The Federation ship and the treaty; all of Capulon knew of these. It was who the ship carried and what they represented that was the secret Joakal hugged to himself. To cast off the superstitions of the past, and embrace the scientific wonders of a hundred worlds—that was the tomorrow he planned to build for Capulon IV.
He was so entranced by his vision of the future, he did not notice the furtive glances his companion was casting at the doorways they were walking past, nor notice the sudden sweat that beaded on Aklier’s forehead.
Joakal kept walking. Behind him, a door swung open on silent, well-oiled hinges. A figure slipped through.
Suddenly hands gripped Joakal’s shoulders and spun him around. Joakal gave a startled cry. He saw the fist coming toward him. Just before it connected, just before the world exploded into pain and darkness, Joakal saw his attacker’s face.
And it was his own.
Chapter Three
TROI BENT CLOSER to the mirror as she secured the last pin into her hair. Then she clipped her earrings into place and stood back to survey the total effect.
Not bad, she assured herself, turning slightly from side to side. For the dinner party this evening, Troi had chosen a new dress from the ship’s catalogue and she decided she liked both the style and the color. The high back and gently heart-shaped neckline gave her throat a long, graceful look, and the deep garnet color of the dress complemented her skin. Not bad at all, she told herself again as she ran a hand down the fitted bodice to the folds of the full skirt, smoothing away a small fold in the fabric.
Troi glanced at the chronometer display: 18:45—ten minutes before Will Riker would arrive to escort her to the dinner. Troi walked over to the food replicator dispenser.
“Hot chocolate,” she ordered. But when her drink arrived and she took a sip, she grimaced. It was not what she wanted. The rich, sweet liquid did no more to lift her mood than had the chocolate sundae last night, or the double workout she had done in the gym this morning. She was still worried about Lieutenant Salah, still depressed over her inability to help him—and still very, very tired.
“So, what do I want?” Troi asked herself as she started to pace about the room. She, of all people, should be aware of her feelings, able to define and examine them.
Okay, she thought, applying a technique she had used often with her patients, I’ll make a list. Number one: Work, her profession—Did she still believe in what she was doing? Yes. Troi knew that her choice to become a psychologist and to join Starfleet had been the correct one. She harbored no doubts or regrets.
So, number two: Her assignment—Would she rather be stationed somewhere else, on a starbase or planet, maybe even at Starfleet Command or the Academy? No. She loved the Enterprise and the people on board.
Number three: Her personal life? No—emphatically no. She was not ready for marriage and children. She would be less than honest if she said she never thought of them, but it was not an active consideration. They were for some later time in her life. For now she had friends, dear and cherished friends like Will Riker and Beverly Crusher, like Captain Picard, like Geordi and Worf and Data—like so many others. They kept her from being lonely.
Lonely.The word made Troi stop pacing. She was never lonely—that was the problem. She was never alone. Even here in her quarters, she could feel the presence of the fifteen hundred people around her. The loves and hates, griefs and sorrows, joys and triumphs not only of the crew members, but of their spouses and children, were like a constant white noise inside her brain.
As ship’s counselor it was Troi’s duty to be aware, not only of the mental and emotional condition of the crew, but to guard against the unseen threats that could attack the minds of the people on board. For this Captain Picard relied upon her—and through him, so did everyone else.
What I need, Troi thought, is a vacation. I need a time when no one is relying on me. I need to put things back in perspective.
The door chime sounded. “Come in,” she called and the door obediently slid open. Commander Will Riker stood framed in the doorway, looking handsome and virile in his dress uniform. His eyes caressed her, sliding slowly up and down her form, and he let out a slow, appreciative whistle.
“Deanna,” he said. “You look magnificent.”
“Thank you, Will.”
Riker held out his arm and Troi walked over and took it. As they headed down the corridor toward the turbolift, Troi let herself bask in the familiar touch of Riker’s mind. His approval and affection were a balm to her weary soul.
This is a dinner party, she thought to herself as they walked. It’s a social event. No threats, no dangers—no warring dignitaries or tricky negotiations that hang in the balance. We’re traveling through well-known space on our way to a peaceful mission. Other ships get by without a Betazoid counselor, maybe for a while I can block everyone out of my mind and just enjoy myself. A mini-vacation.
Troi turned her head and smiled up at Will Riker. She was pleased by the warmth in his eyes as he smiled back.
The other guests had arrived when Troi and Riker walked into the dining room on Deck 8. Troi saw that the male officers had opted to wear their dress uniforms while, like herself, Beverly Crusher had chosen civilian dress. Standing next to the captain, the doctor looked exotic in an oriental pants-dress of pale green Chinese silk.
Troi did not need her Betazoid senses to read the emotions in the room. Captain Picard, as he stood next to Doctor Crusher, was smiling one of his rare broad smiles. He radiated pride and pleasure as obviously as Beverly did serenity. To the captain’s left, Geordi was busy being sociable and, as usual, he was on the verge of laughter. Troi wondered what story he was telling as he waved his arms through the air. Worf stood near him, but a little apart. The Klingon’s eyes shifted around the room continually, his body tense and ready to spring into action. Data, meanwhile, watched everyone with an expression of fascinated curiosity.
At the center of this group stood two nuns. Both wore identical ankle-length dresses of a heavy brown material, girded about the waist by a braided rope. On their heads each wore short white veils, and their feet were encased in sandals. One nun also had a wooden pectoral cross on a leather thong around her neck. She stood with her head bent and her eyes downcast as if she was deep in private meditation.
Troi breathed a silent sigh of relief—all here was as it should be. For a while she could, and would, rest. She raised the mental shields around her mind, smiled, and stepped further into the room. The captain glanced up and saw her.
“Good—Counselor, Number One,” he said. “I’m glad you’ve arrived. Come and meet the Little Mothers.”
Still arm in arm, Troi and Riker advanced to the captain’s side and waited while he made the introductions. The nun with the cross was Mother Veronica, the Head of the Order. The other nun was Sister Julian. They were going to Capulon IV to make the initial contact with the government; others of their Order would be following in a few weeks.
The dinner proceeded with polished smoothness. Troi could not help but admire the way the captain played host. With well-timed questions and comments, he kept the conversation moving and interesting, all the while keeping his eye on the plates and goblets of his guests, unobtrusively making certain their wineglasses were refilled, food dishes were passed around, and delicacies placed within easy reach.
Troi was seated across the table from Mother Veronica. The nun had stayed quiet throughout the meal. Troi noticed she had not eaten much more than a mouthful. To the counselor’s practiced eye, the nun looked troubled and exhausted.
Seated to Troi’s left, Sister Julian was as animated as Mother Veronica was reticent. “It was 1873, not 4, when our Order was founded, Captain,” she was saying. “In October. The fourth of October—the feast day of Saint Francis of Assisi, whose Rule we follow.”
Then Sister Julian stopped and laughed. “You’ll have to forgive me, Captain,” she said. “I find history a fascinating subject, and I tend to become rather
passionate when I’m discussing it.”
Picard smiled. “I am a bit of a history enthusiast myself,” he said. “In fact, aside from the wonderful work you do—which I hold in the highest esteem—part of what interests me about your Order is the fact that you have survived the centuries. Even now, when religions no longer play such a pervasive part in society, your Order seems to be thriving.”
“It was not always easy for us,” Sister Julian said solemnly. “Many times our Order nearly died out. Each time a span of religious apathy would occur, the numbers in our Order would dwindle. Yet a few of us always remained to carry on the work.”
She cocked her head slightly to one side and studied the captain. “As for religion no longer playing a part in society,” she said. “Which society? The Vulcans, whose discipline of pure logic, the Kolinar, exists side by side with their mystical teachings of the Katra? The Bajorans who unanimously claim that it is their spiritual beliefs that have held them together as a society throughout the long years of Cardassian domination? I could name dozens more.”
“Perhaps I should have said that religion is no longer as important on Earth as it once was,” Picard replied.
“Oh, come now, Captain,” Sister Julian said. “You don’t mean that. Just because we no longer fight wars over our beliefs, you don’t think that they are gone, do you? Religious beliefs, their myths and practices have been with humankind since its beginnings. By the time the first god figure was painted on a cave wall, the myths of that god had already been told around the campfire, told and believed. I think it is, rather, that we have learned to let religion be a matter of the heart, personal and not political. We have at last learned tolerance.”
Picard smiled at her. “You are a fine debater, Sister Julian.”
Troi watched Sister Julian nod a pleased acknowledgment of the captain’s compliment, then cast a quick glance across the table to Mother Veronica, as if trying to pull the other nun into the conversation. Mother Veronica did not notice or look up from her attitude of contemplative withdrawal.
“Back to our original subject,” Sister Julian said after an infinitesimal pause. “Our Order was founded —in 1873,” she shot Picard a small smile, “in Spain, on Earth. The country was torn by one of the many civil wars of that era. The need for us and for our work was very great. There were so many children whose families had been killed and whose villages had been destroyed. The first of our Sisters took these children into their convents, then built dormitories and infirmaries to house and care for them. They endeavored to raise the children in an atmosphere of love despite the wars that raged all around them. Our Order was given the name Mothers of the Hopeless.
“If you are a student of history, Captain,” she continued, “you know that the next two centuries were filled with outbreaks of war, and not only in Spain. Some of these wars were termed small wars or internal power struggles, others were global confrontations. They all left homeless, helpless children in their wake.”
“Then your work is mostly with homeless and war-traumatized children?” Riker asked.
“Oh no, Commander,” Sister Julian answered. “That was only how our Order was established. Our work, our mission to use the Church term, is to provide a loving home for all children. Any child, regardless of need or condition, is taken in and cherished. And throughout the centuries there is little we have not seen—the homeless, the abused, the sick—sometimes terminally—the openly rebellious who are really looking for security, the autistic who are locked behind the curtain of their own minds, the mentally deficient, the physically challenged—all of them find a home within our walls.”
“But Earth, in fact most of the Federation worlds, have solved these problems,” Doctor Crusher said. “Our planet is no longer torn apart by wars. Medical science can detect, and cure, most physical defects—often before birth—and our psychological sciences have learned how to overcome the mental conditions, like autism, that were so debilitating and such a frightening part of our past.”
Sister Julian smiled a little sadly. “You are an idealist, Doctor,” she said. “That is a good trait in a healer. No wars—not on Earth, but what about the war with the Cardassians? Cardassian children can be homeless and frightened and in need, too. And many of the other worlds within our galaxy do not feel the same way about their children as we humans do. That is why when we began encountering other worlds, other peoples and cultures, our Order took our mission from Earth to the stars. You would be surprised how many worlds ask for us to come and set up one of our homes on their planets.”
“So you no longer have any houses on Earth?” the captain asked. “I thought I read—”
“Oh yes we do, Captain.” Sister Julian interrupted. “Our main Mother House is on Earth—that will never change. But we have many Mother Houses now. Our home was on Perrias VII.”
Captain Picard’s brow wrinkled slightly. “Perrias VII,” he said slowly. “That’s not a member of the Federation.”
“No, Captain,” Sister Julian replied. “It is not. But then, we are not ambassadors or members of Starfleet —nor do we have any political affiliations. If we hear of a need, we go.”
“How do such reports get to you?” Commander Riker asked.
Again Sister Julian smiled. “Oh, they get to us. Sometimes, such as the case with Capulon IV, the government of a planet asks us to come. But that is more rare than I like to think. Usually it is word of mouth—rumors, news reports, even anonymous communiqués. Word gets to us.”
While Sister Julian continued to talk, Troi became aware of a vague feeling of disquiet. It was like an itch slowly growing between her shoulder blades, or a steady, monotonous beat too quiet to be truly heard, but too loud to be ignored. The relaxed glow of the evening fled and Troi was on duty once more. Slowly, she lowered her mental shields. Immediately her mind was under siege, bombarded by desperate confusion. It was like stepping into the middle of an exploding star.
Too many . . . too many . . . The words crashed through Troi’s mind. Go away . . . they echoed. Too many. . . .
Across the table, Mother Veronica sat with her head bowed. Her body was tense and stiff, and her cheeks were as pale as chalk.
She’s a telepath, Troi realized.
The voice inside her head grew stronger. Mother Veronica has no shields, Troi thought, feeling the desperation mounting in the other woman’s mind. A telepath can’t survive without shields.
Troi focused her gaze, and her mind, on the nun. Although not a true telepath herself, Troi could communicate with others so gifted, especially when the telepathy was as strong as she was receiving from Mother Veronica.
It’s all right, Troi sent. I can help you.
Mother Veronica’s head snapped up. Her eyes locked with Troi’s and the counselor felt the sudden flood of terror that filled the nun’s mind.
It’s all right, Troi tried again. Don’t be afraid.
Mother Veronica sprang to her feet, her chair scraping loudly across the floor. She raised her hands to her temples in a quick, staccato motion.
“I’m sorry. I . . . I have to go,” she stammered. “Headache. You all stay. Please.” She moved away from the table and toward the door with the speed of a deer in flight.
“I’ll go see if I can help,” Doctor Crusher said, starting to push herself away from the table. Before she could rise, Troi was already out of her chair.
“No, Beverly,” she said. “I’ll go.” The doctor gave her a curious glance, but she nodded. Like the rest of the crew, the doctor trusted Troi’s abilities. Troi was relieved; it would have taken too long to explain.
Troi turned and left the dining room. As she stepped into the corridor, she saw Mother Veronica waiting for the turbolift. Troi hurried toward the nun. Mother Veronica saw her and shrank back against the wall.
Troi slowed her pace. She began speaking softly, trying to use her voice to calm, to soothe.
“It’s all right,” she said, repeating the message she had told the nun a fe
w moments before. “Don’t be frightened. I understand. I know how exhausting it can be to have other people’s thoughts always in your mind. I can teach you how to block them out. Let me help you.”
Troi was in front of Mother Veronica now, and being this near Troi could look into the nun’s eyes. Mother Veronica reminded her of an animal in a trap—hopeless and terrified.
“Let me help you,” Troi said again. “I understand.”
Mother Veronica slowly shook her head. “No,” she whispered. The turbolift arrived and Mother Veronica stepped inside. “Leave me alone,” she said as the doors slid shut.
Troi stood there looking at the closed doors. Mother Veronica needed help—soon, before her sanity snapped. Troi took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she turned away from the turbolift. She must return to the dinner party. The others would be waiting for her; the captain, in particular, would want to know Mother Veronica’s condition.
What could she tell him? Troi wondered. What did she have the right to tell him? Mother Veronica was not a member of the crew. She was no threat to anyone but herself. Until she asked for help, she was entitled to the privacy of her own life, her own mind. Meanwhile, until she was willing to accept help, there was nothing that Troi, trained psychologist, counselor on Starfleet’s flagship, Betazoid and empath, could do.
Once again there was someone who needed her and once again, she had failed.
Chapter Four
THE NEXT MORNING, at ten-thirty, Captain Picard stepped off the turbolift on Deck 16. He had promised the Little Mothers a tour of the ship and had decided to guide them himself, but he was surprised to find only Sister Julian waiting for him in the hall.
“Good morning, Captain,” Sister Julian said as he approached.
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