GUISES OF THE MIND

by Rebecca Neason

  “So what are the answers, Captain?” Data asked with the frank, trusting innocence of a child.

  Picard’s expression was one Troi was glad she had not missed. His eyes grew wide and he blinked twice; his cheeks paled slightly and his Adam’s apple bobbed several times as he swallowed back his astonishment. Next to him, Commander Riker was vigorously rubbing his hand down his mustache and beard, struggling to contain his laughter.

  “Data,” the captain finally managed to say, “I don’t claim to know any Ultimate Truths. I know only what I believe, personally, and each person must come to such beliefs for him- or herself.”

  “Yes, Captain. How?”

  Picard drew a deep breath. “By study—by careful thought and consideration, some would say by prayer and meditation—by talking to others—by cultural background—”

  “But Captain,” Data said, “I possess no cultural background to draw upon.”

  “Then I would suggest you begin by reading history. Many of the greatest minds and greatest philosophical writings have come out of monastic settings and disciplines. But do not limit yourself, Mr. Data. You are in a unique position. Not many of us come to these questions so free of preconceived opinions and prejudices.”

  “Do you have any suggestions as to where I should start, Captain?”

  Again Picard drew a deep breath. He shifted in his seat, recrossing his legs as if his command chair had suddenly become uncomfortable. He considered Data’s question very carefully; there were so many writings that he valued: the Discourses of Plato and the great Dialogues of Epictetus; the philosophy of the Tao Te Ching; the Summa Theologica by Thomas Aquinas and the mystical vision of The Cloud of Unknowing—and those only named a very, very few. Away from Earth, there were the Teachings of the Katra from Vulcan and the Xhari’a of the Felicus; the Orisha of the Yoruba, whose complexity had taken him so long to understand, but who expressed the ideals of union so eloquently, and the Ik-Onkar whose religion was expressed not in words but in symbolic notations.

  “No, Mr. Data,” Picard said at last. “I do not—I don’t want to influence your search. I will only recommend that you investigate as many cultures as possible before forming any opinions.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Data said as he turned back to his duty station. “I shall do so.”

  Joakal I’lium sat in his cell, surrounded by the silence of his captivity. He was not ill-treated; he had food and water, blankets with which to cover himself against the cold, but he was alone, more alone than he had ever been before.

  And yet, he was not alone. In a way he would not have thought possible, Joakal could feel the nearness of his brother. He could almost hear Beahoram’s thoughts echoing in his head. And more than the thoughts, it was the other’s emotions—the hot flashes of anger, the triumph that was without elation, the dark and bitter need for revenge—these surged through Joakal and left him trembling.

  Upstairs in the main council chambers, Beahoram sat in his brother’s place at the head of the long table, eyeing the old men gathered around it. There were twenty-nine of them, the Council of Elders, and together with him they made the number thirty—the number that was supposed to denote wisdom and divine inspiration—the age the King would be crowned and elevated to Absolute.

  I am here, Beahoram thought with grim satisfaction. It has taken me a long time, but I am here. And you, you old fools, you don’t know the difference.

  Tygar, the Elder seated to Beahoram’s right, cleared his throat and took some papers out of the folder on the table before him. Beahoram turned toward him.

  “Sire,” Tygar said, “we have received the final set of petitions from those families eligible to participate in your coronation. With your permission, we would like to review them this morning. Time is growing short and we need to reach our decisions.”

  Beahoram inclined his head in assent. He glanced down the table at Aklier and noticed that the Elder’s hands were shaking slightly as he, too, took out the papers before him.

  He’s more nervous than I am, Beahoram thought. The old fool will give us away if he’s not careful.

  Tygar cleared his throat again and began to read. “From the Southron, the House Masalai petitions that the Head of their House be allowed to walk in the procession, to receive and carry the Robe of Youth that will be lifted from you during the ceremony. As precedent, they cite their similar function in the coronation of seven past Kings, including your grandfather, Nygaar the Third.”

  “And in my father’s coronation?”

  “No. At that time, the Head of the House Masalai was still a youth himself and, therefore, not allowed to take part in the coronation. The honor passed to the House L’Snium, and they, also, have petitioned.”

  “What precedents do they cite?”

  “Their claim is based on distant relationship to Your Majesty—they are seventh cousins on your mother’s side—and on a personal friendship with your father.”

  Beahoram felt his stomach tighten; friends of his father, of the man who would condone his son’s death, relations to the woman who would give her son away—these were none he wanted near him.

  “The honor will return to the Masalai,” he said aloud.

  “Next, Sire,” Tygar said, “there are a number of petitions for the honor of attending Your Majesty during the vigil of your Coming to Age. All of the petitioners are worthy, and I beg Your Majesty to consider most carefully.”

  This was the one tricky petition. Beahoram wanted no one but Aklier to attend him until after the coronation. He glanced down the table. Aklier was staring fixedly at the papers in his hands, beads of perspiration lining his forehead.

  Beahoram turned his eyes away. He gathered a royal hauteur about him like a cloak and lifted his chin. “I have already decided,” he said. “Aklier shall attend my vigil.”

  The murmurs around the table erupted at once. “But . . . but Sire,” Tygar stammered, “this is most irregular. The petitions must be—”

  “It is my Coming to Age,” Beahoram snapped. “It is a private vigil. Aklier has been my trusted adviser and friend and I wish to reward his faithful service.” Beahoram turned toward the head of the Council and let his long-nurtured anger flare briefly in his eyes. “Am I not the King?” he demanded.

  Tygar subsided. “Yes . . . Your Majesty,” he said.

  Beahoram looked around the table, staring at each one of the councilors in turn. One by one, they dropped their eyes.

  So easy, Beahoram thought. They are such fools. “Next petition,” he said aloud.

  Tygar shuffled the papers before him, laying several aside unread. While he waited, Beahoram’s thoughts strayed to the man who was his brother, sitting alone in the cell in the palace subbasement. Like Joakal, Beahoram could feel the other’s presence, but unlike his brother, it bothered Beahoram not at all. It filled him with satisfaction, even dark glee.

  Again, unlike Joakal, Beahoram had spent his life knowing of the other’s existence. He believed the legends of the priest-kings of old, whose minds were so powerful they could rip the thoughts from their enemies’ brains and bend them to their will. He believed; he had felt that latent power within himself all his life—believed, built upon it, strained to make it happen.

  And now, more strongly than ever before, he could feel another’s thoughts. So near, he needed only the coronation—and the ceremonies that accompanied it—to make his power complete. His mind would become fully awakened then, and he would take his brother’s thoughts, his memories, the essence of who he was. He would strip them away and consume them.

  He would be the Absolute, the God-embodied. Nothing would stop him. He would only have to do this—

  Beahoram gathered his thoughts. He pictured his mind like a lance of light and hurled it toward the man downstairs, focusing his will on capturing his brother’s mind and sucking it out of him.

  But it was like diving headfirst into a wall. Pain lanced through Beahoram’s brain; fire exploded behind his eyes. His
hand flew to his head and he doubled over. The contents of his stomach gushed from his mouth onto the floor. He fell from his chair.

  He barely heard the scraping chairs or the voices calling for the healers. He barely felt the hands that turned and lifted him. All he knew was the searing pain behind his eyes. White hot. Blinding.

  Far below, Joakal, too, writhed in agony on his cell floor.

  Chapter Eight

  MOTHER VERONICA stood outside the door of the observation lounge on Deck 35. She knew Counselor Troi was inside waiting to begin today’s lesson, and Mother Veronica knew she needed the counselor’s help. The invasion of Mother Veronica’s mind had not lessened; the battle for her own peace, for her sanity, still raged on. Yet, as she stood alone in the corridor, Mother Veronica was still afraid. What other memories might have to be dredged up and relived, what further pain would she have to endure?

  “ ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . ., ’ ” she whispered aloud. Holding the canticle of the Shepherd’s care like a shield about her soul, Mother Veronica stepped to the door. It slid open and she walked through.

  As she had known, Troi was awaiting her. The nun tried to return the counselor’s smile and failed. She took the seat Troi indicated and sat staring at her hands, folded neatly if not serenely, on her lap. She heard the counselor sigh.

  “Mother Veronica,” Troi said. “I can feel how upset you are. Can you tell me what I need to do to set your fears at rest?”

  Mother Veronica shook her head. What could she say—make the strange ability in my mind go away? Make my thoughts like other people’s? Take away the years I have suffered this, hated this? She shook her head a second time.

  “Then let’s try to begin,” Troi said. Mother Veronica turned to face her.

  “As we did yesterday,” the counselor continued, “I will need to establish the teaching link between us. Today we will begin the first lesson toward your development of mental shields. In the ancient language of Betazed, this exercise is called the D’warshra, which means The Place of Peace and Identity.”

  “Peace and identity,” Mother Veronica whispered. It was what she had sought all her life. She felt some tiny measure of her fear drain away. Looking up, she met Troi’s eyes, and again the counselor smiled at her.

  “Ready?” she asked. Mother Veronica nodded and Troi held out her hands. The nun placed hers in them.

  “Close your eyes,” the counselor repeated her opening instructions of yesterday. “Think of nothing. You will feel my mind touch yours. Do not be afraid. It’s all right. Now.”

  Immediately, Mother Veronica felt the touch of Troi’s mind. She was surprised; this was not the tenuous thread they had struggled so hard to achieve yesterday. This time the bond was strong, the flow of communication was unhindered and she found that the mental sharing between them was different from anything she had ever known. There was none of the rushing torrent she was used to receiving. There was no fearsome bombardment, no confusion and pain. This touch between their minds ran cool and fresh and clear. Mother Veronica’s fear again lessened, just a little.

  It is time to begin, Troi’s thoughts told her. The mind of every sentient being, every creature of thought and self-awareness and will, is unique. It has its own form and feel, and in order to learn to shield it, you must first learn to recognize the mind that is our own. Follow me now as we find the awareness that is uniquely yours.

  Up on the bridge, Data was talking to Lieutenant Worf. The Klingon was trying to master his outrage and remember that his fellow officer meant no offense.

  “A Klingon does not discuss the gods he follows,” Worf finally managed to say. “Especially with a member of another species.”

  “Actually, Lieutenant,” Data replied evenly, “it could be argued that I am not a member of any species and therefore such a statement is rendered meaningless.”

  Worf clenched his jaw and tried again. Tact was a human skill he was trying to develop, but it was one the Klingon found both difficult and irritating.

  “I do not believe your—programming—makes you capable of understanding our warrior gods,” he said.

  “An interesting point,” Data replied. “However, in accordance with the captain’s suggestion, I have begun my research into the religious and philosophical questions of the purpose of existence by reading history. Since both the captain and my creator, Doctor Soong, are human, I have begun by reading human history. I spent last night reading the history of the planet Earth, particularly in regard to the development of myth and religion. Although there are many esoteric writings I have yet to cover, I believe I now have a basic working knowledge of the subject. Many cultures worshiped warrior gods and valued warrior abilities. Among the most notable were the Aztecs from an area once known as Central America, the followers of Ba’al in the Middle East, the Celtic members of the Cult of the Head, the followers of the Norse gods Odin and Thor, the Samurai culture of ancient Japan—”

  “Enough!” roared the Klingon.

  “But, Lieutenant, that is a most incomplete list. In fact, I found that nearly every culture throughout Earth history has at one time or another followed the Way of the Warrior. Even those religions that claimed to teach peace espoused the concept of holy war at some time in their development. I found it quite confusing—perhaps you could explain it to me.”

  Again the Klingon struggled with his temper. “Is that why you have come to me?” he asked.

  “No, Lieutenant. The captain also suggested that I talk with people before forming any religious opinions. The logical place to start is with my crewmates. The ship’s library contains very little on Klingon culture and history, and almost nothing on Klingon religion.”

  “I am not a G’luuc’taha, a teacher of the gods,” Worf said sternly, ready to tell Data to continue his inquiries elsewhere. Then Worf remembered the times he and the android had fought side by side. They had faced death together; in his culture they were brothers of war. He relented.

  “If you will come to my quarters this evening,” he said, “I will instruct you in the gods of my house. But it is a private instruction. You will not mention this to others.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Data replied as he turned away. “I think I will now go talk to Geordi.”

  Data walked toward the turbolift; behind him, Worf emitted a low growl.

  “Run that one by me again, Data,” Geordi said a few minutes later. He was down in engineering making some notes on a pet project of his when his android friend found him. His thoughts were so filled with sensor-array equations he was not certain he had heard Data’s question correctly.

  “I asked—do you believe there is a God?”

  Geordi put down the computer pad and stylus he had been holding, thoughts of energy-flow curves evaporating like a widespread particle beam. He considered himself used to Data’s idiosyncratic inquiries, but this one caught him off guard.

  “Why are you asking, Data?”

  “My creator, Doctor Soong, did not imprint my programming with his own religious beliefs. Perhaps he did not have any, or perhaps he wished to leave me free to draw my own conclusions. I do not know. It is an aspect of human development I have never before considered.”

  Geordi did not have to ask why Data was considering it now; the presence of nuns on board ship had many people questioning what they believed.

  “Why are you asking me?” Geordi wanted to know.

  “The captain suggested I talk to people. You are my best friend. Should I not talk to you?”

  “Well, sure, Data, you can talk to me about anything. It’s just that your question is a difficult one to answer.”

  “Then you do not believe in a God?”

  “Whoa. I didn’t say that. The word God means different things to different people. I don’t believe in a man with a big white beard, sitting on a throne somewhere. But we’ve been to too many places and seen too many incredible things for me to believe that it doesn’t mean anythin
g, or that we’re all just a cosmic accident. I don’t feel like an accident.”

  “Then you are religious?” Data asked.

  Geordi blew out a breath in a silent whistle. “It’s not as easy as that,” he said. “I’m not religious in the same way the Little Mothers are, but I believe in—something—that gives shape and reason to the universe. And that something is inside of us, too—making us strive to be better than we are, helping us recognize that all life-forms are a part of one another.”

  “That is not very precise, Geordi.”

  “I know, Data.” The engineer shrugged his shoulders. “But it’s the best I can do.”

  Chapter Nine

  “THIS ISN’T GOING TO WORK,” Aklier said as he paced back and forth in the King’s private apartments. “It’s been six days since your collapse in the Council chambers and the other Elders are beginning to wonder if you’re fit to rule.”

  “It will work, Aklier,” Beahoram said. He rose from the massive, brocade-covered chair in which he had been sprawling, walked over to the carved sideboard in the corner, and poured himself a goblet of wine.

  He held the goblet up until the light shone through it. It was made from a single Flame Crystal and the stone was cut so that its deep red heart was embedded in the stem. It seemed to dance with life as the light hit it, shooting flame-colored rays through the golden liquid that filled the cup. Beahoram closed his fingers around it possessively.

  Beahoram lifted the cup to his lips and drank, downing half the contents in a single swallow. Then he set the goblet down and began to walk slowly around the room letting his fingers hungrily caress each thing he neared. His touch lingered on the back of the chair in which he had been sitting. It and its mate were carved from single pieces of dark-grained wood and covered with heavy brocade worked in crimson and gold. A low table stood between them, made of the same dark wood carved in the identical pattern as the arms and legs of the chairs. The center of the table was inlaid with luminous green-veined stone.