GUISES OF THE MIND

by Rebecca Neason

  A few seconds later the doors opened and Picard stepped out into the corridor. At this time of the morning he knew that Mother Veronica would be with the counselor, and Sister Julian would be occupied with the children or with the studies that had filled her time for the weeks the Little Mothers had been on board. Although the quiet presence of the nuns was felt throughout the ship, evidenced by the reactions of many of the crew—especially Lieutenant Commander Data—they were, in reality, rarely seen.

  Picard himself was acutely aware of the Little Mothers, as he was aware of the room that was his destination. He tugged at his uniform top in an automatic gesture and began to walk down the corridor in even, measured strides.

  He reached the door directly across from the stateroom that housed the Little Mothers. Here was the chapel he had ordered replicated and arranged for their use. He hesitated only a moment, then moved close enough for the computer to sense his presence and open the door.

  He entered the chapel and it was like stepping back in time and place, back to the years of his childhood and the home of his youth. Silence enveloped him as he stood just inside the door and waited while his eyes adjusted to the dim light. It was not an empty silence. Picard smiled as he listened to it. In a brief, uncommon flight of fancy, it seemed to him as if the silence smiled back, like an old friend welcoming his return.

  It had been more years than Picard liked to count since he first stepped through the doors of the little parish church after which this chapel was fashioned. He had been eight years old. It was a hot summer day and his older brother, Robert, had been tormenting him, as usual—about what, Picard could not remember now. But it had mattered then, very much, and the eight-year-old Jean-Luc had run from his bullying brother, looking for a place to hide.

  The little church stood in the heart of the town. Picard had run in no particular direction that day, but as he had neared the church he heard Robert’s voice too close behind him. The church had offered a refuge; Jean-Luc had opened one door and slipped quietly inside.

  Picard remembered how on that day, too, it had been the silence that first greeted him. The church had been cool after the heat of the summer sunshine and the interior of the building held the faint aroma of incense that after the centuries had permeated the wood of the altar, pews and kneelers. It had awakened the young Jean-Luc’s curiosity and drawn him farther inside.

  The older Picard now walked into the chapel, moving not with the hesitation of an eight-year-old boy, but with the confident tread of a starship captain. He took a seat in the third pew and looked at the altar. Tall candlesticks and flowers adorned it. The immaculate covering of linen seemed to glow in the reflected light of the candle flames.

  It had been the same all those years ago and he could almost see himself as that small boy, staring at the altar for the first time, going up to touch the linen, the candles, turning and running his hands along the communion rail, looking for long, fascinated minutes at the stained glass in the windows, the statues with their rows of votive lights, and the names on the engraved plaques along the walls. The beauty of the place touched him now as it had touched him then, and countless times thereafter.

  Picard never told anyone about his new hiding place, though he went to the little church often. At first it had only been a place where he could go and dream his dreams of the stars in peace. Soon, however, the building began to intrigue him. There was something almost mystical about the silence of the place. Picard wanted to know when it had been built, how and by whom. He began to study, looking for those answers, and that study had sparked a love of history and archeology that had grown over the years.

  The younger Picard had found the facts about the parish church in the town library. But it was this older Picard who understood the people behind the facts. Captain Picard knew about duty and devotion, and if the ideals that moved him were different from the men and women who, stretching back through the centuries, had built the church, served at its altar and worshipped in its pews, it did not matter. The essence was the same.

  It was a good heritage and Picard was proud of it. He stood and again tugged at his uniform, straightening and settling it firmly about his shoulders. When he reached the door, he noticed the little brass cherub that formed the holy water font. He reached out and ran a finger caressingly over its outstretched wings. Then he turned back around and let his eyes embrace the chapel a final time. He was glad he had come; in just over a week the Little Mothers would be leaving the ship and this room would revert to its original form.

  Perhaps I’ll enter a holodeck program of this chapel, Picard thought when he stepped once more into the corridor and the door slid shut behind him. Yet as he walked toward the turbolift, he knew he would not. He would hold the image in his heart, a dear and cherished memory, but his path lay with the future, not the past—even his own.

  Troi was encouraged by her student’s progress. The nun had learned the rudiments of D’warsha; she could now separate her own mind, her own thoughts, from the myriad that daily assailed her, and she had learned to produce the most elementary of shields. These shields were not strong, nor could Mother Veronica bring them to mind without a great deal of concentration yet, but she was learning.

  Today, Troi and her student had begun the discipline of Kitue, which would strengthen the nun’s shields and aid her in the technique of voluntary raising and lowering. As with the initial steps of all mental training among Troi’s people, this lesson combined telepathic communication and guidance with mental imaging. Mother Veronica had chosen the picture of a lake as her personal representation.

  See the sunlight upon the water of the lake, Troi’s mind guided her student once more through the lesson. Strengthen the light; make it grow brighter in your mind. Brighter still, until you cannot see the water. Remember the lake is the expression of your mind. The light is like a wall that protects your mind and covers it. The light is a shield. It is yours to possess and yours to control. Now, slowly, let the light fade and see again the peaceful lake beneath it.

  Mother Veronica’s attention faltered; the images disappeared. Troi sighed, disengaged her mind from the nun’s, and opened her eyes.

  “It has been a long morning,” she said, “but you’ve made real progress.”

  Mother Veronica did not answer Troi or give any indication that she had heard the counselor’s words. She stared off at nothing while her right hand reached up to finger the wooden cross that rested on her chest. After a silent, strained moment, she turned toward the counselor.

  “How long?” she asked. “How much longer before I can lock my mind away and no one need know that I am . . . a telepath?”

  Mother Veronica lowered her voice on these last words and again looked away. Troi sighed. She had hoped Mother Veronica was coming to understand her gift and accept it.

  Troi searched for a way to answer her. Even as a trained psychologist, the right words were not always easy to find. Especially with Mother Veronica. There were so many layers of fear to be overcome, layers that had been built over a lifetime. But if they were not revealed and vanquished, how much longer would it be before the nun collapsed under the burden of her own self-hatred?

  Troi knew she had to say something.

  “What is it that you’re still afraid of?” she asked. “Are you still afraid that if you learn to use your gift, you’ll be betraying the promise you made to your mother?”

  Mother Veronica’s head jerked up. She stood and walked over to the viewport, leaning her head against the clear partition.

  “When your mother demanded that promise from you, she knew of no other way for you to be safe. It was an act of love,” Troi continued, “but it was also an act of hopelessness. The reason for it is long past. It’s time to let it go. Your mother did not understand what she was asking. It is impossible for anyone who is not a telepath to understand the pressures of such a gift.”

  “You don’t understand,” Mother Veronica whispered.

  “But I do,�
�� Troi countered. “I understand the years of ignorance and the superstition that have kept you from realizing the truth.”

  “But I don’t want truth!” Mother Veronica cried out. “I just want some peace.”

  She turned and fled from the room.

  Troi turned and watched the door slide closed behind Mother Veronica’s fleeing form. She felt as if something inside of her had wilted. She lifted her eyes and sat looking at the beautiful, impersonal stars that shone in dopplered streaks outside the viewports. She wanted to help the nun; she wanted it as much as she had ever wanted anything. Even more than learning to shield her mind, Troi wanted to help Mother Veronica learn to rejoice in her own uniqueness.

  Troi knew that acceptance, personal acceptance, could be difficult. There had been a time when she, like Mother Veronica, had rejected her gift as worthless. It was her mother who had taught her differently.

  Troi had been twelve years old, the age when the psychic gifts of most Betazoid children begin to manifest themselves, when she realized she would never be a full telepath. With this realization had come feelings of isolation and inadequacy. While the other children played the ancient thought games with one another, games that would hone and focus their talents, Troi was excluded—from their thoughts but not their emotions. Her newly budding empathy made her aware of all the pity and ridicule from her peers.

  Her mother had known how she felt—her mother had always known, then. One night, when Troi was lying on her bed crying, her mother had come into her room and gathered Troi into her arms as if she had still been a child of five.

  “Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” her mother had asked.

  Troi shook her head.

  “Then I’ll tell you. You’re crying because you think you’re different and that makes you feel alone and unloved. Am I right?”

  “I just want to be like everyone else,” Troi had cried the plaintive litany of adolescence.

  “Like all your friends, you mean,” her mother said. “Think for a minute, Little One, and answer me a question. Why do you want to be like everyone else? Think about the people you love, and tell me if they’re just imitations of the people around them.”

  Deanna did think about it, and she started with her father. There was no one else in the universe like her father—at least to her. He was big and strong and gentle. He had a brilliant mind and yet a sense of humor that let him laugh at what he called the follies of existence. He did not find it uncomfortable or intimidating to live among a race of telepaths when his own mind was silent.

  And there was her mother, Troi thought as she glanced up at the woman beside her. Forthright and formidable, she had a way of dominating everyone, except her husband, and infusing each situation with her own joie de vivre.

  Troi loved both her parents. Yet just now, with the rejection of her peers still fresh in her mind, Deanna Troi did not find it comforting to be descended from two such unique individuals.

  “I don’t want to be different,” she protested aloud.

  Her mother chuckled and tightened her arms around her daughter. “Oh, Deanna,” she said. “Everyone is different. That is one of the most precious gifts from the Gods of the universe. Be grateful, Little One, for that difference.”

  “Will I ever be a telepath?” Troi asked, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “Some telepathic abilities will probably surface later—after all, you are my daughter—but they will never be your greatest talent. However, your teachers tell me that your empathy rating is very high. Your challenge is to learn to use it—and members of our family never back down from challenges. We meet them, head-on. Now, let’s go downstairs. We’ll make a cup of hot chocolate and talk about where you should start your training. Empaths need to develop their minds just as telepaths do.”

  Her mother had been right. Such telepathic abilities as Troi possessed had developed slowly over the next few years, but they were not impressive for a Betazoid. She could share her mind with other telepaths, especially members of her family, and persons with whom she shared an emotional bond. It was enough.

  Troi’s empathic talents had also continued to grow. Her mother had arranged for Deanna to study with some of the finest teachers on Betazed, and she surprised them all. Even among her race, a race known for its empathic as well as telepathic abilities, Troi’s rating was one of the highest seen in over two centuries. When she had chosen psychology as her profession, she had found that special place to use her gifts and in a way that, for the most part, filled her with purpose and joy.

  Most of all, Troi thought as she leaned back in her chair on board the Enterprise, I learned what my mother started to teach me years before she put it into words. I learned to value myself. This is the lesson Mother Veronica needs, and I don’t know how to reach her with it.

  Troi’s communicator chirped, pulling her from her reverie. “Troi here,” she answered it.

  “Counselor,” came the captain’s voice. “We are about to make subspace contact with Capulon IV. I would like you to be present for our initial communication.”

  “Yes, sir,” Troi said. “I’m on my way.”

  “Is Mother Veronica still with you?”

  “No, sir. Our lesson ended a few moments ago.” “Since the King of Capulon IV sent for the Little Mothers, I think Mother Veronica should be here as well. Will you bring her with you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Troi said again, signing off. She stood and turned toward the door with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She was the last person Mother Veronica would want to see right now.

  Chapter Eleven

  MOTHER VERONICA hesitantly agreed to come to the bridge with Troi, but they walked through the ship’s corridors in a tense and heavy silence, the nun refusing any of Troi’s attempts at conversation. When they reached the main bridge, Mother Veronica stayed by the turbolift door while Troi walked down the ramp and took her seat on the captain’s left. Picard motioned to Lieutenant Worf, and the Klingon hailed the planet.

  “They are responding,” he announced.

  “On screen,” the captain ordered. Immediately the view of the stars was replaced by the larger-than-life-size face of a young man in his prime. His dark, curly hair was longer in back than in front and wisps of it curled around the collar of his high-necked shirt. The mustache and beard that darkened his upper lip and curled along the straight line of his jaw accented his full mouth and finely chiseled features.

  Captain Picard stood and walked toward the viewscreen. “I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Starship Enterprise, representing the United Federation of Planets,” he announced.

  “Our greetings, Captain. I am—Joakal I’lium.”

  Troi wondered if anyone but herself heard the slight hesitation before he said his name, or noticed the calculating look in the young King’s heavy-lidded eyes.

  “Greetings, Your Majesty,” the captain was saying. “I am honored that you have answered our hail yourself. The Enterprise will arrive on schedule for your coronation.”

  The King’s eyes shifted. “I’m not sure that is necessary, Captain,” he said. “As my coronation approaches, I have begun to have doubts about the agreements I made in my youth. I am no longer certain that joining your Federation would be the best thing for my people. Our culture is an ancient one. We have known many generations of peace following our laws and our God. Joining your Federation could change that.”

  These words took Picard by surprise. Troi could feel the emotion crest through the captain and she could read it in the way he pulled his already straight back a little straighter. An infinitesimal movement, but Troi knew its meaning.

  Yet, the captain’s expression never wavered as he spoke to the King.

  “It is the highest law of our Federation,” Picard said in his best diplomatic voice, “not to interfere with the culture of our members. The Federation welcomes differences and honors them.”

  “So you claim, Captain.”

  Troi shift
ed uncomfortably in her seat. The King was radiating deceit in waves that were almost visible to the empath.

  “I think perhaps, Your Majesty, we should meet and discuss your concerns,” Picard continued.

  “Of course, Captain,” the King answered. “You and your people are welcome to come to Capulon, but I cannot guarantee I will sign your treaty.”

  “Understood, Your Majesty. It is my hope that together we will find a solution that will unite our people.”

  Once the transmission ended, Troi sprang to her feet. “He’s hiding something, Captain,” she said as Picard turned around to face her. “And he’s lying.”

  “About what? Any ideas, impressions?”

  “Nothing specific—only what I’ve told you.”

  Troi heard the gasp behind her. She turned to look at Mother Veronica still stationed by the turbolift doors. The nun was white with shock and terror, struggling to force air down into her lungs. Troi rushed toward her, the captain close behind.

  Mother Veronica shook her head slowly from side to side. Her eyes were still wide with the horror of whatever she had received from the King’s mind.

  “Such hate,” she whispered. The words sounded as though they were strangling her. “Darkness. Black hatred. Two men . . . a room . . . Loneliness. Vengeance. Too much . . .”

  She turned and fled into the turbolift. The doors closed behind her before Troi could follow.

  The counselor glanced at the captain. “Go after her,” Picard ordered. “Get her calmed down and try to find out exactly what she learned. Then join me in my ready room as soon as you can.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Troi said as she stepped up to the turbolift doors and waited for them to open.

  * * *

  It was a little over fifteen minutes when Troi entered the captain’s ready room. Will Riker was there, pursuing a conversation he and the captain had had before.

  “I wish you would reconsider,” Riker was saying.

  “I couldn’t change my mind even if I were inclined to do so, Will—which I am not.”