell sleeves grazing the tops of his knuckles. His combadge gleamed on his right chest.
“You could take that off,” Troi said, “and treat this as a vacation.”
“This,” Picard said, “is not a vacation.”
“I’m sure you’ll wind up enjoying yourself.”
Picard made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.
“Shall we?” She gestured toward the temple over the tops of the guest quarters.
Troi started down the path, and Picard followed her, tugging anxiously on his tunic hem. Other guests made their way toward the temple, all dressed in costumes from various periods of Betazed history. A Benzite in a slinky cape dress laughed uproariously with her Betazoid escort. There were four Rigelians whispering among themselves, their excitement rolling off them like jasmine-scented perfume. Picard seemed to be the only guest who wasn’t thrilled.
The path curved around the last of the guest quarters and Troi found herself gazing upon a riotous ocean of colored fabric. The lawn of Isszon Temple had transformed overnight, bright-colored food stalls and billowing tents blossoming like hothouse flowers. Visitors streamed across the lawn, many draped in traditional Betazed clothing. Vendors called out singsong merchants’ chants, imploring guests to try their grilled sea slugs or their blackened honeycake. When a streak of light soared overhead, voices clattered with excitement.
“Oh, they have a bird-soar!” Troi cried. “I haven’t seen one of those since I was a little girl.”
Picard pressed his mouth into a thin line.
Her own excitement bubbled up, drowning out Picard’s mood. Troi told herself there would be plenty of time to explore later that evening. Worf had promised to beam down once he was off duty. She couldn’t wait to see how he reacted to the bird-soar.
“My mother sent over your itinerary last night.” Troi noticed Picard’s ever-deepening scowl. “I’m to take you into a side chamber in the temple so you can prepare for the opening ceremony.”
Picard let out a deep and world-weary sigh. “Let’s get this over with.”
“That is not the right attitude to have, sir,” she chided him.
They walked toward the temple, keeping to one side of the celebrations. The scent of flower cakes and honey swirled on the wind, plunging Troi back to the midwinter festivals her parents would take her to when she was a child. Those had been much smaller, but the scent was the same, and it made her mouth water for the syrupy cakes.
The steps to the temple were roped off with long silk scarves. Betazed Security officers stood at evenly spaced intervals, checking guests and their handlers before letting them in the building. The Starfleet officers fell into line behind a Bzzit Khaht that had shimmering stones draped over its tunic.
“Would you mind sharing what exactly will be expected of me?” Picard asked. “It never was fully explained.”
“I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”
“I’ll manage.”
A swell of music, jangly and bright, rose up behind them, eliciting cheers from the crowd.
“All Betazoid ceremonies incorporate the Five High Arts,” Troi said. “So as a High Guest, your presence is key to ensuring the ceremony goes off exactly as it should.”
Picard pressed her. “What am I going to have to actually do?”
The line moved closer to the last security check.
“Walk onstage and parade through the crowd,” Troi said, “and wear the right clothing.” She smiled, gesturing at his tunic and pantaloons. “Don’t worry, it’s all choreographed ahead of time. You’ll just have to do whatever the person in front of you does.”
“And how much of this am I going to have to do?”
They stepped up to the security officer, who immediately put the thought Name? in Troi’s head.
“Jean-Luc Picard,” she said, a bit of heat tingeing her cheeks. She really wasn’t fond of the traditional mode of Betazoid communication. “I’m his handler. Deanna Troi.”
The security officer was still skimming along the surface of her thoughts. You’re Ambassador Troi’s daughter!
She gave him a stern look.
“Sorry,” he mumbled before running his tricorder over them. “You can go on in.”
They joined the rest of the guests making the long trek up the glittering stairs. Troi took a deep breath, steadying herself—it had been a while since she’d last spent any time on Betazed, and the differences in communication always took some getting used to. As a half-Betazoid, her skills were empathic: she could read emotions of most species, but she couldn’t read thoughts unless those belonged to another Betazoid who would share them with her.
She sensed more discomfort from Picard, drawing her out of her reverie. He was frowning deeply up at the doors, which were flung open and draped in garlands of Catarian gems that caught the light the same way his robes did.
“I never answered your questions,” Troi said. “It’s only three days.”
“I know.” Picard shook his head. “I take it I can expect a lot of this pomp and circumstance, then?”
“Betazoids do place an emphasis on ritual,” Troi said after a pause.
They filed in through the doors, the inside of the temple swirling with guests in their extravagant costumes. The room had been transformed; the shutters that covered the stained-glass windows had been removed, and fragments of rainbowed light spilled across the polished stone floors. A massive platform was set up against the far wall, draped with colorful curtains as well as hovering stage lamps that sent rays of light crisscrossing each other.
At the center of the platform was an empty display case, a force field around the simple black base.
“There,” Troi told Picard, “is where the artifacts will be displayed.”
Immediately, Picard’s curiosity rose, overcoming the low-grade dread that had been flowing off him all morning. “It will be remarkable,” he said, “to see them brought together after all this time. These items reflect so much of Betazed’s history.”
“Betazed’s history certainly kept them apart for long enough. By the way, you’ll be onstage when they’re revealed.” She grinned at him. “One of the perks of being a High Guest.”
“Really.”
A horn sounded through the temple, the rich sound amplifying off the walls. Troi resisted the urge to clamp her hands over her ears.
There were a few moments of confusion as the guests spun around, trying to find the source. A voice rippled through Troi’s thoughts: Upper balcony, please.
All of the Betazoids looked up, and the rest of the High Guests followed, quiet eventually settling over the room. Sildar Syn stood next to the balcony’s edge, clutching a silver horn in one hand. “Welcome to the Unveiling of the Three Treasures!” he said, his voice reverberating through a speaker and a burst of telepathy. “On behalf of the Betazed Cultural Committee, it pleases me to see Isszon Temple filled with guests from across the Federation. So many testaments to the creativity and ingenuity of life in the known universe all to help us celebrate this important moment in Betazed’s history!”
Polite applause rippled through the room.
“We will be starting our opening ceremonies shortly,” Syn continued. “High Guests, I ask that you join your assigned choreography coordinator!” He pointed toward the stage, and the entire room turned around to find that the five ceremony staff members, each dressed in the corresponding costume style of the five guest categories, had stepped out from the billowing curtains.
The room was a riot of emotions, but Picard’s discomfort managed to stand out.
“You’ve been through worse,” Troi said to him.
“Yes,” Picard said. “I was stabbed through the heart, and nearly died.”
Troi laughed. He gave her one last pained look before making his way toward the stage. The commander watched the guests gather, the choreography coordinators all waving their hands around wildly as they attempted to corral them into some semblance of a position. She kept her eye on the captain, who was hanging back, looking utterly put out. Mother really shouldn’t have put him in this position. But perhaps it would be good for him; she had been encouraging the captain to step outside his comfort zone.
The Dreams coordinator was pulling her guests into a tight huddle, and Picard’s reticence had not escaped her. She had the haughtiness of Betazoid royalty, her demeanor lofty as she pulled Picard into the group.
This was going to be a long three days.
“Betazoid ceremonies are… interesting,” Worf said.
Troi looked at him over the tower of whipped cream atop her uttaberry cloud pudding. She had been eating it for the last thirty minutes without making a dent in the thing. “And what do you mean by that?” she teased.
He frowned. “I didn’t expect so much dancing.”
Troi grinned. “The Third House is known for its dancing. Would you like some of my pudding?”
Worf’s frown deepened.
“There are uttaberries in there somewhere.” Troi winked. “I promise.”
It was early evening and they were out on the lawn of the temple, two Starfleet officers watching a performance of a troupe of taitath dancers accompanied by a thirty-piece band. The banner of the Third House of Betazed flapped overhead as the dancers swirled and shimmied in elaborate formations across the lawn.
“I will try it,” Worf finally said.
For a moment, Troi considered spooning some up and feeding it to him. She handed him the spoon, her cheeks hot. Inappropriate. Both of them were in uniform, for goodness’ sake.
Worf took a bit of the pudding. “Acceptable.”
“High praise.” Troi laughed.
The music swelled to a crescendo and the dancers whipped themselves up into a bigger frenzy. From what Troi had gathered after a rather exhausting lunchtime conversation with her mother, this performance was an ante-ceremony, the first in a trio. Each ante-ceremony was developed and presented by one of the Houses that held the three treasures. When the three ante-ceremonies concluded at midnight, the artifacts would be unveiled in the temple.
“Do you know the whereabouts of the captain?” Worf asked.
Troi ate another bite of pudding. It was as sweet and thick as the perfumed evening settling around them, and she was sure she would not be able to consume any more. “I believe the guests will be introducing the second ante-ceremony,” she said. “They’re probably preparing in the temple.”
Worf nodded, but she could sense he wasn’t completely satisfied with the answer. The security officer wasn’t watching the dancers; his gaze was shifting around the crowd.
“Worf,” Troi said, “Captain Picard will be fine.”
The music ended with a crash of cymbals and the dancers froze into place, drone lights flickering around them.
“Look,” Troi said. “His part in the ceremony is about to begin. You’ll see, he’s just fine.”
“I’m not worried about the captain,” Worf said. “There are just—quite a lot of people here.”
“It’s a major cultural event!” Troi resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Here. Eat the rest of my pudding. It’s supposed to put you in the celebratory spirit.”
The Klingon stared down at the luxurious dessert, then, begrudgingly, took another bite.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” she asked, smiling.
Worf grunted.
The Third House dancers dissolved their formation and spilled out into the crowd, connecting with friends and admirers. Joy roiled off the press of people, a heady sweetness that reminded Troi of jasmine blossoms. Feeling light-headed from the festivities, she rested her hand on Worf’s arm and felt the jolt of his surprise. She found it sweet, the way he always seemed startled—and not at all displeased—whenever she made these small overtures.
“Let’s walk,” she said.
“As you wish.” Worf tossed the remains of the cloud pudding into a composting receptacle and together they drifted into the labyrinth of tents.
“I’m glad the captain gave the okay to let Geordi watch the bridge so you could see the ceremony,” Troi said. “It really is something remarkable.”
Worf said nothing, and Troi suspected he would have preferred to stay aboard the Enterprise. But the captain had agreed Worf could take two hours’ leave that evening, as an apology for interrupting their previously scheduled dinner.
“So how was it being in command of the Enterprise?” Troi asked.
“Uneventful,” Worf said. “We’re running a skeleton crew. I have allowed many of the crew to attend the ceremony.” He stared toward Isszon Temple.
“Hoping to catch a glimpse of the captain?”
“Yes.” There was a muffled amusement to his voice.
They walked in front of a tent filled with cut flowers, their scent wafting out on the air. Worf stopped and sniffed. “They have raw’bah flowers in there.”
“Oh?” Troi glanced up at the sign glowing above the tent: Flowers for the Unveiling. Guests were asked to toss them into the air at the end of the pageant, before the unveiling of the three artifacts. The flowers were to represent the return of Xiomara’s telepathic abilities.
“They’re native to Qo’noS.” Worf ducked inside and Troi trailed after him. The tent was warm and hazy. Worf pulled out a long, thorned stem topped with a knot of dark gray petals curling around a brilliant red stamen. “They’re notoriously difficult to grow off-world. I could never get them to survive in my quarters.”
He gave Troi a small, shy smile and handed her the flower. “Careful, they’re thorned.”
“As befitting a flower that is native to Qo’noS.” She took it from him, gingerly, and then returned his smile, suddenly feeling shy herself.
A horn blasted across the lawn.
“The second ante-ceremony is starting,” Troi said, glad to have something to distract from their closeness in the tent. “We should go in and support Captain Picard.”
“Yes.” For a moment, though, they just looked at each other, surrounded by flowers.
“I’ll save this for the unveiling,” she said.
The High Guests were parading down the steps of the temple, lights illuminating their path in the falling light.
“He’s in a blue tunic from the late antiquity period.” The commander pulled Worf through the crowd. The guests streamed down onto the lawn, their appearance met with cheers and applause as they split off into five streams, forming the shape of a star, the sign of the Fourth House of Betazed. The lights brightened, casting the shadows of the guests into stark relief on the grass. Suddenly, music played from the foot of the temple: another group, this time led by Jarkko Sentis, son of the First House and Keeper of the Hallowed Urn of Rus’xi, one of the three treasures.
“I see the captain,” Worf murmured. “He—does not look pleased.”
She swept her gaze over the guests until she found Picard standing with his arms crossed, wedged between an astonishingly beautiful Bolian man and Marta Gilbert, the famed Earth astrobotanist.
“He’s been doing this all day.”
Worf looked down at her. “The captain is doing his duty.”
“I know.” Troi swatted at him with the raw’bah flower. “Plainly, he’s not enjoying it.”
The horn sounded and the guests immediately broke apart, scattering off into the crowd just as a troupe of acrobats tumbled into place.
“He’s free,” Troi said. “Let’s go talk to him. See if we can boost his morale.”
“A good idea,” Worf agreed. He led the way through the crowd, a path clearing. A Klingon in a Starfleet uniform was an unexpected sight at a Betazoid cultural festival.
They were almost to the knot of Dreams Guests when Troi felt it. A connection stronger than any she was likely to feel, even here on Betazed. A familiar, slight ringing in the back of her head.
She whispered to Worf, “My mother’s on her way.”
“The ambassador?” He sounded surprised.
Troi jogged up to the guests just as her mother swept into view. She had changed since their last meeting, into full Fifth House regalia, with the long, trailing cape and the classic floor-length skirt and the ruffled sleeves. That she could move so quickly in such an outfit was a testament to her Betazoid strength.
“Jean-Luc!” she sang out, throwing her arms wide. Picard whirled around, an expression of terror momentarily flashing across his features. “Oh, you did wonderfully. I knew you’d make an excellent High Guest!”
She threw her arms around Picard just as Troi skittered to a stop beside them. “Ambassador Troi,” Picard said in a voice of quiet desperation.
“Mother, please let him go. I’m sure the captain is exhausted.”
“Exhausted?” Lwaxana peered at Picard. “How is that possible? The evening’s just beginning!” She threw her arm out toward the acrobat troupe, who were tumbling and leaping over each other in time to the steady beat of a brimet drum. “We haven’t even gotten to the most important piece yet—”
“Mother.” Troi stepped in between her mother and Picard and brandished the raw’bah flower in her direction. “Please. Let him rest before he has to reconvene for the next ceremony.”
Lwaxana’s gaze zeroed in on the flower. “What is that thing?”
Troi sighed. “It’s a raw’bah, for the unveiling later.”
“It looks like a weapon.” Lwaxana frowned. “They’re supposed to be passing out sand lilies for the Rain of Blossoms. I’ve never—” She stopped, her face lighting up. “Mister Worf! I didn’t expect to see you here.” She lifted up her skirts and glided over to him. “How’s my little warrior?”
“Alexander is doing very well,” Worf said gravely. “Keeping busy with his studies.”
“He beamed down for the ceremony earlier today with a group from the school,” Troi said. “I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.”
Lwaxana laughed. “Oh, he doesn’t want to see me. There’s a girl he has his eye on, and he’s planning to woo her this weekend.” She winked.
“What?” Worf said. “What girl?”
“Nothing you need to concern yourself about, Mister Worf. Just young love.”
“He is too young!” Worf started. “And when did he tell you—”
“He sends me messages on occasion.” The ambassador flapped her hand. “It’s all quite innocent. Right, Deanna?”
“You knew about this?” Worf turned to her.
“He asked me not to say anything.” Troi pressed the raw’bah flower to her chest. “Mother’s right—it’s completely innocent. Just a schoolboy crush. It’s quite sweet, really.”
Worf narrowed his eyes. “Sweet.”
“You’ll approve of the girl,” Troi added, sensing his anger at Alexander for keeping it a secret from him. “It’s Rosamund Beshtimt, Lieutenant Beshtimt’s daughter.”
Worf’s expression softened. “She could be a good influence on him, yes.”
“See?” Troi smiled at him. “You shouldn’t worry so much. Not about something as simple as growing up.”
Worf returned the smile and Troi felt his anger melt into a soft warmth toward her. Toward the idea of young love.
She felt the heat rise in her cheeks and wondered if he saw the blush.
“Jean-Luc! Where are you going?”
“Mother!” she hissed, looking up in time to see Picard vanishing into the crowd. Lwaxana turned back to her.
“That man!” the ambassador said. “He doesn’t know how to have fun.”
Worse, though, was the telepathic whisper of her voice inside Troi’s head: Are you and Mister Worf together?
Mother! Troi thought back.
So that’s a yes.
“We should follow the captain,” Worf said. “I want to speak with him.”
“Of course,” Troi said, embarrassment strangling her voice. “Mother, please stay here.”
Lwaxana tittered. “Oh, fine. I’ll have plenty of time to speak with Jean-Luc at the House dinner tomorrow.” She waved her hand toward the crowd. “Make sure he’s back at the temple in time for the unveiling.” Her eyes twinkled. There’s a lovers’ garden on the other side of the lawn. I’m sure Mister Worf would find it most amenable.
Troi’s cheeks flushed, and she whirled around, plunging into the crowd, trying very, very hard not to think about Worf, a Betazoid lovers’ garden, or anything at all.