Shadows Have Offended

by Cassandra Rose Clarke

  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.

  7

  Doctor Crusher’s fingers flew across the transporter controls. She hadn’t done this in ages, but the station’s transporter was an older model, similar to the one she had trained on at the Academy.

  It helped that none of her targets were moving.

  “I’ve got a lock on Ensigns Rikkilä and Muñoz,” she said. “Beaming over now.”

  She moved her fingers up the controls and immediately light shimmered on the platform.

  “I can help you!” Riker shouted through the door. Crusher had locked the door leading into the hallway to serve as a quarantine barrier. Imperfect, but better than nothing, and if this was communicable, she’d be the only other one infected.

  “Will,” Crusher replied as Muñoz and Rikkilä materialized on the platform. “I can’t risk further infection, if that’s what we’re dealing with.”

  She checked both of the ensigns, their uniforms streaked with white sand, the scent of the sea still clinging to them, and scanned them with her tricorder. Temperatures normal. Slightly elevated blood pressure. No signs of infections.

  “Josefina,” she said, brushing Rikkilä’s cheek with a gloved hand. The station’s medkit had been mostly empty, its supplies all utilized during the storm that had killed the team’s original commander. Fortunately, she had brought a medkit with her—although most of the items it contained were basic. “Can you hear me?”

  Rikkilä’s eyes fluttered. “Doctor Crusher?” she mumbled. “I feel so— Everything’s cloudy.”

  “Riker to Crusher.” He was contacting her through her combadge. “We’ve got a problem.”

  Crusher gently opened Rikkilä’s eyelids. Her pupils contracted in the light.

  “Data informs me Solanko, Malisson, and Talma collapsed as well. He says that he is unaffected.”

  Crusher took a deep breath. “I’ll beam them out next.” The doctor shifted over to Muñoz. “Ensign Muñoz?”

  He turned his head toward her, his eyes moving beneath his eyelids. “Am I still on the beach?”

  “No. You’re back at the station. I need you to move off the platform.”

  Muñoz stirred, pushing himself up on wobbling arms. Even though she knew the risks of transmission, she helped him up, looping her arm around his waist, then half guiding, half dragging him over to the corner. His boots clattered against the floor, so she wasn’t pulling dead weight. He could hold himself up.

  “There you go.” She set him back on the floor and turned to find Rikkilä crawling off the platform on hands and knees, leaving a trail of seawater in her wake.

  “I’ve got it,” she murmured when Crusher knelt to help her. “I heard Commander Riker. Beam over the others.”

  Crusher nodded, wondering what was affecting them.

  She studied the transporter controls. Solanko, Malisson, and Talma were scattered across the beach. She had a lock on them, but not Data.

  “Will, where’s Data?”

  “He’s making his way back on foot,” Riker answered. “He’s almost here. He was away from the rest of the team when the others collapsed.”

  “Got ’em!” she said as the three remaining members of the team materialized on the pad. They were also stunned. Solanko groaned and looked up at her. “What happened?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” Crusher studied the readings. Normal. “How are you feeling?”

  “Bit roughed up.” Solanko struggled up to sitting. “Like I went a few rounds with a Klingon. How are the others?”

  Crusher moved to Talma. Temperature was forty degrees, normal for a Bolian. Blood pressure, heart rate, breathing—all normal.

  “Better,” answered Muñoz.

  Both Rikkilä and Muñoz were standing up, Rikkilä wobbling a little. “Let me help.”

  “Sit back
down.” Crusher turned to Malisson. “I don’t know what’s wrong with any of you.”

  Malisson was trying to sit up. “That came out of nowhere.” She rubbed her head. Her scans were normal.

  “You should not exert yourselves,” Crusher said.

  “Doctor, did you beam over the samples?” Solanko asked.

  “Of course not.” Crusher returned her attention to Talma. He was the only one of the five who was still affected. “There’s nothing in the Federation database to explain—”

  Talma shot up with a loud gasp. “Huh!” he cried. Then, blinking: “Where’s the beach? How’d I get here?”

  “I beamed you back.” Crusher frowned down at him. “Do you remember what happened?”

  Talma shook his head. “I was speaking with Commander Data by the tide pools. Then he went farther down the beach to gather some samples, and—” Talma let out a long breath. “Everything’s a haze after that.”

  “I see,” Crusher said. “Thank you.” His scans weren’t showing anything out of the ordinary. And just like the others, he seemed to be recovering quickly. Already he was sitting up and making his way off the transporter pad.

  “We need to look at those samples.” Crusher sighed. “None of us can leave this room until I have a better sense of what we’re dealing with. I don’t know what caused the episode on the beach, and all six of us are now potentially infected, maybe even Commander Data.” She tapped her combadge. “Crusher to Riker.”

  “I’m here.” Riker was still watching through the window. “What’s the plan?”

  “Is it possible to remotely operate any of the scanners in the lab?” Crusher looked over at Solanko, who nodded sharply. He and Malisson were both standing, and Rikkilä was up on her feet, pacing barefoot around the room. How did everyone recover so quickly?

  “Perfect,” Crusher said. “Solanko? If you could beam the samples over to it? I don’t want to risk exposing myself any more than I have to.”

  “On it,” Solanko said, moving his hands over the transporter controls.