“Tell me about it.” Crusher knelt down beside him. She was scanning him, watching as her tricorder compiled the data.
“I hesitate to call it a malfunction,” Data said. “Although it—” He stopped again. “However, it felt like one. I was not in danger of shutting down, and my sensory receptors were providing me with inaccurate data.” He looked toward Riker. “I was hearing voices.”
“Voices?” Riker asked. “What did they say?”
“ ‘You found the way home.’ ” Data’s voice took on an airy quality. “ ‘Do you know how to speak? Do you know how to listen?’ ”
Crusher rolled the words around in her head. The others had not heard voices, but then, their recollections had been hazier.
“I ran the words through my database,” Data said. “I have found nothing that matches them exactly.”
“Any other hallucinations?” Crusher asked.
“My internal sensors registered the air as much colder than it was. Only two point three degrees above freezing.”
Crusher got up to sit beside her patient. Data gave her more details: he had not been able to control the siren wail, and his movements had felt mechanical, not fluid.
“It was almost as if,” he said, “I had become a primitive form of an android.”
A primitive form. “Data, tell me more about that feeling.”
“I am not certain if there is more to say.” Data sat thoughtfully for a moment. “I did not… feel like myself.”
As a physician, she found his observation fascinating. He was speaking in the way a biological life-form might speak about an illness.
“My sensory inputs were muffled,” Data continued. “I felt limited in the ways I could express myself.”
“Data, all I have available to treat you is your baselines from past exams…”
“Doctor Crusher,” he said. “I believe you will uncover the cause. With my help.”
Crusher smiled, touched by his confidence. “Thank you for your trust.”
“Doctor, perhaps I should examine the other affected items,” Data said. “There may be answers there.”
“I agree. And we have to examine those samples again.”
Riker frowned. “I was afraid you were about to suggest that.” He looked her in the eye. “You’re our only doctor.”
Crusher set her mouth into a firm line. “Ensign Rikkilä is a trained field medic.”
Riker shook his head. “There’s got to be some other way.”
“I will not put anyone else in danger,” Crusher said—more defensively than she intended. “I wasn’t on the beach, and I’ll take care to limit my exposure.”
“At least let me help—” Riker started.
“No. Absolutely not. You have not been exposed. Let’s keep it that way.”
Riker opened his mouth as if he was going to protest further, but Crusher shot him a severe expression.
“Fine,” Riker replied. “Then I want this lab work to be as limited as you can make it.”
“Understood,” Beverly said.
“Doctor, you have twenty-four hours. If you cannot find what is causing this, I’m shutting this mission down, and getting us offworld.”
11
Deanna Troi followed the flash of her mother’s dress as she and Worf made their way through the crowd. Emotions crashed over her, leaving her feeling suffocated and breathless like the room was slowly losing air.
“Counselor,” Worf said as the Klingon dodged a woman in a towering glass headdress who was arguing with a security officer. “I have concerns about this.”
Troi forced herself to concentrate. The entire room was thick with anxiety, but his felt different: there was a professional distress, a swirl of quiet bafflement. It was the sort of emotional distress she was used to dealing with aboard the Enterprise.
She asked, “What exactly are you—”
A group of Betazoid teenagers careened between them.
“—worried about?”
Worf looked at her sideways. “I’m being asked to conduct an investigation.” Lwaxana Troi was just on the other side of a crush of Arcadian dignitaries, waving her hand wildly at them. Worf led Troi over to a relatively clear path past the dignitaries.
“You’ve done this countless times,” Troi said.
“I am unfamiliar with”—Worf took in a Betazoid woman wearing an enormous hoop skirt as she squeezed through the crowd—“Betazoid culture.”
“I can help you,” Troi replied. “If you don’t mind me being your partner.”
Worf looked down at her, his dark eyes serious. “You would do me a great honor.”
“Hurry, hurry!” Lwaxana swooped in, shattering the moment. “Commander Rusina is waiting.”
The ambassador led them up to a door being guarded by a pair of Betazed Security officers who stepped aside as soon as they saw who it was. Going through the door into the room beyond was like taking a deep breath; everything fell audibly quiet, and the air was cooler. Troi could feel Worf’s tension decrease.
But an audible quiet wasn’t the same as a telepathic one. Troi’s thoughts were filled with whispers. The place was awash with tension. A tall Betazoid man with streaks of gray at his temples stepped forward. He wore the gold-and-black uniform of Betazed Security. “You must be Lieutenant Worf,” he said. “Welcome to my command center.”
“I appreciate the opportunity.” The Klingon studied the room. Troi watched as he took it all in: three high-ranking security officers and a massive viewscreen showing the stage, littered with fallen curtains and the empty display case.
“Mister Worf will prove indispensable, I’m certain of it.” Lwaxana flashed Commander Rusina a dazzling smile. Troi wondered if her mother had put in the request for Worf’s help because she thought they were together. They weren’t. They were just friends.
Lwaxana looked over at Troi, her eyes twinkling.
“I’ll be assisting the lieutenant,” Troi said, forcing herself to concentrate.
“What?! You need to stay with Jean-Luc. It’s too dangerous out there.” Lwaxana gestured toward the stage door.
“Mother, the captain will be fine. This sort of thing is my job. My literal job.” She turned to Commander Rusina. “I serve as ship’s counselor aboard the Enterprise. I can help Lieutenant Worf navigate the Betazoid customs he might be unfamiliar with.”
I knew it! You are seeing Mister Worf!
“Mother!” Troi snapped back, her cheeks hot. She glanced over to see Commander Rusina and the other two security officers staring at them. At least Worf wasn’t telepathic.
Lwaxana looked pleased with herself.
Worf cleared his throat. “Have you spoken with anyone?”
“Not in any detail,” Commander Rusina replied. “I have the three Keepers and their entourages backstage—they were in hysterics, as you can imagine. We need to question them. The guests and front-row audience members might also have some insights.”
“The Keepers,” Worf said. “We should start with them.”
“Of course.” Commander Rusina gestured to the security officers. “I’ll send my men to assist you. I hope a pair of Starfleet officers will have better luck than we did.”
“Why would we have better luck?” Troi asked.
Commander Rusina shook his head. “You are not as… involved.”
Troi could feel her mother trying to wedge into her thoughts. She ignored her as best she could, focusing her attention on Worf. He caught her eye and she gave him a quick, encouraging smile.
“Officer Andra will take you to the Keepers,” Commander Rusina said.
A slim woman peeled away from the group that had just come into the room. She nodded briskly at her superior. “They’ve been in our custody since the unveiling. We—”
“Custody?” Lwaxana asked. “You don’t think a Keeper is responsible?”
“The Keepers and the guests are the most likely to have witnessed what happened,” Officer Andra said. “The Keepers mos
t of all.”
“Should I come along?” Lwaxana turned toward Troi. “Perhaps I can offer—”
“Mother, you should see to Mr. Syn,” Troi said quickly. “I’m sure he’s going to want to discuss how to salvage the ceremonies.”
“I agree,” Commander Rusina said, and Troi felt an inward sigh of relief. He put his hand on Lwaxana’s back and guided her toward the exit. “I appreciate you bringing Mister Worf to us, Ambassador. We can take it from here.”
Troi ignored the sound of her mother’s faint protest, while Officer Andra offered, “We’ve set the Keepers up backstage. Easiest way to get there is to go out in the crowd again. Come on.”
Andra led them past the main exit, where Lwaxana was still speaking with Commander Rusina about something. Troi couldn’t worry about it right now. They went out through a smaller door that deposited them, just as Andra promised, back in the crowd, in the front of the stage.
Stay close to the wall, Andra said. Let the lieutenant know.
Troi shouted Andra’s instructions over the din to Worf, who nodded in acknowledgment. He stepped around Troi so that he was between her and the crush of people. The force field was still up, protecting nothing.
Eventually, they arrived at the left side of the stage. Security officers, who kept their eyes on the crowd, opened a portal in the force field and waved them through when Andra said, “Keepers.”
Stairs had been set up, giving easy access to the stage. Worf let the commander go first behind Andra. Being onstage was disorienting. The curtains were piled up in messy lumps around the empty display. Andra strode right past it.
“We have some of our most psi-sensitive officers on duty. None of them sensed anything out of the ordinary.” Andra shrugged. “Whoever did this knew Betazoid limitations. And exploited them.”
“Agreed,” Worf said.
They slipped backstage, into a forest of old props and racks hung with costumes, then into a narrow hallway. To Troi, the air was stuffy and thick with alarm. She realized she was feeling the emotions from the officer standing in front of a closed door at the end of the hallway—and the Keepers behind the door.
“Panic,” Troi observed.
Andra grinned. “Overwhelming. At least they’ve calmed down some.” She paused. “Most of it was from Jarkko Sentis. He’s First House, Xiomara’s direct descendant and all that.” Andra hesitated. “By the way, the commander allowed them to bring in family and friends.”
“A mistake,” Worf muttered.
“Perhaps, but I needed something to settle them down,” Andra explained.
The Betazoid security officer swung open the door, revealing a dressing room crammed with people. Some of them were speaking verbally, others psychically. All conversations stopped when the Starfleet officers stepped into the room.
Then, instantly, a flurry of voices, in Troi’s head. Who are you? Who is that? Do you know anything about the robbery? Starfleet?!
“Quiet!” commanded Andra. “This is Lieutenant Worf and Commander Deanna Troi of the Starship Enterprise. They’re here to ask some questions—”
“No more questions!” shouted Onora Opeila, her small, birdlike features buried beneath a towering floral headdress. “Haven’t we suffered enough?”
One of her attendants patted her arm, murmured softly in her ear.
“I will not be quiet!” Opeila cried. “The Sacred Silver has been stolen.”
Her words were met with angry stares.
“We do not have time for questions!” she continued. “We have to catch this thief.”
“Madam, I agree.” Worf stepped forward, his posture straight and self-assured. “Which is why we’re both here. You were all backstage when the objects were taken—”
The room erupted.
Calm down! Andra said. And verbally answer Lieutenant Worf’s questions. The more you protest, the longer this is going to take.
While Andra pleaded with the Keepers and their various attendants, Troi swept her gaze around, trying to find Aviana Virox, daughter of the Third House. Three women in the corner were all wearing Third House regalia, layered dresses that looked like froths of steamed milk, but Troi didn’t know which one was Aviana.
“We don’t need to be calm,” snapped Jarkko. “We need to find our treasures!”
Shouts of agreement. Worf gave Troi an exasperated look, and Andra stepped forward, holding up her hands. “For the final time, that is why Starfleet is here,” she said. “The entire temple is secured with a force field to ensure no one gets in or out. Security is doing everything they can.”
“Why haven’t you found them?” one of the Third House women demanded. Aviana? Troi didn’t know much about her, but she had gathered, from various conversations with her mother, that Aviana adhered to the Third House tradition of being reclusive.
“The resources of Starfleet’s flagship are being put at the disposal of Betazed to aid in the recovery of the artifacts,” Troi announced. Had she just done that? Promised the resources of the Enterprise, without the captain’s approval? The panic, the despair, was overwhelming. But the objects needed to be found.
She glanced sideways at Worf, and he gave her a little nod. She added, “We are here to talk with you. To listen.”
“I am Onora Opeila, daughter of the Fourth House, Keeper of the Sacred Silver and protector of Xiomara’s legacy.” Onora’s voice quavered with indignation. “I have already made it clear to Officer Andra that I know nothing about the robbery.”
“Madam,” Worf said, “it is entirely possible that you know something without realizing you know something.”
Onora blinked in surprise. “I’m sorry?”
Worf stepped up to her, his eyes level with the top of her headdress. She craned her head back to glare up at him. “Every detail is important, and the key to catching a thief is the details.”
Troi stepped up beside him. “We’re here to uncover the facts. We just want to talk.”
Onora’s heavy eyelashes fluttered. It’s just so distressing, she cried, and Troi took Onora’s gloved hand and pressed it between her own. Immediately Onora’s emotions flooded into her, anger and fear being the strongest. Woven through them both was a faint, pulsing shame. Not strong enough to call guilt.
“This was not your fault,” Troi said quietly.
“The Silver had never been taken out of our holdings in five hundred years.” Onora dabbed delicately at her eyes. “When I received word that the Historical Council was planning a viewing, I was so excited—”
“Of course you were.” Troi guided her over to the sofa where her three attendants were sitting, wearing less ostentatious versions of Onora’s dress. Very traditional.
A young woman threw her arms around Onora’s neck. “It’ll be all right, Mother,” she whispered.
Onora sniffled. “I wanted you to keep the Silver.” She looked over at Troi. “I was so thrilled, I had to find people to serve as my attendants. My family did away with this years ago, but I wanted to uphold the tradition for the ceremony.”
Worf lowered himself to Onora’s eye level. “There is great honor in keeping tradition.”
“I never in my wildest dreams—” Onora started verbally, and then there was a flood of telepathic agreement from the others in the room. —thought this would happen. Her sentence was finished inside Troi’s head by a dozen different voices.
Officer Andra was standing in the corner, her arms crossed, watching; Troi felt her approval.
“Did everyone feel that way?” Troi asked the room. “The excitement at being part of something so momentous.”
“How could we not?” said Jarkko. “This was meant to be a celebration of Xiomara, of Betazed history.”
Betazed wasn’t foreign to Troi, but it wasn’t home. She knew the history, the rituals, the costumes, the elaborate system of Houses—none of it had any appeal to her. But she knew the importance of Xiomara’s treasures to the Keepers and their Houses.
To hold one of the thre
e treasures was to hold a piece of Betazed. Someone had snatched it away.
Troi offered, “Perhaps we can see this… difficulty as a chance to embody the principles that Xiomara taught us.”
Jarkko scowled. “Whoever stole the treasures wasn’t embodying any of the principles.”
“Of course not.” One of Jarkko’s party stood up, wound her arm through his. “Because certainly a Betazoid didn’t do this—”
A bolt of fear sparked in the back of Troi’s head. She could tell the others felt it too. A sense of discomfort filled the room, and Officer Andra stepped forward, her body tense.
“Who was that?” she demanded.
“What was—” Worf looked at Andra, then at Troi. “What is happening?”
The Betazoids in the room were all turning toward the women in the Third House regalia, still standing together in a tight knot in the corner. Immediately, Troi understood the fear was coming from all three of them.
“It’s them!” shrieked Onora. She leaped up and grabbed Worf’s arm, yanking him toward the Third House women. “They did it!”
“We don’t know that.” Officer Andra stepped closer. “Madam Virox? What are you afraid of?”
Aviana Virox turned toward Andra, her face stricken. Emotions roiled off her, a bizarre, confusing mélange that made Troi’s head ache. It didn’t help that it was blending in with the onslaught from the others in the room: confusion, panic, concern.
“Commander,” Worf said in a low voice, “could you explain what is happening?”
“They’re afraid,” Troi whispered back. “All of the Third House women are afraid.”
Worf frowned as one of Aviana’s attendants stepped toward her. But Madam Virox shook her head, tears streaming down her face. Her emotions swelled, thick and overpowering. Her attendants looked utterly terrified, their eyes wide. And Troi felt a thrum from them.
They were communicating, speaking telepathically. But they were cutting their conversation off from the rest of the room. A rare skill, and a taboo at that.
“They’re talking to each other,” she whispered to Worf. “But not letting any of the other Betazoids hear. That’s not—”
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