“And they’re down there”—Rikkilä pointed down at the beach—“or their physical forms are. Right?”
Crusher nodded. “As best as I can figure, they were intrigued by Data during that initial visit to the beach. When we brought back the samples, they used that as an opportunity to attempt to communicate.” She thought for a moment. “I’m fairly certain those fossils you found—they weren’t fossils at all. They were isolated entities that had gone dormant.”
“The scans did not pick up on them,” Data said, “because of their unusual structure. We have never encountered anything like it before.”
“Exactly,” Crusher said.
Data stepped to the edge of the dune and slid down. Crusher joined him.
“Doctor,” he said. “I am glad to see that you are well.”
“Thank you, Data. I could say the same thing about you.” Crusher watched the waves. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“What did you see, when you were sleeping?”
“I was not sleeping,” Data said. “I was merely in a—”
Crusher stopped him. “What did you see?”
“I—” Data paused. “I saw this beach. This ocean. I saw—” He lifted his eyes to the sky. “I saw the Enterprise.”
“The Enterprise?” Nothing from her life had shown up in her “dream.” She had only seen the life of the hive mind. Their world, their thoughts, their message.
“Data,” Crusher said. She slipped her arm in his and felt him jolt in surprise.
“Doctor, what is the matter?”
“Nothing.” Crusher looked up at the sky. Commander Beverly Crusher, Chief Medical Officer of the Starship Enterprise, had made first contact with a new life-form.
35
Derak offered stammered apologies to the air.
“Derak,” Bryt demanded. “Who is this? What have you done?”
“The buyer interested in Lots 489 to 491,” he cried out. “She tricked me!”
“Bryt,” Troi said, “let me speak to you.” She looked at Derak. “I don’t want him to profit from what I have to say.”
“You tricked me,” Derak said.
“I’m sure there’s a Rule of Acquisition that applies.”
“What do you know about the Rules?” Derak hissed.
“Bryt,” Troi said, “you can talk to me, or I can talk to him.”
The siren stopped, but the room was still stained by bloodred light. “You bargain better than I expected.”
Troi said, “Let me speak to you face-to-face. We have—a lot in common.”
A burst of feedback erupted out of the speaker; Troi took it as evidence that Bryt had deciphered her meaning.
“Derak,” Bryt said, the distorted voice booming through the room. “Leave us.”
“Baron!” Derak said. “Are you sure?”
“Get out!”
Derak eyed Troi nervously. “You lied,” he snarled.
Troi smiled sweetly. “Everything’s fair in war and business.”
“That is not a Rule!”
Bryt’s voice was strained, even with the distortion. “Now!”
Derak gave an annoyed little growl and slunk out of the room, glaring backward over his shoulder at Troi. She gave him a satisfied little wave.
As soon as the door slid shut behind him, the red lights dimmed.
“Well?” said Bryt.
“You’re fe-male,” Troi said calmly.
Then there was a soft click followed by the sound of an opening door, not the door that Troi had come in through.
“Let’s talk,” Bryt said, her voice still distorted. “Face-to-face.”
Troi moved forward cautiously. The door opened into a sort of foyer, a small round room decorated with items like the ones in the gallery.
Another door opened, leading into a luxurious sitting room. A sweet, dark scent wafted out. Hallyon flowers. She’d only had the chance to smell them once. The flowers were notoriously difficult to grow, but she would never forget that scent, like brown sugar and fire.
She stepped quickly through the foyer and then moved into the main sitting room. The lighting inside was dim, the furniture dark and heavy. The walls were lined with shelves, filled with actual books and pots of Hallyon flowers. At the far end of the room was a massive, glittering crystal, lights strung up to catch the angles in it and make the crystal gleam. It took Troi a moment to realize the crystal was actually the wall of the cavern.
In the middle of all this was a massive desk, and sitting at the desk was a slight, unmoving figure.
“Bryt the Baron?” Troi said, moving deeper into the room.
“How’d you know?” Her real voice was soft and mellifluous. She lifted her head and Troi caught the glint of long, gold chains she wore draped from her lobes—much smaller than male Ferengi ears.
“You felt different.” Troi stepped closer, and she was able to get a better glimpse of Bryt’s face: her brow knitted with determination, her eyes fierce.
“I thought Betazoids couldn’t read Ferengi,” she said.
“We can’t generally, but sometimes we can get vague impressions. I could tell yours was different.” Troi stopped a few paces from the desk. There was nowhere to sit, so she stood awkwardly before Bryt, who glared up at her.
“I was so careful. I knew I shouldn’t have let you and that other one in.” She was clothed, another break with custom. Her purple robes rustled as she walked around the desk. “I suppose you think you can get the lots you were interested in”—Bryt sneered—“for free.”
Troi looked down at Bryt. When she’d beamed down, the last thing she’d expected to find was a Ferengi woman earning profit.
“What are you doing here?” Troi asked.
Bryt blinked in surprise. “Trying to make a profit. Why are you here?” She leaned forward accusingly. “Do you even have the latinum?”
“You’re not here just to earn profit,” Troi observed.
Bryt’s eyes widened. “Damn.”
“You know you can ask for refugee status in the Federation. You wouldn’t be the first Ferengi to do so.”
“Ferengi fe-male,” snapped Bryt. “The Federation?” She shook her head in disgust. “No, it’s better here, at the fringes.”
“You’re doing something else here,” Troi said.
Bryt leaned against her desk. “Who are you, really? Tell me the truth.”
“Lieutenant Commander Deanna Troi of the Federation Starship Enterprise.”
Bryt groaned. “Oh, that’s the end of it,” she cried. “Wrap it up, fe-males, we’re done.”
“Fe-males?” Troi said. “There are more of you?”
Bryt glared at Troi. “Yes,” she said, drawing herself up. “Fe-males make up more than half of the Ferengi population.” She slouched back down with a sigh.
Troi found herself liking Bryt. “You’re doing all this in secret,” she said. “Understandable.”
“Not just me.” Bryt shook her head. “There are dozens of us. I have fe-male partners scattered all over this sector.” Bryt straightened her shoulders and spoke in a stage whisper. “Fe-males tell other fe-males, ‘Go to Bryt the Baron. He’ll get you started.’ ”
Troi let out a gasp. “You—you’re giving profit to other Ferengi females.”
“No! Absolutely not!” Bryt looked horrified. “They work for me. I set them up, and they do business on my behalf. They become Bryt the Baron. I’m all over this sector.” She fixed a dark glare on Troi. “I take a percentage of any profit they earn.”
Ferengi and profit. Troi really didn’t understand it. But she understood wanting to be all you could be.
“Someday there will be a Grand Nagus who will change everything,” Bryt said. “I wanted a head start. And if some fe-males have a head start too—” She spread her hands wide.
Troi grinned.
“It’s not funny.”
“Why did you want Xiomara’s treasures?”
“They�
�re treasures. I can sell treasures for a profit.”
“I see,” Troi said. “You know the treasures don’t have any intrinsic value.”
Bryt narrowed her eyes. “What are you saying?”
“Once you know the history behind them,” Troi said, “you’d know that they don’t.” She shrugged. “An old serving platter? A beat-up urn? A worn spoon?”
“Their history. That’s their value,” Bryt said. “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“Exactly.” Troi shifted her weight. “Those treasures aren’t worth much in latinum, but they are tremendously important to Betazed, which means they’re important to the Federation.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It doesn’t matter if it makes sense to you,” Troi said. “They’re culturally significant, and Betazed is clamoring to get them back.” She leaned forward, pressing her hands on the desk. “The Starfleet flagship is currently in orbit of your prime marketplace. If I make one hail, in just five hours I could have five starships checking every vessel that enters or leaves this system.”
“You wouldn’t,” Bryt said.
“No sellers would come close to this place.” Troi smiled. “And all the lovely things in your VIP room—”
“What about them?”
“Are any of them stolen?”
From the expression on Bryt’s face, the answer was clear.
“Enterprise security teams will confiscate all of them and check their provenance,” Troi said. “You have what, ten guards? An Orion receptionist? We know about Orion females, and we have enough female security officers to ensure the objects’ safety. As for your guards—” Troi shrugged. “We got one to turn on you for just two strips of latinum.”
“Enough! I understand!” snapped Bryt. “Why aren’t you making that hail right now?” She studied Troi. “Not very Starfleet of you to toy with me like this.”
“I’m not toying with you,” Troi said. “I can appreciate what you’re doing here. Earning profit when your society tells you that you can’t.”
Bryt rolled her eyes.
“Here’s the deal: if you give me the treasures, we’ll take the Romulan away for the theft. And, if my captain agrees, we will give you a twenty-four-hour head start. The Enterprise will be otherwise engaged, returning the items and the thief to Betazed.”
Bryt snorted. “And where’s your captain?”
“He’s here in the compound.” Troi stood up straight. “My Klingon ‘guard.’ ”
“You have to be joking,” Bryt said.
“I’m not. It’ll take five minutes for me to guarantee your head start.”
“Very well.” Bryt stepped up to Troi, her wrists pressed together, her two hands forming a cup. “Twenty-four hours.”
Troi copied the gesture. “It’s a deal.”
36
A chime sounded on the door to Jean-Luc Picard’s quarters at Isszon Temple. He had been taking a much-needed break after spending the bulk of the day reassuring both Betazoids and other High Guests that the Enterprise was more than up to the task of retrieving the three treasures.
The chime rang out again, followed by Lwaxana Troi’s trilling voice: “Jean-Luc! I know you’re in there.”
Picard rubbed his forehead.
“Just a moment,” he said, steeling himself as he strode across the room. When the door slid open, Lwaxana beamed up at him, as radiant as she had been the night before, when the celebration was underway and the treasures were still safely in possession of their Keepers. She bustled inside, her gown billowing around her. “Commander Rusina just received word from the Enterprise,” she said brightly. “The treasures have been recovered.”
“Oh, that’s excellent news,” Picard said. “I take it the Enterprise is on her way back now?”
Lwaxana nodded, her gaze sweeping around the room. “I am certain Rusina will want you to attend the debriefing with Mr. Worf—who I heard did marvelously as captain, by the way.”
“As I knew he would.”
Lwaxana spun around to face Picard, the fabric of her gown twirling out dramatically. Picard felt a moment of tight-chested terror, certain she was going to fling herself on him. But she only smiled. “But as Betazoid Ambassador to the Federation, I wanted to come here and thank you personally.”
Picard stiffened. “I’m afraid I had very little to do with—”
“I don’t mean the retrieval of the treasures.” Lwaxana gestured dismissively with her hand. “I want to thank you for the wonderful job you did of calming the guests.”
Picard was unsure how to respond.
“I know you wanted to accompany the Enterprise when she set out to retrieve the treasures,” Lwaxana continued, “but I was so grateful that you stayed to assist. We had a temple full of panicked, confused people, and you brought such a sense of assurance to the proceedings.”
Picard hadn’t felt as if he’d been of any assistance. In truth, he’d felt useless, particularly after the disrupted call from the away team on Kota. Stranded, even: moored without his ship.
“Thank you,” Lwaxana said, pressing one graceful hand to her chest.
“You’re welcome,” Picard said, blinking through his surprise.
“Captain Picard?” An unfamiliar voice came through on his combadge. “This is Lieutenant Asah with the Betazed Security team. A hail has come through for you. From Kota.”
Lwaxana looked up at him. “Your away team! Remember what I told you—sometimes, we need to fake our telepathy.”
Picard was already moving toward the hailing station in his quarters. “Ambassador, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Oh, of course. I am certain you will hear only good news on the other side of that hail.”
Picard nodded, impatient. As soon as Lwaxana let herself out through the door, he switched on the hail, relieved to see Will Riker’s face looking back at him. Riker was outside, grass rolling out behind him, a violet sky overhead.
“Number One,” he said. “Status report.”
Riker grinned. “All members of the away team are safe, sir.”
Picard let out a long, relieved breath.
“We’re no longer in need of immediate extraction,” Riker continued. “Although, as you can see, we did lose the station. But we can manage.”
We all need a reminder sometimes that we can exist without those things we take for granted.
Picard couldn’t help but smile.
37
Beverly Crusher stepped out from the tent the crew had erected. The station had disintegrated completely by this point. The equipment was scattered throughout the camp: the lab materials and, most crucially, the replicator.
“Are you ready, Doctor?” Data stepped out behind her, activating his combadge.
She smiled. “Maybe we’ll get it this time.”
Twenty-eight hours earlier, according to Data’s internal clock, she had been dreaming on the beach, communicating with the Kotan life-forms. The team had successfully powered up the replicator. All of the lab equipment was working, and safety checks had been done on all the phasers. They had successfully replicated fresh, cold water, which the team gulped down. The mysterious life-forms had retreated from all their technology.
As the sun sank into the horizon, turning the light long and hazy, Crusher and Data worked on compiling a baseline for the universal translator. It was clear the entities understood technology, but they wanted to make sure the universal translator didn’t collapse under the weight of the life-forms’ communications. The camp was less than private, and when Commander Riker caught them, it was Data who argued to ask for forgiveness, not permission.
Eventually exhaustion overtook Crusher as it had the rest of the team. The doctor crawled into her sleeping bag and slipped into a dreamless slumber.
* * *
There was no wind the next morning, and the grass against Crusher’s and Data’s uniforms created a rustling sound. “It was difficult,” Data said, “to determine a baseline on how to
handle the Kotans’ noncomprehension of one.”
“If it doesn’t work,” Crusher said, “we won’t be forced into a dream.”
They reached the dunes. The wind picked up a little, but the waves were calm, rolling gently beneath the violet sky. The tide was out, and among the black stones, the tide pool glittered.
Crusher nodded at Data and gave him a big smile. “I’m going in,” she said.
“I will be here,” Data said.
The doctor went down the side of the dune. She walked over to the rocks and crouched down beside one of the tide pools. Unlike the tide pool in her dream, this one appeared empty, the water clear enough that Crusher could see there was nothing in it except for the rough walls of the stone.
She tapped her combadge twice, activating the Kota UT package. “Hello? Are you here?”
The waves answered, crashing against the shore.
“I want to be able to talk to you,” she said, “in our language.”
The combadge chirped. A sound rushed out of it. It was the sound of roaring winds.
Then, in the rise and fall of those winds, “Hello, ghost-friend.”
The combadge sputtered and then fell off her uniform, landing facedown in the sand.
She scooped it up and turned around and waved to Data. “It worked!” she shouted. “Just for a few seconds, but it worked!”
She trudged across the sand, kicking it in front of her as she did.
“I think the Kotans blew it out,” she said, holding it up to Data.
“I will have to work on that,” he said.
For a moment, they stood side by side, watching the waves. Then through Data’s combadge: “The Enterprise is here,” Riker said. “Time to go home.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There are so many people who have helped me get to a place in my career where I could have the opportunity to write a Star Trek novel. I am certain to miss some of them, but know that I am grateful to everyone who has shown me support in my writing over the years.
A special thanks goes out to Holly Lyn Walrath, who offered feedback on my initial outline and commiseration during the revision process. As always, thank you to my beloved writing community: Amanda Cole, Chun Lee, Kevin O’Neill, Michael Glazner, David Young, Bonnie Jo Stufflebeam, Stina Leicht, Bobby Mathews, and the many others who have helped me through the years.
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