GUISES OF THE MIND


Chapter One
THE YOUNG LIEUTENANT on the transporter
platform looked at Troi with haunted, frightened
eyes. "You'll be all right, Geoff," the
counselor said, giving her voice more confidence than
she felt. Standing behind her at the controls, the new
transporter chief, Samantha Tuttle, cleared
her throat. "The starbase is signaling,
Counselor," she told Troi. "Thank you,
Chief," she acknowledged without taking her eyes off
her departing patient. "Doctor Fletcher will be
waiting for you, Geoff," she continued. "Everything is
arranged. The Skylark will be here in thirty-six
hours to take you back home to Beta Arcturus.
Doctor Fletcher will be traveling with you. He has
a copy of all your records and the doctors at the
clinic are waiting. It's almost over." The terror
in the young man's eyes did not abate. 1
He ran a dry tongue over his lips and tried
to make his voice work. "Thank you," he
finally managed to say. "I'm sorry I . . .
I wasn't a good patient." Troi smiled her
best professional smile. "You were a fine
patient. Just remember, there are no magic
cures. Everything takes time." The lieutenant
nodded. Troi stepped back next to Chief
Tuttle, who was still waiting to work the transporter
controls. "Just a few more days, Geoff, and you'll be
home. Are you ready?" Again the lieutenant nodded.
Troi touched Tuttle's arm and the transporter
chief's hands moved across the board before him. There was
a hum, disa
shower of light, and the lieutenant's body began
to fade. "Good-bye, Geoff," Troi said softly
as he disappeared. "Good luck." "The starbase is
signaling that Lieutenant Salah has arrived,"
Tuttle told her. Troi looked up at her and
gave a weary smile, then she turned away. It
was over; therewas nothing more Troi could do now except
go back to her quarters and make the final entry on
Lieutenant Salah in her log.
'rroi left the transporter room. Crew
members greeted her as she walked down the
corridor toward the turbolift and she nodded to them,
but she did not truly see them. Her actions
were automatic and professional, and unrelated to her
thoughts, which were still of Geoff Salah. In her mind she
still saw the look of scarcely controlled panic that
had become etched upon his face in these last weeks.
Troi had always known, and accepted, that Starfleet
psych-profiles were not infallible. But even in its
latent stage, this phobia should have been diagnosed,
she thought for the hundredth time as she stepped
disinffthe turbolift and gave her destination to the
computer. Geoff Salah should never have been on a
starship. Yet he had been here. And she should have been
able to help him. She had failed, and it hurt.
Troi reached her quarters and stepped inside.
Behind her, the door slid silently closed. Only
then did she let her facade of professional
calm slip away. Her shoulders drooped as she
leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes.
For a few, brief moments, the slender frame of
Deanna Troi bore a resemblance to Atlas,
bowed beneath the weight of the world. Then she took a deep
breath and straightened her shoulders. She had work to do.
She walked over to her desk and sat down. As
she did, she touched a button on the computer
terminal, switching it to silent recording mode; at
this moment, even the pleasant artificial
voice of the computer was more than she wanted to hear.
"Personal log: Counselor Deanna
Troi," she began. "Stardate 45741.9. We
have just concluded a six-hour layover at Starbase
212, where we picked up the passengers who will be
traveling with us to Capulon IV and. . ." Troi
stopped and drew another breath, searching for a way
to express the finality she felt. "Where I lost a
patient. On my recommendation, Lieutenant
Geoff Salah has been granted extended
medical leave to his home planet. It is
unlikely he will ever be able to return to duty
aboard a starship."
Troi sat hack and closed her eyes again. A
deep weariness washed through her. She was exhausted from
all these weeks of trying to help Lieutenant
Salah combat the sudden explosion of fear that had
ripped apart his life and left his sanity tottering
on the brink of extinction. His increasing paranoia
had pounded in her brain tech time they were together. As the
manifestations of his phobia grew, Troi had found
herself
having to battle through the attacks of anxiety and
sleeplessness, the lack of concentration and the burgeoning
sensation of impending doom that were Salah's
symptoms-not her own.
Nor had she been able to tell Salah that his
fears were groundless. It was a reality that the
Enterprise, that any starship, traveled through a
vacuum. The dangers of such travel-systems
failures, hull breaches by asteroid bombardment
or enemy fire, unknown and sometimes hostile
life-lccorms, ion storms, novas and
supernovas, and a thousand other things, were too varied
to name. They were the conditions one accepted when one chose
a life in Starffeet. They were part of the adventure.
And they were the very things Lieutenant Geoff
Salah could no longer endure.
Once more the specter of his pained and troubled
expression rose up to haunt Troi, bringing with it
another wave of weariness. Depression sent its first
wispy tendrils through her brain, whispering to her of
futility and failure.
Troi ended the entry. Later, after she had brought
her own feelings into focus, she would record more.
She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and
called up the schedule for her afternoon appointments.
The first one, only a few minutes from now, was with
Bio-tech TheodQre Aske anti Chief
Roberta Plummer of geo-sciences.
Standard voluntary prenuptial. counseling.
Troi gave a small, wan smile, glad that these
were the next people she had to face. There had been nothing
in her past three sessions with Aske and Plummer
to indicate anything ahead for them but a long, happy
marriage.
Reading the next name on her schedule, Troi's
dark eyes grew troubled. Ensign Johann
Marshall. Mare pain to deal with-grief and guilt and
anger. In the 4
month since Marshall had received word of his father's
death and began coming to Troi for counseling, these
emotions had been the essence of their time together. Denying
that he felt anything but loss and sorrow, Marshall
would often sit in her once saying little. Then his dark,
brooding emotions would fill the room and reverberate
through Troi's mind.
She would endure them, though she knew she could
raise her mental shields and place a firm,
protective wall around her empathic talent.
Yet, then she might miss some vital clue as
to why the ensign's self- accusations were greater than his
grief. Until that was brought into the open, Ensign
Marshall would not heal. Troi did not want to fail
with Marshall as she had with Salah. She
knew she would keep her shields lowered. "And who
counsels the counselor?" she wondered aloud as she
stood and composed her body into the posture of a
confident professional--disshoulders back, chin
lifted--and mentally prepared herself to go to her office and
face the rest of the day's appointments. The aomm
button on her uniform chirped. She tapped it
lightly. "Troi here," she said.
"Counselor." The rich timbre of Captain
Picard's voice came over the comm. channel.
"Tomorrow evening at nineteen hundred hours, I will be
hosting a dinner party to welcome our guests on
board. If you have no other plans, I would be
pleased if you would attend."
Always on call, the words flashed through Troi's
mind. Even at a social event like a dinner party,
she knew that the captain would expect her to be sensing
the emotions of the people in the room. He did not understand;
no one on board the Enterprise fully understood
how exhausting such constant sensitivity could be.
Troi tried not to let these thoughts sound in her
voice when she answered the captain. "Thank you,
sir," she said. "I'll be there."
Picard signed off. Troi stepped toward her
door, and as it slid silently open she
knew that tonight she was going to treat herself to her
favorite form of personal therapy. As soon as
she was off duty, she was going straight to Ten-Forward
and have Guinan make her this galaxy's biggest,
gooiest, chocolatiest . . .
Up on the bridge, Captain Jean-Luc
Picard was feeling very pleased with life as he
settled himself comfortably into his command chair. Their
passen- gers, the Little Mothers, were remarkable
individuals commembers of an organization that had
lasted through the centuries. Picard knew that many of his
contemporaries, while admiring the work of the Little
Mothers, felt that religious organizations such as
theirs were anachronistic. Picard did not agree.
As a student of history, he was keenly aware of the
part religion had played in the spread of
civilization.
Picard was too honest a researcher to ignore or
deny the many atrocities that had been committed in the
name of religion. Earth's past was as studded with them
as many other worlds" histories, and much more than some.
Yet it was the organizations of religion that had
kept the light of law and learning, the essence of
civilization, alive during eras of darkness that might
otherwise have seen those lights extinguished.
 The Little Mothers-now theirs was a history that
exemplified what Religious Orders could be.
Picard had first learned of them as a schoolboy and
had admired them since. Over the years he had
watched for any mention of them, both in history
books and current Federation news communiques. The
Little Mothers' work with the unwanted children of the
galaxy, regardless of physical or mental
condition, of species or planet, was legendary and
inspirational. Picard was pleased to be able
to introduce them to his crew-and to introduce his
crew, of whom he was justly proud, to them.
Picard turned and found his First Officer watching
him. "Your expression reminds me of an old
saying about a cat and a canary," Riker said, a
smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Yes, Number One, I am pleased. By our
passengers, and by our mission."
"That's something I don't quite understand, Captain,"
Riker continued. "We're going to Capulon IV
for the signing of the final treaty between that planet and the
Federation-was
"Yes."
"Why are we taking two nuns with us?"
Picard studied Riker for a moment, then
gave a small, enigmatic smile.
was "One man with a dream, at pleasure, Shall go
forth and conquer a crown; And three with a new song's
measure Can trample an empire down.""
"Captain?"
"A poem, by a nineteenth-century Irish poet
named O'Shaughnessy. It means that a small number
of individuals with vision and dedication can make or
change history. From what I have read of the young King
on Capulon IV, I think he is such an
individual. It is my guess, Number One, that
the King intends, with the help of these nuns, not to
"trample an empire," but to build one."
JoeaaKA-I. I'LIUM, the King of
Capulon IV, walked down the corridor toward
his apartments on the third floor of the palace. He
walked with an easy, long-legged gait, the walk of
someone accustomed to few obstacles. He was clothed
in the colors of the House I'lium. A. Long
crimson tunic with full sleeves, gold
buttons and sash gave breadth to his slender
shoulders, and the loose pants, also of crimson, that
gathered at the ankles inside his boots added
height to his medium frame. His dark hair was
worn long in back, in the fashion of young
men. Wisps of it curled around the high neck of his
tunic and touched the cropped beard and mustache that
hid the fine lines around his mouth and made him look
younger than his twenty-nine conyears. By his side
walked Aklier, member of the Council of Elders.
He was dressed in a similar style to Joakal, but
in the orange and brown of his own House, and wore
the knee-length sleeveless vest of adulthood.
Aklier was shorter than Joakal and more stout.
At the age of sixty-seven, the proud carriage of
early manhood that was so much a part of his companion's
walk, had long departed from Aklier. His shoulders were
stooped and his feet no longer left the floor as
sprightly as once they had. His hair and beard were the
dark silver gray of black hair aged. Although his
beard hid many of the lines that had embedded themselves on
Aklier's face, he knew those lines existed and were
growing deeper with each passing year. As the two men
walked side by side down the palace corridors,
their boots clicked dully on the stone floor,
punctuating the silence of the late hour. Joakal
hardly noticed the sound, nor did he give much
thought to his companion. His mind was filled with
details of his upcoming coronation and with the dreams and
plans he had nurtured for so long.
For nine years, ever since his father had died and
Joakal came to the throne, he had ruled through the
Council of Elders, as was the custom of his people. Now
his Coming to Age was only a short time away. In
twenty-seven days he would be thirty years old, and
three days after that he would be crowned Absolute.
For the last nine years Joakal had dreamed of the
changes he would make for his people. He had spent those
years, and many years before them, studying the laws and the
histories, and making plans. They were secret
plans, for the changes he would make involved the
reinterpretation and reordering of many of the old ways.
This he could only do after he was Absolute. Soon
his dreams would come true. He would be known as
Joakal the Just, Joakal the Lawgiver.
And there was Elana, his beautiful, beloved
Elana.
She had bean gone this past month, spending time in
her childhood home while she decided whether
to
marry him or enter Service at the temple, but
she
promised to return on the day of his coronation with
her answer. -- She will marry me, Joakal
thought. She must. Joakal loved her too
deeply to consider any other answer. It was with her
alone that Joakal had shared all of his many plans and
dreams. She was the only one on this world who knew
what action he had already taken to make the first of those
dreams come true. She would stand by his side when he
made the proclamation. She would rule by his side,
and together they would guide this world into a new and golden
age.
The young King turned to his companion. "Have you
heard anything from the Federation ship?" he asked.
"Are you certain they'll arrive on time?" "We have
received no word from the ship," Aklier answered. "You
would have been told, but I am certain they will arrive
on schedule."
"Think of it, Aklier," Joakal said, his eyes
shining with his unspoken dreams. "Think of what it will
mean for our people. The stars will be open to us and all the people
on all the worlds of the Federation will be our brothers.
We will lean, of their ways, and we will teach them
ours."
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 worldsthat was the tomorrow he planned to build for
Capulon IV.
He was so entranced by his vision of the future, he
dad 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.
TROT 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: 18:45ten 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 himand 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 Starffeet 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 Trot'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, W."
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
dangersno warring dignitaries or tricky
negotiations that hang in the balance. We're
traveling through well-known space an 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 ewjoy myself. A
mini-vacation.
"froi 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 rpeet the Little
Mothers."
Still arm in arm, Troi and hiker 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 com- ments,
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 tilde 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 esteempart 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 your 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 gad 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
acknowl-
edgment 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 comin 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 lave 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 defectsoften 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
j healer. No vArs-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 mis sion 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-was
"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 VTL"
Captain Picard's brow wrinkled slightly.
"Pernas VII," he said slowly. "That's not a
member of the Federation."
"No, Captain," Sister Julian replied.
"It is riot. But then, we are not ambassadors
or members of Starfleet --comnor 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. "4h,
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 beanonymous communiques. 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 ,low 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 gee 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 few 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 stopped 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, ire 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.
THE NEXT MORNING, at ten-thirty,
Captain Picard stepped off the turbalift 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. "Good morning,
Sister," he replied. "Isn't Mother Veronica
joining us?" "No, I'm afraid not. This traveling
has been so hard on her," Sister Julian said
with a sigh. "I have traveled before, but not Mother
Veronica. She came to the convent when she was only
four years old, abandoned one night on the convent
steps, and this is the first time she has left it."
"why now?" Picard asked as he and his companion
began walking back down the corridor toward the
turbolift.
Sister Julian shrugged. "Mother Veronica has
a talent for order and organization that will make her
an excellent leader for our new Community. I
think this is why traveling, with its constantly changing
routine, is so upsetting for her."
"But surely, if leaving her home planet
causes her so much distress, she would better serve
your Order where she was."
Sister Julian stopped walking and turned to the
captain. She stood for a moment studying his face.
"If you were ordered to give up the Enterprise, would
you do so?" she asked.
"Of course. It would be my duty as a Starffeet
officer."
Sister Julian resumed walking. "We have
duties also, Captain," she said. "And we are
vowed to obedience. Do not let her current
indisposition cause you to underestimate Mother
Veronica. She has an extraordinary gift for
working with children, especially troubled children. She will be
needed where we are going."
They reached the turbolift and while they waited
far the doors to open, Captain Picard changed the
subject. "Are your accommodations
satisfactory" he asked.
"Our accommodations are mare than
satisfactory, Captain," Sister Julian
replied. "They are quite luxurious. A stateroom
converted far our use, and a chapel-it is most generous
and kind of you. It is a delight to pray in that
beautiful chapel. We have been on three
transports and two starbases, and they have not contained
anything so lovely."
"Thank you," the captain said. "It is a copy
of the parish church in my home village on Earth,
in France. I had it replicated for your use."
The turbolift arrived. "Where would you like to
start your tour of the ship?" he asked as he and
Sister Julian stepped inside.
"Is it true, Captain, that you have whole
families, even children, on board?"
"Indeed."
"Then that is where I would like to start-with the children."
The captain and his guest spent the morning visiting
the classrooms and playrooms. At each of the
stops, Sister Julian sat among the children,
patiently answering their many questions. Picard was
fascinated by the instant rapport between the children and the
nun.
As he watched, Picard realized how his own
attitude toward children had changed over the years he
had captained the Enterprise. When he accepted
com- mand, he had thought the inclusion of entire
families on a deep-spate vessel,
especially children, to be one of Starffeet's less
intelligent decisions. Now he knew that they had
been right and he wrong. Having spouses and children on
board mane his crew happier. That aided in their
performance of their duties and gave his ship a greater
sense of community. Picard was now pleased to count the
children of the Enterprise as part of his command. After leaving the
classrooms, Picard took Sister Julian
to one of the holodecks and showed her several of the
programs that were commonly used for family
outings and "outdoor" play. Now they were on their way
for a tour of the medical facilities.
As Picard and his companion neared sickbay, a
young ensign stepped out into the corridor. When he
caught sight of the captain and the nun coming toward him,
the color drained from his face. He looked for a
moment as if he would faint. Then he shook himself

.
and hurried in the opposite direction, but he
kept shooting quick, frightened glances back over his
shoulder.
Picard had rarely seen anyone move so fast
without actually running. He almost called out to the
ensign; he would have, had he been alone. Instead,
Picard could only wonder whether it was himself or the
nun that had so terrified the young man. conI will have
to mention this to the counselor, Picard thought.
Deanna Troi sat in her office waiting for
Ensign Marshall. She glanced again at the
chronometer display on the wall: fifteen minutes
late. This was not like Marshall. He might come to her
office and say little or nothing during their entire
session, but he always showed up--and on time.
"Computer," she said aloud. "Location of
Ensign Johann Marshall."
"Ensign Marshall is in Ten-Forward."
Something's definitely wrong, Troi thought as she
headed for the door. She found him sitting in one of the
far corners of the lounge, staring at the cup in front
of him. Even from across the room Troi could feel the
turmoil raging inside him. She glanced at the bar
and caught Guinan's eyes. "He's been here for a
half an hour," Guinan said quietly. "He
ordered a cup of coffee, but he hasn't touched it.
He gust stares at it."
Troi nodded. Steeling herself to endure the young
ensign's emotions, she walked over to his table.
He did not look up when she approached; his eyes
never strayed from the dark liquid in the cup.
"Johann," she spoke his name softly. The
ensign flinched at the sound of her voice, but he
blinked once and looked up.
"Johann," she said again. "We had an
appointment. When you didn't show up, I was
concerned."
"I'm . . . I'm sorry," he stammered.
"But I can't talk to you now. I can't-was
Something's happened, Troi thought. Go softly,
Deanna. This could be the breakthrough he needs.
Softly now. Gently.
Troi sat down. "We won't have our
appointment today," she said. "We'll just sit here and
have a cup of coffee together. There's no need to talk
if you don't want to. A11 right, Johann?"
The ensign nodded. Troi looked up, prepared
to signal Guinan, and saw the Ten-Forward hostess
already coming toward her, cup in hand. Troi smiled;
somehow Guinan always knew.
Aklier, Head of the House Ti'Kara, member
of the Council of Elders, was not at the palace.
Although he lived, worked, and spent most of his time at
the royal residence, he also owned a small holding
outside the city confines. Most of the Elders who
served on the Council had-second homes somewhere in
or near the city where they could get away from the
pressures of court and still be near enough to return
quickly if the need for them should arise. Yet,
to Aklier, this small house and the five acres on which
it stood was more than a refuge. It was the home of his
happiest and most bittersweet memories. This was
the place that held his heart.
The house and land had been a gift to Aklier and his
wife when they were newly married and their early years
together had been spent here. When Aklier's
father had died, Aklier became Head of the House
Ti'Kara. He had inherited all of the lands and
titles, but it was never the family seat in which he
felt at home. It was here, where he and his wife had
known 27
so much happiness. Here their daughter, their only
child, had been barn, and it was here that Aklier's ife
had died and was buried, among the gardens she loved so
well.
Aklier walked down the long path toward those
gardens. He strolled slowly beneath the fruit trees
they had planted together. How strange it was now
to remember that these trees that shaded him from the sun's
glare with their fruit-laden branches had once been
little more than twigs he and his wife had labored
to put in the ground.
She could make anything grow, Aklier thought as he
neared the gardens. She had been dead for almost
fifteen years, but he almost expected to see her
amid the flowers and shrubs, wiping the dirt from her
fingers as she stood up and smiled at him. He could
see her, with his mind and his heart. The sun was hotter
here, out from under the trees, and the scent of the flowers and the
soil rose like a cloud of perfume around Aklier as
he passed. He breathed it in deeply; it
was her smell.
Aklier walked to the heart of the gardens where his
wife was buried. The grave was marked only by the
stones that encircled it. They were barely visible now,
almost overgrown with the abundant: vegetation. Akiier
knew that was how she would have wanted it. With his own
hands, he had planted the small purple and white
flowers that had been her favorites on her burial
mound.
He sat on one of the stones and began idly
pulling out the weeds that had sprung up among the
flowers. He often came here, to sit in her company
and tell her of his hopes and frustrations, just as he
had throughout the years of their marriage. And today, today
particularly, he wanted to talk to her. "I've
done it, Bayne," he said out loud. "Just as I
promised I would. Not another child will have to die 28
the way our daughter did. That law will be
abolished soon. At last I've found the way
to give her death, and yours, some meaning."
Tears welled in Aklier's eyes; he missed
her so much. "Oh, Bayne," he whispered. "Are
you with our daughter nova Have you ceased to grieve at
last? I pray the God will forgive me for what I
have done. I've betrayed my King,
Rayne. 1 had no choice. I did it because I
love you and because I hate the law that caused you
to grieve yourself to death. It's almost over now,
Ilayne. It's almost over."
Aklier did not bother to wipe away the tears that
wet his face. The sun would dry them.
While AkIier sat in the warmth and sunlight of
his garden, Joakal I'lium sat on the floor
of a small, bare cell. The luminous green veins
in the stone of the walls cast an eerie light through the
room. Joakal knew where he was. This stone had
been used in only two buildings-the palace and the
temple; Joakal was not in the temple. This cell,
and several others like it, were in the subbasement of the
palace. They had not been used for generations. When
Joakal had first regained consciousness, he had
tried calling for help. He had screamed until his
throat was raw and his voice gone. No one had
answered. No one would come looking for him in this
silent, lonely place. He sat now as he had
sat for hours-in the far corner of the cell, his back
pressed against the wall and his head cradled on his
knees. The cold from the stone felt as though it had
entered his body and penetrated through to his soul. Time
was measured in breaths and heartbeats.
It was the sound of a key turning the lock of the cell
door that finally brought Joakal out of the stupor that had
taken hold of him. He tried to jump to his
feet,
but the cold had entered his muscles and made them
stiff and unresponsive. Using the wall for
support, Joakal had barely gained his feet when
the door swung inward. His captor stepped through.
Joakal gasped. Even in the dim light of the
cell, it was like looking in a mirror. The same
face, the same hair, the same body--only the
eyes were different. The eyes that met his own burned
with a hatred Joakal had never before encountered.
"Who are you?" he whispered, his void; still hoarse
and painful. His captor's eyes narrowed. "I,"
he said, "am your brother."
Joakal slowly shook his head. "I have no
brother."
The man's lips twisted into the parody of a
smile. "You do," he said. "And not just a brother--a
twin. I had. the misfortune to share a womb with
you--and to be born a few minutes late. That made
me an abnormality, was he spat out the word. "My
life became forfeit."
"You're lying," Joakal whispered.
"Our dear mother," the man continued as he came
further into the cell and began to pace back and forth before
the still open door, "was required by law to leave me
at the temple to die. But she wanted someone else
to do her dirty work for her, so she gave me to a
guard. He had more compassion for me than my own mother.
He took me home to his wife and they raised
me, but it was a life of secrecy and fear. As I
grew older, we moved farther and farther into the
country, always afraid that someone might see my
face and think of you. My-parents-never let me
forget who I was. Who I am. When they died I
swore I would come to the palace and take back my
own. I am Beahoram. Beahoram I'lium."
As Joakal listened, a part of his mind screamed
that
this could not be real. He had planned to abolish this
law as one of his first acts when he became
Absolute. The Little Mothers who were on their way
here-they would help him take care of those children already
abandoned. That was why he had sent for them. It was
inconceivable that this law was the reason he was locked
in a cell and facing-what?
"Beahoram," Joakal said. "I would be glad
of a brother. Come with me to the Council of
Elders. I'll make them accept you." .
Beahoram laughed. Joakal's mind raced, quickly
searching for something to say to break through the arrogance he
felt emanating from the other man and the anger he saw
clearly on Beahoram's face.
"Listen to me," Joakal said. "I said I would
be glad of a brother, and I meant it. You could help
me. I've made plans for so many changes for our
people. You could be part of making those changes come true."
Beahoram's eyes narrowed. "What changes?" he
asked in a guarded voice.
There are so many, was Joakat's instant
response. Which ones would mean anything to his
brother? he wondered.
"The old law condemning abnormal children,"
Joakal began, "the law you were victim to--that will
be the first to go. I've already begun arranging for that
to change. And the law of isolation that has kept us
locked on this world. There are people on their way here now,
people from an organization called the United Federation of
Planets. Our world is going to join them."
Joakal felt himself growing excited, in spite
of the situation. "There are many other laws, too," he
said. "The ban on scientific studies and
technical advancements beyond our current
level-in my studies I've i learned that we
once honored the sciences and used
them. I want that to happen again. Our law says
too much technology is an offense to the God. I
don't believe it. I believe we are meant
to use our minds. Once I'm elevated
Absolute, I'll be the 'Voice of the Clad and
I can change the old ways. I want our people to be
part of the future."
"I almost believe you," Beahoram said. "But it
doesn't matter. For thirty years, you've had
everything and I've had nothing. I watched my father work
himself into his grave, accepting any job he could
find to put food on the table. I watched my mother
wither into an old woman, always afraid that someone would
drag her "son" away. And all the while,
wherever we went, I heard your name. Joakal-what
a goad prince he is, how studious, how pious;
what a good King Joakal will make. I grew
to hate the very sound of your name. Well now, Brother,
now it's my turn."
"Beahoram-listen to me," Joakal pleaded.
"I'm willing to share it all with you. You don't have
to kill me to get what you want."
Beahoram laughed, a low grating sound.
"I'm not going to kill you, Brother."
"Then what-?"
"Have you ever wondered about the old legends,
Brother?" he asked. "They're true, you know.
All my life I've felt the truth of them within
myself. I have your face. I live in your place in
the palace and I answer to your name. Everyone who
sees me thinks I am you. Soon I will wear your
crown and then you will learn haw true the legends are.
When I am crowned in your place, when I am
elevated and the power of Absolute comes to me, I will
strip your memories from you one by one and make them my
own. I will not take your life, my brother-I will
take your mind."
Joakal could not keep the horror from his face,
or the icy chill from his heart.
TROT AwoxEvery at seven o'clock the next
morning. It was later than she had planned to arise,
but she felt no rush. She had checked her
appointment schedule the night before and although her duty
shift began at eight, her first patient was not
scheduled until ten o'clock. Since she was not needed
on the bridge, her morning plans included a
workout in the gym, a half-hour of T'ai Chi, then
a bath and a leisurely breakfast. She
spent so many hours sitting in her office listening
to her patients, that this morning routine had become
increasingly important to her. The exercise kept
her body toned and flexible and allowed her a
safety valve of sorts, a way to vent the
pressures and frustrations, especially the
subliminal ones, that went with her profession. The
fluid movements of T'ai Chi helped her focus
her mind for the day ahead. The long soak and a lingering
breakfast that she planned for
today, were luxuries she added only when time
allowed-not very often. Troi ordered a cup of ginger
tea from the food dispenser. She sipped on it as she
began brushing the night tangles out of her hair.
The hot liquid and delicate bite of the ginger were
invigorating. By the time Troi had finished brushing
her hair and gathered it into the clasp that would keep it
out of her way while she worked out, she had finished the
cup. She ordered another as she went to her closet
and pulled out her favorite turquoise and pink
exercise suit.
After she had dressed, she glanced at the wall
chronometer. It read 07:38. Still plenty of time,
she thought as she headed for the door. Just then the
captain's voice came over inner-ship
communications.
"Counselor Troi," he began. "Will you come
to the briefing roomddat oh-eight-hundred hours?
Now that we are underway, I think it time to review
our mission to Capulon IV."
"Certainly, Captain," Troi said evenly,
stiffing a mental groan. "Thank you, Counselor.
Picard out."
Troi turned back around, sighed once, and
pulled the clasp from her hair.
Twenty minutes later, attired now in the deep
crimson jumpsuit she, as ship's counselor,
wore instead of a standard uniform, Troi stepped off
the turbolift and onto the bridge. She crossed
to the briefing room where she found Data, Worf, and
Will Riker already waiting. A moment later, Beverly
Crusher and Geordi arrived. They had all just
taken their seats when the door opened a final tune
and Captain Picard stepped through.
"Good morning," he greeted them as he took his
place at the head of the long table. "As I told
each of you," he began, "I think this an
opportune time to review our mission. Mr.
Data-if you please."
"Certainly, Captain," the android said.
His fingers played across some buttons set into the table
before him and the-holographic image of a planetary
system appeared in the air.
"Capulon n," he began, "is a class
M planet in the Sigma Delphini system,
near the Blanchard asteroid belt that is currently
being mined by the Starfleet Corps of Engineers.
"In terms of its technology, Capulon
IV is on a level approximating that of
mid-to-late twentieth-century Earth. However,
when the Federation sent cultural analysis
specialists there to observe, they reported that more
advanced technology does exist, but is not used."
"A retrograde society?" Geordi asked.
"No," Data replied. "Not in the true sense
of the word. It is not that they have lost the knowledge. It appears
to be a willing abandonment of certain areas of
advancement. However, the cultural specialists
felt that the society, and especially the King, was
ready for first contact. The contact was made five
years ago and a preliminary treaty was signed."
"Why a preliminary treaty?" Riker wanted
to know.
Data looked at the captain, who nodded
slightly, indicating that the android should
continue.
"The government of Capulon IV is a
monarchy," Data explained, "but it is not until
the King reaches the age of thirty that he is allowed
to rule. Until then, all governmental decisions
are passed through the Council of Elders, a
committee made up of represen-
tatives of each of the twenty-nine provinces,
with the King presiding as Head of the Council. At the
age of thirty, however, the King is said to "Come
to Age' and be wise enough to rule alone. He then
goes through a new coronation, after which the King is said
to become the God-embodied and bears the title of
Absolute. Although the council may still act in an
advisory capacity, the King's decisions become
an order of divine mandate."
Data's fingers moved again and the planets
disappeared. "The present King," he continued, "is
Joakal I'lium. He will turn thirty two
days before we arrive at Capulon IV. His
crowning as Absolute is set to occur the day
following our arrival. The final treaty between
Capulon IV and the Federation is due to be
ratified following the coronation. King Joakal is
reported to be very forward thinking and it was because of
him that contact was made. According to all reports, the
King is quite eager for his world to join the Federation.""
"Thank you, Mr. Data," Picard said. He
leaned forward and clasped his hands before him on the table.
"Our mission here is twofold. First, as the
Starfieet Flagship, we are here as
representatives of the Federation to witness the
coronation and the signing of the treaty. We are also here,
at the King's request, to escort the Little Mothers
to Capulon IV. The King's reason for this
request has not been announced. It is my intention
to lead this Away Team."
"You, Captain?" Commander Riker spoke up.
"Yes, Number One. Those are my orders. I
understand their reason and I agree with them."
"But, Captain-was
"Will," the captain said, "Joakal I'lium is
about to
be crowned Absolute, and absolute monarchs do
not deal with seconds-in-command."
Picard held up his hand to silence his first officer
before he cold object further. "Mr.. Data,"
the captain said as he turned again to the android,
ignoring the scowl on Will Riker's face. "What
is our ETA to Capulon IV?" "At
our present speed of Warp Two-twenty-three
days, nine hours, eleven minutes, forty-three--"
The captain made a quick gesture which stopped the
android mid-word. "Very good," Picard said. "Now
if no one has anything to add, this briefing is
adjourned."
Everyone except the captain stood. But as
Troi turned to leave, Picard asked her
to remain.
"Counselor," he said after the room had
emptied. "During our tour of the ship yesterday,
Sister Julian expressed an interest in spending
some time with the children, perhaps helping in one or more of the
classrooms. I know that you have occasion to work with the
teachers and are more closely aware of their needs than
I am. Do you think this might be possible? I've
seen Sister Julian interact with the children and she does
have an amazing rapport with them."
"I'm certain a number of the teachers would
welcome her input," Troi replied. "And there
is also the recreation areas for the non-school-age children.
There is always room for more help there."
"Very good, Counselor. Would you please see to the
necessary arrangements?" "Yes, Captain."
"Thank you, Counselor," Picard said
as he stood. Together-they walked out of the briefing
room.
Troi went directly to the turbolift, all
thoughts of a leisurely morning before her first
appointments 37
vanished. Maybe this evening she would have time for her
workout.
It had been another long day. Counselor
Troi entered her quarters, slipped oh" her
shoes, and thought how good a long, hot bath would
feel. Maybe later she would truly indulge
herself-lots of steamy water, scented candles,
Mozart playing softly in. the background.
Peace. Quiet.
Troi stretched, trying to work the tension out of her
shoulders, then walked toward her favorite chair.
As she passed her desk, she noticed the message
light blinking on the computer. With a sigh, she sat
down and pressed Display. Instantly a communique
from her mother filled the screen. Little One, it began.
It has been so long since 1 have heard from you, I
was beginning to become concerned. Then 1 realized that if
anything was wrong, dear Jean-Luc would let me
know. Still, a mother does worry. I am on
Celestra visiting our old friends Targ and
Melli. You remember them, don't you, Little
One? You
were so crazy about their son Sear when you were
younger-before you met Commander Riker. Well,
Sear is married and has three children now-two
boys
and a little girl. The girl is such a dear little thing.
She reminds me so much of you. I look at the children
and
think: . . . .
Troi groaned. She was definitely not in the
mood right now to read about her mother's desire for
grandchildren. The door chimed and Troi gratefully
reached out and pressed the Hold button on her
message.
"Come in," she called, prepared to greet any
visitor with a smile. But when the door opened,
7roi's smile vanished.
Mother Veronica stood in the doorway. Even from
where she sat, Troi could see how the nun's body
trembled. Her face was ashen and there were dark
circles under her eyes.
"Help me," she said, her voice a tortured
whisper. Troi jumped to her feet and rushed to the
nun's side, trying to ignore the
turbulence of Mother Veroni ca's emotions. They
stormed through Troi's mind as if
driven by hurricane winds and she was forced
to raise her shields before she could help the nun into the
E room.
Troi led Mother Veronica to a chair and the nun
sank wearily into it. Troi sat down across from her
and waited until the nun's trembling subsided.
Slowly, Mother Veronica's breathing became more
steady. "Talk to me," Troi urged gently.
Mother Veronica raised her troubled eyes
to Troi's face. "Please," she whispered. "You
said you could help me shut out the voices. I can't
stand any more."
Troi nodded, "I can help you-and I will," she
said. "But you have to give me someplace to start. Talk
to me."
Mother Veronica reached up and began fingering the
wooden cross that hung about her neck. That seemed
to comfort her.
"At the convent," she began slowly, "at home,
it was so peaceful. I had lived with the thoughts of the other
sisters all my life. They were thoughts of God and of
our work-calm, ordered thoughts. Then we received word of
this new mission. A bishop came, sent from
our Mother House on Earth, to speak with our Mother
Provincial. His presence upset every thing. He
stayed for weeks, talking with Mother
Felicitas, making arrangements for the sisters and
priest who are to follow us, helping Mother
Felicitas decide who was to stay and who was to go.
Finally the 39
Community was called together and told the decisions.
I didn't want to go, much less be named Mother for the
new Community. Oh, my dearest Clod, I
didn't want to leave my home."
"Why didn't you tell your Mother Provincial
and the bishop?" "I . . . I couldn't."
"But if they knew how much distress--"
"No!" Mother Veronica jumped to her feet.
"Nono one knows."
Troi, who had grown up as a member of a
telepathic race, was puzzled by Mother Veronica's
outburst. What trauma is behind her fear? Troi
wondered. She needed to keep the nun talking.
"It's all right," she coaxed. "Tell me what
happened then."
Mother Veronica sat back down. "We left
Perrias and began traveling. Three other ships,
two starbases comall filled with people thinking
different thoughts-all gathering, repeating inside my
head, never leaving me alone. They just keep getting
louder and louder. I can't sleep-I can't eat. I
can't even pray anymore."
Mother Veronica's hands were on her temples now,
rubbing and pushing as though she could somehow force the sounds
from her mind. Troi reached out and gently lowered the
nun's hands, then sat there holding them and waiting.
She knew there was mare to come.
Mother Veronica took a ragged breath. "One of
your crew members came to me. He wanted comfort and
reassurance. His parents were religious people and he had
been raised in the Church. His father had wanted him
to become a priest but he had run away and joined
Starfleet instead. Now his father is dead." Ensign
Marshall, Troi thought quickly. Many missing
pieces clicked into place.
"But I couldn't comfort him," Mother Veronica
continued, the anguish in her voice mounting. "I
couldn't be in the same room with him. All his
grief, all his pain-Iran. I left him sitting
there and I ran away. Oh God, what kind of
nun can I be if all I can do is run from someone
who needs me?"
"Mother Veronica," Troi said, keeping
her voice quiet but firm and even, "your reactions
are normal. The name for your talent is telepathy.
There are many telepathic races throughout the galaxy,
and each of them has developed disciplines or
techniques for putting a barrier between themselves and the
influx of other people's thoughts. A telepath must have
ways of shutting out the voices or they'll lose
themselves. If you'll let me, I can teach you my people's
disciplines for mental control. Will you let me help
you?" Mother Veronica disengaged her hands from Troi's
and stood. She began pacing about the room. Troi
slowly lowered the shields she had raised when the nun
arrived and immediately felt Mother Veronica's
turmoil. Indecision, followed by waves of panic
that crested and crashed through her, pushed by the nun's
powerful but undisciplined talent. The force of the
storm was too much for Troi and she again put a
barrier around her mind.
Finally Mother Veronica stopped pacing. She
turned and faced Troi. "All right," she said.
"Please."
Troi slowly let out the breath she found she was
holding. "I'll rearrange my schedule," she
said. "We'll begin tomorrow morning."
Mother Veronica nodded. "Thank you," she
said, and turned away. When she reached the door, she
glanced back over her shoulder. Her eyes locked
briefly with Troi's. Again the counselor was
reminded of a wild, trapped animal, and again she
wondered about the source of the nun's terror.
The door slid shut. Troi immediately touched the
Comm button on her uniform. "Troi
to Captain Picard," she said. "Yes,
Counselor?" his voice came almost at once.
"Captain, I need to talk to you. It's
important."
"Very well, Counselor. I'm in my quarters.
Please come join me."
"Thank you, sir. I'm on my way," she said
as she reached out and turned off the display panel of
her computer. Her mother's letter would have to wait.
"A telepath," the captain said, his voice sharp
with surprise. "Yes, Captain-a very gifted one.
But she's had no training at all. In fact, she
fears her gift."
"Any idea why?"
"Not yet."
The captain sat back in his chair and took a
sip from the cup of tea he was holding. Troi did
the same; the hat liquid was soothing and the
smell of the bergamot, distinctive to Earl Grey,
was like a restorative-as was the captain's company.
Sitting here in the captain's quarters, Troi was
surrounded by the personality of the man. An
individual of eclectic tastes and interests, he
was an intellec, tual: a philosopher and
adventurer, a student of the arts and of history, and a
dreamer who yearned after the strange, new worlds of their
charter. Yet, above all, he was The Captain--
strong, disciplined, a leader of indomitable will who had
infused the ship with his personality and yet never lost
the ability to be compassionate. Troi liked him and
liked serving with him.
"What is it you want to do?" he asked, bringing
Trai's thoughts back to the problem of Mother
Veronica.
"I want to help her, to teach her the Betazoid
method for shielding the mind. You have to under-
stand, Captain, a telepath without shields cannot
survive. Her sanity, and her life, are in
danger."
"Her life, Counselor?"
"Yes, Captain. When I studied at the
hospital on Betazed, these were cases of
telepaths who had been unable, for one
reason or another, to develop their mental
shields. Some of them were Betazoid, some were from other
races brought to us for help. But we were not always able
to reach them. Believe me, Captain, the anguish of
an unshielded mind, of a mind imprisoned by-the
constant cacophony of other people's thoughts, other people's
emotions, is a terrible thing. You remember Tam
Elbrun, don't you? He was one of the lucky ones.
It is a brutal existence that most choose not
to continue. I don't want that to happen to Mother
Veronica."
"I agree, but are you certain you can help her?"
Troi nodded. "The fact that she has survived
this long with her sanity intact means that her mind and
her will are very, very strong. I know I can help her
develop at least rudimentary shields, but it will
take time. I'd like your permission to be excused from
bridge duty. I'll also rearrange my
appointment schedule to free as many hours as possible
to work with Mother Veronica."
"Very well, Counselor. I'll inform the
bridge officers. We're due to reach Capulon
IV in just over three weeks. Do you think you can do
what needs to be done in that time?"
"I hope-so, Captain."
Picard's forehead creased into a frown. "One
thing, Deanna," he said. The use of her first name
warned Troi that whatever the captain was about to say was
of deep, personal concern to him. She listened very
carefully, hearing the nuances as well as the words.
"You are an excellent ship's counselor," he
said, 43
"and I don't presume to tell you your job-nor
do I claim to understand, Except in passing, the
nature of telepathy. But I do know something of the
faith that allows the Little Mothers to do the work they do.
Are you certain that in helping Mother Veronica
to develop these shields, which you say she needs-and I
believe you-you won't be interfering wiicch that faith,
or taking from her the essence of who she is as a
nun?"
Troi looked down and studied the tea in her
cup, then looked back up and met the captain's
concerned, questioning eyes.
"Only Mother Veronica can answer that,
Captain," she said. "My work is with her mind, not
her soul."
Troi finished her tea and left the captain's
quarters, prepared to go back to her rooms, call
up tomorrow's schedule on the computer, and begin
juggling the appointment times. But as she stepped off the
turbolift, she saw Ensign Marshall waiting,
outside her door.
He looked up as she approached. Troi besaw
that his eyes were red and swollen, as if he had teen
crying. His catharsis has begun, she thought. He's
ready to talk.
With more confidence that she had felt in many days,
Troi smiled at him. "Come in, Johann," she
said.
ON THE PLANET Capulon IV,
Eiana, First Daughter of the House E'shala,
strolled aimlessly through the rooms of her childhood
home. She had been home for over a month now.
During that time she had visited all the favorite
haunts of her childhood. She had climbed
trees as if she were still a young girl, and gone on
picnics, wandering through the fields where she used
to play. At night she had spent many long hours
watching the stars through her bedroom windows. Yet she
was not trying to recapture those lost days, but to discover
her future.
Still she could not choose between the two paths that lay
before her. The first path that led to life at the temple
was the one she had always thought to follow. Since
she was eight years old, Elana had dreamed of
becoming a Servant and of dedicating her life to the
God-perhaps, even becoming an instrument of the God's
Voice.
line years ago, when her father had been appointed
to the Council of Elders that would advise the new
King, Elana and her mother had accompanied him to the
royal city. Elana had been ecstatic, for in the
royal city stood the most ancient temple on
all of Capulon IV. To Elana, it was the most
holy place on their world and it was there she dreamed of
making her Oblation of Service. Her father, as Head
of the House E'shala and member of the Council, had
stayed at court. Through him, Elana had met
Joakal. Elana often remembered that day:
Joakal sitting on the throne in the Great Chamber,
looking ill at ease as he received the oaths of his
newly appointed Council of Elders; the way their
eyes had met; the smile that had tugged at the
corner of his mouth when he looked at her. Somehow
over the last nine years, that shy attraction they had
both felt had changed into friendship. Somehow, some when,
that had deepened into love.
She loved him; Elana admitted her feelings,
but her questions remained: Did she love him enough
to give up her dream of Service to the God? Did
she love the God enough to face the future without
Joakal7 More and more, the answer to the second question was
no. She had only been gone from him a month, yet
she found herself listening for the sound of his footsteps, his
laughter, his voice calling her name.
Elana E'shala was finding the world to be a very
empty and silent place without these sounds.
Troi waited for Mother Veronica in the observation
lounge on the port side of Deck 35. It was a
small room and the view here was not as panoramic as
from many of the other observation ports. That was an
advantage, for they were less likely to be disturbed

and Mother Veronica would need this quiet
to concentrate. There was so much for her to learn and so very
little time.
Troi had arrived early so she could be here
to greet the nun. While she waited, she thought about
last night's visit from Ensign Marshall. It had
been a good session, one of the best they had had. The
ensign had finally been ready to talk. He had sat
in her quarters for nearly two hours, sipping tea
while he told her about his childhood and the home in
which he had grown up, his family and the plans
they had harbored for his future, plans he had
disrupted by joining Starbledenceet, and the rift that had
caused between himself and his father. Marshall had not been
home in two years. He had never mended that rift,
and now his father was dead.
Parents too often seem immortal to their children,
Troi thought a little sadly. As if there will always be
time later to say what needs to be said. Then death
comes, and so much is left unresolved. Maybe now
that Marshall accepted his pain and brought it out into the
open, he can begin the long process of forgiving-his
father, and himself.
Troi heard the door open. She looked up and
smiled as Mother Veronica stepped into the-room. The
nun's fear filled the small area like the
reverberating echo of discordant music. Troi had
to force herself not to raise her shields against it. Now,
more than ever, she needed all her empathic
abilities. She kept her voice soft and her
expression welcoming as she greeted the nun.
"You're right on time," she said. "Why don't you
come and sit down. We'll just relax far a few
minutes before we begin."
Mother Veronica sat next to Troi, but she did

relax. She held herself rigid, like a rabbit
ready to spring at the slightest sound.
Troi swallowed a sigh. "I thought you might
enjoy meeting here instead of my office," she said, still
keeping her voice pleasant and light. "It's
quiet here, and the view is one I like."
Mother Veronica looked up and let her eyes
scan the windows. was "The heavens declare the glory
of the Lord,"" she whispered. was "And the firmament
showeth his handiwork . . . .""
"Is that from a poem?"
Mother Veronica nodded. "In a way," she said.
"It's from the Psalms, which are a series of
prayer-poems."
"Do you know all of the Psalms?"
Again the nun nodded. "I began learning them as a
child, shortly after I came to the convent. They comforted
me-and have gone on comforting me throughout the years."
"Tell me how you came to the convent," Troi
said.
"I was a small child-I don't remember much about
it."
Troi could feel that the nun was lying. She does
remember, Trfli thought, and it frightens her. Why?
The counselor turned and faced Mother
Veronica. "I think we should get started," she
said. "I know this is very difficult for you, so I
want to begin by explaining a bit about telepathy and
its uses. As I said last evening, there are many
telepathic races throughout the gandlaxy, and we
encounter more all the time. It is a normal condition,
a talent, and as with any talent it can be trained and
used."
Troi could feel the nun's disbelief. "If it
is so normal," Mother Veronica said, "why am I
the only one of my sisters cursed with it?" "Although
there are many races-many humanoid 48
races--with telepathic abilities, there are just
as many, or more, without them. Among the humans of
Earth, for example, telepathic communication is
rare. But it is also not nonexistent. When it does
show up, that person is valued as having a very
precious gift-as you do."
Troi shifted a little in her seat, trying to find the
words to reach through Mother Veronica's prejudice.
"Telepathic communication," she continued, "can be a
source of great good. It can open the way for understanding
between peoples. It can break down the walls of
mistrust and fear or reveal sentience where none was
thought to exist. It has been known to reach across
distances and to bring hope in a time of despair or
rescue when none seemed possible."
Still Troi could feel the nun's disbelief. But the
counselor had the conviction of truth on her side and
she pressed on, trying to find one example that
might light a spark of interest in Mother Veronica.
A single spark was all Troi wanted-from that she could
build a beautiful, warming flame.
"Medicine has its uses for telepathic
communications as well," Troi continued.
"Tricorders and diagnostic beds, all of the
wonders of medical science, cannot reach a trapped
mind. But I can-and so can you."
Was that it? Troi wondered. Was that the flicker
I've been waiting for? "Sister Julian told the
captain that you have an extraordinary talent for reaching
troubled children-was
"You don't understand," Mother Veronica
interrupted. "Their thoughts scream in my head until
I have to help them. Yes, I want to-but for my
sake as well as theirs."
"I do understand," Troi assured her. "I know
how difficult and how painful life has been for you.
That is why we are here. But," Troi paused and
looked into the nun's eyes. "Our lessons
will require deep mental communication. Will you trust
me?"
Mother Veronica looked away. Her eyes,
strayed to the viewports and she sat silent for
several minutes regarding the stars. Troi felt her
inner struggle and said nothing more. Mother Veronica's
agreement to be here today had been an act of
desperation; from this paint on, if they were to succeed in the
short amount of time allotted to them, each act must be
one of decision. The nun turned back around. "One
question," she said. "There are things within my heart and
soul, private things between myself and God. Will they
remain private?"
"I will not force myself into any part of your mind you do
not willingly share with me."
"All right," Mother Veronica said. "What must
I do?"
Troi reached out and gently took Mother
Veronica's hands into her own. "Physical contact
often strengthens the bond," she explained,
"particularly between student and teacher. Now, close
your eyes. Think of nothing. My mind will reach out and
touch yours, establishing a link between us. Once that is
done, I will guide your thoughts back into my mind and
show you how mental shields work. I will do this
several times, and each time the link between us will be severed
and have to be reestablished. Then I will give you some
exercises for concentration. That is all we will do
today."
Mother Veronica nodded.
"Then let's begin."
Troi watched the nun close her eyes, and did
the same. Softly, trying not to cause her student's
already overburdened mind too much distress, Troi
endeavored to establish the link between them. Each time she
touched Mother Veronica's thoughts, chaos erupted,
spewing forth pain and fear, and the nun's mind retreated
out of reach. After the eighth such try, Troi opened
her eyes. She found she was sweating with exertion.
"Mother Veronica," she said. "There is something in
your mind that is keeping us from reaching the level of
communication that we need. I believe it is something from
your past, and that we must deal with it before we go on."
Troi paused. She knew what must be done, but
would Mother Veronica agree? She chose her next
words carefully.
"I asked you how you came to the convent and you said you
don't remember. I know you do. I believe much of
your fear stems from that time and I think we need
to examine it."
Mother Veronica started. She tried to pull her
hands from Troi's, ready to run away, but the
counselor did not let go. She knew she had
to get through to the nun.
"I am not here to judge you," Troi said, "but
to help you. You are not a little child anymore, but somewhere
deep inside your mind, the little girl you were is crying
to be healed. She cannot be healed while she is hidden
and buried. Let's heal her together."
Mother Veronica was no longer trying to pull
away. She was sitting quietly; her expression was
haunted as her eyes slowly filled with tears.
"Close your eyes again," Troi said. "And this time
I want you to think about when you came to the
convent. Think only about that time. Remember every
detail-every voice, every action. It cannot hurt you
anymore. It is in the past."
Troi spoke softly, letting her voice lull
and guide the nun. Again the counselor reached out
to touch Mother Veronica's mind with her own. At first
it was the chaos of before, then slowly, the memories
emerged . . .
"Kill her . . . she's evil . . . a
demon-child . . . ."
Voices split the silence of the night,
loud even through the walls of their home. Light from the
torches flickered through the window. Poundingthey were pounding
on the door, trying to get in.
In the back of the house, the little girl's mother
picked her up and lifted her toward the bedroom
window. The little girl could feel her mother's hands were
shaking. "Their thoughts hurt, Mama," she said.
"Why do they hate me?" "I don't know, baby.
Now shh, you must be very quiet. You go on. I'll be
right behind you."
The little girl scrambled out the window. Her mother
followed and once they were on the ground, again picked the
little girl up. From inside the house came the sound of
breaking glass. The smell of smoke grew
stronger. The woods, the little girl heard her mother
think. I have to get into the woods, get my baby
away.
The mother began to run, desperate to reach the trees
on the other side of their small garden, praying that the
darkness of the night would be enough to hide them. The twenty
yards seemed like a chasm of miles. Her breath was
loud in the little girl's ear, her fear pounded in the
child's mind. "Mama?" she said, uncertain what was
happening.
"Shh, baby. Quiet."
They ran until theywere under the cool, dark 52
boughs-and they kept on running. I've got
to get my baby somewhere safe. Where can I go?...
The convent, the mother thought, changing directions as she
ran. The Little Mothers wilt protect her . . . .
Through the trees the little girl could see the blaze that
had been their home. Her world faded into a haze of
dark confusion: the feel of her mother's arms clutching
her, holding her so tightly she could feel the pounding
of her mother's heart, hear each panting breath in her
ear, her mother's feet colliding with the ground as she
ran, each step jarring the child in her arms; above all,
the echo of her mother's fear filled the little girl's
mind. Up ahead, through the trees, a soft light
shone. Relief swept through the mother and she ran
faster. They reached the convent steps; the little girl
felt herself being lowered.
"Listen to me, baby," her mother said as she knelt
down in front of the child and looked into her large,
frightened eyes. "Listen very carefully. You have to stay
here for a while-I'll be back for you when I can, when
it's safe again. The Little Mothers will be good to you. Will you
stay here for Mama?" The little girl nodded, her
eyes filling with tears. The mother reached up and pulled
the bell-rope. From inside the convent a
single gong sounded. The mother pulled the little girl
into her arms. "Promise me, baby-promise me
you'll never again tell anyone you can hear their thoughts."
"I . . . I promise."
"That's my good girl. Remember Mama loves
you, baby." Footsteps sounded, coming closer; the
mother's arms tightened. "I'll always love you."
The mother let go. She kissed the child once on the
cheek, then stood, and fled into the night, leaving the
little girl alone on the convent steps. Behind her, a
door opened and a woman dressed in a long brown
robe stepped through. She put her hands on the little
girl's shoulders.
"Come inside, child," she said. "There's a home for
you here."
"She never came back," the woman who was now
Mother Veronica sobbed. "Oh, Mama, I kept
my promise-I never told. It was so hard without
you."
Troi opened her eyes and saw the tears that ran
unchecked down the nun's cheeks, tears that the
frightened child had never shed. Troi reached out and put her
arms around her companion's shoulders, silently
holding her, silently letting the wounds start to heal.
After a while, Mother Veronica's tears
ceased. "I didn't talk for weeks," she said
aloud, finishing the story her mind had shared. "I
wouldn't even tell them my name. But the Little Mothers were
patient with me. They loved me, and I grew
to love them. I never left the convent-until now."
She sat up straight and wiped her cheeks with the
back of her hand. "Now you know," she said.
"Now I know," Troi repeated softly. ""But
you're riot that child anymore. It's time to let the
memory go, like a nightmare banished by the daylight.
It's time to come into the light and stay there."
THROUGHOUT her afternoon appointments, most of Troi's
thoughts remained with Mother Veronica. Even after the
nun had shared those tortured memories from her past,
establishing the teaching link with her had not been easy.
The child within Mother Veronica still dwelt in a world of
self.-recrimination and fear. She blamed herself that
her mother did not return, fearing that she had been
killed for what her child's mind contained. This fear had
festered over the years. Now it was like an improperly
cleaned wound that reopened and must drain away the
infection of self hatred.
The last appointment finally concluded, Troi went
to the bridge to talk with the captain. They withdrew
to his ready room where she could explain Mother
Veronica's condition to him in private.
"So you see, Captain," Troi concluded, "this
is going to be a more difficult task than I had
antici-
pated. It is important that Mother Veronica
learn to shield her mind. But equally important,
perhaps more important, is for her to realize, and
accept, that the loss of her home, and perhaps her mother's
life, were not her fault. A part of her knows it, 'b
another deeper part does not. And this pain goes very,
very deep."
"Is there any way of finding out what happened
to her mother?" Troi shook her head. "I've already
checked," she said.. "Perrias VII is not a
member of the; Federation and the records from them are
sketchy at best. Most of what we know comes from the
Little Mothers themselves."
"And an incident like this one is not likely to show
up on an official report," the captain said with a
nod. "Have you learned anything about the planet and its
people?"
Tiroi sat a little forward, her mind sorting through
the reports of the Little Mothers that she had read, narrowing
the information down to a few succinct statements.
"Most areas of Perrias VII are still very
primitive. The inhabitants believe in a
number of deities and demons that guide, or
interfere in the case of the demons, in every aspect of
an individual's life. That which is thought demonic
is cleansed from their society. This cleansing is immediate
and often brutal. The Little Mothers lost several nuns
to such cleansings when they first arrived, until they
convinced the population that they were there only to help.
Now they seem to have integrated themselves into the
society. Their presence may even be having a
beneficial and stabilizing effect."
"Given this information, its not likely that Mother
Veronica's mother survived the night, is it?"
Troi shook her head. "No, Captain, it is
not. It makes Mother Veronica's attitude toward
her telepathy more understandable, but it does not
alleviate her need for training."
"I agree," the captain said with a nod. "Thank
you for your report. I realize this is creating a
great deal of extra work for you and I want you to know
I appreciate it. Mother Veronica could not be in
better hands."
Troi felt a flush of gratitude. A slow
smile spread across her face as she and the captain
went to rejoin the others on the bridge.
When she stepped through the doors of the ready room,
Lieutenant Commander Data looked up from his station
at Ops. He turned to her. "Counselor," he
said. "May I ask you a question?"
"Certainly, Data."
"It is my understanding that one of the Little Mothers is an
untrained telepath whom you have taken on as a
student. Is this correct?" "Yes."
"Then you have been in contact with her mind-how is it
different from other minds?"
"I'm not certain I understand your question, Data. Do
you mean as a telepath?"
"No, Counselor. Telepathic communication and
other occurrences of psychic abilities have been
well documented by many cultures. The writings of the
Vulcans are perhaps the most illuminating en the
subject. They are certainly the most concise.
However, I was refer-ring to Mother Veronica's mind
as a nun. What has made her choose such a
life?"
Leave it to Data, Troi thought. She walked
over and sat in her customary seat to the captain's
left, trying to think of a way to answer the android's
question.
"The question you have asked," she said after a
moment, "could refer to anyone, Data, and to any
profession. Why are we"-she waved her hand
to indicate the bridge personnel-"in Startleet?
We are here because of the belief that this is the life and work
we are meant to do-because of a calling."
"I concede that point, Counselor," Data
replied. "Yet outside the parameters of our
Starffeet duties, each of us is free to pursue
what is frequently termed a normal life. My
research indicates that thus is not true for nuns."
"But then we come to the question of what is normal, was
Troi returned. "My mother would not say that my
life is normal, because it would not be normal for her
--yet, for me it is."
"If I may," Captain Picard interrupted.
"Certainly, sir," Troi said, relieved to have
someone else take over. "While I agree with
what Counselor Troi has said," Picard
continued, "I believe the answer to your question, Mr.
Data, is much more complex."
Troi watched Picard switch into what she
considered his teaching mode: legs crossed, elbows
on the armrests of his command chair, one hand raised as
if to punctuate the points he would soon be making.
She thought them a well-matched pair, this
android second officer who was constantly seeking
to learn and the captainstphilosopher who, though he;
might not admit it, loved to teach.
"Consider this," Picard was saying. "In all the
myriad cultures we have encountered, every one of them
has included a philosophy, a religion, that
deals with the questions surrounding the meaning of existence. Are
we more than a cosmic accident, and if so, why are
we here? Where did we come from? Is there a God?
Is death a finality or a transition? Where do we
go? These are the questions asked by every sentient
civilization-and in every one of them there have
been those individuals whose lives are dedicated
to striving for the answers."
"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-was
"Hut 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 it"
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 59
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-Onlcar 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."
Jaa greater-than *al I'liurn 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, Bcahoram 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.
Beahorarn 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?" 61
"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.
"B. . . but Sire," Tygar stammered, "this is
most irregular. The petitions must be-was "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 arid let his long-nurtured
anger flare briefly in his eyes. "Am I not the
King?" he demanded.
Tygar subsided. "Yes . . . Your
Majesty,," he said.
Beahorarn 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 be-
hind 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.
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?
was "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. "disAs 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 arid 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 tine 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 66
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, Bata was talking
to Lieutenant Worf. The Klingan 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
develop-
ment 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 front 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-was
"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 anything, 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 insomething-that gives shape and reason to the
universe. And that something is inside of us, toomaking
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."
"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 sane
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. Eeahoram
continued to walk, to claim by touch the contents of the
room. He ran one finger along the gilded edge of the
frames on the paintings that lined the wall. He
stopped to gaze at the window that ran from the
ceiling to floor, bracketed an either side
by drapes of the crimson-and-gold brocade and
crowned by panes of colored glass. He took a
few more steps, watching how his feet buried themselves
noiselessly in the thick pile of the deep red carpet
while he crossed the room to the fireplace. It was
empty now, but the green-veined stone from which it was
made, the Living Stone it was called in ancient
times, was filled with light. It looked as if the
fire had one time entered it and become trapped there.
Beahoram's fingers tightened on the mantle. It
was his now, ail of it, as it should always have: been.
He turned and found Akiier watching him. "It will
work," he said again. The Elder swallowed audibly.
"These headaches," he said. "You've had too many of
them--the first one in the Council chambers and now four
more in as many days. The others are beginning to talk.
They're wondering if the headaches might be the
God's way of tailing us you should not be raised
to Absolute. If it happens again, the Council will
begin to look elsewhere for its divine ruler."
"It won't happen again. I was trying to force
something my mind was not yet ready to do. I'm content
now to wait until after the coronation. The power will come
to me then."
"I've risked everything, Beahoram. If
we're caught, my life will be forfeit, too.
Don't forget that."
Beahoram's eyes narrowed. "I forget nothing,"
he said.
There was a knock on the door. Aklier jerked
around nervously, but Beahoram strolled languidly
back to his chair and seated himself, a small,
self- satisfied smile on his lips.
"Come," he called, and the door was opened by a young
boy in royal livery. "Sire," he said with a bow.
"The Lady Elana E'shala is here. She asks
for an audience with Your Majesty."
Beahoram glances at Aklier. The Elder was
sweating, his body taut and nearly trembling with
fear. Beahoram dismissed the reaction; Aklier was
easily frightened.
"The Elder and I are still in conference," Beahoram
told the waiting servant. "We will ring when we are
finished."
"Yes, Your Majesty," the boy said as he bowed
out of the room. "You must not see her," Aklier said as
soon as the door closed. "She could ruin everything."
"Why? Who is she?"
"The woman your brother hoped to marry."
"Then I must see her. Tell me everything you
know."
"But, Beahoram---"
"Don't call me that," Beahoram said through
clenched teeth. "Never again. Now, tell me."
Aklier swallowed audibly. "Elana
E'shala is a
Gentleborn of the Westron Province. She and
your brother have known each other for the past nine years and
have been with each other almost daily. Joakal loves
her very deeply. He has asked her to marry him after
he is Elevated and free to wed. I believe
Elana also loves Joakal, but she is very
devout. A month ago she returned to her
childhood home in the Westron to meditate an her
decision whether to conmarry your brother or enter
Service at the temple. She was not due to return
until the day of the coronation."
Aklier stopped; Beahorarn waited
impatiently. "What else?" he demanded.
"Else?"
"Yes. What personal things can you tell me?
You were in my brother's confidence-I need to know
everything."
"I know nothing more. There were some things your
brother did not confide even to me."
"'ationo matter," Beahoram said with a shrug.
"No one doubts I am my brother. Neither will this
Elana. Ring the bell, Aklier."
The Elder pulled the bell cord. A few
seconds later the same servant entered.
"You may admit the Lady now," Beahoram
said.
The servant again bowed and left. While they
waited, Beahoram watched Aklier. The Elder's
nervousness irritated Beahoram.
When this is over, Beahoram thought, I'll
replace him with someone who has more courage. I'm
certain I can arrange for some--accident-to rid me
of Akliier.
The door opened and Beahoram turned his attention
from the Elder to the woman who entered. His eyes
widened slightly at the sight of her. She was
small and delicate, dressed in flowing pants
and sashed tunic similar to the ones worn by both
Beahoram and Aklier, but in the blue and silver of
her House. Her hair rippled in golden curls
nearly to her waist. Her eyes were the same blue as
her tunic, the color of a cloudless sky in early
evening, and even from a distance they. seemed
to sparkle and dance. When she smiled at Beahorarn,
a little dimple appeared by the corner of her mouth.
Beahoram's opinion of his brother elevated a
little; it seemed they shared the same taste in feminine
beauty.
"Elana," he said, testing the feel of her name in
his mouth. She rushed across the room to him. He stood
and enfolded her into his arm. "I couldn't wait
until after the coronation," she whispered, her mouth
close to his ear. "I missed you too much."
"And I missed you," Beahoram lied.
Elana stepped back and searched his face, a little
frown tracing a line between her braves.
"Have you, Joakal?" she asked. There was a
slight waver to her voice. Beahoram smiled at
her. He took her hand and held it, feeling the
softness of her skin.
"Of course I have," he said. "Tell me about
your trip home-what did you do, who did you see?
Tell me everything."
Again Elana studied his face. She glanced from
him to Aklier standing unobtrusively by the far wall,
and back to Beahoram.
"Don't you . . . don't you want to know my
decision?" she asked uncertainly.
"Only if it's good news," Beahoram said,
trying to sound pensive. Elana smiled at him.
"It is good news," she said. "The best news.
Yes, Joakal-I will marry you."
Beahoram pulled her again into his arms, savoring
the; feel of her body against his. His lips found
hers and closed upon them greedily. This, too, shall be
mine, he thought. But even as the words were in his mind,
he felt Elana stiffen. She pulled back from him
with a low cry. Her eyes again searched his face, then
she turned and ran from the room.
Daylight was beginning to dim and the late afternoon
breeze had picked up force as Elana E'shala
stood at the base of the temple steps. She pulled
her dark blue cape closer to her sides and held
her head high, refusing to give in to the tears that
waited so near the surface of her thoughts. Was it
only three hours ago? she wondered, feeling as
if these last hours had brought her to some remote and.
ancient era of her life. Only three hours
since she had told Joakal she would marry him and
had rushed so willingly into his arms? Three hours
since his lips had fastened on hers in a kiss
devoid of love, filled only with avid,
predatory hunger. With that kiss,
Elana's world had grown dark and still. Her heart
felt as chilled as the breeze that blew across her
cheeks and stung her already red and weary eyes.
Slie would not marry now; that one kiss had changed
everything. She would enter the temple and Serve the
God, as it seemed she was meant to do. She put her
foot on the first step and began to climb, though her
feet felt as heavy as stone. Tree tears she
promised she would no longer shed sprang again to her
eyes. She blinked them away, but it was no use; the
pain was still too fresh. Oh Joakal, her thoughts
cried, what happened? What changed you?
Elana reached the top step. Recessed behind four
towering pillars that filled the temple porch, the great
doors stood open. For the first time in Elana's
life, the temple did not welcome her. Its
interior did not look cool and inviting. Today the
doors of the temple seemed like a huge gaping maw,
waiting to devour her, greedy for her life, her
happiness, her soul.
Elana shook her head, trying to clear away the
unwelcome image. This was to be her home now and the
love she would have given, had given to Joakal, she
would turn to the God. Defiant of the pain in her
heart, she lifted her chin and walked into the
temple.
Silence was the first thing to greet her-a deafening roar
of silence. The air was heavy with it; the stone walls
and vaulted ceiling dripped with it. It was woven into the
light from the lamps that shone in their sconces along the
walls. It darkened the shadowed corners and swallowed
the sound of Elana's footsteps as she walked down
the wide center aisle, past the myriad seats where
worshipers could sit or kneel.
She stopped before the altar and knelt at the base
of the wide steps. Her heart did not fill with
prayers and supplications. "I am here," was all
she could find to say.
She continued to kneel, staring at the altar towering
six steps above her. It, like the pillars outside,
glowed with the pale green light of the Living Stone, end
on the altar stood the large golden bowl that
symbolized the receptive mind.
My mind is not receptive, Elana thought.
Nor is my heart. They are filled with Jaakal.
St. I must find out what's wrong. Even if his
love for me is dead, I have to find out what has
changed him.
Elana raised herself off the cold stone floor.
She bowed stiffly to the altar then turned
toward the small door on her left that led to the
cloistered buildings behind the temple. She would make
her ablation of Service here, at this temple as she
had always
dreamed, but she would do so to remain where she could
watch her beloved. Elana found the Chief
Servant, Faellon, in his office sitting behind a
desk covered with the equipment necessary to monitor the
daily needs of the temple. The Chief Servant's
halo of white hair, his slight stoop-shouldered
body dressed in the dark green robe of Service,
his sleepy eyes and patient expression looked out
of place next to the computer terminals and communication
screen that took up most of the surface area of the
massive wooden desk.
Elana sat in the chair across the desk from him and
told the Chief Servant everything. She started with
her childhood hopes and ended with the reason she was
here. She left out none of her dreams, her doubts,
or her pain. She was riot oblivious to the emotions
that played across Faellon's face as she talked.
Elena saw the patient resignation in the set of his
shoulders and the lines around his mouth that shifted to an
illconcealed expression of boredom long before
Elana finished speaking. Although he tried
to hide it be- hind sagacious nods, Elana could
tell that Faellon had ceased to listen to her, to hear,
or care, what she was saying.
"1: think, Daughter," he said when Elana had
finished speaking, "you have been hasty in your judgment.
Our young King's mind is on his coronation, as it should
be. He is preparing himself for the Wisdom which the
God will soon impart to him. If he seemed distant
or preoccupied, that is only natural.. The
burden of becoming the Absolutes is a heavy
one."
"He wasn't exactly--distant," Elana
tried again to explain. "He was gracious,
pleasant. He welcomed me back:. Yet when
he looked at me, it was with a
stranger's eyes, and the lips that kissed me were not
Joakal's."
"How could they be anyone else's?" Faellon
said, dismissing her words. "Daughter, you are
overwrought. Calm yourself. You've been away-perhaps you
have not heard of the headaches that plagued His Majesty
for a time. Thank the God they seem to have passed now,
but when they would come upon him, he would fall to the floor
in agony and have to be carried, only partially
conscious, to his bed. Perhaps these account for the
change you sensed in him--who knows what the God
might have been imparting to his mind during those times."
Elena listed to the Chief Servant's
assurances, weighing them against her intuition. She
knew this explanation was not enough. Something more lurked
behind the change in her beloved. She could not tell how
she knew, but her certainty was unequivocal. She
also knew that further discussion with the Chief Servant
would be futile.
Faellon cleared his throat and changed the
subject. "Now, daughter," he said. "You spoke
of entering Service. I do not believe you are ready
for such a step. The Service of the God must be entered
with a calm and quiet heart. Why don't you stay with
us for a time of meditation. Perhaps here, in the
tranquillity of the temple, the God will direct
you."
Elena hesitated only a moment. Where else
could she go? To the palace where she usually stayed?
No, what she had seen in Joakal's eyes made
that impossi- ble. Back to her borne in the
Westron Province? No, not yet, not until she
knew.
"Thank you," she said aloud. "I will stay."
"Good," Faellon replied with a smile
as he pressed a button an the top of his desk.
After a moment, another green-robed Servant, a
woman, entered.
"Show the Lady Elana to the women's quarters,"
Faellon directed, "and issue her a
Servant's robe. She will be staying with us for a time."
The Servant silently stepped back and held the
door open for Elana. As she stood to go,
Faellon stood also.
"Remember, daughter," he said, "Faith is the
first step toward the Wisdom of the God." But his words
had the hollowness of rote and his eyes were filled with
weariness.
After Elana had gone, Faellon seated himself and
dropped his head into his hands. It was almost time for the
evening hour of worship to begin. Any moment the other
Servants would file into the temple to be joined by those
inhabitants of the city who wished to spend time before the
God. Faellon knew he must now go into the
temple, also. He must stand at the altar and
elevate the great Golden Bowl that was the symbol of
his faith arid Service, and lead the evening rite, as
he had done for the twenty-two years he had been
Chief Servant. Each night he stared into the heart
of the great bowl, trying to understand the mysteries
it represented and achieve that state of holy
emptiness that would make him a true receptacle
for the Voice of the God.
But he was old now, and tired, and lately his
prayers had been changing. Haw long, O God?
the words formed again in his mind. How long will you
require this Service from me? Every day they come to me,
bringing their questions and problems and pains. I give them
the answers of our faith. But the words have become just
words that I have said a thousand times before. Let this
burden pass from me, O God. Let me rest.
But, as Faellon rose slowly from his desk and
started out of his office, there was no answering echo
to his prayer. No gentle assurances swept
through his mind or caressed his soul. There was no
lessening of the weariness in his heart and he knew that for
whatever purpose, the God was not finished with him
yet. Faellon stopped at the door and bowed his
head until his chin pressed into his chest. He
raised his arms out to the sides in an attitude of
utter submission. If you will not let me go, he
prayed, grant me the strength to endure.
Beahoram stood outside his brother's cell.
He knew he should be preparing himself to go to the
temple, keeping up the facade of piety
for which Joakal was known, but he could not resist coming
here, looking through the small grating in the cell door
and watching Joakal pace back and forth in his
captivity like a caged animal longing for its
return to the wild. But to watch silently from
outside the door was not enough. Beahoram wanted
to see his brother's face when he told Joakal that
Elana had come to him, had told him how eager she
was to marry. The need to prove his mastery over his
brother was like a gnawing hunger in the pit of
Beahoram's stomach. His heart began to race as
he took the key from his pocket and unlocked the
cell door. Beahoram pushed the door open and
stepped into the cell. He noted with pleasure the dark
smudges that circled Joakal's eyes; the lank
and dirty hair, his unkept beard-and he,
Beahoram, was clean and groomed, dressed in
Joakal's own impeccable clothing.
Beahoram closed the door behind him and walked about
the small room, reveling in the way his brother's
eyes followed his movements.
Are you comfortable, Brother?" Beahoram asked in
a silky, sardonic voice. "Is your new
kingdom to your liking?"
Still Joakal said nothing. His only
movement was a slight narrowing of his lips. That was enough
to make Beahoram's heart jump with triumph.
He took a step nearer to Joakal.
"I had a visitor," he said, a smile
twisting across his lips. "A very beautiful visitor.
Do you know who it was? Can you guess?
Elana-beautiful Elana. She came to tell you
that she had chosen marriage. Are you pleased? I
am. Such long, silken hair, like strands of gold.
I can hardly wait to bury my face in it while
I run my hands over the skin of her soft neck,
down her shoulders, her back. After our wedding
night, she too will forget you."
Joakal lunged. His hands grabbed for his
brother's throat, murder in his fingertips.
Beahorarn was ready for him. His fist caught his
brother in the solar plexus and the air gushed from
Joakal's lungs. He fell to the floor, his
eyes wide as he struggled to breathe.
Beahoram lifted his foot and swung. It hit
Joakal in the back, sending him into a spasm of
agony. Beahoram kicked again; it felt so good.
"When I kill you," he said, "no one will know-or
care. You are nothing." Beahoram stepped back,
panting. He forced his lifelong rage
back under control. Not yet, he told himself, but
soon. He looked down at his brother, still writhing
on the floor. No spark of pity moved him.
He turned on his heel and left the cell.
CnrrAiation JEAN-LUC PicaRD stepped
onto the turbolift near his quarters on Deck
6 and headed for the main bridge to start.the day's
duties. Yet, even as he gave the order and the
lift began to move, he changed his mind.
"Computer, hold," he said, and immediately the movement
ceased. For a few seconds he looked down at his
shoes, weighing his decision. Then he raised his head
and gave a new order.
"Deck Sixteen," he said, and the turbolift
changed directions. 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.
I1: 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 ran 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 ester a holodeck program of this
chapel, Picard thought when he stepped once more into the
c'dor and the door slid shut behind him. Yet as
he orn 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 disci-
pline 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 crass 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
i trained psychologist, the right words were not always
easy to find. Especially with Mother Veronica.
There were so many layers of fear to be overcame,
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?
'Croi knew she had to say something.
"What is it that you're still afraid of?" she
asked. "Axe 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 tebblepath 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.
7 eoi 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. His
- "Iroi 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 comwas her mother who had taught
her differently. Troi had been twelve years
old, the age when the psychic gifts of most
Hetazoid 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, than. 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 thatcom 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 a
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. 'froi 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 he 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."
Fier 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 band. 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 gigs 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
t
Veronica would want to see right now.

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 turboiift 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-lifesizf; 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 Federa- tion of Planets," he
announced.
"Our greetings, Captain. I am-Joakal
I'lium."
Troi wandered 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 bee 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 shifted 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, Gut 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."
'Croi 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 land 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."
"But, Captain, in light of the change in the
King's attitude-was Picard held up his hand and
silenced his First Officer. "Enough, W. Thank you
for your concern, but it is unnecessary. You are a skilled
commander and no one doubts your abilities. However,
the King's recent words make the diplomatic
aspect of this mission more important than ever. I
have had more experience at treaty negotiations and that
alone requires that I lead this Away Team."
"At least let me assign a security team
to you."
The captain shook his head. "A security teams
might be interpreted as an insult against the
government. I cannot take that chance. Now, if there is
nothing further, Counselor Troi and I have a
matter to discuss."
"Yes, Captain," Riker said a little stiffly.
He turned on his heel and left the ready room.
When the door slid shut, the captain met
Troi's eyes. "Sometimes," he said, and Troi
could, feel his patient amusement, "I think Commander
iker forgets I have led more than a few Away
Teams in the course of my career."
Picard indicated that Troi should take a seat
while he called Data over the comet link. "Mr.
Data," he said, "what is our ETA
to Capulon IV7" "At our present speed,
eight days, seventeen hours, twelve minutes."
"If we increase speed to warp seven?"
Data's pause was almost indiscernible.
"Twentytwo hours, nine minutes."
"7hank you, Mr. Data. Make it so."
Picard carne over and took a seat next to Troi
on the small sofa his office contained.
"Now, Counselor," he said, turning to face
her, "I would like you to accompany me to the
planet. I. believe I will have need of your
special insight. Since the Ding requested that the
Little Mothers come to Capulon IV, I also think
Mother Veronica should also accompany us. What is
her condition?"
"She is very upset," Troi replied. "I
couldn't get any more information from her than what she
told us on the bridge."
"How are your sessions with her coming?"
"She has learned to use very rudimentary shields,
but I'm not certain that will be enough."
"I feel it is imperative that we arrive at
Capulon IV as quickly as possible. Is there
any more you can do for her in the next hours?" "I
don't know, Captain. I can try, but it depends
on Mother Veronica."
"Explain."
Troi shifted a little in her seat and crossed her
legs. "In order to make any progress in so
short a time," Troi said, "we will have to forgo formal
lessons. I will have to pour a great deal of information
directly into Mother Veronica's mind. You saw how
upset she was, and there are other matters she still
has not resolved. These are upsetting her, as
well. I don't know if she will be
willing, or able, to allow me the depth of
telepathic link I will need."
"If you are not successful, will she be in any
condition to go to the planet with us?"
"I believe she will go regardless of her personal
feelings, Captain," Troi said. "That is why
she is here, and Mother Veronica has a very strong
sense of duty."
"Please devote as much time to her as you can," the
captain said. "Her presence could be important in
our negotiations with the King,"
At that moment, Joakal I'lium, true King
of Capulon IV, lay curled into a fetal
position in the corner of his cell. He had not moved
in hours; he had barely eaten in days. His
captivity was slowly eroding his strength. Each time
Beahoram came to taunt him, Joakal found himself
less able to fight off his depression. Beahoranc
had everything-he had Elana. This thought twisted round
and round in Joakal's brain, draining the hope and the
life out of him. This time Joakal did not bather
to move when he heard the key turn in the lock.
What was the use? It was only his brother coming
to gloat, to remind Joakal of all he had lost.
Joakal pulled himself more tightly into a
ball and ignored the sound of approaching footsteps.
A boot prodded him in the back. "Sit up,"
Beahoram ordered. Joakal ignored him. The
boot came again, harder this time. Joakal
suppressed a grunt as it connected with the tender area
of his spine.
"Sit up I said, or I'll drag you up."
Slowly, Joakal uncurled. He turned over
and pulled himself up until he was sitting with his back
wedged into the corner of the cell.
Beahoram was not alone this time. Aklier was with him.
Unable to bear looking at the triumphant sneer on
his brother's face, Joakal fixed his attention on
the Elder. The few times Aklier had come to the
cell, he had not said a word. He had completed his
errand and left as quickly as possible. But today,
Aklier's eyes met
Joakal's with an expression of shock and
regret. Maybe today, Joakal thought, he'll
tell me why he has betrayed me.
"You haven't eaten, Brother," Beahoram said,
his voice breaking the momentary sympathy between
Joakal and the Elder. "I can't allow that. You
might die while I still have use for you. I'll warn
you once-either you eat on your own or I will
farce the food down you myself. Do you understand?"
Joakal nodded. "What is it you want?" he
asked in a tired voice. "h don't want
anything, Brother. I thought you would want the latest
news. I spoke with the captain of the Federation starship
today. They'll be here in time for my coronation. But
I'm not going to sign their treaty. There's another of
your dreams gone, Brother."
Joakal raised his head and finally met his
brother's eyes. They stared at each other for a few
seconds. Then Joakal slowly shook his head.
"My dreams," he said. "What can you possibly
understand of my dreams or of my life?"
Beahoram's eyes narrowed. His lips drew
into a tight line before he spoke. "Oh, I know your
life," he said. "You have sat here in your palace with
disyour servants waiting on your every whim, surrounded
by luxury most people can't even imagine."
Joakal studied his brother's face, undaunted
now by its likeness to his own, and he nodded. "You're
right," he said. "I do live in a palace. But
that's all you see, isn't it? You look at the
clothes and the furnishings, and you think that's the life of a
King. Well it's not."
Joakal slowly rose to his feet.
He felt his own anger mounting. This was not the sudden
burst of rage he
had felt when Beahoram told him about Elana,
a burst that soon burned itself out and left despair
in its ash. This was a steady flame that gave heat
to his soul and strength to his words.
"You say you saw your father work himself to death,"
Joakal continued. "Well so did I. I saw
my father--disour father-work and worry every day of his reign.
His thoughts were always on doing what was best for the people the
God had given him to govern. This power you crave
isn't a gift. It's a weight. It's a
responsibility, and it's as much a life of
Service as that lived at the temple."
Beahoram snorted with laughter and Joakal
realized his brother had not understood or believed a
word he had said.
"Are you willing to give up any thought about a
life of your own, Beahoram?" Joakal tried
again. "That's what happens when you take the crown."
"A life of my own," Beahoram shouted. "What
has having a life of my own ever given me?"
"It has given you the same chances it gives
everyone."
"You're wrong," Beahoram snapped.
"It has given me nothing. Well that's over.
It's all mine now. You're very good at speeches,
but none of your pretty words are going to rob me of
my turn."
Beahoram turned on his heel and left. After a
brief hesitation, Aklier also turned.
"Wait-Aklier, please," Joakal called
after him.
Slowly the Elder turned back around..
"Please, Aklier, tell me-how is
Elana?" Joakal asked.
"She has disappeared. No one has seen her in
weeks."
She's gone to the temple, Joakal thought.
Beaharaxn won't have her after all.
The Elder had turned back around and was almost out the
door. Joakal called to him again.
"Tell me why, Aklier. I thought you were my
friend. I trusted you."
Once mare the Elder turned to face the King, his
eyes studying the haggard face.
"She would have been only two years older than
you," he said softly. "Who?"
"My daughter."
"Your daughter? Aklier, I don't
understand. You don't have a daughter."
"You don't understand." Aklier's voice grew
harsh and conhis eyes went cold as he spoke from that
realm between anger and pain. "Beahoram is right. There
is too much you don't understand about the lives of your
people. Let me explain. Once my wife and I had
a daughter, our only child. But she was born deaf and
blind. By the law she was imperfect. Abnormal."
Aklier nearly choked on the word. "The law said she
could not live. I'm an Elder, a servant of the
law. I had to leave my only child at the temple,
knowing it meant her death. My wife, who had longed
for a large family, refused to risk another child that
way. The grief of it killed her. She wasted
away, eaten up by the loss and longing. Beahoram
understands. He understands in a way no one else on this
world can, and he has promised that once he is
Absolute, he'll do away with that law. To see that
happen, I will do anything-even betray you."
"Aklier," Joakal said, "it's not too late.
I was going to abolish that law, it and others like it.
That's why I asked the Federation to come
to Capulon-to help me make these changes.
Beahorarn is going to send them away. Aklier,
listen to me."
Aklier looked slowly around the cell, then brought
his eyes back to the King's face. "How can I
believe you?" he said. "You'd say anything to get out
of here."
Aklier turned abruptly and left, pulling the
cell door closed behind him. As the lock
mechanism clicked into place, Joakal slid
slowly back to the floor.
BY THE TIME Troi returned to her quarters
eighteen hours later, she was exhausted. They had
been eighteen long and grueling hours, working with Mother
Veronica and trying to cram the essence of eight days
worth of lessons, the am' of time Troi had thought
to have with the nun, down into one extended block of
information. Nor was Troi confident it had done much
good. Whatever Mother Veronica had seen during that
brief contact with the King's mind had reawakened all
of her old fears of her psychic talents. It had
been extremely difficult for Troi to establish
and maintain the link necessary between herself and the nun.
All Troi wanted now, as she went into the
bathroom, changed into her favorite pink
nightgown, and released her hair from its usual
arrangement, was sleep: deep, refreshing,
uninterrupted sleep.
A few minutes later she crawled into her bed.
As she stretched out under the cover, she felt the tension
flowing out of her muscles. She gave a passing
thought to the patients whose appointments she had been
forced to cancel. Only Ensign Marshall was a
worry.
I'll see if he can come far an appointment
later today, Troi thought as she turned on her side
and pulled the pillow more comfortably under her head. Then
she remembered. I have to go with the captain today, she
thought, down to the planet. Ensign Marshall will have
to wait one mare day. I'll see him as soon as
we return.
Her thoughts were getting hazy. Warm, gentle
darkness was spreading through her body and closing in on
her mind. She slept.
The sound of the captain's voice pierced through
Troi's comfortable veil of slumber. "Picard
to Counselor Troi," he said.
"Troi here," she answered without opening her
eyes.
"Counselor, we have just entered orbit around
Capulon IV. We will be beaming down to the
surface in thirty minutes. Will you inform Mother
Veronica?"
"Yes, Captain," Troi said automatically.
"Very good. Picard out."
With a small groan, Troi opened her eyes and
glanced at the chronometer. i 5:37. Troi
sat up and tried to clear the sleep from her brain.
It's only been six hours, she thought as still weary
in mind and body, she rolled from her bed and went
to splash some cold water on her face, hoping
to find the energy far the duties ahead.
"Computer, location of Mother Veronica?" Troi
asked as she walked across the room.
"Mother Veronica is in Stateroom sixteen
D."
She's in the chapel, Troi thought. I'll give
her five more minutes alone with her prayers and then
I tell her. I hope she feels more ready for this
than I do.
Will Riker and Sister Julian accompanied
Troi, Captain Picard, and Mother Veronica to the
transporter room. While Troi and Picard
stood on the platform and waited, Sister Julian
bade; Mother Veronica farewell with soft-spoken
words of encouragement and a brief embrace. Troi
hoped this show of affection would strengthen the nun through the
forthcoming interview with the King. "Energize,"
Picard said. Immediately the transporter beam locked
on and the room dissolved in a curtain of kinetic
molecular waves. A few heartbeats later, that
curtain lifted and the three of them stood in a
reception hall of the royal palace on Capulon
IV. A few feat away, a delegation of
Elders was waiting to greet them. As soon as the
last lights of the transporter beam faded, one of the
Elders stepped out from the group.
"Welcome to our planet, Captain Picard,"
he said as he touched three fingers of his right hand to the
center of his forehead in salute. "I am Aklier
of the House Ti'Kara. His Majesty, King
Joakal, has sent us to escort you into his
presence. If you will please follow me."
He's not at all pleased to see us, Troi
thought. He's frightened that we're here. She quickly
let her empathic senses scan the other three
Elders, but from them she received only mild interest and
none of Aklier's apprehension. She eyed the
nervous Elder with interest. What is he hiding? she
wondered. The Elders turned to lead the way through the
palace. Picard walked beside them, but Troi hung
back. She wanted to stay near Mother Veronica
in case the nun's reaction to the King was
similar to what had happened yesterday on the
bridge. Troi watched Mother Veronica closely
as they left the reception room and walked down the
long corridors of the palace, looking for the first
signs of wavering in the nun's control. But Mother
Veronica did not spare Troi a glance. She
kept her eyes fixed straight ahead; her mouth was
drawn into a tight line and her hand clutched the
cross on her breast as if it were a talisman.
Finally Troi looked around at her surroundings.
Although she was used to living on a starship arid having
the galaxy displayed beyond the viewports, she found the
size of the palace daunting. The corridor down which
they were walking was lined with massive black wood
doors, fifteen feet tall and ten feet across and
carved with unfamiliar symbols. The walls were
made from blocks of stone, as was the floor beneath her
feet. Through the stone ran veins of a darker substance
that shone with a pale green light and cast an eerie
glow over the area that was not quite disguised by the white
light that blazed from the chandeliers suspended from the
ceiling.
The ceilings themselves scared thirty feet above
Troi's head. She felt dwarfed by the dimensions and
slightly awed by the aura of antiquity the
palace exuded.
The corridor ended in a set of doable doors,
where two servants waited. They were dressed all in
black except for the predatory bird stitched in
crimson and gold on the right front of their
tunics. At their touch, the huge doors swung in
silently, more easily than Troi thought possible.
Behind the doors waited the audience chamber and the King.
As she entered the chamber, Troi felt the
immensity of the room overwhelm her. The ceilings were
easily sixty feet tall, twice the height of
those in the corridor, and the walls were four times that
distance from one another. The very size of the room was
oppressive. It was like entering a huge cavern.
There were no windows to the outside, no flowers or
pictures or brightly colored wall hangings,
nothing to give a breath of freshness to the chamber. It
gave Troi a headache and made her feel as if
a weight was resting upon her chest.
Troi forced herself to look at the man toward whom
they were walking. He sat upon a throne carved from the
same green stone as the walls and perched on top of a
dais of five steps. As they approached, Troi
could see that the throne had been intricately carved in
flowing geometric designs. The King
did not move as they neared him. His face wore a
smile that did not reach to his eyes or mask his
darker emotions.
He's furious that we're here, Troi thought as the
King stood and walked down three of the five steps that
raised his throne above the floor. t io carefully,
Captain. He's a dangerous man.
"We were surprised, Captain," the King began,
"when your ship informed us that you were in orbit around Our
planet. We did not expect you yet. Still,
accept Our welcome."
"Thank you, Your Majesty," the captain
answered. He returned the King's smile, but
to Troi the captain's voice sounded guarded. She
wondered if he also felt that there was something hidden behind
the ruler's wards. "Please allow me to present
one of my officers," Picard continued. "This is
Lieutenant Commander Deanna Troi."
Troi took a step forward and bowed to the King,
noticing that the captain had chosen to use her rank
rather than her professional designation.
"And this is Mother Veronica, Leader of the Little
Mothers, whom Your Majesty requested come to your
planet."
Troi felt a jolt of surprise and
alarm crash through the King. His eyes narrowed as he
looked at them. He doesn't remember sending for the
Little Mothers, Troi thought. He doesn't know who
they are.
Troi's eyes shifted to Mother Veronica. The
nun was still clutching the wood cross she wore, as
she had been since they materialized on the
planet. Her face was taut with concentration. Troi
hold all the work they had done together in the past
weeks, and especially the last eighteen hours, was
coming to fruition. She tried to sense the nun's
emotions, but Mother Veronica was closed to her.
The King inclined his head slightly in their
direction, then returned his attention to the captain.
"Now, Captain Picard," he said, "is there some
reason you have chosen to arrive before the time previously
arranged?" "There is, Your Majesty," Picard
replied. "In our last conversation, you expressed
some doubts about the benefits of signing the treaty with the
Federation. I took the liberty of arriving early so
that we would have time to examine the treaty together and discuss
your concerns."
"That was most considerate, Captain," the King
said. "However, such a conversation is not possible today.
We have, therefore, had guest rooms prepared
here in the palace for you and your companions. We will
meet again tomorrow."
The King turned away. He remounted the steps and
sat again upon the throne, then motioned toward the waiting
Elders.
"Aklier will show you to your rooms," the King said,
waving his hand in the Elders' direction. "You may
leave Us now."
Picard gave a curt bow. If the captain was
irritated by this abrupt dismissal, he was too
practiced a diplomat to let it show in his voice.
"I look forward to our meeting tomorrow," he said
evenly. Then he turned and strode toward the
doors. Troi saw the surprised Elder glance
up at the man on the throne before rushing to follow the
captain.
Troi and Mother veronica fell into step behind them.
Troi noticed that Picard looked neither right nor
left as he walked, but held hmfat attention
until they were out in the corridor and the doors had
once again swung shut.
As they started down the long corridor Troi could
again feel the little tendrils of fear that wove themselves in
and out of Aklier's consciousness. He began to wring his
hands together nervously as he tried to find the
right conciliatory words to offer, the captain. Troi
listened closely. "I'm sorry if His Majesty
seemed brusque," Aklier said, his words quick and
breathless. "Please understand, Captain Picard. You
have arrived unexpected- ly, and at a very
inopportune time. The King--comall of us-are quite
overwhelmed with the preparations for the coronation. Tonight is
His Majesty'.. Vigil in the temple and tomorrow at
dawn the ceremony for his Coming to Age will take
place. It will be impossible for him to speak with
anyone until after these have taken place. Please
accept my apologies, Captain, and understand that we
had not scheduled your arrival for several more days."
While he talked, the Elder led them down the
long corridor, up a flight of stairs, and down
another
corridor to the appointed guest rooms. The
doors were opened, revealing three magnificently
furnished chambers. For the first time since leaving the
Enterprise, Mother Veronica spoke.
She turned to the counselor. "Please," she said
softly. "Stay with me."
Troi smiled at the nun, then turned
to Aklier. "The third room will not be necessary," she
said.
"As you wish," he said, giving Troi a slight
bow. "Because of His Majesty's Vigil, there will be
no formal dinner this evening. Your meals will he brought
to you here. If there is anything else you require, you
have only to ring and a servant will attend you."
"Thank you for your help," the captain said. "We
will be eagerly awaiting the time when we can speak with His
Majesty in greater depth."
The Elder sketched another bow, then turned and
hurried back the way they had come. Once he was out
of earshot, the captain motioned for Troi and Mother
Veronica to join him in his room.
"Now, Counselor," he said once they were all
seated. "What is your report?" "The King is very
arrogant," she said. "That is, perhaps, not unusual,
but he is also very full of anger. He doesn't
want us to be here, and neither does the Elder,
Aklier. The other Elders and the servants we
encountered were a little surprised by our arrival, but
Aklier was near a state of panic, and the King was
furious. There is something more, Captain. When you
introduced Mother Veronica, the King was surprised.
He doesn't remember sending for the Little Mothers. The
sight of Mother Veronica frightened him."
"He has two minds," the nun said.
Both Troi and Picard turned to look at her.
Mother Veronica did not 109
meet their eyes. She sat ramrod straight,
her gaze focused on the distant wall, or on some
ethereal point beyond seeing.
"What did you say?" the captain asked.
"Two minds-he has two minds," the nun
repeated.
"Mother Veronica, look at me," Troi said.
"Tell me exactly what you read from the King's
mind. It is very important."
Slowly Mother Veronica turned her eyes
to Troi's face. "I did what you said," she
began. Her words were soft and hesitant, as if she
had to search for each one before she used it. "I walled
my mind against his thoughts. But some of them were too
strong. Too strong," she repeated in a whisper,
then grew silent.
""What were they?" Troi urged. "What did you
learn?"
Again Mother Veronica looked, unseeing, at some
distant point. "The King . . . his mind is dark,
his thoughts . . ." She closed her eyes and shook
herself. The breath she drew was uneven.
"The other mind is far away," she
continued, without opening her eyes. "It is buried.
There was light, but it is fading. That's all I
learned," Mother Veronica said. "And I didn't
want to learn that much."
Picard turned to Troi: "Counselor," he
said, "can you explain that? Could the King be suffering from
some sort of mental aberration?" "Do you mean like
schizophrenia? No, I don't think so,
Captain. I would have felt that, and none of the
reports sent by the cultural observers over the
past few years have mentioned any unusual mental
powers or conditions. But we know so little about the people of this
planet, maybe there is a true psychological
change
that accompanies this Coming to Age. Maybe we've
arrived during some sort of transition period."
"Well, whatever is going on here," Picard
said, "I hope it will become clearer tomorrow." He
tapped the communicator insignia on his uniform.
"Picard to Enterprise, was he said.
"Enterprise. Riker here," came the almost immediate
response. "I didn't expect to hear from you quite so
soon, Captain."
"Our initial meeting with the King was rather brief,
Number One," Picard explained. "It
seems he will not have time for us until after the conclusion
of the Vigil of his Coming to Age tomorrow morning."
"Do you want me to have you and the others beamed back
to the ship?" Riker asked.
"No. The King has had rooms prepared for us
here in the palace. I think it best if we use
them. I'll report in after i have spoken with the King
tomorrow."
"Aye, Captain. Riker out."
Aklier returned to the audience chamber. When he
entered the room, Beaharam dismissed his attendants.
"All except Aklier," he said as he turned
to the Elder. "You will attend me as I prepare for
my Vigil."
Aklier bowed low. "As you will, Your Majesty,"
he said.
The room emptied. Once they were alone,
Beahoram stood and descended the steps of the dais.
Aklier watched Beahoram begin to pace, walking
back and forth while he slapped his right palm
impatiently against his thigh. Then he stopped and ran
both hands through his hair in a gesture so like his
brother's that Aklier's breath ought in his throat.
Beahoram turned on his heel to face the Eider.
The look in his eyes made Aklier take
a step backward.
"We've got to act quickly," BeahOT-AM
said, "or everything will be ruined." "Why? Nothing has
really changed. Isn't it better to proceed according
to plan, especially now that the Federation people are here?"
Beahoram again studied the Elder. Aklier felt
his heart begin to pound as the younger man's eyes
narrowed.
"You're a fool, Aklier. Everything has
changed now that the Federation people are here. That one in the
brown robe-was
"Mother Veronica," Aklier supplied.
Beahoram nodded. "Mother Veronica--she's a
danger to us. I don't know how she did it, but I
could feel her mind touching mine. Why didn't you
tell me my brother had sent for these Little Mothers?"
"I didn't know. Joakal was full of plans
for after he became Absolute. He would hint at
them, but he never discussed them-except, perhaps, with
Elana." "Well, it's too late to do anything
about that now," Beahoram said as he began to pace
again. "The Federation people are here and we have to act. The
other female, the one with the dark eyes, she's a
threat to us as well. When she looked at me, I
could have sworn she was reading every secret I
have. We're too close to success to take any
chances. They have to be eliminated before the coronation."
Aklier gasped. "We can't . . . kill them.
The people on their ship. . . the whole Federation--"
"No, we can't," Beahorarn said. He resumed
slapping his thigh, as if the action helped him think.
Finally he said, "Tonight, when they call for their
evening meal, make sure that there is something to make
them sleep added to their wine. Something strong, so
they'll stay asleep for hours. Then, after moonset
when most of the palace is asleep, have them
carried to my brother's cell. They can stay with him
until after the coronation. Once I am crowned,
their own laws will keep them from interfering."
"How can I . . . who do I . . . ?"
Aklier stammered.
Beahoram snorted with disgust. "Must I do all
your thinking for you? There are always corrupt servants.
Find them and use them. You'll have to do it. I'll be
at my vigil."
"I'm supposed to attend your Vigil with you."
"That doesn't matter. If someone does come through
the temple, it's me they'll be looking for, not you.
It will be easier for you to slip out during the night than
for me to do it. I have to stay where I can be
seen by any of the Servants that might pass through the
temple during the night. Now go, Aklier, and
hurry. Be back here before sundown."
Aklier bowed and left Beahoram's presence.
Once the Elder was out in the corridor, he leaned
against the wall and waited until his heart ceased
pounding. He lifted a hand to his forehead, to wipe
away the beads of nervous sweat that had gathered there,
and noticed that his fingers were shaking. Nothing was working out
the way he had anticipated.
THE FIRST OF Capulon's two moons was
well into the sky and the second had just become visible
when the sun touched the far horizon and sank slowly
from sight. All of the Elders from the Council,
except for Aklier, and thirty of the senior temple
Servants, headed by Faellon, lined the corridor
outside the King's private chambers. At the
moment the sun disappeared, the Chief Servant
knocked on the King's door. Immediately, it swung
inward and Aklier stood framed in the doorway. A
few steps behind him was the King dressed all in
white, without jewels or adornment of any kind
except the long crimson overcloak draped around
his shoulders to protect him from the chill of the temple.
"It is time," Faellon said and he
tinned away. Aklier and Beahoram followed
Faellon past the rows of witnesses that closed
ranks behind them as they passed.
When they reached the head of the column, Aklier
stepped into line and let Beahoram take the place
beside Faellon. There were now sixty of them--thirty
Servants of the God, thirty servants of the
people-twice the sacred number to walk the King to his
Vigil.
"O, Light of the God," Faellon intoned,
"shine on us that we do not stumble in darkness."
With one accord, the line began to move. It was a
colorful procession: the Servants in their long
hooded robes of deep green, like a row of
emeralds on the move; the Elders dressed in the
finery of their Houses, a kaleidoscope of
fabrics and hues; and the King leading them m shining,
unspotted white and deep crimson.
The boots of the Elders pounding on the stone floor
drowned out the sound of the soft-soled slippers of the
Servants as they passed out of the palace and into the
blue and purple shadows of gathering twilight. The
people they passed as they crossed the city square all
stopped to watch. Some touched their foreheads in a
three-fingered salute, others fell to their
knees; all watched the ,procession with the joyful,
hope-filled hearts that their young King had long ago
inspired.
The long line at last reached the temple and mounted
the steps. When Faellon reached the four pillars that
guarded the temple doors, he raised his hands
beseechingly toward the sky.
"Look favorably upon our doings here, O
Great God," he called in loud and dramatic
tones. "Guide and protect us as we enter your
temple, following the Laws revealed to our
forebearers."
He lowered his hands and led the procession
j through the doors and down the long nave. He
stopped before the altar. After a deep bow in its
. direction, he turned and motioned for the King
to kneel. Two by two, the rest of the column came
forward. The Elders slipped reverently into the
empty pews; the Servants, after a bow to the altar,
each turned to the side and marched to the rear of the
temple, climbed the hidden stairs, and joined the
rest of the temple population in the railed loft. From
there they would watch the proceedings and sing the
responses to the sacred ceremony that began the
Vigil for the King's Coming to Age.
Once everyone was in place, Faellon turned
back around and mounted the six steps to the altar. He
bowed in obeisance to his God, kissing the cold
stone before him. Then he lifted the golden bowl and
raised it high over his head. "We are empty,
Oh God, without you," his voice rang out.
"Come, fill thy people," sang the response.
"We seek thy Virtues."
"Come, fill thy people."
"Guide us to Wisdom. . ."
Faellon sang through the Litany of Invocation;
the responses echoed back each time until the
temple seemed filled with a single cry. When the
litany ended, the Chief Servant turned and brought
the golden bowl to the kneeling King. He placed it in
the outstretched royal hands.
"Youth passes from you this night," Faellon said.
"The burdens of manhood come with the sun. Let this
sacred bowl be your model As you kneel here in the
God's holy temple, empty your heart and mind
of all things past. Become as receptive as this
waiting bowl. Only then can the God's Wisdom
fill you-only then will you be ready for the burden of your
future, for you must rule not in your own wisdom, but
in the God's."
Faellon placed his hands briefly on the
conKing's head 116
in blessing. Then he turned away-the ceremony had
ended; the Vigil had begun. All of the Eiders
except Aklier, who was to witness the Vigil,
stood and filed from the temple. The Servants did
the same. Not a word was spoken, and soon there was
left only Aklier kneeling in the front pew and the
young King kneeling
i before the altar, staring into the depths of the golden
bowl.
Minutes passed by. The silence deepened.
Finally Beahoram placed the bowl on the floor,
sat back on his heels and sighed. Then he turned
to the Elder.
"Is it arranged?" he asked.
The sound of Beahoram's voice startled Aklier
from his private realm of regrets. "It's
arranged," he confirmed without looking up. "Good."
Beahoram stood and stretched. "This is going to be
an interminable bore," he said. "I wish I'd
thought to bring some food."
Beahoram came over and sat in the pew next
to Aklier. He propped his feet up on the rail
in front of him. "Do you have your flask?"
he asked. "Give it to me."
Aklier reached into his pocket and withdrew the
silver flask that was filled with the strong amber wine
he had planned to drink to fortify himself before this
night's business. Reluctantly, he handed it
to Beahoram.
Elana had sat among the Servants during the
ceremony, and with them she had left the temple. But
now, alone, she returned. Although Joakal had
changed in some unfathomable way into a person she could
never marry, the sight of him kneeling before the altar
stilled some of the aching loneliness that had filled her these
last weeks. Her eyes, and her heart,
were hungry for the sight of him, and she crept
silently back to the loft where she could watch. him
undetected.
He was not kneeling, as when she had last seen him.
Joakal, who had always shared her love and reverence
for the God, was lounging in a pew, his feet propped
up, disdainful of where he was. She saw the flash of
silver in his hand as he raised the flask to his
lips; he was drinking, here in the God's presence.
The sight almost made Elana cry out.
Elana felt darkness close around her and
settle somewhere in the region of her heart.
Over the last weeks she had almost-almost-convinced herself
that Faellon was right and she had misjudged the change
in Joakal. But here was irrefutable proof.
She raised a hand to her mouth and bit hard on one
finger, trying to stifle the sob that was collecting in her
throat. Part of her wanted to run away, to leave
behind the pain of what she was seeing. Another part of
her, the part that had so hungered for the sight of
Joakal, begged her to stay a little longer. As she
battled between desires, some of the conversation filtered
up to her from below.
"Do you have the sleeping drug?" The words were faint
but clear; the voice was Joakal's, and yet it was
harsher than Elana ever remembered it sounding.
"Yes" was the reply. Elana recognized
Aklier's voice.
"Who did you find to help you?"
"Do you really want to know? If you're in
ignorance, no one can blame you, should something go
wrong."
"If I don't know, Aklier, I'm at the
mercy of others. I'll never be that again. Tell
me."
Elana leaned forward to listen more closely, her
tears banished as she concentrated on the
faint words. 118
"Tymlan is the servant who will bring their meals.
He hates his work in the kitchens. I've promised
him enough money to buy a commission into the palace
guards. All he has to do is deliver the trays.
I'll put the drug in their wine myself."
"And after they're asleep--who is to carry them
to my brother's cell?" "Tymlan, myself, and
Benget, the captain of the guard of my House."
"What did you promise him?"
"My niece-her hand and her dowry. He's a very
ambitious man."
"Will that be enough to ensure their silence?"
"Yes. I made it very clear that I would not be
subject to future threats and that if they talk, they
die."
"Very good, Aklier. I wasn't sure you had the
stomach for this. I'm glad I was wrong."
Suddenly there was a burst of harsh laughter and it
stabbed Elana's heart to hear it. Then the laughter
faded and the words continued. "Won't Joakal be
surprised when these Federation people are brought to his
cell? I wish I could be with you to see my brother's
face as he sees the foundation for all of his dreams
of the future lay in drugged bundles at
his feet. He wanted to talk with them. Now he can
talk all he wants until after the coronation.
Once I'm crowned and the power comes to me, I'll
need everything I can learn from Joakal's mind, every
plan and dream, every nuance of memory. After I'm
done, he might not have enough mind left to talk, let
alone to dream and plan." There was another shorter
burst of laughter. "I've won. Nothing can free
Joakal now. I've truly woncom"
Elana sat back, stunned. This man who wore
the
King's robes, who spoke with the King's voice--
this was not Joakal! The darkness that had enveloped her
lifted. The stranger whose lips had fastened on hers
so greedily was Joakal's brother, and he was bent
on revenge of some kind. She did not know how such a
thing could be, but she knew this man was wrong. Someone
could still help Joakal. She could-she would. Somehow.
She leaned forward and listened again.
"You'd better go now," the not-Joakalt said.
"Use the rear entrances and be certain you're not seen.
Once it's done, come back here. I want to know
everything."
Elana saw the Elder stand and head for the side
entrance to the temple. She sprang to her
feet, thankful for the soft-soled slippers and the dark
green robe that would allow her to move noiselessly and
hide in the shadows. While Aklier walked toward
the side door, E1ana glided down the loft
stairs and out the main entrance to the temple. The evening
air was chilly after the warmth of the loft and she shivered
slightly. She pulled the hood of her Servant's
robe over her blond hair as she began to run
down the temple steps and around to the side of the
building, trying to keep to the dark areas and praying that
the light of the moons would not reveal her.
She saw Aklier emerge. Like herself, he also
preferred the shadows, but he did not move
silently. His boots scraped and pounded on the stone
alleyways the material of his clothing hissed as it
rubbed together. Elana found the noise comforting; it
made him easy to follow and covered any sound she
might accidentally make.
She followed him around the backs of the buildings
until he reached the courtyard of the palace. The
open
area where she had so often walked hand in hand with
Joakal no longer seemed like the beautiful setting
so fond in her memory. The patterned stones of the
courtyard had become a hazard to her
purpose, for they reflected the light of the moons and
illuminated the area too brightly for her to cross
unseen. She would have to wait until Aklier had
entered the palace before she moved. O, Great God,
she prayed, please let this work.
Aklier stepped out of the shadows and began to walk
boldly across the courtyard. Of course, Elana
thought, who would dare to question an Elder? She watched
until she saw him finally reach the palace, open the
door, and step inside.
Elana took a deep breath and began to run, still
wordlessly praying for the help of the God. She reached the
door and paused a moment until her breathing
returned to normal. Then she, too, entered the
palace.
She was by the back stairs that led from the kitchens to the
rest of the palace. Below her, she could hear the cooks
and servants talking and the occasional clatter of
dishes and pans. Aklier was nowhere to be seen, nor
did Elana know where to look for him. She tried
to guess which of the many guest rooms might have been
given to the Federation people, but the palace was large and she
quickly gave up. Instead she climbed the stairs to the
next floor, entered the first room she reached, and,
leaving the door slightly afar so she could
see the.stairwell, sat on the t1aor to wait.
The servants would have to use these stairs when they
carried the dinner trays, and Aklier would have to meet
them-somewhere.
Seconds stretched into fruitless minutes of
slowpassing time. Elana began to ache with frustration.
Now that she knew the truth, she wanted to be up and
away, working to free her beloved. But there was nothing
more at the moment she could do, and she forced her
impatience back under control. Finally, Elana
heard voices on the stairs. She raised herself
to her knees, straining to hear over the sudden pounding of
her heart.
Mwo servants passed carrying large, laden
trays. Aklier was not with them. Elana stood and
followed, carefully staying several paces behind,
hidden by the bend in the stairs and the indifference of the
servants. At the second floor the servants
turned into the
c'dor. Cautiously, Elana moved her head
around orri the opening that led from the stairwell. She
saw Aklier waiting for the servants in front of
guest rooms a third of the way down the hall. Again
Elana slid. to the floor and watched from where she would
not be seen at eye level.
Aklier greeted the servants, then took the
tray from one of them and dismissed him. He turned
back around and started to walk toward the stairwell.
Elana felt a surge of panic. Where could she
hide? Quickly she stood and ran up the stairs to the
third floor and waited. She counted slowly to one
hundred and back again, giving the servant time
to return to the kitchens before she climbed back down
the stairs.
She took up her vigil in time to see Aklier
hand a small purse to the remaining servant. Then
he knocked on the door to the guest rooms and went
inside.
Elana sat back and let the air slowly from her
lungs. Should she go to the Federation people anti warn them
of Aklier's duplicity? They did not know her; why
should they believe what she said? Should she hurry
back to the temple and try again to convince Faellon?
Elana shook her head; the Chief Servant had
already made his position clear and changing his mind, if
possible at all, would take too much time. And,
most important to Elana, neither of these actions would
lead her to Joakal. Elana knew her only
choice was to stay close to Aklier.
She heard the Elder's voice again as
he bade goodnight to the palace guests. Elana
stood and rushed back to the room on the first floor
where she had watched for the Elder. Soon he and the
servant came down the stairs. They paused
briefly by the door that led to the courtyard, and
Aklier whispered some words Elana could not hear.
Then the servant turned away. Aklier opened the
door and stepped out into the night.
He's going back to the temple, Elana thought.
She would give Aklier time to cross the courtyard,
then she would follow. She would return to her place
in the loft and there she would wait and watch and listen
until she found a way to free the man she loved.
Picard, Troi, and Mother Veronica dined together
in the captain's rooms. Aklier had apologized
for the simple dishes; but their meal was a mini-feast of
roast fowl in thick, spiced sauce, three bowls
of colorful steamed vegetables, freshly baked
bread, two cheeses, and a small basket of
fruits, all served with a decanter of sweet,
golden wine.
Troi found the sauce on the fowl to be too rich
for her taste, but the vegetables were delicious and
crisp. The bread was hot, flavored with little red
seeds, and the cheeses-.-one tangy, one
smooth and soft-went well with the fruit.
She noticed that like herself, Mother Veronica ate
none of the meat, but the captain attacked it with gusto,
saying it reminded him of a dish his mother used to make.
The conversation during the meal was pleasant and
informative, centering on the work of the
Little Mothers. As the meal drew to a, close,
Troi found her eyelids growing heavy and she had
trouble concentrating on the words of her companions.
She saw the captain stifling a yawn.
"I think, Captain," she said, "that it is time
Mother Veronica and I went back to our roams.
We're all tired."
"Hmm . . . yes, Counselor," the captain
said around another yawn. He stood; the women did
the same. "Thank you for joining me. It has been a
very enjoyable evening."
"mood night, Captain," Troi said.
As Troi turned toward the door, she heard the
nun mumble a good-night, but her words were indistinct.
Trai looked at her and saw that Mother Veronica's
cheeks were flushed and her eyes slightly glazed.
T roi thought about the wine. It had not tasted that
strong, but it was also not the synthehol she was used
to drinking on the ship-and neither she nor
Mother
Veronica had had much rest in the last
twenty-four
hours.
By the time they reached their rooms, "Troi
noticed that the nun's step was unsteady as she walked
over to the bed and dropped heavily to her knees.
Troi grabbed the nightclothes she had had beamed
down from the Enterprise and went to change: as Mother
Veronica bowed her head and began her evening
prayers. With each passing second, Troi found
her movements becoming slower and more difficult. By the
time she reentered the sleeping area, dressed in a
pale pink nightdress and her uniform draped over
her arm, it was a struggle to keep her eyes
focused. The bed across the room looked miles
away. Troi saw that Mother Veronica had fallen
asleep where she knelt, her head on the
mattress, her arms
outstretched as if in supplication. Troi
dropped her uniform onto a chair and started
to cross to the nun and help her into bed. She took a
step; her balance became a precarious thing. She
could barely . . . put one foot . . . in front
. . . of the other.... Troi fell,
unconscious, to the floor.


FIVE THOUSAND KILOMETERS above the
planet's surface, the USS Enterprise
maintained her synchronous orbit with exact,
unperturbed efficiency. It was ship's night and the
computer had lowered the lighting throughout the corridors and
public areas, in simulation of the hours after sunset.
Beta-watch, the 4:00 n.m. through midnight shift,
was nearing its completion and still Will Riker,
temporarily in command of the Enterprise, could not
sleep.
He walked down the dim corridors on his way
to Ten-Forward, fighting the urge to return to the
bridge. Although, being in command, he was technically
always on duty, his next watch was not for another ten
hours. His presence on the bridge now would be an
unwelcome intrusion, a signal of his lack of
confidence in the officers stationed there.
Riker's trouble was not with the duty roster, or with
any one on board. None of his activities this
evening,
not even the hour he spent playing his trombone,
had been able to pull his thoughts away from
Picard and Troi on the planet below.
Riker was never happy when the captain decided
to lead an Away Team, even when the mission
appeared to be as peaceful as their present one. The
captain's safety was Riker's responsibility
and part of his duties as first officer. Despite
Riker's casual friendliness, which had made him so
popular with the crew, despite the quick, disarming grin that
he wore so easily, William T. Riker
took his duties very seriously.
Riker reminded himself once again of the captain's
expertise at diplomatic negotiations. If
trouble does arise, Riker's thoughts continued, he
knows how to handle himself. Jean-Luc Picard
hasn't always been a captain, after all. He has
faced his share of danger and survived.
But knowing these things did not alleviate Riker's
uneasiness. He still worried, like the old mother hen
Picard had once called him. Well,
cluck-cluck, Riker thought wryly. He ran his
right hand over his mustache and beard in the gesture that
had became so habitual he was no longer aware of
it. As he stepped onto the turbolift and gave his
destination to the computer, he hoped Guinan would have
something to say that would set his whirring thoughts
to rest.
Will Riker was not the only one on board who
wanted to have a few words with Guinan. Data was already
in Ten-Forward. It had, in many ways, been a
confusing two and a half weeks for the android. In his
search for spiritual understanding, everyone with whom he had
spoken so far had had something different to say.
He had spoken with many crew members besides
Worf and Geordi. Not everyone he spoke
to claimed to have any religious beliefs; some, in
fact, were quite adamant that they did not. Others
spoke of religion and religious practices in
terms of family history and traditions rather than
personal beliefs. They reminded Data of something
Keiko and Miles O'Brien had said shortly before
their wedding.
Keiko's family still followed the
Ryobu-Shinto traditions which united the earth
mysticism of the Shinto with the teachings of Buddhism.
O'Brien's heritage was Irish Catholic.
Data knew that historically these two religions
were opposed, sometimes violently, to one another, yet
rather than be disturbed by the differences, as their ancestors
would have been, Keika and Miles O'Brien
welcomed the diversity and claimed it added
a richness to their marriage. Data wished Keiko and
Miles were still on the Enterprise so that he could
discuss this further with them.
Data had also spoken with Beverly Crusher. Her
opinions reflected her idealistic and passionate
love for all life-forms, but they were as personal and
elusive as Geordi's. Then Data had talked
to others, including Yeoman Joshua Stern who
followed the ancient Earth religion of
Judaism, and with Chief Thomas Crreyclaud whose
heritage was Amerindian of a tribe called
Sioux. Each of them had shared with Data some of the
disrich tapestry of legends that made up the history
and definition of their cultural backgrounds.
Data found both the disparity and similarities a
fascinating study, but none of the vast influx of
information he had gained from his readings and from contact with his
crewmates had provided any form of personal
enlightenment.
When Data took a place on one of the bar
stools, the hostess of Ten-Forward was serenely
wiping the al-
ready immaculate bar. Guinan put her cloth
away and carne to staid before him.
"I was wandering when you'd get around to me,"
she said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Data, everyone on ship knows about your current
comquest." Guinan's mouth quirked quickly toward a
smile and back again. "Some find it admirable,
others find it amusing. I think it was inevitable and
I was wondering when you'd get around to asking me."
"I have many questions."
"I know."
"And you do not mind answering them?" No.
"Thank you," Data said. "I have sensed a
certain hesitancy from many of the people I have talked
to."
"That's only natural, Data."
WWI@.
"Because most people, even those who follow an
established tradition, spend much of their time trying
to reconcile belief with experience."
"And you do not?"
Again, the half-smile danced across the mouth of the
enigmatic alien. "Yes I do," she said.
"I've just had a little more time and practice. So ask
me your questions."
"Do you believe in God?" Data began.
"Yes."
"Which one?"
"There's only one, Data."
"In the last several days, using the computer at
top speed, I have read all of the major writings
on the myths and religions of Earth. I have also
read many of the Vulcan teachings and most of the writings
from Betazed. I have encountered the names of several thousand
deities."
"No, Data. There has been only one."
"If there has been only one, how do you explain
the multitude of definitions and practices, each
claiming to came from divine inspiration?" Guinan
clasped her hands together and studied the android.
Data, to whom impatience was nullprograming,
waited while the bartender chose her words. "You've
missed the point," she said at last.
"I would appreciate it then," Data said, "if
you could explain-the point-to me."
"The point, Data, is that this-something-this power we
name God-and God is a good name; short, simple,
easier to say than many-is beyond our definitions.
Whether you call it a force or a being, whether you
make it male or female or androgynous, whether
you break its characteristics into a thousand different
aspects or gather them together into one
all-powerful being, God-true God-is beyond all
that.""
"Then no one is correct in his beliefs."
"On the contrary, Data, everyone is
correct."
"Then how does one choose which expression of
beliefs to follow?" Data asked.
"Like the rest of us, Data, you'll just have to follow
your heart."
"But, Guinan-I have no heart."
This time Guinan's smile was not fleeting. "Oh
yes, you do, Data," she said.
Data looked puzzled. "I am a constructed
being made up of component parts of-was
"You have a heart, Data," Guinan repeated.
"Not a muscle in your chest, but a heart."
"I do not understand."
"Let me ask you a few questions, Data,"
Guinan said. "If Geordi were in danger and the
only way to
save him would mean the end of your existence, would you
do so?" "Yes, but that-was
Guinan held up her hand. "What about Worf,
or Picard, or any of us?" "Of course, but--"
"When Keiko disand O'Brien were having
trouble on their wedding day, did you put aside your
own interests and try to help them?"
"They are my friends."
"When you rescued the little girl, Sarjenka, and
talked the captain into using the ship's resources
to relieve the tectonic stresses that were tearing her
planet apart, she was only a voice over
subspace."
"She needed our help."
"That's my point, Data. I've never known you
to turn away from anyone. That's love, Data,
that's heart. You're mistaking the emotion, the warm,
fuzzy feeling of being in love, for the reality. Love
isn't just about emotion; it's about choices and action.
That's why I say you have a heart, and like the rest of
us, you just have to learn how to recognize what it's
telling you."
"No one can answer that for another individual."
"Thank you, Guinan," Data said as he slid
off the bar stool. "You have given me much to consider."
"One more thing, Data," Guinan said. "In all
the reading you've done, have you come across the teaching that
man-sentient life-was made in the image of
God?"
"In several different expressions and
philosophies."
"You'll come across it in countless more. If man was
created in the image of God, and you were created in the
image of man, aren't you part of God, too?"
With a smile, Guinan picked up her cloth and
began
again to wipe the bar. Data cocked his head.
slightly to one side, his positronic brain
pondering her final question on several levels. Behind
him, Data heard the door open and recognized the
sound of Commander Riker's footsteps.
The Captain Pro-tem slid onto a stool
two seats down to Data's left. Data watched
as once more the Enterprise's favorite hostess
put her bar cloth away and went to stand in front of
her troubled customer.
"What would you like, Commander?" she asked.
"Actually, Guinan, I'd just like to talk."
Guinan turned and gave Data a small
Mona Lisa smile. Then she leaned on the bar in
front of Riker and said, "Sure, Commander.
Anything particular on your mind?"
IT WAS THE rAirr in her head that finally
reached through the heavy fog that enveloped Troi. Even
lying still, she felt as though a hundred
horses were galloping through her brain. At first that was
all she could feel. Even the slight movement of
breathing was torture. Then, slowly, she became
aware of the other sensations in her body. Her tongue
felt thick and her mouth felt as if it had been
filled with a wad of cotton. And she was cold. The
floor beneath her was not covered with the thick carpet she
remembered. She lay there, unable to move yet, and
tried to piece together the last events she could
recall. Dinner with the captain, the wine, Mother
Veronica asleep by the side of the bed . . .
Troi heard a groan next to her. The
captain? She opened her eyes, and although it made
her feel as if sharp knives were being stabbed into her
brain, she kept them open until she could focus and
look around. 133
She was lying on cold, hard stone. It was everywhere
she looked: floors, walls, ceiling. It was the
same luminous green stone she had seen in the
corridors and audience chamber. Its pale light
cast a sickly hue through the room and over the faces
of her companions lying on the floor next to her.
Moving with care, Troi eased herself into a sitting
position. The movement caused the room to spin. She
raised cold, shaking fingers to her forehead and
fought back a wave of nausea. Beside her, the
captain moaned again and started to sit up.
"Go slowly, Captain," she warned him.
"Counselor?" His voice was hoarse. Trai
saw the muscles in his jaw working as he clenched his
teeth and forced himself to sit. He opened his eyes to a
narrow slit and looked at her.
"What happened?" he asked.
"I think we were drugged."
"You were," came a man's voice from the far
corner. Troi turned her head. Too quickly;
instantly she regretted the movement.
"Who are you?" she heard the captain demand while
she waited for the second wave of nausea to pass.
There was a burst of laughter from the same corner.
Even in her current impaired state, she could
sense the hysteria and the surges of bleak despair that
swelled through the laughter. Troi again opened her
eyes; they focused more easily this time and she saw the
man crouched in the far corner. He looked like a
nightmare version of the King.
His laughter subsided. "I," he said, "am
Joakal I'lium, King of Capulon IV."
"You're the King?" the captain said. "Then who--"
"My brother," he said. "A twin I
never knew existed. He decided it was his turn
to rule. So, with the help of a trusted friend, he took
me prisoner. He usurped my place and I am
left with only this cell for a kingdom."
While their new companion was talking, Troi
noticed the captain reach up toward the left side
of his chest, as though to tap his communicator and
signal for help. But, like Troi, Picard had
changed into sleeping attire before the drug had
knocked him out. They had no communicators with them;
there would be no easy rescue.
The captain struggled to stand. Troi saw the
color drain from his face and he swayed unevenly
on his feet. She automatically reached out to help
him, but again a wave of nausea gripped her.
Picard waved her away. He began to stumble about the
circumference of the room, his hands searching the walls.
"There is no way out, Captain Picard," the
King said. The captain shat him a startled glance
arid the younger man nodded. "Yes," he said. "I
know who you are. I was informed of your identities when
you were dumped here. You're wasting your time. I've
pushed and pulled on every stone. I've rattled the
door a thousand times. We are all-guests-of my
brother until he decides otherwise."
On the, other side of Troi, Mother Veronica
at last began to stir. The counselor quickly
switched her attention to the nun. She crawled over
to Mother Veronica's side and began whispering to her,
reassuring her through the first painful moments of
awakening.
j Picard finished his inspection of the cell. He
came i
over and lowered himself to the floor beside Troi, who was
helping Mother Veronica to sit upright. The nun's
eyes were closed and her face was ashen, "Are you all
right?" he asked. Troi nodded. "And Mother
Veronica?" "She will be. Although she drank very little
of the wine last night," Troi said, "she ate almost
nothing. That's why the drug has hit her so hard."
Picard nodded curtly before he turned
to Joakal. "I want to know everything," he said in a
firm voice of command.
The King shrugged. "I'll tell you what I can,"
he said. "I don't know for certain how long I've
been here or what has happened in my absence.
I've been here weeks, I'm sure-weeks of being
locked alone in this room . . ."
his voice trailed off. Then after a moment his
whole body shook sharply. He pulled
himself back to the present and told his listeners of his
capture, of the visits Beahoram had made to the
cell, and of Aklier's betrayal. "You keep
mentioning your brother," Picard said when Joakal had
finished. "The twin of whom you had no prior knowledge.
Explain."
Again the captain's voice allowed no argument.
"To understand that," Joakal answered, "you must understand the
ways of my people."
"We have to understand," Picard countered. "We have
to know everything you can tell us if we're to find a way
out of here."
Joakal jumped to his feet. "There is no
way out!" he shouted. He paced a few steps
back and forth, running his hands through his lank, matted
hair. "You may have given up," Picard said. "But
we haven't."
The King stopped pacing. He stood absolutely

for a moment. Then he shrugged again and sat back
down.
"It will pass the time," he said, more to himself than his
companions. For another long moment, the King was
silent. Troi wondered what he could say that would
shed some light on their situation.
"Our ways," he began. "Our society and
laws are based upon what we believe to be the Will of
our God. This is the first thing you must understand. Everything
we are has been shaped over the centuries by our
faith. The oldest teachings of our faith tell of a
time when the God walked upon this planet and had
direct communion with the world he had created. All was
peace then, the Teachings say; all was in harmony.
The world remained this way far untold ages, until
the God returned to his place beyond the heavens.
He left the people of this world to be the caretakers over his
domain."
Joakal stopped and looked again at the faces of
his listeners. Troi felt the intensity behind his
scrutiny, as if he was trying to measure how much of
what he had just said they could accept. His expression
was serious and the look in his eyes was almost beseeching.
Captain Picard gave him a small nod.
"We have such a legend on the planet that is my
home," he said, "and we have encountered similar ones
many places throughout the galaxy."
"Ah-then you know of the God." Joakal gave a
smile that wiped some of the weariness from his face. "I
am glad."
Troi was struck by this expression of
faith. These simple words sounded naive in the light
of a universe filled with science and technology, but
simple wards, words like love and hate and mercy,
often carried the greatest power. Was that also true of
faith? she wondered. Was a simple faith also the
strongest?
disloakal took a breath and continued. "The
legends also say that before the God departed from our
world," he said, "he granted a gift to the people here.
He opened our minds to one another, in a gift the
ancient writings call Mind-share. We are told
that we were given this gift in order to protect the world
over which we were left in charge.
"But without the God among us, the peace did not
last. Over the ages we ceased to be one people and one
world, united in our service to the God and our care of
his creation. We became divided into a multitude
of little kingdoms, each vying for dominance over the
others. Over the centuries, science took the
place of religion. Our technology grew and
soon wars came and went and came again. Each time
they were more devastating. Soon we were using our
scientific knowledge that could have done so much for this world
to build weapons capable of killing millions."
Joakal stopped again and rubbed a hand
over his eyes. "Then the final wars came," he said
after a pause, "wars of a terror worse than death.
They were a hundred generations ago. Although our science
had a part in them, the most devastating weapon came
from within ourselves. These were the Mind Wars and they were fought
with the very gift the God had given us for peace."
Joakal sighed and leaned his head back against the
wall, keeping his eyes closed. "The old
histories tell of the: terror of those years," he
continued. "Terror-filled years. The gift of
Mind-share had been turned into a weapon from which no
one was safe. Thoughts and plans could be ripped from the
mind of an enemy. The weak could be forced to serve the more
powerful; even their bodies could be manipulated against
their wills. Peace-loving people were turned into puppets
of destruction. The wars dragged on for over a
generation.
Then, suddenly, the power began to fade. Children
began being born without the ability to Mind-share. The
God had stripped his gift from us. "Now a new
fear took over..-fear of the God and of his anger. The
people abandoned the sciences, maintaining only those, such as
communication and transportation, basic heat and water
sources, necessary to keep the planet from total
collapse. People flocked back to the old
temples. They begged the Servants to help them
find the way to appease the God. Sacrifices were
made. Kingdoms toppled until we became a
united people again. But it was not enough; the gift did not
return to us. Stronger measures were called forand new
laws were passed, decreed by the King, sanctioned by the
temple. These laws demanded that all that was not
perfect be eliminated from our society. Nothing was
exempt, not even our children. Any abnormality, and
that includes the birth of a twin, was to be left on the
temple steps to die. This was our offering to appease the
God. It was pro- nounced the only way to display
the depths of our faith, and our repentance."
For several seconds the only sound in the cell was
the harsh breathing of its inhabitants. Joakal
opened his eyes and met those of his listeners. Troi
knew how stunned the Ding's last words had left
her. She looked and saw her feelings mirrored in
her companions' faces, Mother Veronica's in
particular. The pale cast to her cheeks and the fever
brightness of her eyes was more than the residual
effects of the drugged wine; it was horror at what
she was hearing.
"And this law-"the captain began.
Joakal nodded. "Is still in effect.
Oh, we.have ceremonialized it. The infants
are not now lei to die on the temple steps. They
are euthanized gently and buried in special
crypts below the temple-returned
to the God, it is said. But this is the reason I
asked the Little Mothers to come to Capulon IV. I
wanted them to help me abolish this law and others like
it that have kept this world from moving forward. Now it's too
late," "This-law-was not mentioned in any of the
reports on your culture," Picard said.
"Would you, Captain, allow such a thing to be known
about your people?" Joakal asked. "Would you even speak
openly about it among yourselves, except in the most
general terms? When your observers heard the term
"returned to the God," do you believe they thought more
than that the child had died? But you asked how Beahoraxn
fit into this. He was the second to come from my mother's
womb. He was supposed to die. Instead, he has
came back to take my place and my future, and
soon there will be nothing anyone can do to stop him."
"Why?" the captain asked harshly. "Why can't you
fight him, stand up for yourself and claim back-was
Jaakal again barked out a laugh. It was filled with
bleak, sardonic humor. "You don't understand,
Captain," he said. "The gift of
Mind-share has returned in a very small measure.
It is very rare among the population and it never comes
with the power of the ancient times. But it comes often enough for the
people to keep hoping. That is what has continued to give
this law its hold over my people."
"When does this gift show up and to whom?" Picard
asked. "Is there any way of predicting it?"
The young King shook his head. "Usually, if someone
feels any stirrings of the old gifts within them, he
or she enters Service at the temple. But not all
the Servants claim to possess these gifts, anti
even in the ones who do, it is very weak.
"What does this have to do with Beahoram?"
"The first of my House, after whom I am named, was
a Chief Servant here in this city. Then one day,
when he was at the altar, something happened to quicken his
mind and return to him all of the old gifts. The
writings do not tell us exactly what happened, they
say only that the God entered him. He was
proclaimed King and Absolute. My House has
ruled ever since. Each time the King has been
crowned to Absolute, the Gad has entered him in the
same way. The Absolute is the only one to whom
the gifts of the God are again granted in full."
Joakal stopped. He turned his face
toward the ceiling, his eyes closed tightly against his
despair. "I was to be the thirtieth generation of
I'lium Kings," he said. "The sacred number
fulfilled, and in that fulfillment I was going
to guide my people forward. A new age-that was my
dream. Now it will be Beahorarn who rules instead."
Troi had sat quietly during the King's long
recitation, riding the Gordian knot of his emotions
as they mutated through shadings of despair to resignation
to troubled conviction and back to despair. As he said
his last words, she sat forward, her eyes blazing with
sudden insight. "Captain," she said, "it all
makes sense now."
"What, Counselor?"
"Everything--the feelings of anger and arrogance I
received from Beahoram, the two minds that Mother
Veronica sensed. Joakal, here, is the other
mind."
Troi raised herself to her knees, eager to make
Picard understand. "Don't you see, Captain?" she
said. "Beahoram is a telepath. Joakal is,
too. I'm certain that most of the people of Capulon are
telepathic, but with abilities locked behind shields
no one remembers how to lower. In wars such as
Joakal has described, only those who
could learn to shield their a 141
minds would survive. This ability would be passed
on from one generation to another until it became . .
." she searched for the word, "dis . . instinct, a
product of survival. Those who then learned how
to release their psychic talents would appear
amazingly powerfulGcad-embodied."
'The captain's eyes were fixed on her and Troi
could almost see him quickly sorting through
possibilities. "Why would this happen when the King
is crowned?" he asked.
"Joakal skid that many of those who enter Service
have rediscovered their psychic identities, at least
in part. It's my guess that during the coronation, when
the King is the willing focus of so much psychic
energy all united to the same purpose, it acts as
a trigger and unblocks the King's own talents."
"'Could you and Mother Veronica do the same thing far
Joakal-here, now?" "I don't know, Captain,"
Troi answered. "I'm willing to try." She
turned to Mother Veronica, but the nun shrank back.
"No," she whispered. "I . . . I can't."
Troi glanced at the captain. "Let me talk
to her," she said. Picard nodded and went to sit by the
King, giving the women as much privacy as the
situation allowed.
disfoakal did not open his eyes. "It won't
work," he said as the captain sat down.
"'How do you know?"
"Because it is a gift from the God, and you are not his
Servants."
"Mother Veronica is. Her life and the lives of the
others like her, her work and her Order are all
dedicated and vowed to the service of God."
"Is it the same God-the true God?"
Picard was suddenly reminded of his Second

Officer. Had Data found his answers to questions such
as this? Picard knew his own, and he gave a little
smile.
"Is there more than one truth?" he asked. "And
isn't all service to the truth rendered to the same
place?"
"A wise answer, Captain," Joakal said,
the hint of a smile appearing on his face. "Perhaps this
will work, after all."
It was just after dawn. The members of the Council of
Elders, the Gentleborn who were in the city for the
King's coronation, and many high-ranking officials and
merchants were gathered at the temple
to witness the final ceremony for the King's Coming
to Age.
Elana sat once more in the loft surrounded by the
other Servants. Below her, the rite was just drawing
to a close. The man she now knew to be
Joakai's brother had received his knee-length Vest
of Manhood. But to Elana,. the deep crimson
color made it look like a cloak of blood,
Joakal's blood, overlaying the purity of the white
clothes in which Beahoram had kept his vigil.
Faellon's hands were lifted high in the final
invocation. Elana was not listening; she was watching
Beahoram and Aklier. In the darkest hours of the
night, after the first moon had set and the small,
second moan was in its descent, she had followed
Aklier once more to the palace where she had seen him
and his hirelings carry the inert bodies of the Federation
people from their rooms. She had tried to pursue, but she
soon lost sight of her quarry in the maze of
palace corridors and back stairs. E1ana
was determined not to let that happen again. Today, tomorrow,
however long it took, she would keep dogging their
movements until they led her to Joakal.
The drone of the Chief Servant's prayer ceased.
Before he could dismiss the assembled
officials, Beahoram raised himself from his knees,
interrupting the rite before its completion. He turned
to face the half-filled pews.
"My people," he said, raising his voice to carry through
the building. "My friends, the long night of my
Vigil has ended. With it has gone the years of my
youth. My Vigil was not an easy one. During the
hours I knelt before this altar I had not only my
own future to lay before the God, but the future of this
planet. We are at a crossroads. The
decision I soon dismst make will affect all of the
generations to come.
"As you know, a starship is in orbit around our
world. In the palace, representatives from that great
organization, the United Federation of Planets,
wait with a treaty for me to sign. All through my long
Vigil I asked the God for guidance and for
Wisdom in this decision. Only one answer came
to me. I believe it came from the Voice of the
God."
Beahoram paused, letting the words sink into the
minds of his listeners. They must believe his next
command to be a divine directive. He waited a
few seconds more.
"This is the answer the Clod has given
to my long hours of imploring: the coronation must not
wait. It must take place this afternoon, in the third
hour after the sun has reached its zenith."
Again Beahoram paused, this time to let the
murmurs of shock and surprise that swept through the
temple crescendo and die away.
Behind Beahoram, Faellon gasped. "But, Your
Majesty, that is only nine hours from now. We cannot
prepare."
Beahoram turned and looked at the Chief
Servant.
"You must," he said. He turned back to the
waiting crowd.
"I know it will be difficult for all of us to be
ready in so short a time," he continued. "I understand
all of the work it will involve. But I cannot deny or
reject the Voice of the God as it came to me. I
stand before you now as a man, ready to take up the heavy
weight of the crowns and robes and to be your
Absolute. Yet, I would willingly wait for the
appointed time, had an authority greater than mine not
demanded otherwise."
Beahoram turned to the altar and knelt in an
attitude of humility. After a stunned moment, the
Chief Servant horned to the King
to pronounce the final blessing and dismissal. He
held his hands out over the people. "Go in the Light of the
God," he said. "Walk in Peace and Wisdom-and
may the God strengthen us all."
Faellon turned back to the altar. Out in the
nave of the temple, those who had come to witness the
ceremony rose from their seats and filed toward the great
doors. There was no idle chatter. Their minds were
too paralyzed by Beahoram's announcement and all
it would mean.
Up in the loft, the Servants rose as well.
All except Elana. Nine hours, the thoughts
shouted in her brain. Nine hours, and before that time had
passed, she must find a way to stop this coronation.
She must find loakal.
IT TOOK TROI several minutes
to persuade Mother Veronica to help her try to reach
the hidden recesses of King Joakal's mind. The
counselor knew she needed the help; she had no
chance of succeeding in this type of endeavor alone.
Yet, as she remembered Mother Veronica's past,
Ttoi also understood the nun's hesitation and tried
to go gently as she explained to Mother Veronica what
it was they needed to do.
Now Troi, Mother Veronica, and
Joakal sat in a tight circle, holding hands.
Their eyes were closed and their faces drawn up
into frowns. Especially Troi's. She had used
several different techniques she had learned during
her years of training on Betddazed to try and reach the
hidden depths of the young King's mind. So far she had
had no success. For the first time in several years
Troi wished for full telepathic talents. Although
Mother Veronica had agreed, albeit, reluc-
tantly, to allow Troi to establish the link with
her mind once more, and the nun's psychic strength was
augmenting Troi's own, Mother Veronica was
untrained. They could not work truly in tandem. There was
a part of Mother Veronica that was holding back. At
times her personal horror at using her mind
to invade that of another being, however willing, was so
strong Troi found herself having to struggle through a
backwash of Mother Veronica's emotions while still
trying to find the way through Joakal's mental de-
fenses.
Finally, Troi sighed. She released her hold
on the hands of her companions and opened her eyes.
The captain sat a few feet away, watching them
and willing them to succeed. Troi met his eyes and she
shook her head in answer to his worried
expression.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Joakal's shields
are too strong. And they are shields, Captain.
Now that I've touched them, I have no doubts."
"But I did feel something," Joakal said. He
searched for the right word. "A . . . a stirring, or
something."
"Counselor?" the captain asked.
"Perhaps, sir," Troi answered, carefully
keeping her voice neutral. She had felt no
such response, but this was the first time since they had
awakened in Joakal's presence that she had sensed
any positive emotion in the young King.
"Maybe after we have rested," she continued, "and
any lingering effects of the drug have worn off . . .
." She let the statement remain unfinished; she
did not want to deny their hopes or raise false
ones.
Again the captain's eyes met hers, and she knew
he understood exactly what she had not said, and why.
"Very good, Counselor," he replied aloud.
"And
you're right, of course. I know that I, for one, still
have a pounding headache."
"'Someone should bring some food soon,"
Joakal said. "My captivity may not be in the
most comfbrtable surroundings, but Beahoram is quite
insistent that I do not starve."
Picard nodded. "Then I suggest we all try
to rest until the food arrives."
Their little group broke up. As Troi looked
for a way to be comfortable on the cold stone of the cell,
Joakal retrieved the blankets he had been
given for warmth. He stood and shook one, then
spread it on the floor. "Please," he said,
gesturing that Troi and Mother Veronica should use it.
Then he handed Troi the other blanket for a covering.
Troi was grateful. The material of the nightdress
she was wearing, while comfortable to sleep in, did not
give her much protection from the chill air of the
cell. Mother Veronica was still in the habit and veil
she had been wearing when she suc- cumbed to the drug
in their wine. She did not seem to notice the cold
and Troi envied her the heavy material.
"Thank you," Troi said and she smiled at the
King as she moved onto the warm thickness of the
blanket. Mother Veronica joined her, and Joakal
took a place next to where the captain sat with his
back against the wall, his arms folded across his chest and
his eyes closed.
"Perhaps," the captain said without opening his eyes,
"while we rest, you could tell us more about your world and
your people."
"Of course, Captain," Joakal replied.
"What would you like to know?" "I leave that to you. Any
information will be helpful."
Troi watched the young King's face as he tried
to decide what to say. Her foray into his mind had
made
her sensitive to the nuances of his emotions and she
knew how deeply he was hurt by his captivity.
But now, she also knew the resilience of his spirit.
Earlier, Joakal's depression had been
pervasive, a black melancholy held off only
by occasional flashes of anger. Now that he was no
longer alone and a single thread-of hope had been
offered, slender though it was, he had banished all
thoughts of defeat
As she closed her eyes, Troi shifted her
attention to Mother Veronica. Troi could feel the
nun's weariness in both body and mind. The recent
upheavals to her life were taking their toll on the
nun. Yet she, like the King, possessed an inner
core, a center of strength that was both tough and
pliable. Troi had felt it often during
their work together on board the Enterprise. She had
felt it again here, when the nun struggled to overcome
her personal repugnance and yield control of her
telepathic abilities to Troi. That she had not
always succeeded was irrelevant. Troi heard the
rustle of cloth as Joakal shifted his position,
ready now to speak. "Much of what I could tell you,"
he began, "you have doubtless already learned in preparation
for coming to Capulon IV. I would have in your
position, and I am certain you are no stranger to the
necessities of diplomatic encounters,
Captain. I assume, therefore, you know the
statistics on our industries and agriculture,
our population dispersement, socio-political
hierarchies, basic religious observances, and
social customs. Am I correct?"
"You are," the captain replied.
Joakal shifted positions once more. "I have
already told you that our society is based upon the
dictates of our religion. Harsh as some of those
ways are, we are not an unfeeling people. We are a
people dedicated to
the Virtues of Wisdom. Before the door of every
temple are four pillars. They represent the four
faces of Wisdom: Patience, Honesty,
Mercy with Justice, and Faith. The pillars themselves
are; called the Guardians of the Virtues and they
are there to remind us of what we seek and what we
value. "My ancestor whom I have already mentioned
to you, Joakal I'lium the First," the present
Joakal continued, "was a great King, a King who
had gained Wisdom. He is the example to us of
what we strive to become. Of the many stories that have
survived the generations since his reign, my
favorite is this one:
"There were two bakers in the royal city. They were
both of fine old families. They both had
wellestablished shops where each was reputed to bake
and sell the finest goods in the world. A rivalry
grew up between them. They decided to have a contest for the
title of best baker and they asked the King to be the
judge.
"On the day of the competition the two bakers arrived
at the palace to use the royal ovens and await the
King's decision. They baked all day, using
secret recipes and skills they had developed
over the years of their rivalry. Then they presented
the products of their labor to the King. "The room was
filled with spectators as the King began to eat.
He sampled first one item then another,
praising their virtues of taste, aroma, and
texture. He tasted dozens of different breads and
rolls and cakes and pies and pastries until he
could eat no more. Then he went to his throne and sat
in silence, contemplating his judgment. The minutes
stretched on until finally the contestants could wait
no longer, Tell us, they begged him, tell us who
is the greatest baker.
"King Joakal looked up. He was frowning and
unhappy. "Today," he said, "I have tasted
delicacies such as 1 thought could only exist in
dreams. The God, himself, must be tempted to come and
walk once more among us so that he might smell these
smells and taste this food. But, I cannot name either of
you the greatest baker. Each of you has qualities the
other lacks. It is the one who can combine these
talents who will be without peer."
"The bakers hung their heads and went away. But
within the month they had opened a shop together.. Once
they realized they had things to learn from and to teach each
other, their past rivalry died away-and the city reaped
the benefits of their new partnership."
Lying on the soft blanket on the floor,
Troi listened to the King's tale. His low, polished
voice related her like a lullaby sung
to a tired child. As he finished speaking, she felt
herself drifting toward the place where sleep hovered,
waiting to drop its mantle of dreams across her.
willing mind.
Anger blazed. It flared with pyrotechnic fury
behind Troi's eyes and seared the slumber from her
mind. She came awake with a start. Beside her, Mother
Veronica moaned in agony. Troi put a hand
on her arm. Shh, she thought to the nun, making use
of the light, familiar link they had used during their
long hours on the Enterprise. Let me listen.
Cautiously, Troi opened one eye. Both the
captain and Joakal were on their feet, confronting .
. . Troi shifted her glance. . . Beahoram.
Standing so near Joakal, the mirror likeness of them
was even more striking. But the emotions, the inner
qualities of mind and soul that Troi could perceive, were
as different as their faces were the same. And
Beahoram's voice, when he spoke as he was
speaking row, had an edge to 151
it Troi had never heard from Joakal, not even
when she had first awakened in this cell and felt his
utter despair.
""dour threats do not concern me, Captain
Picard," Beahoram was saying. "Neither
does your Federation. I know about your Prime
Directive. Once I am crowned, I will be the
legal ruler. By your own laws and oaths, you cannot
interfere with this culture if I choose to order you
to leave, which I will. But in fact, Captain, I am
grateful that you are here, grateful enough that I will let
you live. But don't presume too far upon that
gratitude. For now, your presence has given me
the excuse I need to move the coronation forward. In
just a few hours I will be crowned the Abscdute of
Capulon N."
"'y . . , you can't do that," Joakal stammered.
"(greater-than have yes I can, Brother,"
Beahoram said, his eyes narrowing as he looked at
Joakal's face. Another wave of anger, tinged
black with hatred, surged from Bealtoram and crashed
through the room. "I have claimed to need the full
Wisdom of the Gad in order to decide whether or not
to join the Federation. No one has dared to challenge this
claim."
Beahoram turned back to Picard. His voice
took on a silken formality that was more chilling than the
obvious enmity with which he spoke to his brother.
"Of course," he said. "I will not be able
to release you and the others until after I have
divested my brother of the contents of his mind. After that
is accomplished, I doubt there will be enough left of him
to be worthy of your support as a ruler, even if
you were so allowed by your Federation laws."
"Beahoram," the captain snapped, "what you're
planning is no different from murder."
Beahoram laughed; it was a cruel, dark sound.
"Murder? No. Justice-a life for a life.
My past, my rightful life here at the palace as the
son of a King, was robbed from me. Now his future will
be taken from him. It is Justice-and soon,
Brother," Beahoram said, looking again at
Joakal, "soon I will have everything."
Beahoram turned on his heel and strode to the
door. When Troi heard it clang shut, she sat
up. Picard and Joakal turned to her. The young
King's cheeks had become ashen and she felt the slow
coil of terror that was winding its way through his mind.
"Beahoram believes what he just said,
Captain," Troi told them. "He believes that
what he is doing is some strange form of justice.
Beahoram's need for vengeance is so strong that it
has become his entire identity. His mind is so
twisted that he cannot see beyond his own plans. He
doesn't care who pays the price for him
to get what he thinks he deserves."
"Whatever Beahoram's motives," the captain
said, "we cannot just sit here and wait. Are you and Mother
Veronica sufficiently rested to try again to . .
. what did you call it . . . unlock
Joakal's abilities?"
Troi turned to the nun. Mother Veronica, like the
young King, was white-faced and shaken. The force of dark
emotions that had brought Troi awake had screamed
painfully through the nun's mind.
Suddenly, there were soft, shuffling sounds from outside
the cell and a woman's voice was whispering
Joakal's name. He ran to the door. "Elana,"
he cried out. While the others watched, Joakal
tried, unsuccessfully, to fit more than his hands through
the bars of the small window in the cell door.
Dainty, white hands came up to meet his and their
fingers caressed. Troi smiled at the sudden burst
of joy that filled the room.
"Joakal." The woman's voice was full: of
happy tears. "I found you. The God be thanked .
. . I found you at last."
"How? Elana, tell me what's happened.
How did
you--"
"Oh, Joakal, did you think I wouldn't know that
he was not you? I came back early. I went to see
you and to tell you that yes, I wanted to be your wife.
But it wasn't you!" Her voice wavered on the last
word, as if the pain of that meeting was still fresh. There was
a pause, then Elana's voice began again, strong
and clear.
"I went to the temple," she said. "I tried
to convince the Chief Servant that something was wrong, but
he wouldn't believe me. I've been in retreat
at the temple, and I thought and prayed and tried
to understand why you had changed. Then last night your
brother had his Vigil-your Vigil. I stayed in the
temple loft. That's when I learned the truth of who
he is and what his plans are. I've been searching
for you ever since. I love you, Joakal."
"Elana . . . I thought I'd lost you forever.
That was the cruelest pain of all." Again his hands sought
closer contact.
The captain cleared his throat. "Excuse; me,
Your Majesty," he said, addressing the King formally.
"Time is short."
Joakal released one of Elana's hands and
turned. "Of course," he said as he motioned for
Picard to came to the door. "Captain
Picard, this is Elana, First Daughter of the
House E'shala."
"A pleasure, ma'am-circumstances
notwithstanding," Picard said summarily, trying to think
of a way to bring Joakal's mind back to their
present problem.
Elana did it for him. "Joakal," she said,
"your brother has moved the coronation to this afternoon."
"I know-he was here. We have to find a way out of this
cell."
"Tell me what to do."
Joakal ran his free hand through his hair, then
down across his beard as he stood thinking. Picard
stepped closer to the cell-door window. "Do you think
you could get to our rooms?" he asked Elana.
"Our uniforms are there, and our communicators. With
them, we could contact our ship and they would send
help."
Elana shook her head. "There are too many people,
too much activity now. My presence there would be
noticed."
"Is there another communications system somewhere in the
city that you could use safely?"
Elana thought for a moment. "I have friends in the
city," she began. Then she shook her
head. "No, their systems would not be strong enough. The
only ones that could reach your ship are in the
palace-and the temple."
Elana's face grew animated, "Faellon
has one in his office," she continued. "With the
coronation only a few hours away, they're so
busy at the temple I should be able to use that one
unseen."
"Good," the captain said, taking command. "Now
listen carefully. The name of my ship is the
Enterprise, and my First Officer is Commander
Riker. Tell him where we are and that we're being
held captive. He'll know what to do. Keep your
conversation short and don't take any risks you
don't have to. You're our only contact with
freedom. And thank you."
Picard stepped away from the door to give
Elana
and Joakal what privacy he could. While they
whis-
pered intimately for a few minutes longer,
Picard came to sit beside Troi and Mother
Veronica. He noticed Troi was smiling.
"Counselor?" he asked.
"Their joy is quite infectious," she
explained. "They truly love each other.
"The galaxy would be a much easier place in which
to exist," Mother Veronica added, "if all minds were
as filled with such loving thoughts."
Troi nodded. Then her smile faded as she
turned to the nun. "All the work we did," she
began. "Your shields-was
Mother Veronica shook her head, her expression
touched with weariness. "I can block out the worst of
it," she said. "But some thoughts are too strong.
Beahoram's hatred of his brother and his need for
revenge-it almost overpowered me. Jaakal and
Elana's love-the strength of their feelings is like
sunshine, with warmth to touch even the shadows."
"Let us hope," the captain said, "that it will bring
a little light into our situation, as well."
ELANA ED THE TE-WLE once more. She
slid into a back pew and knelt there in an
attitude of pious meditation. Although her thoughts
automatically issued half-formed prayers for
guidance and success, her eyes were busy
furtively assessing the activities of the other
Servants.
All around her they were preparing the temple for the
coronation. From the steps outside the great
doors, throughout the narthex, the loft where the Servants
sat, the long central nave with its multitude of
pews and kneeling benches, and the center aisle that led
the way to the elevated great altar, all these had to be
cleansed and purified before the solemn ceremony this
afternoon.
The ancient paraments and antegendia had to be
pulled from their places of storage, shaken, aired,
and pressed before they could be used upon the altar. The
long banners decorated with the colors and symbols
of
the thirty Gentle Houses must be unrolled,
checked, and hung from the ceiling, fifteen to a side,
to line the walls of the interior of the temple. They,
finally, the royal vestments and regalia, the sacred
implements of crowning, had to be prepared and laid out
in readiness for tine ceremony.
While the other temple inhabitants scurried
on their tasks, Faellon was busy caring for the altar
itself and for the sacred bowl. These, too, must be cleaned and
polished, but only by the Chief Servant's hands.
Elana was relieved to see Faellon occupied and
away from his office.
Breathing one final prayer for success, she rose
from her knees and began walking toward the
transept at the head of the nave, the left arm of which
led off to the Servants" quarters, and
to Faellon's office. She dodged around the other
Servants who were bent to their labors, and tried
hiding her growing nervousness behind smiles and nods and
greetings. The long aisle felt endless as she
walked. Yet, too soon, Elana found herself at
the end of it, standing before the high altar.
Automatically, she bowed and made her obeisance
to the God. When she straightened, she found
Faellon's eyes upon her.
Immediately, Elana's mouth went dry. conHer
heart began to race. It thudded in her chest and sent
the blood pounding in her ears until she was certain
Faellon must hear it, too. But he only smiled
and, with a nod., returned to his work.
It took Elana a full two seconds
to realize he had looked away. She swallowed
back a cry of relief and concentrated on keeping
her posture relaxed as she turned to the left and
headed for the small side door. Her feet wanted
to run; her brain screamed at her to hurry, but
Elana forced herself to walk slowly, calmly, 158
pretending she had nothing more on her mind than
reaching her own room for a time of meditation.
But once Elana passed through the door and it had
closed behind her, a sudden fit of shaking gripped
her. She leaned back against the wall before her knees
could buckle, grateful for the solid support of the
stone. The door to Faellon's office stood a
few feet away. Elana eyed it suspiciously,
as if it alone had the power to defeat her. For the first
time in her life, Elana was truly frightened-for herself
if she were caught; for Joakal, and for the people of this
planet. What future did any of them have if
Beahoram was not stopped?
E1ana took a deep breath and, gathering her
courage around her like a cloak against the night, she
entered the Chief Servant's office. The room
seemed bigger without Faellon sitting behind his desk,
and much, much more silent. Elana found she was holding
her breath. She let it out with a rush and hurried to the
communications console.
It was different from any system she had seen before.
Elana sat down in the Chief Servant's
highbaeked chair, propped her chin in her hand, and
studied the controls, trying to find the way to make the
system come to life.
Precious seconds changed into minutes that
slipped away unnoticed while Elana
studied the board. Finally, she thought she knew how
to turn the console on, but beyond that she was stymied. There
were fourteen buttons grouped under the label
"Temple," six under "Palace" and eighteen
marked "City," But in the center of the board were
twenty-seven buttonsEiana counted them-under no
heading at all.
What are they for? Elana wondered, her
frustrations mounting and mingling with the urgency that contin-
ued to gnaw at the back of her mind. What if
I press the wrong ones? Will alarms sound?
Guards come running? Doors automatically
lock? Did she dare to take the chance?
Did she dare not?
Elana chewed the corner of her lower lip. She
knew that time was passing and with each moment of hesitation,
the danger increased. She must act-for better or
worse, she must act now.
Her hand had only the slightest of tremors as
she touched the button at the base of the console that she
hoped was the power switch. The viewscreen filled with
light and Elana breathed a silent thank you to the
God. That had been her only sure move; from here
on it would be by trial and error, pressing buttons
at random and hoping she could disconnect before
she was discovered. She would have to continue that way until
she made contact with the Federation ship.
Faana closed her eyes. The picture of
Joakal's face as he looked out at her from behind
those bars took shape. She felt again his fingers
entwined with hers as he whispered that he loved her-words
she had given up hope of hearing again. The
memories strengthened her and she reached again toward the
console.
"Elana!" a voice snapped. "What are you
doing?"
Elana looked up. Faellon stood in the
doorway, surprise slowly turning to anger across
his usually placid features.
"What are you doing?" he demanded again as he
stepped further into the room.
Elana felt the blood drain from her face. The
hand that had been stretched toward the console flew to her
mouth. She stood. The chair grated across the
floor, loud in the tense silence.
"I . . . uh," Elana began. Faellon
came toward her. The door swung shut behind him,
carried by its own
weight. As the Chief Servant approached,
Elana stepped backward until she
felt the edge of the chair behind her knees. She could
retreat no further, nor would she. For Joakal's
sake, she swallowed her fear.
"Faellon," she said, her voice sounding stronger
than she felt. "You have to listen to me. The man who
claims to be the King, the man you're planning
to elevate to the highest and mast powerful position on
our planet, is a liar. He is not Joakal.
He's Jaakal's brother--his twin."
Faellon stopped a couple of feet in front
of Elana. The expression on his face changed
again. Anger faded, to be replaced by a look of
deep sadness. He shook his head slowly.
"My dear child," he said, "I thought your time among
us had eased your burden and that the God had healed you
of your delusions. Now I see that is not so, and I
am sorry."
"No," Elana cried. Desperation made her
voice more shrill than she intended and she lowered it.
"Faellon," she began again, "I'm not
deluded. I've seen Joakal, the real one.
He's being held captive in a cell below the
palace. The Federation people are with him. They're being
kept there by Joakal's brother until after the
coronation."
"And then what, Elana?" Faellon asked
softly. "What does this brother then plan to do?"
Elana knew then that Faellon did not believe
her, but she continued anyway, hoping to somehow convince
him that she was telling the truth. "He plans to strip
away Joakal's mind and take his place as
Absolute."
Again Faelion shook his head. The sadness in his
eyes deepened. "Elana," he said softly. "There
are no twins on this world-and the power you fear, the power
to take another's mind, is among the abilities
which the God, in His wisdom, has taken from our
people. Even the Absolute no longer possesses such
power."
"conBut Faellon, I heard-was
Faellon held up his hand to silence her. "I
did not knew the depth of your sorrow when you cane
to us," he said. "I blare myself that I did not
conrealize how unsettled your mind had become. I
should have done mare to help you."
Keeping his eyes locked on Elena's as if
willing her not to move, Faellon reached down and
pressed one of the many buttons under the "Temple"
heading. A few brief moments later the door
to his office again opened. Two of the mate
Servants stood there.
"I'm sorry, Eiana," Faellon said.
"But: this is for your own safety."
He made a motion with his hand. Elena looked up
and saw the Servants coming toward her.
"No-wait! Faellon, I can prove what
I'm saying."
The Servants kept approaching. They came
around the desk. Elena backed away from them, and ran
into Faellon. His hands closed around her sums,
pinning her to him with more strength than she would have thought the
Chief Servant's old and frail body
possessed.
""Take her to her room," the Chief Servant
ordered. "And make certain that she remains there. The
mind of our dear Sister in the God has been
disturbed and we must protect her from herself."
The hands of the other Servants locked on
to Elena's arms. Faellon released her and she was
pulled, gently but inexorably, toward the door.
"Faellon-please, don't do this," Elena cried.
"Listen to me. Come with me and let me prove what
I'm telling you is true."
"disAfter the coronation, my child," Faelddlon said as
Elana neared the door. "We'll
talk more then. And I promise, we will find a way
to heal you. You must have faith, Elana."
Elana closed her eyes and hung her head.
For the moment she was defeated, but only for the moment.
She would not give up.
She raised her head and met Faellon's
eyes. "You're wrong," she said as she felt one of
her captors open the office door. "You're wrong
about everything. You say I must have faith. Well, I
don't want it-not your kind of faith. Your faith
has blinded you to Truth. his
Then she was pulled through the doorway and out of
Faellon's office. Once the door had shut, the
Chief Servant sat down heavily in his chair,
shaken by the encounter. How could he have been so blind to her
condition? he wondered. He had thought it only the
distressed imaginings, the self-delusions that too
often come with intense and unrequited love. He had
encountered such often enough in his role as Chief Servant
of the largest temple in the land. Many people came to him for
counseling and other reasons, and he usually was able
to help them.
But Elana-this was something more. What mischief had
she been up to here in his office? What had she been
trying to do? Faellon stared at the
communications console as if it could give him the
answers he needed. The screen was still lit, but there was
no indication of whom Elana had been trying
to call, or for what purpose. Faellon
depressed the power button, turning the screen off,
and sat back in his chair.
Where had Elana come across such ridiculous
stories? Faellon wondered. A twin brother of the
King. There were no twins, not alive. The Law
strictly forbade it. The Law-that must be where
Elana found the idea. Faellon knew that
Joakal had spent much of
his time in these last years poring over the old
texts. The Chief Servant had even provided
many of the more ancient and obscure ones for the King
to read. Elana must have read them, too, and somehow the
idea of a twin had implanted itself in her
subconscious mind, providing the reason for what
she saw as the King's changed behavior.
The mystery solved, at least for now, Faellon
ran a hand across his tired eyes. There was still so much
to do. He had only come into his office to signal for
more cleaning supplies to be brought up from the temple
stores. As he reached out td depress the intercom
to the Cellarer's office, he felt the
weight of his years settle a sudden burden on his
back. I'm getting too old for any of this, he
thought. Too old and too tired. I can no longer
Serve as I should. One more duty and then I'll name
my successor.
Faellon closed his eyes and leaned his head
farther back against his chair. A smile spread across
his features, softening the worn lines in his face.
After tomorrow, he thought, I'll retire to quiet
Service at the temple near my childhood
home. The North-march is so beautiful this time of
year and I'd like to see the waterfall of Ennys again
....
Will Riker sat fidgeting in the command chair on the
bridge of the Enterprise. Midmorning had come and
gone and neither the captain nor Troi had reported
in yet, nor had they responded to any attempts
to contact them. Mother hen or not, Riker was getting
impatient.
"conLieutenant Worf," he called to his
Chief of Security, who also manned communications.
"Hail the palace. Let's see if we can find
out what's going on."
"conhTo response, sir," the Klingon said a
moment later.
"Keep trying, Lieutenant."
"Aye, sir."
Riker frowned. This was not like the captain, and
Riker did not like it. No, he did not like it at
all.
"I am finally receiving a response from the
palace, Commander," Lieutenant Worf announced
a few minutes later. Riker nodded and stood,
unconsciously mimicking the captain's habitual
tug at his uniform top. "On screen,
Lieutenant," he said. Immediately the now familiar
view of the planet was replaced by the head and shoulders
of a man, several times larger than life.
"I am Commander William T. Riker, on
board the USS Enterpriseea"...Riker announced,
unintimidated by the giant size of the vision before him.
"I am trying to contact the members of our Away
Team that beamed to your planet yesterday afternoon."
"Greetings, Commander. I am Aklier, Elder
of the House Ti'Kara, member of the Ruling
Council. I apologize for disthe delay in
answering your summons, but I have only just been
informed that your communications system has been
signaling for some time."
"Apology accepted," Riker
replied, keeping the impatience he felt from his
voice. "As I said, the reason we are calling is
to try and reach our captain. He failed to report
in this morning."
"Quite so, Commander. The reason for the delay in
answering your call and the reason you have not heard from your
captain are no doubt the same. Today at dawn,
our King's Vigil for his Coming to Age concluded and the
ceremony for his entry into True Manhood took
place at the temple. No communication devices
are allowed within the temple where they might disturb the
worshippers from their meditation
on the God. If your captain and the rest of your.-
Away Team did you call it?-attended the
ceremony, they would not have been able to contact you."
"When did this ceremony end?" Riker asked.
"Why, only a short time ago, and things have been
in turmoil ever since." "It is most unusual
for the captain not to have contacted us as soon as the
ceremony ended. With your permission,". Riker
continued, "I would like to beam another Away Team to the
palace and verify the safety of our people."
"Commander," Aklier replied, sounding shocked,
"Capulon IV is a peaceful planet. I
assure you that no harm has come to your people.
As for more members of your crew coming here, I'm
afraid that is quite impassible. As I said, things are
in turmoil here. By a divine command which came to our
King during his Vigil last night, the coronation
has been moved to this afternoon. His Majesty must be
empowered with the full Wisdom of the God to resolve
his uncertainties aver the treaty with your Federation.
I know this was a concern of your captain's. Your people are
probably closeted with the King now, discussing the
treaty, and have not had the chance to return to their roams
and retrieve their communication devices. If you will
be patient a little while longer, Commander, I'm
certain everything will be explained."
"But, Elder Aklier," Riker said, "surely
two more of our people would not cause any more upset to your
preparations."
"I'm sorry, Commander Riker. The palace is
very large and they would have to be guided. We cannot spare
anyone at the moment. Furthermore, if your people are
with the King, as I believe, they cannot be disturbed without
offending His Majesty. Now, if you will excuse me,
Commander, I have duties to which I must return. Good
day, Commander."
The large viewscreen went blank. Then the
sight of the planet loomed again, contact with the
surface broken. Will Riker sat back down in the
center chair and scrubbed his hand across his lower face,
stroking his beard contemplatively.
It all sounds so plausible, he thought, and I
don't believe a word of it. Cluck-cluck.
AFTER SEVERING COMMUNICATION with the Federation ship,
Aklier fled to his rooms within the palace. He
hid there throughout the day. Although he knew that he should be
overseeing preparations for the coronation and for the banquet
to follow, he could not bring himself to face the people of this
world, the people he was betraying.
Now the final hour had arrived. Too soon,
Aklier knew, he would be called to the procession that
would escort Beahoram to the temple and the ancient
rite. Too soon, Aklier would have to play his
final part in seeing Beahoram crowned Absolute
and making him the God-embodied to his people. But
Aklier felt none of the satisfaction he had
expected this moment to bring. There was no joy, no
sense of accomplishment anywhere in his mind or soul.
Instead, as he continued to wait in his palace
apartments so near to the King's, Aklier paced the
thickly carpeted floor. His troubled thoughts
allowed him no peace. Aklier sank into a chair and
covered his face with his hands. He had known
from the start that Beahoram was different from Joakal, but
his blindness to that difference had been misplaced and
self-imposed. In his desire to see that hated law
abolished, Aklier knew he had closed his eyes
to too much.
He raised his head. On the table next to him,
he noticed the goblet of wine he had poured himself
hours ago and then forgotten. He reached out and
grasped it, raised it to his lips, and drank
to ease not the thirst of his body, but of his soul..
Aklier lowered the goblet from his lips, but the thirst
remained. Doubts assailed his mind in new and
torturous ways. Had Beahoram always been as
cruel and hard as he had become lately? Aklier
wondered. A month ago, he would had said no, but
now he was not so sure.
Aklier remembered how he had first seen
Beahoram sixteen months ago during a visit
to Port Ceevat in the west. The Elder had been
there to supervise the off-loading of cargo due for the
King's household, and Beahoram had been working on
the docks. Aklier had recognized him immediately and the
sight of him had brought to mind the long-forgotten
incident of Joakal's birth. Piecing together what
must have happened, Aklier had arranged
to meet with the young dock worker whose face was the mirror
image of the King's.
Or he thought he had arranged it. Now he
wondered. Beahoram had been willing enough for the meeting
to take place, and he had known the story of his own
birth. What was more, though at the time Aklier had
been too involved in the conception of this plot, too
caught up in the sudden possibility of
attaining his long-desired goal to notice it,
Beahoram bad known about both Aklier's daughter
and his wife[*thorn]
Again his new doubts whispered. Had Beahoram
engineered their meeting after all? He had certainly
made himself conspicuous throughout the day. If I had not
reacted, not sought him out, Aklier wondered, would he
have found some other way for us to meet? were all the words
and actions I believed to be commitment to a cause
mere manipulation? Why else would he have known about
my past? Countless people all across the planet have had
to sacrifice their children to the law and to the God. Why
else should Beahararn know about my personal tragedy?
Aklier stared at the near empty goblet in his hand.
The sip that remained in the crystal cup was deep
red-blood red. Soon he would have blond on his
hands. No, it was there already. There was the
blood of his daughter, whom his hands had carried to the
temple and to her death. It did not matter that the law
of this world had required it. The blood remained. And
there was the blood of his wife, who had died of grief
and hopelessness. To those he had now added the blood of
betrayal, and of blasphemy against the God. The thought
chilled him. If the God would not forgive him, he
would be banned from the afterlife and eternally cut off from
everyone he had ever loved. He would never be
reunited with his wife and child.
Aklier threw the goblet from him. It crashed into the
wall and splintered, and the red wine trickled slowly
down the wall. Aklier lunged to his feet and
turned away, but the bitter aftertaste of the wine
remained in his mouth. Mare bitter were the thoughts that
continued to tumble through his brain.
I have betrayed my King and my people, Aklier
thought as he took a few stumbling steps. I have
betrayed my faith and my God. He stiffened his
back for a moment; I would do it again, he told himself.
I would do anything to rid this world of that foul law.
To keep my promise to Rayne, I would willingly
suffer the eternal blackness. Then his doubts crept
back and his shoulders once again drooped. What, the
voice of his uncertainties whispered, what
if Beahoram is lying? What if he is only
using you to gain the throne, and he has no intention of
keeping his promise? What if all you have risked
means nothing, after all? Aklier did not want
to listen to these thoughts. It was all too possible.
Decades embedded themselves into the lines on
Aklier's face. Suddenly he looked like an
old, old man.
If only I had trusted in Joakal's goodness,
be thought as he again began to pace around the room. I
should have gone to Joakal and talked to him. He would have
listened. I was his friend.
Aklier turned his face toward the ceiling. He
shut his eyes tightly, trying to squeeze away the
pain he felt in his soul. Oh, Joakal, why
didn't you discuss your plans with me before I met
Beahoram instead of later? Why didn't you tell
me before you were down in that cell? You said you had help
coming, but how could I believe you? I thought you were trying
to talk your way free. Then the Federation people showed up
and they had the Little Mother with them. I should have trusted you,
Joakal. I should have known you wouldn't lie to me.
Aklier paced around the room a few more times.
He knew he was trapped by his own choices. He
was as much a captive as Joakal.
Aklier stopped. A plan, a sudden breath of
hope
blew through his brain and he held himself still, afraid
that any movement might make it disappear. His hand
went to the deep pocket of his pants and he felt the
weight of the extra key Beahoram had given him.
I'll go to the cell, he thought as he swallowed down
a gulp of air. I'll go to the cell and release
them; then I'll offer myself up to Joakal's mercy.
He'll understand. I didn't want him harmed-I
never wanted anyone harmed. I just wanted . . .
There was a knock on Aklier's door. His
breath caught in his throat and his new purpose
fled.
He turned. With heavy, weary footsteps, he
crossed to the door and opened it. A liveried
servant stood there.
"The procession is forming, Elder," he said
respectfully. "Your presence is required."
Aklier nodded. Too late, his thoughts whispered
in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Too late. . . .
Beahoram stood in his apartments, his arms
outstretched while his dressers added the last
refinements to his attire. As for his
Vigil, he was dressed in white. But this was no
simple tunic and pants of bleached cloth. The
clothes he wore today were of brocade woven of
shimmering silk, with the predatory bird that was the
symbol of his House worked white-uponwhite into the
weaving. The buttons that ran in a line down the
front of the tunic were diamond-encircled rubies.
More rubies sparked their particular fire at his
cuffs and around the base of the stiff high collar, and his
boots were of soft red leather.
One dresser knelt before him, wrapping a
crimson sash around Beahoram's waist. Another
stood a few feet away, waiting to fasten the long
cloak of white 172
brocade, on the back of which the same predatory
bird had been stitched in gold and inset with rubies
for the beak, eye, and talons, about Beahoram's
shoulders. A third stood in the corner, carefully
cradling the ancient golden Circlet of Kingship
with its single bright ruby that would grace Beahoram's
head as he entered the temple. Once these final
embellishments had been added to his attire, the
dressers stepped back to let Beahoram view
himself in the long mirror.
Beahoram could not suppress the smile
that came to his lips. He looked majestic. He
looked every bit the part comhe had assumed and was now
to become in fact. No one would think to question or doubt
him. Everything he had dreamed of, everything he had
planned and worked for, was his now. There was a discreet
knock on the door. Beahoram nodded and one of the
servants who had dressed him went to answer it.
Another servant, young and liveried, stood in the
doorway.
"The procession has gathered below, dire," he
said with a deep bow, "and they await your presence."
"Very well," Beahoram answered and he turned
to follow his guide into the corridor.
The servant walked before him down the long
hallway to the top of the great stairs. Then he stood
aside to let Beahoram descend alone.
Beahoram walked slowly. The long train of his
cloak fanned out across the stairs above him. The
silk of his brocaded clothing and the jewels studded about
his person all flashed in the bright lights of the hall.
One by one, the Elders turned to him, then dropped
to one knee and bowed in deep obeisance.
Beahoram stood on the stairs, gazing in
triumph at
the sea of bowed heads. In their hands he
saw the
swords and scepters, robes, stoles, chains,
and crowns with which he would soon be invested. His thoughts
soared. They leapt and reeled and laughed. He had
won.
Troi could not feel her body, nor could she
feel the hands she knew were clasped tightly in her
own. The only reality now, and for these last few
hours, was the psychic world through which she wandered, searching
for passage to the nether regions of Joakal's
mind. Somewhere, she knew, waited the key
to unlocking the full potential of the young King's
powers. Never had Troi found a task more
difficult. Twice she believed she had found the
passage she sought, only to have her efforts blocked
by shields behind shields behind shields, in configurations
she had never before encountered and for which all her Betazoid
training offered no key. The amount of psychic energy
this effort was consuming was staggering. Alone, Troi
knew she would have been forced to sever contact long ago.
It was because of Mother Veronica that this effort could be
made at all, and whether they should succeed or fail,
Troi's gratitude to the nun remained the same.
To Troi, this was exhausting work, but for Mother
Veronica it was like being caught in a
nightmare from which there was no way to break free. Each
thought, each image and memory that flowed from
Joakal's mind through hers, was the personal
horror, the years of striving and failing to be free
of other people's minds, being condensed, intensified, and
twisted. Joakal's thoughts were invading her as she was
invading him. It did not matter that he had opened
willingly to them or that their lives could well depend
upon this action. Mother Veronica found each second of
contact
a soul-wrenching ordeal. She had to fight herself not
to break away, not to retreat to the far corner of the
room and beg to be left in peace. And Troi
experienced each second of the battle with her.
Troi would have spared Mother Veronica if it had
been possible. It was not; it was only through her link with
Mother Veronica that Trai could direct their efforts.
She could use her knowledge and training as would any
surgeon, but the nun's mind was the scalpel. Her
telepathic abilities were the instrument that must be
wielded if they were to find the pathway behind
Joakal's shields.
Troi felt the nun's abhorrence as once again
they attempted to delve deeply into the young King's
mind. Images, voices, snatches of
conversations, and half-remembered written phrases
flashed from Joakal's thoughts, through Mother
Veronica's, and into Troi's mind, instantly
accepted and ignored. These were surface memories,
the type that could be picked up on any finely tuned
neuro-scanner, in presence if not in content.
Troi rejected them at once, as she had been
doing for the hours she and the others had been in contact.
Once more, Troi tried to encounter the
neurosynaptic network that would lead to the
telepathic centers of Joakal's brain. Again her
passage was blocked and her probing was turned
aside like water hitting a wall. Her mind, and
Mother Veronica's, crashed back in on themselves.
She broke contact. As physical sensation
returned, she felt first the icy coldness of her own
body, then the trembling fatigue coming from Mother
Veronica. Troi saw how the effort of the last
hours had drained the nun. Joakal's face,
too, was possessed of a sickly pallor
that had little to do with the pale green light cast by the
surrounding stone. Only the captain, as he waited
for her report, had any energy to give. Troi
felt it emanating from him in strong and steady waves,
and she held to his strength like a lifeline.
Before she could meet his eyes or answer the
unspoken questions she knew would be waiting there, Troi
closed her eyes again. She forced herself to breathe
deeply a few times as she tried to banish the
depression of her failure.
Another failure to report; too many
failures.
She did not have to report it. The captain read it
in her face and in her silence. He stood to ease the
muscles in his back and legs that had cramped from
sitting still for so long while he watched and waited, not
wanting his movements to disturb their concentration. He
strode briskly around the cell.
"1'm sorry, sir," Troi began, but
Picard cut her off.
"You tried, Counselor," he said. "You all
tried, and that's the most anyone can do. Now we'll have
to try something else. But not until you've rested, and
each of you has eaten," he added, gesturing toward the
forgotten platter of bread and cheese and the pitcher of
water Beaharam had brought with his last visit.
Troi managed a wan smile and a nod,
relieved by the lack of recriminations in the
captain's words and in his thoughts.
"'That's better," he said as he
squatted down to pick up the platter and pitcher and
bring them closer to the others.
As he neared, Troi again felt the wash of his
strength. Even here, he was The Captain, in command of
himself and the situation, despite their captivity. This was
the very strength and indomitable will that had allowed him
to overcome the assimilation of the
Borg and had led not only to his own freedom but
to the salvation of the Federation.
Never more than at this moment had Troi been aware
of her admiration of the captain, and of her gratitude
to Starfleet for assigning her to serve under
Jean-Luc Picard.
WHEN ELANA HAD first fled from the palace and the
man she now knew as Beahoram, she had been
given a secluded room on the third floor of the
Servants" quarters at the back of the temple.
She was told it was a room where she would have
solitude in which to meditate and recover. Now it had
become as much a cell as the one in which she had found
Joakal. The Servants to whom Faellon had
entrusted her after he discovered her in his office had not
been harsh with her as they marched her through the
corridors. But neither had they been lax enough for her
to escape. They stood as her guards on the
other side of the locked door.
In the hours she had endured this enforced retreat,
Elana had pleaded and shouted, raged in anger against
the Chief Servant and against the God, beat out her
frustration on the door until her hands ached and her
throat was sore. Then she had wept with bitter,
angry tears. Now she sat on the edge of the bed and
stared at her feet. Her emotions were spent. From time
to time a tear still rolled down her cheek and dropped
unnoticed onto the hands that lay limp in her lap.
Elena could not say from where the tears came; her
reservoirs of both anger and sorrow were long
empty. The tears merely were.
From within the temple, a fanfare blasted,
announcing the entry of the royal procession. It
sounded once and then again, and still it did not penetrate
the fog that wrapped Elena's mind. But the third and
final blast reached her. Like a strong wind and the bright,
burning sun, it melted the mists that had enshrouded her
will and Elena knew she could not give up. She did
not waste time berating herself for her depression. Time was
too precious now; if need be, her
self-accusations could come later. Elena lifted her
head. Her eyes opened wide, and from some hidden
reserve energy surged back renewed.
Her eyes searched for anything to which familiarity
might have blinded her before. The door she knew was
blocked to her, and she tossed that thought away as quickly
as it appeared. The only other exit was the window.
She had looked through it before and found no avenue of
escape, but she now ran to it again.
The cobbled ground of the temple's enclosed outer
courtyard lay thirty feet below, taunting her with the
promise of unobtainable freedom. Too far
to jump, there was no tree near enough to climb down, no
tresses or latticework-nothing but cold, hard
stone.
Elena could hear the melodic chanting of the
Ser-vants gently filtering up from the temple as
they sang
the opening responses to the coronation rite. She
bent
her head farther out the window, looking for some way,
any way, to get free.
Four feet below her window, a small ledge, no
more than six inches wide, stuck out from the stone.
Another one was ten feet below that, marking the junction
of the stories. They both ran the full length of the
wall. Could she do it? Elana wondered. By jamming
her fingers into the cracks between the large stones
of which the temple was constructed and keeping her toes
on the ledge, could she slowly inch around the building and
escape?
Elana drew back from the window. She leaned
against the wall of her room and closed her eyes.
What she was contemplating was crazy, but there was no
other way. Did she have the strength? she wondered.
Did she have the courage? Even as she asked herself
these questions, she knew she had to try. She would never be
able to live with herself if she did not. Giving herself no
more time to think, she bent and took off her shoes. She
pulled the hem of her Servant's robe from back
to front between her legs and secured it with the sash around
her waist. Then she climbed out the window.
She sat for a moment on the sill, listening to the
sounds around her. The chanting from the temple, the
voices of children in the distance laughing and calling in their
play, birds singing, the sounds of the city. The sounds
of fife.
Elana knew that if she fell, she would not
survive. Yet there would be no life left for her
if Beahorarn was not stopped. Trying to ignore the
sudden twisting of her guts, Elana turned and
lowered herself over the edge. Her stomach grated against
the stone of the windowsill as she descended.
Lang heartbeats of panic swelled while her
bare feet sought the relative safety of
the ledge. Was it farther away than it looked?
What if she could not reach it at all? Would she have the
strength to pull herself back inside, or would she
hang here until her fingers grew numb and she
slipped, plummeting down to the courtyard and her
death?
These thoughts flashed in an instant through Elana's
brain. They were there in the sounds of her own breathing and the
feel of the stone beneath her body. She. did not want
to think them. She tried to concentrate only on her
actions, on each precious inch she covered.
Finally, her toes touched the small stone
outcropping. Her shoulders were still well above the
sill, her arms could still reach inside her room. She
rested her cheek against the stone surface where she had
sat a long moment before and waited until her heart
ceased its frantic pounding.
She did not look down as she moved on to the
next phase of her escape. She would not look
down again until she must. Instead her eyes scanner
the large square stones of the temple, tracing the path
her hands must follow. Once, the giant blocks
had fit together smoothly. But the passing
centuries of sun and wind and storms had worn down
the hard edges of the stones, creating cracks and
crevasses. Hope replaced desperation.
Confidence returned and Elana knew she could do it.
She began to inch away from the window. With her left
arm still hooked through the window opening, she reached out with
her right hand. Her fingers quested for the first of many
holds until she found a place where her fingers
slipped easily between the stones. She let go of the
window and moved her left hand into position.
Inch by inch, she slid her toes along the ledge.
She moved first one hand, then the other, cautiously,
trying to find the rhythm of movement that would
carry her to her destination. She did not dare make
a mistake. Her senses heightened until she could
feel each particle of dust beneath her fingertips, each
hidden, undried drop of dew. Still she continued on,
looking nowhere, thinking of nothing but the next place
to put her hands, the next slide of her feet.
Her shoulders began to ache from the position of her
outstretched arms. Her palms grew sweaty and her
fingertips were raw. The muscles of her calves
burned from the unnatural balance she fought
to maintain. Perspiration soaked the back of her
neck and pooled between her shoulder blades.
Finally, just when she thought she could go no farther,
Elana reached the corner of the building. Here the
stonemasons of that long forgotten era in which the temple
was built had carved images of their faith deep
into the cornerstones. These images were so familiar,
Elana had forgotten their existence. Now she clung
to the carving as a refuge and resting place. The outwork
was deep enough for her to stand and relieve the pressure
on her strained, protesting muscles.
For the first time since starting out, Elana dared
to look around. She faced another twenty yards of the
same precarious travel she had just endured. Then
the building turned again. From there, Elana knew it
was only a short distance to the roof of the covered
walkway between the temple itself and the Servants'
quarters. If she could make it to that roof-and she would
--then she would be safe. From there, she could find a
way to the ground.
The throbbing in her hands and legs subsided and
Eiana began again.
ySrhile Elana traced her spiderlike
crawl across the face of the building, Faellon
stood at the high altar. 182
The opening anthems and chanted prayers that
accompanied the King's entry into the temple
had all been sung. The ancient regalia was in
tie hands of the coronation officers and they stood in their
appointed places ready to bring each article to the
altar, to be blessed, anointed, and applied in its
prescribed function. The King himself lay
prostrate on the crimson silken cloth, waiting
to be raised up by consecrated hands and invested to his
new status. All was as it should be.
Yet, as Faellon held his hands out over the
great golden bowl ready to invoke the God's blessing
and power on these proceedings, he felt something stir
within his mind that had lain dormant for many years. The
sensitivity that had first caused Faellon to enter the
life of Service and had raised him to the Office of
Chief Servant returned. For so long it had
left him, faded through the years of disuse and hidden beneath
the routine of daily duties.
Now it whispered a warning to him; something was wrong,
There was a darkness here, an undercurrent of tension and
fear that was swelling and had nothing to do with the solemnity
of holy rite..
In the twenty-two years Faelion had been
Chief Servant, he had officiated at many
royal ceremonies, including the burial of
Joakal's father and mother, and Joakal's own
installment as King nine years ago. He remembered
well the feelings, the emotions that had come from the young
King then. Now he sensed something entirely different,
and his receptivity was frightening him. He no longer
wanted to hear or to be the Voice of the God. He
wanted only to perform this final duty to his King,
then retire to quiet anonymity.
The sensitivity would not leave him. He tried to will
it away, but it was like water overflowing a dam-a
trickle at first, slowly growing toward a roaring
torrent.
The four Servants who stood near the altar
to assist Faellon today were waiting for him to continue.
Faellon could feel their impatient thoughts. Did
they think he hesitated because he had forgotten the words
of the rite? Faellon wondered. Could they, too,
feel the emanations in the room? Or, Faellon
wondered-hoped-was he being foolish? "Was this
only the imaginings of a tired old man?
The congregations, spectators, and participants
were also waiting for Faellon to proceed. The stillness
was broken by the rustle of cloth as here and there people
fidgeted in the pews. Faellon gazed down at his
hands, then at the golden bowl beneath them. He raised
his hands and his eyes toward the heavens, beyond which
the God was said to dwell. His voice soared, filled
the temple to the furthest corner.
"G most high and exalted God, who are above
all things and above all men, we come before thee today
to raise to the holy role of Absolute, Joakal
I'lium, in accordance with the words and laws which thou
did impart to our fathers. King he now is, and only
by thy power, here given and received, will he be raised up
to rule with Wisdom over thy people."
Faellon's hands lowered until they were
outstretched to either side. Two of the waiting
Servants stepped forward, each carrying a small
crystal bowl and ewer of scented water. They poured
a few drops of the water over each of Faellon's
hands and caught the runoff in the crystal bowls. As
the cool water touched his skin, Faellon continued his
prayers.
"In the time that was before time," be recited, "clean
was the world thou created. Clean was the air; clean was the
water; clean were the hearts and the
minds of thy people. Return us to that perfect state,
that we may not sully thy laws."
Symbolic purification completed, the other
Servants turned away. Faellon was now
properly prepared to touch the vessels used
in the elevation of the King. He picked up the golden
bowl and held it high so that the people might gaze upon it.
Then he turned to face his assistants. They
stepped toward him, each carrying a crystal cruet.
The first cruet contained water, the second red wine,
the third held oil, and the fourth contained a pungent
liquid incense. A small. amount of each
liquid was poured into the golden bowl and with this
mixture, the swords, scepters, crowns, rings,
chains of office, and finally the King himself would be
anointed.
After the anointing, the two Robes of Service,
to the God and to the people, would be draped about the King's
shoulders, their weight a reminder of the burden of
responsibility he was assuming. His boots would be
removed and soft slippers of golden thread would be
placed on his feet to symbolize the hallowed path
he now must walk. Finally, the Circlet of
Kingship would be removed from his head. The Servants
of the altar, led by Faellon, would then gather around the
King and lay hands upon him, becoming the channel through which
the Power of the God would pour to enlighten the King's
mind and create him Absolute, God-embodied.
Once the King had been empowered, the final crown
would be placed on his head, the scepter and
sword given into his hands, and the coronation itself would be
completed. Then remained only the closing prayers
and the recession from the temple. As Faellon received
each of the offerings from the cruets into the golden bowl,
he looked into the faces of his assistants. He
tried again to judge whether they,
like him, felt that something was amiss. But they
concentrated on their functions and did not meet his
eyes.
Faellon turned back around, ready to again
elevate the bowl and utter the prayers to hallow its
contents. The bowl nearly slipped from his fingers as a
wave of adversarial emotions clashed within him.
Impatience, arrogance, and impiety warred against
regret and sorrow and fear.
Faellon looked out over the congregation. Where were
these thoughts coming from? he wondered. They could not be from the
King. Faellon had known Joakal all of the young
man's life. There was no impiety in him, neither
arrogance nor fear. The source must be elsewhere,
whether from one or several, out among the crowd.
Why? Faellon wondered. And why should he be
plagued today by the return of powers he no longer
desired? He would not heed them. He set the golden
bowl again on the altar and signaled for the four
swords of virtue to be brought to him for anointing.
His fingers dipped into the dark, viscous liquid.
Before he could again raise his voice conin prayer,
Elana's words as she was dragged from his office
replaced the questions that plagued him and the voices that
whispered through his mind. Was her voice the Voice of the
God? Was it warning him that he had become too
intent upon the outward forms of his faith and that he could
no longer recognize the presence of Truth? But
what was the Truth, and whose Truth could be believed?
Faellon looked at the four swords in the hands
of the Elders who stood waiting at the base of the
altar. The points of the swords were lowered and pointed
at him, ready to be anointed and consecrated before

being touched to the neck of the prostrate King. The
Elders were looking at Faellon with unrelenting
trust.
Here was a Truth that had been proved over the
generations. Here also was Faith made tangible.
Faellon's uncertainties would wait until this
day, and his duties, were done. In that instant his mind
was made up. Tomorrow was the day he would retire. He
had dreamed of this decision, toyed with it almost, but now
he knew for certain. He would go home to the
hills of the North-march and contemplate the
esoterica of belief. Here, finally, was his one last
duty and Service.
Faellon motioned for the first sword to be brought
forward.
TROT WAS NOT AWARE that she had dozed
until the captain's voice pierced the silent
blackness in which she was floating. When she opened her
eyes, he was squatting next to her and speaking
softly. She had to blink disa few times to bring him
into focus, for her eyes did not want to work, nor
did her brain.
"I'm sorry, Counselor," Picard was
saying. "I wish I could let you rest, but I need
your help."
The: captain's words cleared the last vestiges of
sleep from Doi's mind. Apart from the hours that the
drug had controlled her slumber, she had had very little
rest. That coupled with the long, arduous hours she had
spent working with Joakal and Mother Veronica made
Troi feel as if she was calling on reserves of
energy that no longer existed. She sat upright and ran
a hand across her eyes to finish clearing them and tried
to put her encroaching fatigue on hold one more time.
"What is it?" she asked. "What's
happened?"
"Nothing," the captain answered. "That's the
prob-. tem. I think we have to accept the fact that
Elana failed in her attempt to contact the ship."
Troi nodded. "What do you think we should do?"
"I'm not sure, Counselor. I only know that
Beahoram will return, just as he said he would, and I
for one refuse to just sit here and wait."
Troi could not remain unaffected by the force of the
captain's determination. She felt his confidence and a
small, weary smile flitted across her lips.
"You have a plan," she said.
Picard snorted. "Well, I don't think
it's good enough to qualify as a plan," he said. "But
given the circumstances, any action is better than
none."
Troi nodded. In a sudden flash of understanding, she
realized the action the captain was about to suggest was going
to include physical force. The realization brought a
wave of anxiety, for although Troi was an officer and
Starfleet trained, the physical arts of defense
had never been subjects at which she had excelled.
Still, she would do what she must:
The captain began outlining his plan. "What I
am about to propose," he said, "will take
exact timing. If it does not succeed on the first
attempt, it will not succeed at all."
"Understood," Troi said. Her apprehension
notched a bit higher. "Beahoram will return,"
Picard said again, "but I don't believe he will
want any witnesses for what he proposes to do.
That's our one chance. When he arrives, you and the others
must be sitting in plain sight--just talking, but
quietly, as if I'm sleeping nearby. We'll
take the blanket and roll it to look as much like a
sleeping body as possible. It won't be exact,
so you'll have to shield it somewhat with your
bathes. In the meantime, I'll wait beside the
door. When Beahoram enters, Joakal will stand and
face Beaharam, which will draw his attention. I'll
grab him from behind. The door opens inward and that will
afford us some cover. Without that, we would have no chance of
success. Even so we'll have to hope that Beahoram
will be too intent on Joakal to notice much
else."
Troi listened to the captain, seeing his plan in
her mind's eye. He was right; if the timing was
exact, it could work. She knew that Mother Veronica
would be no help with this. Neither would Joakal. After his
long captivity, his physical strength could
not be counted upon. If it looked as if Beahoram was
going to get away, Troi knew she would have to be
ready to jump in and aid the captain.
"Any suggestions, Counselor?" the captain
asked, pulling her thoughts away from their unpleasant
path.
"About your plan? No, sir. But--" Troi
looked over at Mother Veronica. The nun was
sleeping, curled into a fetal position. Would she be
willing to link with Troi one more time?
"There is one thing I'd like to try first,
Captain," Troi said. "Yes, Counselor?"
"Are you aware of the-relationship-Will Riker and I
once shared?" she asked.
Picard cleared his throat. "I believe mast of
us realize that you and Commander Riker were once . . .
close."
"Among my people, the kind of relationship Will and i
shared allows them to read one another, to share their thoughts
and emotions, mind to mind, regardless of race or
telepathic abilities. In many ways, Will and I
,till share that bond. I'd like to use it to try and
reach conhm now."
"Do you think it's possible?"
"I don't know, sir, but if Mother
Veronica is willing to help me once more, we can
try."
"Very well, Counselor. Make it so."
Troi nodded and crawled over to the nun's side.
Mother Veronica was sleeping soundly. The evidence
of the strain she had been under was plainly shown by the dark
smudges beneath her eyes and the tight lines that ran from
her nose to her mouth. As Troi watched, a frown
marred the nun's features, creating deep furrows
between her brows as if she struggled with some personal
demon. Troi hated to wake her, but she put her
hand on Mother Veronica's shoulder and shook gently,
speaking the nun's name.
Mother Veronica moaned softly. Again Troi
spoke the nun's name. This time Mother Veronica
opened her eyes. She turned her head slightly
to look at the counselor, and Troi was grieved
to see the look of fear that flashed through Mother
Veronica's eyes when she saw who was bending over
her. Troi knew that the nun thought she was about to be
asked again to delve into the young King's mind. Troi
felt the hurt, the horror, then finally, her
resolution.
"No," Troi quickly assured her. "We're not
going to try that again."
Troi felt the nun's answering wave of
relief. Mother Veronica uncurled and turned more
fully toward Troi, wearily pushing herself to a
sitting position. Too exhausted to, be truly
curious, she merely waited to hear what the
counselor had to say.
"The captain has a plan for when Beahoram
returns," Trai told her. "It's a good plan
and it might be our only chance of escape. It
includes overpowering Beahoram by force, and before then
there is one thing I'd like to try. I need your help
to do it."
Mother Veronica bowed her head. Troi felt her
weariness like a stab wound in her own conscience. This was
not the reason she had worked so hard with Mother
Veronica, trying to teach her how to shield her mind.
"Do you remember the first day we began our
lessons?" Troi asked. "I spoke to you then about
some of the positive uses for telepathic
communication, and 1 mentioned the possibility of thought
crossing dis- tances to bring help. That is what I
would like to try now. There is someone on the ship, someone
with whom I was once very close. I believe, I
hope, he will hear us."
Mother Veronica looked away. Troi
reached out and laid a hand gently on her arm.
"I know this is hard for you," Troi said. "I do
understand. If I could think of a way to spare you, I
would. But I don't believe.i can do this alone."
Mother Veronica did not move. Troi could feel
the internal war the nun was waging, the struggle between
need arid inclination, of faith and friendship over fear.
Troi knew this was a personal battlefield and
Mother Veronica's decision could only be reached
alone.
his--ften in my life," the nun said at last,
"I have prayed for the strength to just make it through one more
day-for one day of peace, one day without the voice of
other people's thoughts in my mind. Throughout the years,
God has.chosen not to grant this prayer." She
turned around to look at Troi. "And so it
continues. What must I do?"
Troi released the breath she had been holding.
She gave the nun a small smile that she hoped was
reassuring and squeezed her arm in gratitude.
"Just open your mind to me," she said. "Our link will not
be much different than the one we used on the
Enterprise far our lessons. Our minds together
will send the message. Are you ready?"
Mother Veronica crossed herself, then she
held out her hands. Troi took them in her own.
She closed her eyes and reached for the bond that would
pair her mind with the nun's. It formed easily.
Whether you realize it or not, she told Mother
Veronica, yore abilities have grown. They're
becoming stronger and more refined. You could accomplish a
great deal with them, if you chose.
The nun sent no answering thought and Troi did not
press her. Instead she concentrated on Will Riker,
calling up the image of him, the feel of his mind
touching hers as it had in the sweet, golden time of their
union. Imzadi, Troi sent as the image, and the
wellremembered sensation of their minds entwined,
sharpened. Imzadi, help me. Come to me. I need
you. Imzadi. . . .
At that moment, Elana was nearing the completion of
her own escape, or so she hoped. She had made
it around the outside of the Servants" quarters onto
the covered walkway connecting the Servants'
quarters with the temple itself, and finally onto the
temple roof. From there, the going had become easier
and she had quickly covered the distance to the front of the
building. Now she had only to find a way to the
ground without being seen and reported, and she would be
free.
She crouched on the corner of the roof that covered the
narthex. In front of her sloped the porch roof that
covered and vas held up by the Guardians, the four
carved pillars at the top of the temple steps. If
she could make it to one of them, she could slide-climb
down.
There were people crossing in the city square in front
of the temple. Soon a crowd would gather to watch the
coronation recession and cheer the new Absolute.
Elana knew it was now or never.
She started forward, staying as low to the roof as she
could and trying not to attract attention. She kept her
eyes on the passing people as much as she dared, but the roof
tiles were slippery with accumulations of moss. Time
and again she was forced to watch only her feet and hands and
pray that no one would see her.
She reached the end of the roof. She lay down flat
and prayed now that her luck would hold and her strength
remain just a little while longer. Prayed that the God
would not abandon her yet.
It seemed the God heard her, for the people crossing the
City square went on their way. Suddenly the
square was empty. Elana raised herself on her
hands and knees. Taking a deep breath, she turned
and swung her legs over the edge,
scrambling through the air until they finally made
contact with stone. She immediately wrapped her legs
around the pillar. Using them to brace herself, she began
to descend.
Here, as with the carvings at the corners of the
Servants' quarters, the symbols on the stone had
been deeply engraved. Her fingers found easy
purchase, but these same carvings rubbed o@." the
soft skin of her inner legs until the final feet
of Elana's descent were agony. She knew she was
leaving traces of her blood an the stone, but she
dared not let it stop her.
The pain grew. It seared and burned until,
finally, she could stand no more. Her legs fell from the
pillar and she dropped the final few feet to the
temple stepsA new pain jarred through her left
ankle. Elana could not move. Her breath caught
in her throat.
No, her mind screamed. If she was caught now,
then it was all for nothing. She forced herself to her feet
and started to hobble down the stairs. With each step,
new fire shot up her leg, combined with the other aches
the long travail had created in her body, and
caused her to cry out. Tears sprang to her eyes and
fell down her face. She bit her lip,
forcing herself to breathe through her torment and to keep going.
She had to reach comthe palace. Somehow, somewhere, she
had to find someone to help her.
Will Riker sat at the desk in the captain's
ready room, staring at the display screen of the
computer. Trying to fill the time and keep his mind
occupied, he had called up the reports of all
contacts and treaties with the planet below them, all
Capulon Id's recent history. But the pages
were passing by unread, and had been for several minutes.
Finally Riker reached out and switched off the
screen. He could not concentrate. He had waited
hours for the captain to report in. He had reminded
himself of everything from Picard's personal training and
abilities to Starffeet's Prime Directive.
But he could not shake the feeling that something was wrong, and
his patience, never his strongest attribute, was at
an end.
Riker pushed the chair back from the desk and
stogy, looking out the long, narrow viewport. From
here only the edge of the planet could be seen.
Surrounded by the infinity of space, it was a sight
to stir the heart of any poet and the soul of any
Starfleet officer. Will Riker was usually no
exception. From the day of his first training
cruise as a new cadet, he had known his home,
his greatest joy, was among the stars.
Today even their beauty failed to enrapture him.
With a sigh, he turned away and headed for the door that
would take him again onto the bridge. The bridge-the
command chair-more waiting
and worrying. Cluck-cluck, his mind said; shut
up, he told it. The doors opened with their
near-silent hiss. Will Riker stepped through and as he
did, his eyes met those of his Chief of Security.
The Klingon said no words, but Riker saw his own
doubts about the safety of the Away Team mirrored
on the warrior's face. Riker's intentions
crystallized. "Lieutenant Worf," he said as
he strode across the open floor of the bridge.
"Open a channel to the palace. It's time we got
some answers."
"Aye, sir," the Klingon said eagerly, his
approval spoken by the posture of his body and the
glint in his eyes.
Riker sat down, preparing himself for a possible
confrontation with whichever palace official answered the
ship's hail. He would not sign off this time until
he got what he wanted.
The hairs on the back of his neck
prickled. Riker ran a hand across them, but the
sensation did not go away. It intensified. It was as
if someone had just poured itching powder between his shoulder
blades.
He twitched and shifted in his chair. Nothing
eased it. He stood and began to pace, aware that the
other officers on the bridge had turned to look at
him. He did not care; the discomfort continued to grow.
He was about to call Doctor Crusher when he
realized what he was feeling was not physical.
Deanna? he wondered. He tried to remember
what she had taught him about opening his mind to her
touch. It had once been so easy.
Irnzadi? he thought, standing still and silent on the
bridge. He closed his eyes and searched for her, not
caring what the other officers on the bridge saw or
thought. If Deanna needed him, all that mattered was
that he hear her. Imzadi? he thought again, calling this
time, and he picked up the faint but unmistakable
essence of her mind reaching for his.
I'm coming, Deanna, he thought to her, not knowing if
she could hear him. Hold on, I'm coming.
He turned to Lieutenant Worf.
"Discontinue hail," he said, "and come with me. Have
a security team meet us, with phasers, in
Transporter Room Three. Whether they like it or
not, we're beaming down to that planet. Something's going
on and I intend to find out exactly what it is.
Mr. Data," Riker said over his shoulder as he
began to stride up the ramp toward the turbolift,
"you have the corm."
Will Riker did not bother to watch the android leave
his seat at Ops and take the command chair. Everything
on the Enterprise would run efficiently. What
Riker did see was the gleam of combat readiness in
Worf's eyes as the Klingon met him at the top
of the ramp. Riker knew the same light could be seen
in his own.
Hold on, Deanna We're coming.
USING THE COORDINATES given to the first
Away Team, Riker, Worf, and the six-man
security team from the Enterprise beamed down into one
of the reception halls of the palace. This time there was
no delegation. of Elders awaiting them. The room
was empty, and the late afternoon sun that slanted through the
windows created long pools of light and shadow. Will
Riker took this all in at a glance, then he
looked over his shoulder to check the rest of his
personnel. The security team stood at ready,
phasers in their hands, and Lieutenant
Worf held both his phaser and a tricorder.
Riker waited while Worf moved the tricorder from
side to side, adjusting its sensitivity while he
tried to pick up the captain's communicator
signal through the layers of thick stone that surrounded
them. A11 the while, the subliminal call that had
driven Riker here was growing more insistent.
Hold on, Deanna, he thought, hoping that he
remembered enough of what she had taught him, hoping she
would know he was on his way. "Got it, Commander,"
Worf finally announced. With a quick nod, Riker led
the way to the great double doors across the room and
cautiously, not knowing what waited on the other
side, he eased one of them open. Riker could hear
voices in the distance, and the sound of running feet, but
this corridor was empty. He slipped through the open
door. Quickly and quietly, the others followed.
Once all eight of them stood in the hall, Riker
gestured for the Klingon and his tricorder to lead the
way. Worf was ready. He led them down the
labyrinth of corridors, turning right or left or
right again with unwavering certainty. The noises of the
palace inhabitants grew louder. voices shouting
orders, pans clanging, dishes rattling. Once
a door opened and as Riker ran past, he
saw 4 liveried servant, eyes wide with
surprise, framed in the doorway. There was no time
to stop or explain and Riker only hoped they could
find the captain before the servant called the guards:
They turned another corner and found a
staircase. The sounds of the kitchen crew preparing
for the coronation banquet were louder here. That explains
the empty hallways, Riker thought as he and the others
began to climb the stairs.
He took the steps two at a time, wishing there was
some way to go faster. Second floor; another
corridor. Riker's heartbeat quickened. The
servant they had passed could have called the guards
by now. This was taking too long.
Worf stopped. "In here," he growled, motioning
to
two doors. The security team split up,
four to a room,
one team led by Worf and the other by Riker. Riker
met the Klingon's eyes. No words were needed.
Simultaneously, they opened the doors.
And. found the rooms empty. Quickly they fanned
out and searched, opening doors to closets, bedrooms,
and baths. The furniture was neat and in place, no
sign of a struggle-or of the room's
inhabitants. Riker saw Deanna's uniform lying
on the floor near a chair, and he picked it up.
Her communicator was still attached.
"There's nothing here," he said, heading back to the
corridor. The security team fell in behind him.
Worf met him out in the hallway. The Klingon
held the captain's uniform just as Riker held
Deanna's. Riker tapped his insignia,
activating the cornet link with the ship.
"Riker to Enterprise," he said.
"Enterprise, Data here," came the answer.
"We've found the captain's uniform, but there's
no sign of the captain or the others. Have another
security team standing by far my signal. I don't
care if we have to take this place apart stone by stone,
I'm going to find our people."
"Very well, Commander. A security team will be
ready."
"Riker out." He turned to Worf.
"Recommendations, Lieutenant?" "The captain and
Counselor Troi would not leave their rooms without
their uniforms. They must have been warned off during the
night. We should return to the lower floors and find
a palace servant to act as guide. Wherever the
captain and Counselor Troi are being
held, it will not be in a place as easily accessible
as this."
"Agreed," Riker said with a nod. "Let's go."
Again the Enterprise personnel sped down the
corridor, retracing their steps. A part of Riker
listened for
the sound of pursuing footsteps or a call for them
to stop, but all remained calm and silent. He
knew from his recent reading about this planet that the
palace had guards,-why hadn't the alarm been
raised? They reached the stairway and began
to descend, passing the floor on which they had entered and
continuing toward the sounds of the kitchen below. The
stairwell turned; there was someone crouching in the
shadows. Riker held up his hand and the others behind him
stopped, all phasers trained on the halfhidden
figure.
The head slowly turned. Before Riker could make
out any other details, he saw the fear
in-her-eyes. Disheveled hair framed a pale
and dirt-streaked face. She stood and at a glance,
Riker took in the torn green robe, the scrapes
and bruises, the look of exhaustion and the signs of a
long and arduous ordeal.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
"Commander William T. Riker, First Officer
of the Enterprise," he answered. The woman leaned
back against the wall, her hand on her chest, and
looked for a moment as if she might faint. "The
God has heard me," she said. Then she looked
Riker in the face again, all trace of fear gone from
her eyes. "I know where your people are. Help me."
With that, she started to crumble. Riker rushed to her
side and caught her before she could hit the ground. As
he lifted her, he noticed her torn and bloody
hands, the swollen left ankle, and how very tiny she
was-smaller even than Deanna.
Deanna, he thoughtstsent with all his might. I'm
almost there.
"Where?" he asked.
"Down the stairs," the woman said. "But don't
turn into the kitchen. We have to go through the wine cellar
and the pantries. There is a hidden door in the room
where the tapestries are stored for repair. That
leads to a subbasement and the cell where your people are."
"Why are you doing this?" Riker asked.
"Because Joakal is with them," the woman whispered
fiercely. Her eyes blazed with a spirit Riker knew
he would not care to have turned against him.
"I'll explain more as we go," she
assured him, "but we must hurry. And be careful-there
are traitors in the palace and not everyone wishes
to see the true King freed."
Riker turned and looked over his shoulder at
Worf, grinning at the tone of command in the woman"...ness
voice. "You heard her, Lieutenant," he said.
"Let's go. 99
They moved cautiously, one by one slipping past
the kitchen door. Riker thought they were going to make it
by unseen until, just as the last man was sliding past
the opening, dishes crashed to the floor. Conversation in
the kitchen stopped. A moment later a shout went
up. That's it, Riker thought.
"We'll hold them here while you find the
captain," Worf told him. "It is a defensible
position."
Riker nodded. "Call the Enterprise if you
need help," he ordered. Trusting the Klingon
to guard his back, Riker looked down at the woman
in his arms.
"Which way?" he asked. She pointed and he began
to run. The sound of occasional phaser blasts
provided the music of retreat.
True to her word, as Riker carried her through the
palace cellars along a route as
complicated and mazelike as the corridors
upstairs, the woman filled him in on her identity
and her knowledge of the Away Team's capture. She also
told him of her own escape from the temple. That
explained her condition. Riker was amazed at her
strength and courage. Her words also 202
explained why no guards had been called; the
servant Riker had passed must have been one of the
accomplices.
They finally reached the tapestry room and found the
hidden door. It was locked,
"I'll have to put you dawn for a moment," Riker
told Elana. "Can you stand?"
She nodded and gritted her teeth against the pain
Riker knew the movement would cause her. He set
her down gently where she could lean against the wall, and
pulled out his phaser. It took only a short
blast to release the lock. Then he picked Eiana
up again.
They went down yet another set of stirs, down
to the cold subbasement of the palace. There was no
mistaking the purpose of this area. Riker shivered,
sick at the thought of Deanna, of anyone, being held
prisoner in such a place.
"Down there," Elana told him. "The
sixth cell on the right."
"Captain," Riker called out as he walked
forward. "Deanna." For a heart-stopping moment, there
was no answer. Then Riker heard the captain's
voice.
"Over here, Number One."
Riker reached the cell door. Again he put
Elana down. With her back against the wall, she
slid to the floor on the far side of the corridor.
"Stand back," Riker told the prisoners as he
again drew his phaser and fired. This lack held out
longer than the one upstairs, and tiny sparks flew
from it as the metal melted under the heat of the phaser
beam. Finally, the door snapped open. Riker put
his hand through the bars of the window and pushed until the
door swung wide. Captivity was at an end.
Before Riker could step into the cell, a young man
pushed past him and ran to Elana. He pulled
her into
his arms. Riker could hear their happy murmurings
behind him as he stepped into the cell where Picard,
Troi, and Mother Veronica waited. They stood in
a group looking cold and tired. Riker was
relieved to see there was nothing more wrong with them, no
signs of injuries or abuse. He
glanced at Mother Veronica and nodded to the captain,
but his eyes, and his heart, were fastened on Troi.
Her smile, as she met his eyes with her own,
assured Riker that she was all right.
Riker held out her uniform. "Imzadi," he
said softly, for her ears alone, as she lifted the
uniform from his hand. Then he turned to the captain.
"I'm afraid I don't have your uniform, sir,"
he said. "It's with Lieutenant Worf."
"Where is the lieutenant?"
"Guarding our avenue of escape."
"Very good," Picard said. "Let's step out while
the counselor changes and you meet the King. Our work
here is far from finished."
The captain put his hand on Riker's upper arm
in an affectionate gesture, but there was no
circumventing the friendly pressure that turned Riker
toward the door. Still, he could not resist one glance
over his shoulder, one more look at Deanna's
smile. Then he was out of the cell and the captain
pulled the door partway closed to afford the
counselor the extra privacy.
"Your Majesty," Picard said to the young man now
sitting beside Elana with his arm around her shoulders.
"May I present my First Officer,
Commander William Riker. Will--this is His Royal
Majesty, Joakal I'lium, King of Capulon
IV."
"Your Majesty," Riker acknowledged with a bow.
"Elana has told me everything. I have a
security team, headed by Lieutenant Worf," he
added to the captain,
"stationed up by the kitchens and another standing by on the
Enterprise." "Then as soon as the counselor is
ready," Picard began.
"I'm ready now," Troi said, stepping out of the
cell. She was dressed in her familiar one-piece
uniform, with her nightgown draped across her shoulders.
Although her feet were bare, she looked much more comfortable.
Mother Veronica came out of the cell with her and stayed
close by the counselor's side. Riker found himself
wondering who was lending whom support.
Picard gave a curt nod, once more in command.
"Counselor," he said, "I want you and Mother
Veronica, as well as the King and Elana, to stay
well back until we are out of danger. Is that
understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then, Commander," Picard said, turning back
to Riker. "If you're ready-was Riker was
prepared to carry Elana for the first part of their return
to the upper levels. But when he stepped toward her,
Joakal held up a hand to forestall him.
"Thank you, Commander Riker," he said, "but
I'll take care of Elana."
"As you wish, Your Majesty." He waited
until Joakal had helped Elana to her feet and
lifted her. Then with one more glance at the captain,
Riker led the way bade up the staircase and through the
twists and turns of the cellar, until they
approached the kitchens. All was quiet.
"Lieutenant Worf," Riker called.
"Here, sir," the Klingon's voice boomed through
the stillness. They turned the final corner. Up
ahead they saw Worf and his men sitting casually by the
door. There
was no sight of servants or guards, though the
body of one man lay sprawled, unconscious,
on the floor beyond them. Worf was grinning a
warrior's grin.
"Report, Lieutenant," the captain ordered.
"When the palace staff tried to follow Commander
Riker, we fired a few warning shots. Realizing
they were not armed, we fired well above their heads. That
one," Worf indicated the body on the
floor, "would not be warned away. He is only
stunned. Once he went down, the others backed
away and we have not seen them. since."
"Very good, Lieutenant," Picard said.
Worf then seemed to notice that the captain was in
his sleeping attire. Looking slightly
embarrassed for the captain's sake, the Klingon
picked up the captain's uniform and held it out
to him. Picard quickly pulled it on over what he was
wearing.
Behind him, Joakal eased Elana out of his arms.
Once she was safely seated, he walked up
to Picard's side. "Captain," he said, "let
me talk to the people out there. They are my subjects and
my responsibility. They'll listen to me."
Picard hesitated, weighing the possibilities
of violence and their chances of success. "All right,"
he said at last. "But please, Your Majesty, do
not put yourself in plain sight until we are certain
of their support. If they choose not to believe you and
one of them is armed--" "They'll believe me,
Captain," Joakal said before Picard had finished.
"Trust me."
Jaakal crept forward until he was beside the
Kiingon. Worf's body tensed, ready
to pull the King to safety if needed.
"Yesta?" Joakal called out. "Are you there?
Can you hear me?" "I am Captain Yesta," a
deep voice answered. 206
"Who is it that calls me? Why have you defied the
authority of the palace guards?"
"Yesta," Joakal called. "I am glad it
is you, my friend. Listen to my voice. You know who
I am. You've known me since I was a child and you
served my father. Who am I, Yenta?"
"You have a voice like that of the King's. But you are a
liar, for the King is in the temple at his coronation."
"No, Yenta," Joakal said. He stood.
Worf put a hand to his arm, to pull him
to safety, but Joakal shook it off. He stood
regal and proud, looking like a King despite his
haggard, unkept appearance.
"The one who has usurped my place in the
temple is a liar," Joakal continued as he
began to walk slowly forward. "Come out and meet me,
Yesta. Look at me. Talk to me. Then come with
me to the temple where I will prove I am who I
claim to be."
A burly man with dark, gray-streaked hair
stepped out from the kitchen. He was dressed in
a long vest of thick brown leather over
loose-fitting pants and a tunic of plain black
cloth. On the right of the vest was stitched an
insignia, and around his neck was a heavy chain, a
badge of office. The only weapon he carried was
a long, metal-wrapped club. He and Joakal
spoke quietly, a few brief sentences, then the
captain of the palace guards dropped on one
knee, offering his club two-handed to the King.
Joakal laid his hand on the weapon in token
acceptance, then he turned and gestured for the
Enterprise personnel to join him. "Yenta and his
guards will accompany us to the temple," the King
told the others. "But we must hurry now, before the
coronation is completed."
Joakal and Captain Picard, side by side,
led the way out of the palace. The others followed in a
close group
behind them, Capulonii and Federation intermingling as
they ran. Elana was carried in the arms of one of the
Enterprise security men. Troi tried to stay
close to her and to Mother Veronica, concerned by the
fatigue she sensed beginning to descend on both these
women. She could hold her own exhaustion at bay
for a while longer. But when this was over, she
promised herself, she was going to bathe, she was going
to eat, and then she was going to sleep long hours where
she was warm and safe.
They ran from the palace, leaving behind a bewildered
kitchen staff. They ran down city streets and across
the city square, ignoring the startled looks on the
faces of the people they passed. They reached the temple and
dashed up the long flight of stone stairs.
From inside they could hear the swell of music and the
sound of chanting. Joakal paused at the top of the
stairs and touched one of the Guardian pillars. He
looked back over his shoulders and met the eyes of
Elana. Troi felt the wave of love he sent
her. Then he stepped forward, put his hands on the
temple doors, and pushed. They flew open. The
others stayed a few paces behind to let Joakal
alone, as was his right, lead their entrance into the temple.
The young King marched forcefully across the narthex.
Head held high, he entered the nave and strode
into the long center aisle.
"Stop," he cried out in a loud, commanding voice.
"In the name of the God who is above all, the God
whose name is Justice and Truth, stop this unlawful
rite.,"
Throughout the temple, voices faltered,
heads turned and cries of alarm went up. At the
altar, Faellon, who had been reaching to lift the
Circlet of Kingship from Beahoram's head, ready
to begin the 208
most solemn part of the ceremony, the laying on of
hands, took a step backward. He would have stumbled,
had not one of the other Servants reached out to steady him.
Joakal continued down the long aisle until he
reached the base of the altar. Seated on the draped and
cushioned chair that had been placed on the third
step, Beahoram had not moved.
Behind him Faellon looked up and met
Joakal's eyes. Joakal uttered no word. His
presence alone accused and convicted Faellon.
The Chief Servant slowly shook his head. His
face paled, and he tore his eyes away from the
sight of the identical features on the two younger
men. Faellon looked out at the group of palace
guards and Federation people that had mingled and filled the
center of the nave. He caught sight of Elena in the
arms of the uniformed security officer. Faellon
saw the dirt and blood on her hands, her scraped
cheeks and disheveled hair, the tears in her robe.
Shame washed through him and Faellon buried his face
in his hands. Beahoram stood. "Who are
you?" he demanded, his eyes burning with rage. "What
is the meaning of this?" he roared.
Joakal finally turned his gaze from Faellon's
face to Beahoram's. "The meaning, Brother," he
said, mimicking Beahoram's own form of address,
"is that your days of deception are at an end."
Beahoram turned to the Elders, the officers of the
coronation who held the great swords in their hands.
"Seize them," he shouted.
They did not move. Their eyes, like those of
Faellon before, shifted back and forth between the
identical faces. A little smile lifted the
corners of Joakal's mouth. Beahoram saw it.
His rage swelled and his face twisted into a snarl.
"Seize them," he shouted again. "I, your King,
command you."
Beahoram took a step toward Joakal. His
hands were raised and ready to close around his brother's
throat, eager to squeeze the life from him.
Joskal did not move. His eyes did not waver from
Beahoram's face. The small smile that was his
only weapon did not slip as Beahoram came
closer still. The sight finally shocked Tygar, the
Head of the Council of Elders, into action. He
stepped from his place among the officers of the
coronation. In his hand he meld the great Sword of
Wisdom, and he brought it down between the two
brothers.
"In accordance with our laws," he declared, "I
proclaim this coronation at an end. The Council
will convene in one hour in the Great Chamber. There we
will discover the truth of who is King."
Beahoram tensed, ready to spring across the sword
and still attack his brother, but Tygar saw him. He
brought the sword up again. The tip of it pointed
toward Beahoram's throat.
Joakal looked across the length of deadly
metal. He saw the hatred that still blazed in his
brother's eyes. It had no power over him now.
Slowly, the small smile that had not faded from his
features turned cold and hard and broadened into a
grin.
TYGAR LoOK833 up at Faellon, but the
Chief Servant had not moved. He still stood with his
face buried in his hands, too stunned and shaken
to command even his fellow Servants. Tygar took
charge.
"Gibreh, Kithia, heboath," he called to the
three other Elders who carried the swords.
Immediately, they stepped to his side and, at
a motion, brought their swords to ready while they
surrounded Joakal and Beahoram. Tygar then
walked over to the other Elders and ordered the rest of the
regalia placed upon the altar. There it would remain
under the guard of Yesta and his men until the coronation
was resumed. Surprise had kept the Elders
motionless, but now they hurried to comply. Each knew
the law as well as Tygar and each was aware of what
now must be done.
Even Faellon had finally been spurred
into action.
While the Elders carried the ancient instruments
of
crowning to the altar, the Chief Servant spoke
quickly and quietly to his assistants. Tygar
turned around to face the curious congregation. "By the
laws of our fathers," he announced, "this coronation
is at an end. It will not resume until the Truth
is found in accordance with Ways of the God. You are
free to leave this temple, or to remain, but you may
not interfere with the completion of the Council's duty.
No one is to try to speak with or otherwise contact
any participant, Elder, Servant, or
Supplicant, until the court of Justice is
at an end. To do so is a violation of the
statutes of our world and will be punished."
Tygar turned away, ignoring the murmurs that
spread among the people. He saw that Faellon and the
other Servants, as well as the Elders, had
surrounded the two who claimed to be the King. He
nodded to there, then motioned to Yesta. The captain of the
Palace Guards led his men to that altar and they took
their places protecting the regalia. Again, Tygar
nodded.
his'ffthe palace," he said. The officials
surrounding the brothers closed ranks. Tygar
turned on his heel and led the way out of the temple.
Once they had gone, the congregation found its voice.
People stood; the gentle murmurs became questions and
speculations spoken back and forth across the long
room. As the general din. increased, Picard took
advantage of the noise and motioned his people to him.
"Number One," he said to Riker. "I want
you, Lieutenant Worf, and the security team
to return to the ship. But stand by, ready to return
if I call."
"What about you and Deanna?"
"1 believe Counselor Troi and I should stay
here."
"And Mother Veronica?"
Picard turned toward the nun. She was standing near
the counselor, her eyes downcast and again clutching the
cross that hung about her neck. She slowly raised
her head, looking first at the captain, then at
Troi. "Here or there," she said dully. "It
makes no difference:" "Good," Picard replied.
"We may need you." Then he walked over
to Elena, still carried by one of the security men.
"Elena," he said. "I cannot begin to state my
gratitude, or my admiration. If you are willing
to go back to our ship with Commander Riker, our medical
staff will be able to effect a sure to your injuries.
I promise you'll be back in time for the hearing."
"Thank yogi, Captain," Elena said with a
weary smile. "I accept."
Picard tapped the insignia on his uniform,
delighted to heir its small chirp of activation.
"Picard to transporter room," he said.
"Transporter room, Tattle here."
"Chief Tuttle, Commander Riker and his Away
Team are returning to the ship, and they are bringing an
injured guest. Please have Doctor Crusher standing
byea[*macr]
"Aye, aye, Captain."
"Thank you, Chief. Picard out."
Riker and the security force stepped off a little way
from the others. "I'll stay in better contact this time,
Number One," Picard told him. Riker
grinned. "Please see that you do, Captain," he
said and he touched his communicator. "We're ready,
Chief. Nine to beam up."
There was the familiar hum, the rain of silvered
light, and then they were gone. Picard turned
to Counselor Troi.
"'Well," he said. "I think we should go back
to our rooms at the palace. I don't know about you,
but I'm hungry and thirsty and my feet are
cold.." Troi smiled. "Agreed, Captain."
An hour later, the Council convened in the same
chamber where Picard, Troi, and Mother Veronica
had had their audience with the King. They stood now at the
same great doors, ready to enter, but Tygar
blocked their way. "'allyou are not of this world," the
Head of the Council was saying. "The outcome of this
judgment, is of no concern to you."
Picard heard the transporter hum behind him, but
he did not turn to look. He knew it would be
Elana returning. He kept his attention on
Tygar: "On the contrary," he told the Elder.
"The outcome is of great concern to me and to the
Federation. We came here, at the King's and the
Council's invitation, to sign a treaty. We were
drugged, kidnapped, imprisoned by an imposter-was
"That has not been proved, Captain."
"Do you refuse to believe the evidence of your own
eyes?" "What I believe is of no
importance," Tygar said. "We have laws,
Captain. The judgment of this Council goes far
beyond the question of identity, or even actions taken against
you and your companions. One of these twins should not be
alive, but now that he is here: we must learn who is
best fit to rule. This question must be settled according
to Law. his
"If you had been in that cell with us-was
"Is there a problem, Captain?" Elana asked
as she walked up to Picard's side.
"Lady Elana," Tygar said with a slight
inclination of his head, "I was just informing the captain that
these
proceedings are closed to him. He is not of our
world."
Elana's face took on a look of
deceptive passivity. Picard was no telepath,
but even he could feel her outrage. When she
spoke, her voice was steely quiet.
"I am of this world, Tygar."
"Yes, Lady, but-was
"These people are with me. Would you deny me entry,
too?"" "No, Lady. Of course not, but-was
Tygar's voice faltered at the unwavering stare
Elana fixed upon him. Picard admired the aura
of command that surrounded the small woman. She was a
strong ally and would be a formidable foe. Beahoram,
he thought, had better be careful.
Tygar lowered his eyes and stood to one side,
defeated. Elana lifted her chin, turned to the
captain, and smiled.
"Will you give me your arm, Captain," she said
sweetly. "The medical facilities of your ship
are barely short of miraculous and I am well
healed, but I still feel a little weak."
Weak, indeed, Picard thought wryly as he held
out his arm. "I am honored, Elana," he said
aloud.
Followed by Troi and Mother Veronica, Picard
and Elana stepped past Tygar and into the Great
Chamber. Again, the size of the room was overwhelming.
It dwarfed the large array of tables that had been
arranged in a semicircle in the center of the floor,
and at which the Elders and thirty Servants
sat as tribunal. Behind the tables, the throne sat
empty upon its raised dais, waiting for its rightful
occupant to be proclaimed.
Tygar walked over and took his place next to
Faellon at the head of the tables. It was obvious
they
were to be joint arbitrators, sentinels to see that
the
laws of the God and of the people were justly observed.
Joakal and Beahoram had been seated on plain
wooden chairs in the center of the semicircle's
opening. They were dressed in identical clothing, and
now that Joakal had bathed and his hair and beard had
been trimmed, the likeness between them was even, more
arresting.
When everyone was in place, Faellon stood and
raised his hands. "The God declared unto our fathers,"
he began, "My Truth shall be found in the minds of
My people and My Laws shall govern their hearts. It
is thy Truth, O God, we seek. Let no
falsehood remain hidden from Your light. Reveal
Your Wisdom to us so that we may guard your laws
arid your people."
Faellon sat back down and folded his hands.
He focused his eyes on his interlaced
fingers, as though he could not bring himself to look around the
room or bear the sight of the identical twins before
him.
Without standing, Tygar took charge of the tribunal.
He spoke to the two seated claimants to the throne.
"You will answer any questions put to you, no matter
who asks. You will answer truthfully and without
hesitation. Is that understood?" Almost in unison, the
two heads nodded.
"We will begin with the obvious. What is your name, the
names of your parents and when and where were your born?"
"I am Joakal of the Ruling House of Mum-was
"com.-Twelfth of that name-was
"--My parents were King Klavia and--"
"com.-Queen Irian. I was born-was
"--on the seventeenth day of Adin-was
"--here in the Royal--"
"--city of She'heldon."
The answers bounced back and forth between the
two voices, like lines of a well-rehearsed
play. If this continues, we'll get nowhere,
Picard thought. It can't continue for long-they grew
up apart from one another:
But continue it did, for one hour and into the next,
through mire and more complicated questions. Standing
next to him, Picard could tell that the counselor was
growing increasingly uncomfortable. What is she
sensing? he wondered. Before he could ask her, he
saw Mother Veronica lean over and whisper something
to Troi. The two of them conferred in quiet tones
he could not overhear. Then Troi turned to him.
"Beahoram is reading Joakal's mind to gain his
answers, Captain," she told him.
"Are you certain, Counselor?"
"Mother Veronica is. She can hear it.."
"But how? The two of you were unable to penetrate
Joakal's shields, despite your best efforts:"
"I don't know, Captain," Troi said.
"Perhaps it is because Joakal and Beahoram are twins
and having the two of them together changes the frequency
of their thought patterns. Maybe it's . . ." she
shook her head. "I don't know," she repeated.
"But I have bin feeling Beahoram's growing confidence
for quite some time. Of all the emotions in this room, it
is the most dominant. If something doesn't happen
soon to stop him, Joakal may still lose everything."
Picard turned to Elana. "I heard," she said
before he could explain. "And I agree-we have
to intervene. Your Mother Veronica can hear thoughts, and
Counselor Troi can read the emotions of
other people?"
"Yes," Picard answered.
"How accurate are they?"
"I'd trust them with my life."
Elana nodded. Without a backward glance, she
strode to the center of the room and stood between the seated
twins. Picard and the others followed a step behind.
Elana held up her hands in imitation of the pose
Faellon struck for prayer.
"Cease this travesty," she ordered. "There is
neither Truth nor Justice being discovered here."
"Elddana," Tygar stood, angered by her
outburst. "You were admitted here because you are
E'shala, First Daughter of one of the thirty
Gentle Houses. You are being allowed to observe, but
you have not been called to participate."
"As First Daughter of the House E'shala, and as
the future wife of Joakal I'lium who is
King and true Absolute of Capulon, I
claim and call upon an ancient right. I claim
Rhii'cha."
There was a stunned silence around the table.
Faellon, who had sat mute through all the time of
questioning, raised his eyes to Elana's face. "The
powers necessary for Rhii'cha no longer exist
among us, Elana," he said. "The God took them
away."
"Just as twins do not exist, Faellon?" she
asked him. He flinched at her words and at the
unforgiving hardness in her voice.
She saw his reaction but did not relent. "As
twins exist," she said, "so do these powers."
Elana motioned for Troi and Mother Veronica.
"This one," she said, indicating the nun, "is
granted the gift of Mind-share such as our ancient
fathers possessed. And this one," she motioned to Troi,
"is able to read the soul of a being, and to know the truth or
falsehood of their words."
"These people are not Capulonii, Elana," Tygar
said. "How can you say they have the Voice of the God
within them?"
"They have the gifts. Are we not taught that all
such
gifts come only from the God?" she countered. "Do
you deny our teachings?" Faellon looked at the
captain. "Do you and your people agree to this?" Picard
hesitated. What is this Rhii eha, he
wondered, and how will Starfleet interpret my
agreement to participate?
"There is no other way," Elana
whispered to him. "Do not abandon us now." Picard
met her eyes. He saw the conviction and the pleading
there. He nodded to Faellon.
"We agree," he said.
"Very well," Faellon replied. He stood.
"The ancient way of Rhii eha has been
claimed. According to the ancient laws, it must be performed
in the temple, before the altar of the God. The
Rhii'cha will take place at dawn tomorrow, and there,
by the Voice of the God, we will learn who has the
strength and the courage necessary to best govern our world. So
let it be."
JoAYEAAEAL ,arm BUT,-XORA-MORE were led
away to be kept under close watch until morning.
The Servants, led by Faellon, returned to the
temple. Picard, Troi, and Mother Veronica
went once more to their rooms in the palace. Elana
joined them.
The first thing Picard did was report to Commander
Riker and appraise him of the situation. After the
communication ended, the captain turned to Elana.
"Now," he said. "Tell me what we've
agreed to. What, precisely, is Rhii'cha?"
"It is a very ancient ceremony, Captain,"
Elana replied. "There are not many people on
our world who even know of its existence any more.
Flaellon, as Chief Servant, and perhaps a few
other Servants who are interested in the ancient
ways. Joakal and I learned of it almost
by accident."
"What do you mean?" Picard asked.
"Joakal will make a great ruler," Elana
sad, lifting
her chin a little as though daring them to disagree with her.
"He truly cares. He has spent most of his
life studying the old ways and looking for the means
to improve the future of this world. He found many old
and forgotten texts, both here in the palace and at the
temple, writings that had not been looked at in
centuries. Among them was the Book of Valpet.
It is a codex of laws and rituals dating from before
the last wars. It is in this book Joakal discovered
the rite of Rhii'cha. his
"What does this rite entail?" Picard again
prompted.
"According to the old texts, those who are skilled in the
art of Truth-saying, those whom you call empaths and
telepaths, are brought before the altar and purified by
"the touch and prayers of the Servants of the God,""
she quoted. "A laying on of hands. Then
the accused are brought in and made to prostrate themselves
before the altar. It is then the duty of those who are
performing the rite to probe the minds of those before them and
proclaim what is there. Especially in this, when the
outcome is of such importance to this world, it will be
demanded that Counselor Troi and Mother Veronica
reveal not only who they discover, but what and why. was
com"...Counselor. . ." Picard turned to Troi.
"What
problems do you foresee?"
"None with the ritual itself," she answered. "On
Betazed, much of what we now understand scientifically
is still practiced in the form of religious ritual.
We have found that it both opens the mind and allows us
to focus on our inner realities. I believe this
Rhii cha will be much the same. But I am worried.
In the cell, despite our best efforts, Mother
Veronica and I were unable to reach past Joakal's
mast surface thoughts. These were easily read-you saw
Beahoram 221
do it. But I don't know about a deeper probing.
What if we fail?" "You must not fail," Elana
said. "The laws in the Book of Valpet are very
clear; those who will not proclaim what is revealed in
Rhii'cha are guilty of an offense against
the God. This offense is punished by death."
Mother Veronica, who had been sitting with her head
bowed and her right hand clutching the cross about: her
throat, sprang to her feet. She looked from face
to face.
"No," she said loudly, emphatically. "No
more." Then she turned and ran from the room.
Picard turned to Troi. His eyes said it all.
Troi stood.
"I'll go to her," she said. "But I don't know
how much good it will do." Mother Veronica was staring out the
window when Troi entered the room they shared. The nun
held her back straight, her body calm and still, but
Troi could feel the emotions that churned and heaved within
her. Troi came further into the room and sat on the
edge of the bed, facing her companion. Mother Veronica
did not turn away from the window. She gave no
indication she was aware of Troi's presence until
she spoke. "I want to go back to the
Enterprise," she said.
"Mother Veronica-was
The nun spun around quickly. Her eyes were filled
with hurt and anger, and Troi could feel her rising
panic.
"No more," she said again. "I can't do it.
I can't go through it again. How can you ask it of me?"
"I need your help," Troi said.
Mother Veronica turned away again. She began
pacing the room. "You need my help," she
repeated, 222
her anger winning for a moment. "The planet needs
my help. The children need my help. Everyone needs,
whether I want to help or not. Well I
don't-nut this time."
Troi sat still, letting the nun vent her anger,
knowing that Mother Veronica could not deal with her feelings
until she faced them. "It was bad enough," Mother
Veronica continued, "before we came to the
Enterprise. Since then, there have been so many minds
all pressing in on me. I thought you wanted to help
me. You did, it was better far a time. Then we
came here. The cell . . . Joakal . . . forcing
my mind to touch . . . to invade. . ."
The anger was spent. All the pain and despair of
her many years of suffering was beginning to boil to the
surface. Her steps faltered. "Beahoram . .
. so much hate . . . I can't touch . . . I
can't . ."
Mother Veronica began to cry. She dropped to her
knees and buried her face in her hands,
Troi went to her and, kneeling beside her, put her
arms around the nun's shoulders.
After a moment, Mother Veronica's sobs
subsided. "Please," she said without raising her
head. "I want to go home."
Troi took a deep breath. She could not force the
nun to stay, and in her present state Mother
Veronica would be more of a hindrance than a help.
If Troi was to have any chance of succeeding at the
Rhii'cha, she knew she could not afford any
distractions. Unless Mother Veronica could help her
willingly, with a calm and steady mind, Troi knew
she was better off on her own. She stood and stepped
to one side. Then she tapped her communicator.
"Troi to Enterprise, was she said.
"Enterprise, Riker here."
"Will, Mother Veronica wants to return to the
ship. She's here with me now."
"All right, Deanna. I'll see to it."
"Thanks, W. Troi out."
A, moment later the transporter beam caught the
nun,. When she was gone, Troi returned to the
captain's room where Picard was still talking with
Elana.
"Mother Veronica has gone back to the
ship," she informed them. "Will she return by morning?"
Picard asked.
"conf hope so," Elana said.
"So do I," Troi replied. Troi knew that
Elana hoped for Mother Veronica's return for the
sake of Joakal, and Picard hoped the same for,
perhaps, the good of the planet. But Troi hoped Mother
Veronica found the strength to return for Mother
Veronica's own sake.
In the far west wing of the palace, Aeaklier had
also returned to his rooms. It was over. Aklier
knew that in a few hours the true Joakal would be
proclaimed and Beahoram's plots revealed. With
that revelation, Aklier's betrayal would also become
known. For nine years Aklier had served on the
Council. He knew the law. He knew he must
die for his crime. Aklier found he was trembling;
a traitor's death was not an easy, painless one.
He sat in his favorite chair by the window.
Outside the darkness of evening was spreading across the
city, and overhead the stars were beginning to twinkle in the
velvet heavens. The city was beginning to twinkle,
too. Lights shone out from the windows of homes and
shops until the city looked like a mirror of the
sky. It was too beautiful; Aklier could
not bear to watch. He stood and pulled the heavy
drapes shut, then touched a small switch on the
wall to bring up the room's lighting.
The artificial brightness did not comfort him. He
could still feel the darkness. It was waiting for him,
waiting like the thick, rough braid of rope that would
soon close about his throat in the traitor's
noose. Aklier could already feel the abrasion on his
skin as the rope grew tighter and tighter, cutting
off his air, taking his life ....
Aklier choked some air into his lungs, forcing it
past the terror that filled his throat. He lurched
away from the window on unsteady feet. He kept
moving; he could not bear to stay still.
He should not have name here. The room was suddenly too
small; the walls felt as if they were pressing in
on him. He should have gone to his other home, to the
place where he had once been happy, and waited
there for his death to arrive. He should have waited where he
was surrounded by the memories of his wife, the things she
had touched and laved. Aklier stumbled about the room.
On the sideboard by the door were a flagon of wine,
a bowl of fruit, and a platter of cheese. In the
cheese was a knife. Aklier rushed to it. He would
not wait for the noose. He would end his life
now, by his own hand.
A part of him welcomed the thought. A part of him
had found life a burden far many, many years and was
glad to be casting aside the lands and titles and
responsibilities, and the bitter, aching loneliness.
He held the knife up to his heart. One quick
jab and it would all be over. He would be reunited
forever with Bayne and with their daughter. He would go into the
peace of the God.
No, he would not. The thought stayed his hand, stopped
him just as the point of the knife began to press against his
flesh. The guilt of his betrayal hammered at him,
yet he knew that from it he still had some hope of the
God's mercy. If he took his own life,
he would be condemned to eternal darkness. It would be
an eternity tortured by the shame and regret that
filled him now. There would be no reunion, no
peace after all.
Aklier dropped the knife. It fell to the
floor and lay gleaming in the pile of the carpet.
Aklier stared at it a moment, then turned away.
He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed.
It was too late now to wish things were different and that
he had never met Beahoram. The most he could
hope for now was to see Joakal before he
died, to talk with him and, perhaps, hear his words of
forgiveness.
It would be one less regret to carry with him when
he faced the God.
ALL rntGxr iddorrGo, Mother Veronica
struggled with her conscience. She was torn between the
friendship she g felt for Troi, Troi's need of
her, and her own desire to be left alone.
She knew what her Order demanded of her.
Saint Francis of Assisi, the patron of the
Little Mothers, had once prayed, "Lord, make me
an instrument of thy peace. . . : was and the words of his
great prayer had become a credo for all those who
followed his Rule. Yet right now, Mother Veronica
could not find it within herself to seek to "sow pardon
instead of injury, faith instead of doubt, hope
instead of despair, or bring light into the darkness."
Other than a perfunctory greeting for Sister
Julian, Mother Veronica said no word and her
Sister, catch ing her mood, left her alone.
Through the long hours,
Mother Veronica sat in her quarters staring out the
viewports. She did not eat or sleep or even
pray. It was 227
the longest night she had ever endured, and
as dawn approached on the planet below, Mother
Veronica knew she must go to the chapel. Maybe
there, she thought, amid the familiar furnishings of her
faith, she would regain the sense of who she was and who
she was meant to be.
She left the stateroom and walked across the
ship's corridor that had been dimmed to artificial
night. The mental shields Counselor Troi had
endeavored to teach her to use were in tatters, dissolved
by her own inner tumult. Mother Veronica felt the
weight of the many sleeping minds around her.
She entered the chapel and reached automatically for the
holy water font. As she crossed herself, she saw
a figure rise from one of the front pews and turn
to face her. It startled her; she had not felt the
presence of another in the room. Then, in the dim
light of the altar candles, she saw the gleam of pale
golden-white skin..
It's the android officer, she thought, trying
to remember back to the dinner party when she had first come
on board and the name she had heard. It was no use.
She had been in too much misery to remember anything
she heard that night.
"I did not mean to disturb you, Mr.-was
"Data," the android supplied. "You have
not disturbed me."
"What are you doing here?" Mother Veronica asked.
The question came out harsher than she had intended arid she
tried to soften it.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean. .
. You're welcome here, of course, but I
didn't, think an android . . ." Mother Veronica
let her words falter.
"1 am here trying to understand what draws humans
to such places," Data said. "Can you explain it
to me?"
Another need, Mother Veronica thought as she
dropped to one knee in a genuflection toward the
altar. More questions. How can I answer his when I can't
answer my own?
"Why is it you want to know?" she asked as she
rose again to her feet. She walked toward Data.
As she approached,, he stepped back into the pew and
Mother Veronica followed him.
"I am an android," he reiterated once they
were both seated. "I was built by a human. I
serve in Starfleet among humans, and although it is
true that I do not possess emotions such as
desire, it is also true that if I were to be
granted one wish, it would be to become
human."
"And since you cannot become human, you study them,"
Mother Veronica added.
"Exactly," Data said. "I am currently
endeavoring to understand the nature of religious belief.
Before you and your companion came on board, I had
given no thought to that aspect of human behavior.
In the last three weeks, however, I have read
everything in the ship's library an the subject. I
have found that it has occupied a great deal of human
thought over the centuries."
"I see," Mother Veronica replied. "If you
have done all this reading, you have been in contact with far
greater minds than mine. What can I possibly
tell you?"
"Why did you become a nun?" Data answered.
Mother Veronica blinked. Data's question stabbed at
the heart of what she had struggled with through the long
hours past. She stared at the altar, at the candles
and crucifix as if her answer might be resting there.
But there was only silence.
"I don't know anymore," she said softly,
honestly. "I thought I did once, but now I'm not
so sure."
"Then you no longer believe there is a
God?" Data's question, asked so innocently, was again
like a knife thrust.
"Oh no, Mr. Data," she cried, turning
to face him. "Never that. It's not God-it's me."
Mother Veronica turned again to the altar. It was
mare than her eyes that were fastened on the linendraped
altar and its golden crucifix this time. It was her
soul.
"Far so many years," she said at last, "I
believed that my mind was an aberration and that
by possessing such a mind, I was flawed, less than
human in some way. I became a nun partly in
reparation for this fault. I became a nun because of
faith, because of a love for God, certainly, but also
because at the convent there was safety. That safety is
gone now."
Mother Veronica. stopped. She finally tore her
gaze away from the altar and closed her eyes. Her
next words came out slowly as she fought through the pain
it was costing her to say them.
"We came on board and Counselor Troi
discovered I was a telepath. She offered me a way
to keep all the voices out of my mind. I thought that
was why God had brought me here. I thought that He had
forgiven me at last. Finally, I was to be
free of the stain of my sin."
Again, Mother Veronica stopped. The memory of that
feeling brought a small smile to her lips, but it
quickly faded. She opened her eyes once more, and
once more she would look at nothing but the altar. "Then
we arrived here at Capulon IV," she continued.
"Almost from the moment we set foot on this planet,
rather than have those abilities locked away as I
craved, I have been forced to use them. And I have
heard the very abilities I grew up hating called
God's.
hand, God's gift, God's voice. Now I
don't know what to think, or what to do."
"Is it not then," Data said, "a question of faith?"
Surprised, stunned, Mother Veronica turned
to look at him. "Most of the religions I have
encountered," he said, " "contain the teaching of divine
guidance and provi- dence. Isn't yours the
same?"
Mother Veronica nodded. "For we know that all things
work together for good to those who love God."
"Romans 8:28," Data replied. "Perhaps
I have
misunderstood the quote."...Mother Veronica's eyes
were once more drawn to the altar. The candles
seemed to glow slowly brighter as the first light of
personal epiphany dawned.
"No, Mr. Data," she said after a long
moment. "You have not misunderstood. I have. I have
misunderstood all my life. My sin has never
been the abilities of my mind, but my fear of them.
"For the gifts and callings of the Lord are without repen.
tance,"" she quoted. The final words of Saint
Francis's beloved peace prayer whispered through
Mother Veronica's mind. She understood them then as
she never had before. "dis . . It is in giving that we
now receive; it is in pardoning that we now are pardoned
. . . ."
Her hand reached forand closed around the cross that
hung at her breast. "I was brought here," she said,
"not to close my mind, but to open it. To offer it.
To learn to use it. That is the only way to gain the
peace I have prayed for."
Mother Veronica stood and turned to Data:
"Thank you," she told him. "I may not have
answered your questions, but you have answered mine."
contilde
The soft light of dawn was just washing the sky when
Troi, Picard, and Elana left the palace and
walked across the city square toward the
temple. Troi had no eyes for the beauty of the
awakening day. Mother Veronica had not returned and
Counselor Troi was worried, both about the nun and
about the ritual. ahead.
There was so much that could go wrong, she thought. I'm
an empath not a telepath. Do the people here understand the
difference? Will they accept it?
They reached the temple steps were they found a
small delegation of five Servants and five
Elders waiting to escort them into the building.
Elana did not stop to greet them, but marched
straight up the steps and into the temple. Troi
tilde and Picard hastened to keep up with her. The
Elders and Servants fell into step behind.
Faebbllon waited at the altar with his back
turned toward them. The royal regalia still rested
on the sacred stone table, still watched over by the
palace guards. Joakal and Beahoram were nowhere
to be seen. The Servants who lived at the temple
and the remaining Elders filled the front pews, but
other than that, the temple was empty. There would be no
large crowd of spectators to witness this ceremony
as there had been for the interrupted coronation.
The procession reached the base of the altar steps.
As the official delegation slipped
silently into the pews they were to occupy, Faellon
turned around. His eyes slowly slid over
Elana, Picard, and then counselor Troi.
"Where is the other one?" he asked.
"She has gone back to our ship," Picard
answered.
Troi felt the anger mount in Faellon. "You
agreed to
this rite," he said. "disIt is sacred. Would she
go back on her word to the God?"
"No, she would not," a voice answered from the
back of the temple. Troi turned to see Mother
Veronica marching down the aisle. She and Captain
Picard hurried to meet her.
"Mother Veronica," Picard said before Troi had
a chance to greet her former student. "We're glad
you are here. I know this is not the reason you came
to Capulon IV, but we need you to use your
telepathic abilities once more on our behalf."
"And I am ready, Captain," she replied with
more equanimity than Troi would have thought possible a
few weeks, or even a few hours ago. Something
had changed for the nun. There was a new confidence in.
her voice and a peace in her thoughts. Troi hoped
they
i would last through the ordeal ahead.
The three of them walked back to the base of the
altar steps. Faellon stared at Mother Veronica
for a moment, then he turned again to the altar. He
placed his hands on either side of the golden bowl and
looked down into the remains of the anointing melange.
He did not speak for sever9.ful seconds while the
tension in the temple slowly built. Finally, he
raised his head. Without turning, he called
to Liiyn, who had assisted him yesterday. She
hurried to the Chief Servant's side. After a
few whispered words, she turned and rushed from the
temple, using the small door to the left side of the
transept. She returned a few minutes later
carrying a large book, bound in dark green leather and
closed with a golden clasp.
"That is the Book of Valpet," Troi heard
Elana
whisper.
Faellon stood silently a moment longer, as
if reluo-
taut to proceed. Finally, he turned to face his
assistant. She opened the book. Faellon read,
renewing his memory of the ritual to come. When
Faellon finished reading, he turned
toward the waiting assembly. "For the first time in more
than thirty generations," he said, "there are two who
claim the throne of Capulon IV. Each demands
the right to the crown and power of Absolute. Because of our
shame and our fathers' offense against the God, there are
none among us who possess the ancient gifts that
would show us the Truth and the Way of Wisdom. Yet,
the God is not without mercy. He has sent from other
worlds those who hear his Voice. They have vowed to accept
our laws. Through them, the ancient way of
Rhii'eha has been invoked. Through this rite, all
things will be revealed."
Once more, Faellon stared at the group gathered
at the base of the altar steps. His eyes lingered on
each one, finally stopping at Elana. "Elana,"
he said. "I give you one final chance to withdraw your
call for Rhii'cha. Are you determined on this
course?"
"I am," she said. "We all are."
Faeeallon stared at her a moment longer, as if
trying to read her heart and measure the depths of her
determination. Satisfied, he gave a curt nod.
He lifted his gaze and let it flow again over
Troi and Mother Veronica. "Are you willing
to dedicate yourselves in Rhii "cha?" he
asked them. Troi hesitated only a moment.
Once begun, she knew there would be no turning
back until this ceremony was completed. She wished
she had time to talk with Mother Veronica, to find out
what had happened to bring about the change she sensed in

nun. Troi wanted to know, needed to know, whether this
new strength would falter just when she needed it most.
But Mother Veronica did not hesitate. She
spoke loudly and clearly for all to hear. "We are
willing," she said.
"So let it be. The Rhii'cha will begin."
ALTHOUGH SHE WAS PREPARED, Faellon's
last words still sent a chill up Troi's spine.
Once again she thought of all that could go wrong, even with
Mother Veronica's help. How deeply would they be
expected to probe the minds of Joakal and his
brother? were they to be allowed to blend their
abilities and perform the Rhii'cha together? What if
they could not find a path through Beahoram and
Joakal's shields? Troi caught the echo of
Mother Veronica's thoughts whispering across the link the
two of them had forged long ago .
. . . For thou has delivered my soul from death,
my eyes from tears and my feet from falling
. . . .
The words comforted the nun, but they did little to calm
Troi's own fears.
Faellon spoke again. "Elana," he said, "you
and the captain must leave your companions now. You may
not speak or otherwise interfere until the
Rhii'cha is completed. What must be done, you cannot
do."
Elana laid her hand on the captain's arm.
"You must have faith, Captain," Troi heard
Elana say as she drew Picard- outside the
circle of Servants. Faith again, Troi thought.
That word and all the feelings, positive or
otherwise, that it evoked had filled Troi's world
since the Little Mothers had first come on board the
Enterprise.
Once Elana and Captain Picard had moved
away, Faellon turned his attention to Troi and
tilde Mother Veronica. "You are unfamiliar with the
demands of the God," he said. "Therefore I will grant
you a greater leniency in your behavior than I would
to one of our own, and I will direct you. You will now come
and kneel here." He indicated the third step to the
altar. "Then you will bow low, touching your forehead to the
step before you, in humble submission to the
God. In your hearts, you will make your dedication to the
God, offering your minds for use."
Together, Troi and Mother Veronica climbed the
altar steps. But as they knelt, Troi found herself
wondering to what she could make her dedication. To the
God whom the people of this world embraced? No, nor to the
God and the religion Mother Veronica followed.
Truth and Life, these were the things in which Troi
believed. They were the only articles of her faith,
and she had pledged herself to them long ago. She would do
so again. She made her bow.
Faellon extended his hands over them and began the
ritual prayers. "0, Great and most Holy
God," he intoned. "Infinite Source. We bow
before you, offering to you all liberty, memory, understanding,
and will. Purify us by your Divine Light. Let
darkness and deception be banished forever. Let your
Voice be heard."
Faellon lowered his hands. Troi and Mother
Veroni-
ca again straightened their backs and looked up at
the Chief Servant. "You have bowed before the God and
heard the words of our prayer," he said. "Are you now
prepared to be consecrated unto the act you have
undertaken?"
Trai glanced at Mother Veronica and saw her
slight nod. "We are ready," they said in
unison.
"Very well," Faellon replied. "But be
warned, in the God"...ness hallowing there is no mercy."
Trai felt a touch upon her head, her shoulders,
her arms. All around, those of the thirty Servants
who could not make contact with her or Mother Veronica,
linked hands with one another until an unbroken
circuit of energy was formed. Faellon again raised
his hands in prayer.
"Circle of Light," he chanted. "Circle
of Truth. Holy. Eternal. Unbroken. We
enter the center where the God abides. We receive; we
give; we receive again, bound and sanctified unto the
God, forever consecrated unto the Holy."
The Chief Servant dropped his hands to Troi's
and Mother Veronica's foreheads. His touch completed the
circle. Troi felt a surge of energy fire
through her brain, like a blinding flash of pure white
light. It did not ebb. It kept growing, reaching
toward the farthest corners of thought and the deepest centers
of emotion. Troi struggled to hold her own identity
against the combined presence of thirty other minds, all
united for a single, unwavering purpose.
She had once told Will Riker that her own emotions
did not matter, but suddenly they mattered very, very much.
Automatically she tried to raise her shields and
protect her mind. They would not respond. The
energy pouring into her continued to build. It coursed through
her mind and through her body. Troi felt as if she
were standing in the middle of a pillar of fire. Her
heart started to pound; she could not draw air into her
lungs and still the how of power did not relent. Troi
wanted to scream for them to let her alone.
Then, suddenly, the light turned golden and
receded. Troi's mind was her own again.
I was right, Troi thought. The Servants may no
longer function as telepaths, but they are psychic
triggers. This whole ceremony, the laying on of
hands, is to unlock the psychic potential of the
recipient. That's why the King is empowered at his
coronation. His shields are released through the touch of the
Servants. If this is the energy level it takes
to break through, no wonder Mother Veronica and I could
not do it alone. Can we do it now? she wondered.
Contact was broken. Hands were removed and Troi
felt herself being helped to her feet. She opened her
eyes and saw that the same had been done for Mother
Veronica. Troi tried to reach out and touch
the nun's mind. She wanted to know that Mother
Veronica was all right and still able to proceed. To her
surprise, Troi found the nun's mind shielded with
strong, disciplined shields.
Mother Veronica looked at her and gave a
small shake of her head. "Not yet," she
whispered. Before Troi could respond, they were
closely surrounded and led off to the side while
Joakal and Beahoram were ushered forward for their
preparation.
When Troi and Mother Veronica were escorted
back toward the altar, the scene had changed.
Joakal and Beahoram were lying face down,
prostrate before the altar with their arms outstretched above
their heads. In this position and in their identical
clothing, there was no way to tell them apart.
Between them stood Faellon. He held the
Sword of
Justice in his hands. It was not as long as the great
Sword of Wisdom Tygar had wielded, but it
was thick 239
and double-edged, and from the way the light reflected
off the blade, Troi had no doubt that it could sever
a man's head or cut deeply into a body with a
single thrust. The look on Faellon's
face proclaimed as loudly as any words that he would
not hesitate to do his duty.
"Kneel there between them," Faellon ordered, and
he pointed with the sword.
Troi and Mother Veronica knelt. Again, the
Servants gathered in a circle around them. There was
no touching this time, but Troi could feel the psychic
force of their presence. She looked up at
Faellon for direction. "Singly or together, it
makes no difference," he said. "Read them now, and
proclaim the Truth."
Troi reached forand found the familiar link between herself
and Mother Veronica. The rapport established
quickly, as if this time the nun had been reaching for it.
1 don't know what to do, Mother Veronica's
thoughts immediately spoke in Troi's mind. The
counselor was once again surprised, this time by the
order and clarity with which the nun communicated.
Don't worry, Troi told her. You've been
hearing other people's thoughts most of your life. This will
only be more focused, like a disfine-tuned scanner.
But how? There are so many people here. How do I tell
one mind from another?
I'll guide you, as we did in the cell.
Release control to me. This tame I need
it all. I can't do this if you fight against me. Are
you ready? 1 understand, Mother Veronica's thoughts
assured her. I promise I'll try. I'm
ready now.
Troi strengthened the link between them. As the nun
completely lowered the shields Troi had taught her
to use, Trai's own mind became bombarded by the
cacophony Mother Veronica had daily endured.
Once
more the counselor marveled that Mother Veronica had
survived; that she was sane and that now she was offering
to help. Troi was not certain that in the same
situation, she would have been this strong.
Quickly, Troi brought her own training into play.
With cool efficiency, she blacked the external
stimuli until the only ones she and Mother
Veronica could sense were Jaakal and Beahoram.
The emotions that flowed from the men battled against each
other. They clashed and clattered in Troi's mind,
like frenzied war drums. Images of people and places,
half-remembered conversations whirled across the flow of
mental energy. The separation of these thoughts was muddled,
as if their proximity to one another was causing
Joakal and Beahoram's minds to merge. We must
go deeper, Troi told Mother Veronica.
Down into their Self. Troi felt the nun falter.
The link between them nearly severed. Troi could feel
Mother Veronica fighting not to close her mind and
back away. Troi hurried to reassure her,
afraid that if Mother Veronica stopped now, a
deeper reading would become impossible. What was more,
Troi was certain that if Mother Veronica did not
successfully complete this task, the nun would never
consider furthering her training and becoming the skilled
telepath she was meant to be.
Sometimes in order to heal, Troi shared, a
physician must cut into the, flesh. And sometimes, in
order to heal a mind, the barriers must be stripped
away.
"If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off . . .
. "Mother Veronica quoted and Troi felt the
nun's confidence return again. Once more the nun
yielded to Troi's direction.
Troi focused on reading only the thoughts of the
prostrate form on her left. She expected
to encounter
Joakal, whose mind they had already touched and whose
gentle inclinations would help ease this ordeal for Mother
Veronica.
It was Beahoram. His confidence was in
tatters, yet he had not totally given way to the
fear that lurked and darted around the edges of his mind.
He held it at bay by anger, the same dark and
brooding anger that had driven him through most of his
life. Both Troi and Mother Veronica recoiled
from its touch.
Troi felt the cold point of the sword touch the
base of her throat. It bit into her flesh, not
deeply enough to draw blood-not yet. She opened her
eyes and looked into the unyielding gaze of the Chief
Servant towering aver her.
"Proclaim what the Voice speaks to you," he
ordered. "Fulfill Rhii'cha." Troi
hesitated. Mother Veronica's revulsion screamed
inside her head, amplifying the feelings that were
Troi's own. At that moment, Troi, too, would have
liked to break away, to go back to the Enterprise and
be cleansed from her contact with the blackness of
Beahoram's mind. Duty held her in place.
Duty and the point of a sword. Both were sharp.
Troi took a deep breath as she steeled herself
to touch Beahoram's emotions again.
She reached; she touched; an answering wave of
darkness boiled back at her. It slammed through her
mind, battering at her defenses with the force
of obsession. She was hardly aware that Faellon
had removed the tip of the sword from her throat and again
taken up his post between the prostrate bodies.
"Anger," she said aloud. Some part of her heard
her own voice, but she could not spare the concentration
to choose her words. "Pain and loss. Loneliness.
I'll make them pay. Revenge. I'll hurt
them for what they thought they did to me. I'll take
back what is mine."
This was not enough. These thoughts were barely below the
surface of Beahoram's mind. Trai knew she
would have to go deeper. She withdrew a little, giving herself
time to recover from the negative currents in which she
had been immersed.
As she withdrew, she felt Beahoram's confidence
return. He thought he had driven her off, but
Troi knew otherwise. There was a technique for
reaching past the unbalanced telepathic mind that she.
had learned in her training on Betazed. She had not
needed it in the years she had worked among humans.
She had almost forgotten it, but in the severity of her
need, the memory of the training resurfaced.
Troi once again strengthened the link between herself and
Mother Veronica. She wove their minds together,
plaiting them into a single, bonded entity.
Troi had not felt such complex psychic
structures since she had bonded with her own teacher
on Betazed.
Prepared now, Troi sent a Questing deep
into Beahoram's mind. It stood out like a ray of
light in the surrounding blackness, plunging and searching
deeper and deeper. At any moment, Troi
expected to encounter resistance, but unlike his
brother, the layers of Beahoram's mind peeled
easily away.
Troi knew then that she could shatter his mind with a
single thought. She also knew that she would not. Her
training,. her sense of duty, and her devotion to the
healing of the mind was too deeply engrained to let her
do more than recognize the possibility and discard it.
Instead she stripped away Beahoram's defenses.
She, laid bare to him the full darkness of his own
mind. He tried to stop her, but he was powerless.
Relentlessly, she delved into every memory, every action
and plot, and revealed to him the true corruption of
leis motives.
Then she spoke. In the hush of the temple, her
voice carried, revealing everything she learned to this
inquisition of Servants and Elders that encircled
her, and there was nothing Beahoram could do but
lay groaning with frustration at her feet.
Ti-oi opened her eyes. Faellon had left
his place between the two brothers. He was straddling
Beahoram's prostrate form, the Sword of
Justice pressed into Beahoram's back. Gone was
the bent old man who had hidden his face with shame
when Joakal entered the temple and who had sat
mute during the Council's interrogations. Gone was
the Chief Servant of the temple, worn out with long
Service. Faellon had become the avenging angel
of his God. His eyes blazed with fury as they
looked into Troi's, and she knew he would willingly
wield the Sword.
"Complete the Rhii'cha," he ordered. "As you
have read the heart and soul of one, now read 'the other."
Troi closed her eyes again. She focused. her
mind, still tightly interlaced with Mother Veronica's,
on Joakal. Again she gathered their linked powers
into a tight, penetrating beam of thought. But as before,
Joakal's mind turned her away.
She tried again and again. Every time the way remained
blocked. Surface memories-fears, beliefs,
hopes, darted quickly over the external layers of his
mind, but allowed no deeper entry.
Troi felt herself start to tremble with the
effort. Finally she let out a gasp and sat back
on her heels, her energy-and Mother
Veronica's-spent. "l: cannot," she said. But that was
enough.
"The God has protected His own," Faellon
shouted triumphantly. He raised the sword. His
muscles tensed as he prepared to plunge it down
into the body of the imposter who had almost made a
travesty of everything Faellon held sacred.
"No!" Troi screamed, lurching toward him.
Joakal sprang to his feet and caught the arm
of the Chief Servant as it began to descend. Their
eyes locked; T3roi felt the pulse of their
battle of wills.
Finally Faellon lowered his eyes. The sword in
his hand dropped and clattered on the stone floor.
He sank to one knee before Joakal.
"Your Majesty," he said. Faellon stood and
turned to the waiting Elders. Aklier sat among
them, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed. He made
no effort to break from the hands that held him. "Take
him away," Faellon said. "And find his
accomplices. They will await the judgment of the
King."
"Wait," Joakal ordered. Movement
in the temple stopped as he walked over to stand before the
Elder.
Aklier did not look up. "Forgive me," he
whispered. "I should have trusted you."
"Yes," Joakal said softly. "You should have. But
I should also have trusted you. If I had not kept my
plans to myself, if I had shared them with you, none of this
would have happened. I was selfish, and though I did not
know it, I was arrogant. You must also forgive
me.") Aklier bowed deeply. Faellon came
up behind Joakal. "Your Majesty," he said. "The
coronation-was
"Will take place in two hours," Joakal
replied. "With one alteration-me."
t
For the neat two hours, the news of the Rnii cha's
outcome was broadcast through the city. It was carried
over communication systems, whispered from ear to ear,
gossiped out doorways and windows until everyone
knew the tale.
At the appointed time, the Elders once more gath-
ered in the palace to escort the King to the temple.
Joakal requested that Captain Picard stand in
Aklier's place in the procession and that Troi and
Mother Veronica also walk with them. It was the
biggest crowd in living memory who turned out to see
Joakal's coronation and elevation to Absolute.
People lined the walkways and filled the city square,
each hoping to catch not only a glimpse of their young
King but to see the people from the Federation who had risked their
lives to overthrow the usurper and protect the most
hallowed right of sover- eignty. Neither Troi nor
Mother Veronica realized that to the people who whispered and
pointed as the procession passed, they had already gained
the status of living legends.
The procession reached the temple and once more
ascended the long flight of stairs. A fanfare
blew ante, twice, three times. Joakal entered
the hallowed structure and walked in triumph down
the long nave to prostrate himself before the altar and be
raised again as Absolute.
He had already been hallowed by his passage through
Rhii cha and therefore, when the coronation recommenced,
Faellon chose to omit many of the pray*rs he had
prayed aver Beahoram. But the Chief Servant
could not reduce the rite of anointing or the
consecration.
At last, hands lifted Jaakal from where he lay
upon the crimson cloth. He knelt before the altar.
Faellon stood in front of him and comthe
four Servants, again assisting Faellon, came and
laid their hands on Joakai's shoulders.
Faellon recited the ancient prayer of
consecration.. The prayer ended. Faellon dropped
his hands to Joakal's head. At their touch, a warmth
filled Joakal's mind. It expanded slowly at
first, spreading outward
and inward, warming and caressing him. It turned into a
fire. It began to blaze. It scorched and seared.
It burned its way through the layers of shields
Troi had encountered, reaching deeper and deeper, down
into the center of his brain and firing back outward again
along, all of the twisting pathways of thought,
memory, reason, and belief.
Joakal rocked back and forth on his knees, he
groaned as from deep within his mind, power flared,
unleashed for the first time. It surged back up along the
pathways that were now unblocked. It met with the
energies that were flowing into his mind and blended with them,
absorbed them. It was as if a switch had been
thrown in Joakal's mind. There was a flood of
illumination and suddenly Joakal could hear the thoughts
of those around him. He could read through the layers of their
emotions and feel within himself the depths of their joys and
triumphs, their sufferings and fears. He
Knew themall of them.
Then, just as he felt he could accept no more, he.
found he could shut them away with a single thought. The
empowering was complete. This is what Counselor
Troi and Mother Veronica were trying to do for me down
in the cell, Toakal realized. I did not understand.
He sent a single thought of affinity to them, brushing
the minds of empath and telepath with his gratitude.
Then he stood and met the eyes of the temple's
Chief Servant. Faelion bowed low, acknowledging
the new Absolute and in that instant, Joakal
knew he had only to think a single thought to be able
to read the mind, the heart and soul of the God's
Servant. Such a temptation must be guarded against.
Joakal turned away from Faellon. He
looked out at 247
the congregation. The faces that watched him held
expectations and a little dread. He knew they wondered
what kind of a man was now their ruler. They would know
soon enough.
Joakal descended the altar steps. He
crossed to where Elana stood with Picard, Troi,
and Mother Veronica. He took Elana's hand
into his own and raised it to his lips.
"My Queen," he said for her ears
alone. "My friend," he said to Captain Picard.
Then with two steps, he stood in front of Troi
and Mother Veronica. He said nothing for a few quick
seconds. Then slowly, he sank to one knee before
them.
The people in the temple gasped; no Absolute had
ever bowed to any but the God.
Joakal came to his feet again. He looked
down into the tired faces of both women and he smiled
a soft, warms smile.
"I owe you more than a life," he said. "What you
have done will never be forgotten among my people."
He turned away and went back to stand at the
foot of the altar. Once there he raised his hands.
All eyes were fixed upon him. Joakal felt the
surge of anticipation that flowed from the hearts and
minds of his people as they waited to hear the first words of their
newly consecrated sovereign.
"My people," he cried out in a loud and royal
voice. "You have seen today the price of following an
old law that has passed from the Way of Wisdom.
The old laws will be reviewed and new laws
proclaimed, and the frost such law is this: No more children
shall die for an accident of their birth. Life is the
God's most precious gift. In revering
it, we do homage to the God. Now is the quickening of a
new era. We go forward together."
There was a moment of silence. Then, suddenly, a
voice rang out. "The God's blessing upon the
Absolute, was it shouted. The cry was taken up
by other voices until the temple rang with the
accolade.
Jaakal again crossed over to Elana and took
her by the hand. She would walk by his side as he
left the temple, as she would walk by his side through
life. But he did not forget the people of the Enterprise.
"Captain," he said. "Will you, and the others if they
are not too tired, be my guests at the coronation
banquet? I believe we still have things to discuss."
"I, for one, would be honored, Your Majesty,"
Picard said. "Counselor-Mother Veronica?"
Troi smiled, but Mother Veronica shook her
head. "If you don't mind," she said, "I'd like
to go back to the Enterprise. his
"Certainly," Joakal replied. "But I
Hope you will return to us soon."
Mother Veronica did not answer. She lowered her
eyes and stood waiting. Picard tapped his
communicator.
"Picard to Enterprise, was he said.
"Enterprise, Riker here."
"All is well, Number One," Picard
reported. "Counselor Troi and I will remain
here for a while longer, but Mother Veronica wishes
to return to the ship. Please see to it. I'll
give you a full report later."
"Aye, aye, Captain"
"Thank you, Number One. Picard out."
He and the others stepped back a few feet
to allow the transporter to work. As the effect took
hold of Mother Veronica and before she had disappeared
completely, she raised her eyes and looked at
Troi. The counselor was uncertain what
expression she saw there.
Then she was gone. Joakal, too, took his
leave of them as he led Elana to their place in the
coronation recession. Picard and Troi were left
standing alone.
"Well, Counselor," the captain said, "I
believe our young; friend will make an excellent ruler
for the people of Capuion IV, and they will be a welcome
addition to the Federation."
"I agree, Captain," Troi said.
Picard held out his arm to her ready to escort her
formally to the banquet. A wry smile
touched the edges of his lips. "You'll have to admit that
life in Starfleet is never boring."
Tror. laughed. "It is certainly never that,"
she said.
THE FEAST AND cEL.ESRNTTORR were
held in the main banquet hall of the palace,
Larger even than the Great Chamber, it easily
held all the people who had attended the coronation and the
population of Servants from the temple, as well as
the retainers and servers, the musicians and dancers
and the other entertainers who would perform during the eveningr
3oakal had ordered that Picard and Counselor
Troi be seated near him at the high table. As the
platters of food came and went, music played,
toasts were given, and conversation crescendoed, Picard
found he had little chance to speak with the King.
The first hour passed. The main dishes were cleared
away and an array of desserts presented. More wine
was served. The second hour was nearly spent when the
evening's entertainment began with a chorus of children performing
some old songs, written for past Kings but with the names
changed to honor the new
one. Next came tumblers and acrobats and a
troop of dancers. Picard began to think about how he
might make a graceful exit and return
to the Enterprise. He turned and found Joakal
watching him.
The new Absolute smiled and stood. Immediately
the music stopped. Conversations halted in midword as
throughout the hall, people sprang to their feet and waited.
Joakal motioned for them to sit. "You have feasted Us
most wonderfully," he said, using the royal
pronoun, "and you have shown Us your love and loyalty.
We are appreciative of all you have done, but We
must now take Our leave of you. Please, stay and
enjoy yourselves in Our absence."
Jaaibbal turned away from the table and as he
did, he motioned for Captain Picard to fallow
him. Picard nodded to the King, then leaned closer
to Counselor Troi.
"Stay here," he told her. "I'll try not
to be gone too long."
Troi nodded. She and the rest of the room remainded
standing until Picard had joined Joakal and the two
of them left the banquet hall. "They'll enjoy
themselves more now that I'm not there," Joakal told
Picard as they stepped out into one of the many palace
corridors. "And I want--no, I need to ask
your advice. Let's go to my private apartments
where we can be comfortable while we talk."
"Certainly, Your Majesty," Picard said.
"Please, Captain, when we are alone, call
me Joakal, My life will be filled with titles
and formalities, with Elders and advisers and
subjects, but there will be very few whom I can call
friend."
"I shall be pleased to be among those few,
Joakal. And my name is Jean-Luc." 252
"Jean-Luc-is that an Earth name?"
"Yes, from a country known as France."
"Now that we are to be a member of the Federation, I
must learn more about your Earth.."
The small talk continued while they walked down
the corridors, but Picard knew that Joakal had
other things on his mind. His chatter had a
preoccupied quality to it.
Finally they reached Joakal's rooms. They
entered and Joakal motioned for Picard to sit while
he poured them each a glass of wine. When he had
handed one to the captain, the younger man dropped into a
chair and stretched his long legs out in front of him,
crossing them at the ankles. He held his wine
goblet up until the light touched the ruby-colored
crystal at its heart and he sat contemplating it.
"Tomorrow," Joakal said at last. "Tomorrow
is a great day for my people. I will sign the final
treaty that brings us into full membership with the
Federation. We will join that glorious brotherhood
among the stars. It is a wondrous thing,
Jean-Luc," he said, turning to look at the
captain. "The treaty is a good document, one
I'll he proud to sign."
"If it is not the treaty you wish to discuss,"
Picard said, "I don't see what else I have the
knowledge, or the authority, to help you with. My experience
with your people is quite-limited."
"The authority? No, now that I am
Absolute, no one has that. It is a heavy
burden to wear such a title and to wear it well.
Perhaps that is why with the title comes this new power into my
mind. Every action I take for the rest of my life must
be for the good of my people--and how can I not act for their good
when their hurts and fears are as clear to me as my
own. In many ways, I am my people now."
"Then, what-was
"You do have a knowledge I need," Joakal continued.
""And I would ask you for your advice."
"But you have advisers who are far more familiar with the
ways of your world than I will ever be."
"That is why I cannot ask them."
Joakaa stopped and took a long drink of the wine in
his goblet. Then he placed it on the small table between
the chairs and folded his hands.
"Tomorrow," he began again, "I must pronounce
judgment on my brother, and on Aklier, and the two
who aided their actions. The laws of this world call for
their deaths, as my advisers have already reminded me,
several times. There must be laws. Society needs
them or there would be chaos, and my people need them. They
need laws they can believe in if they are to have any
confidence in me as their ruler.
"But, Jean-Luc," Joakal continued, "I have
said that I wish to enact new laws for my people. As an
individual, I would offer Beahoram and Aklier
mercy --comb I am no longer an individual. I
am .absolute. How, where, do I find the balance
between mercy and law? What is justice?"
Picard took a deep breath and let it out
slowly. It was a delicate question, and one that he had
often asked himself over the years. But he was not
burdened with the responsibilities Joakal faced.
As captain of a starship, some aspects of his life
could be compared to that of a ruler, but only on the
surface. Picard always had other officers with whom
he could share: some of the burdens, and who had
the authority to relieve him of command should he become
unfit for his role. There were also other captains or
admirals, and the whole great legal system of
Starfleet and of the Federation at his back. He was never
truly alone in his decisions. Joakal was.
Picard twirled the stem of his own wineglass
be-
tween his fingers, staring down into the rich, golden
liquid. His brow furrowed and his lips pursed as
he tried to find a way to answer the young King's question.
Picard sat forward to put his goblet down next
to Joakal's. "You told me a tale out of your
people's history," he began, sitting back in his
chair, crossing his legs. "It was the story of the first
King Joakal and the two bakers. You said that this King
knew the meaning of wisdom. On Earth, many
centuries ago, there was a King by the name of
Solomon. He was a very righteous man, a man of
great faith who sought to serve both-his people and his God
to the best of his abilities. When he came to the
throne, the one thing Solomon prayed was that God would
grant him the wisdom to govern his people with both
justice and understanding. It is said that God was so
pleased by this request, that He granted it in full
measure. "Well, Solomon's new
wisdom was soon put to the test. One day, two
women appeared before him demanding the King's judgment.
They had an infant with them. The women lived in the
same household. They had each given birth, but
one of the children had died within a few days. Now both
women were claiming to be the mother of the remaining child.
"They argued back and forth as they stood before the
King. "It is my child who lives and yours who
died," they shouted. "Give me back the child you have
stolen from me." Solomon let them argue while
he watched their faces and tried to judge their
hearts. Finally he stopped them. He took the child
into his own arms. "Bring me a sword," he
ordered. "Since each of you claims this child," he
said as he held the child up, "I will cut the living child
in two and give half to each of you."
"One woman nodded and said "That is just." But the
other woman cried out in horror. "No," she
cried. "Do not slay the child. Give it to this other
woman here. I would rather my child be taken from me than that
it should die." By this King Solomon knew that it was
the second woman who was the true mother. He put the
child into her arms. And it is written that when the people of his
land heard of Solomon's judgment, they said that the
Wisdom of God was with him."
Picard finished his tale, and the two men sat in
silence for a time, each in his own way contemplating the
meaning of the tale. Finally, Joakal raised his head
and smiled.
"'thank you, Jeati-Luc," he said. He
picked up both glasses and handed Picard's to him.
Then Joakal lifted his own in toast.
"To our new era," he said. "And to Wisdom."
"To wisdom," Picard echoed.
Down in the banquet hall, Troi sat next
to Elana at the high table. Troi did not notice
when Faellon left his seat further along the high
table, but suddenly he was there, kneeling on the floor
between her seat and Elana's. Troi could feel the
depths of his shame and sorrow..
"Elana E'shala," he said and he bowed low
to her. "I have wronged you and I have come to ask your
mercy."
Elana looked at him. There was a spark of
anger that still burned within her, but at the sight of the old
mark bent with the weight of his repentance, the spark
flickered and died.
"JF-AELLON," Elana said softly. "There
is no need-was
"'there is," Faellon countered,
straightening. "Please hear me. I need to make you
understand, at least in some small part, why I acted as
I did, for truly I did not wish you harm."
Elena nodded and waited, allowing Faellon the
dignity to say what he needed in order to make
peace with himself.
j "I am an old man," he began again.
"And for most of my life, I have lived in Service
at the temple. There
are those who enter Service who yearn toward high
office, but I was not one of them. I was content to
Serve the God in quiet obscurity. Yet
twenty-two
years ago I was named Chief Servant. Since
then my
only thought has been to guard the ways of the God
and to bring them to the people.
"But, Lady Elena," he said, and he paused
for a breath. "I lave grown old. More and more my
thoughts have turned to resigning my office and retiring,
to living the last of my days in peace. I had only
one more act to perform-the coronation of the Absolute-before
I could lay aside the title and
responsibilities of Chief Servant. It
became my greatest desire. More than
hearing the Voice of the God, more than serving the Gad
or the people or the King, I wanted obscurity and
solitude. I wanted peace. And, though I told
you that you must have faith, I had lost mine."
Here again Faellon paused. Elena reached out and
touched his shoulder, offering her comfort and her forgiveness.
"Faellon," she said. "There is no need to go
on."
"Yes, there is," he said. "You must know the
fullness of my fault so that you can guard against it,
both in yourself and in others. You are to be the queen of this
land, and you will, help the Absolute to rule." "Go
on then," Elena said kindly.
Faellon's bread, when he drew it this time, was
ragged and shaky, but his voice was strong. "When you
came to me," he said, "with your claim that something was
wrong with the Ding, I did not want to
believe you. It would have meant a disruption to my
life and the routine world with which I was familiar. I
convinced myself that you were nothing more than an angry and
disappointed lover. When later you told me of the
Absolute's capture by a twin brother, I still
would not listen. Although I knew the particulars of
Joakal's birth, t refused the memory. Again,
I did riot want to hear you. I did not
want my peace disturbed. I wanted the actions of the
God to conform to my needs and I refused to see beyond
that. For my blindness, you and many others suffered. I am
not fit to continue in Service. I ask your
forgiveness, Gentleborn, and I shall spend the
remainder of my days asking forgiveness from the God."
"Faellon," Elana said, "I do forgive you,
and I know that Joakal does as well. You call
yourself a tired old man. Yet, in Rhii'cha you
held the Sword of Justice with. strength. Without
your help, Joakal would not now be upon the throne. You
have paid your debt to us, Faellon. Your debt to the
God, only your own heart can judge."
"Thank you, Elana E'shala," Faellon
said, and again he bowed. "I would add one more thing,"
Elana said. Faellon raised his head and looked
at her. "You told me to have faith. Now I say the
same to you. Have faith, Faellon. The ways of the
God are sometimes hard to understand, yet I believe that
all that has happened has been for a purpose. There
will be less resistance to the changes Joakal wants
to make, now that the people have; seen for themselves the dangers of
living only in the past The future is our goal,
Faellon, and it is full of bright hope for our
people."
"You shall make a great queen, Elana
E'shala," Faellon said. He stood and bowed again
to her, then went back to his seat. But his back was a
little
straighter and his head was again held high. Troi
could still feel his remorse, but could also feel the
beginnings of his healing. She, too, thought that Elana
would make a great queen.
Abruptly, the room hushed. Troi looked
away from Elana and Faellon, and saw that the
Absolute had again entered the hall. By his side
walked Captain Picard. With a smile, Joakal
waved his people back to their seats and motioned far the
musicians to resume playing.
Troi watched Elana watching Joakal
approach. Elana's eyes sparkled and she smiled
a bright, delighted smile. Again Troi felt the
love that ran between the two of them. It was a thread as
strong as any alloy science had discovered, and far more
indestructible. They were soul-bound together, and Troi was
glad that she had had a part in reuniting them.
"Well, Counselor," Picard said when he and
Joakal at last reached the table. "Are you ready
to return to the Enterpriseally" "Yes, sir," she
said, trying not to sound too eager or
ungracious.
Joakal, however, was not fooled. He reached out and
took Elana's hand, raising her from her chair and
drawing her close to his side. Then he turned
to Troi and smiled.
j "Then, although both Elana and I will be sorry
to see you go," he said, "we shall detain you no longer.
We shall look forward to your return tomorrow, and
to the arrival of the Little Mothers. Tell Mother
Veronica for me."
Troi moved to stand next to Captain Picard,
ready to beam up to the ship. As she passed by the new
Absolute, Joakal laid a hand on her arm.
She stopped and looked at him. He said no word, but
she felt a brush of affection and respect within her
mind.
I will never forget all you have done, his thoughts told
her. You offered yourgifts unseationyhly, which is the
greatest gift of all. It will be an inspiration to me
through all the long years ahead.
Troi lowered her eyes, deeply touched. The
sense of balance she had not realized she had lost
returned and renewed as Joakal's words echoed a
teaching from her own people's religion.
It is not the success or failure, she
remembered, but the act itself. "Thank you," she said
aloud. Joakal lifted his hand from, her arm and
Troi continued on to stand by the captain's side.
Picard tapped his communicator. "Picard
to Enterprise-, was he said. "Two to beam up."
MIDMORMNC3 THE NEXT DAY, Troi and
Captain Picard stood on the transporter
platform waiting for the Little Mothers to join them beaming
down to the planet. Mother Veronica had spent the
night in seclusion, refusing all of Troi's
attempts to speak with her. Troi could not help
wondering what decision, if any, Mother Veronica
had reached about her future. Troi thought back to the
many hours they had spent together during their journey.
Had she said enough? the counselor wondered. Too
much? Did Mother Veronica realize the
possibilities stretching before her if she would only
choose to accept them?
The nuns finally arrived, but aside from a bare
greeting, Mother Veronica was silent. What was more,
her thoughts and emotions were tightly locked behind the
shields Troi had taught her to use. Although a
small part of Troi was pleased by her inability
to read the nun, another part of her was still worried about
the effect their time on Capulon IV,
and especially the, ritual. of Rhii cha in which Mother
Veronica had participated yesterday, had had upon the
nun's mental stability. Troi wished Mother
Veronica would talk to her. Beside the counselor,
Captain Picard spoke. "Mr. Tuttle-if you
please," he said.
The transporter chief gave them a
half-smile as her hands moved across the controls, and
Troi had no more time to worry over Mother
Veronica's future.
They once again materialized in the reception
hall of the palace and Tygar, as representative
of the Council of Elders, was there to greet them.
"Welcome, Captain Picard," he said, stepping
forward when they appeared. "Welcome, all of you.
His Divine Majesty sent me to escort you to his
presence:. He is eager to see you."
"Thank you, Tygar," Picard replied. "We
are looking forward to seeing His Majesty, as well."
"Then if you'll all follow me," Tygar said,
"His Divine Majesty is waiting,"
Tygar led them out once more into the palace
corridors. As they walked, he began telling
Captain Picard about the planned events of the day.
Today, on Joakal's first full day as the
Godembodied to his people, oaths of allegiance would
betaken, petitions presented, and judgments passed.
The people of Capulon waited to see what kind of a
ruler the God had given them. But it was already being
whispered, Tygar told them confidentially, that this
Joakal would prove to be as great a King as his
ancient predecessor, Joakal I'lium the
First.
"The last action today," Tygar concluded, "will be the
formal dismissal of the Council of Elders. Now that
His Majesty is Absolute, we are no longer
required-.."
"So, Ding Joakal will have to rule alone, with no
one to help or advise him?" the captain asked.
"It is a terrible burden for one man to bear
alone."
"His Majesty is free, of course, to retain
his advisers, or to name new ones, or to have none at
all. And you are right, Captain," "I"ygar said.
"It is a heavy burden, but one His Majesty has
spent thirty years in training to bear."
Picard cleared his throat and changed the
subject. "Does the thought of dismissal bother you?"
he asked.
Tygar shrugged. "I will continue to serve
if His Divine Majesty asks me," he said.
"But my wife and I have been away from our homeland
for over nine years now and we would not be sorry
to return to All"
j They reached the Great Chamber. The massive
doors stood open and inside several hundred people
milled about, waiting for the business of the day to
begin. At the sight of the newcomers, they parted,
creating an aisle that led to the throne where Joakal
sat, dressed majestically in crimson and
gold. Jewels
sparkled on his wrists, neck, and fingers. On his
head
sat the triple-tiered crown of the Absolute, and
around
his neck hung a thick golden chain. Suspended
from
the chain was a stylized bird of prey, the symbol
of the
House I'lium, made of gold and rubies.
Troi could not
help thinking what a different picture he
presented
from the filthy, haggard man they had awakened to
find as their companion in captivity.
Joakal saw them. He stood and ran down the
five steps that raisers the throne off the chamber
floor, a smile of welcome spread across his
handsome features.
He stopped and approached them more sedately, as
if suddenly remembering his rank. But Troi
couldeafeel his delight and his pride. He had something
special,
more than the signing of the treaty, he wanted to share
with them today. As Joakal neared, Captain Picard
bowed. Troi and the others followed his example.
"Welcome, Captain Picard," Joakal
said, giving a slight incline of his head in
recognition of the captain's rank. "Welcome,
all of you. We are pleased to have you here with Us and We
are most overjoyed at the reason for your presence."
"Thank you-Your Majesty," Picard answered.
"Captain," Joakal said. "It is Our
pleasure that you and the others sit near Us while We
conduct the business of the day."
Joakal turned and walked back to the raised
dais of the throne. He climbed the stairs and again
took his place upon the royal seat of carved stone.
Picard, Troi, and the Little Mothers followed him, but
stopped at the base of the steps. With a
sweep of his hand, Joakal indicated that it was on
these steps they were to sit, Picard taking the place
on the top stair.
Once they were seated, Joakal nodded to Tygar.
The Elder walked out to the center of the floor, carrying
a long staff of bleached wood that had been wound with
gold. The top of the staff was adorned with a stylized
bird of prey that matched the one hanging from the chain
around Joakal's neck. Tygar struck the floor
three times with the staff. The sound rang through the room
and immediately all conversation died away.
"In the name of His Divine Majesty, the
Absolute Joakal I'lium XII,
Supreme and Most Holy Ruler, Voice of the
God, King Nonpareil of Capulon IV, I
call this court to order."
Again Tygar struck the floor. He walked down
the length of the long room until he reached the open
doors, then he turned and walked back again.
Following him was Elana. Tygar escorted her to the
base of
the steps where he bowed to the King. Without a word he
turned away, leaving Elena standing alone before the
throne.
She was dressed in pants and tunic of
deep royal blue. Around her waist was wrapped a
sash of silver cloth that sparkled with each breath she
drew. A band of the same cloth pulled her hair
beck so that it cascaded like a golden waterfall
down her back. Her eyes, as she looked up at
Joakal, were almost as blue as her clothing.
Joakal bent toward the captain. "I wanted
to take care of some of the happier business first," he
whis pered. Then he pulled himself up straight with his
hands resting on the arms of his throne and looked down
at Elena.
3 "Elena, First Daughter of the House
E'shaia, ap proach your King," he ordered.
Elena climbed the
stairs, walking between the seated figures but keeping
her eyes on Joakal. When she reached the top
step, he stood.
"Elena E'shala," he said. "We would have this s
world know the esteem with which you are held in Our heart.
Without your faith and courage, We would not sit upon this
throne. You have more than proved your love and your worth
to Us, and to the people of this world. It is therefore Our
pleasure to announce to Our people that our marriage will
take place thirty days from today. But you shall be more
than Our Queen and wife."
Joakal stopped. He lifted the chain-from around his
neck and placed it around Elena's. There was a
ripple of voices through the room; no one but the
Absolute was allowed to wear the golden bird.
"Elena E'shala," Joakal continued. "On the
day to follow our marriage rite, you shall be crowned and
consecrated to a new status. You shall, like Us, be

invested and hallowed as Absolute unto this people,
to live and rule by Our side through such years as the
God shall grant us."
Again, quiet pandemonium swept across the floor
as the people grasped the import of Joakal's
announcement. Tygar gave them no time to talk,
even among themselves. The Elder again walked to the center
of the room and struck his staff upon the floor. The people
quieted. Tygar then walked to the door, this time
returning with Faellon and two fellow Servants.
Tygar led them to the throne and then again withdrew to the
side. Joakal, once more seated on his throne with
Elana standing by his side, looked down at the
Chief Servant. Troi recognized the two
Servants with Faellon as two who had assisted
him during the IZ-HII i tilde ha and during
Joakal's coronation. One was an older
man of about fifty and one was a woman of, perhaps,
Joakal's age. Troi looked closely at the
woman, feeling a connection of empathic powers with
her.
"Faellon, Chief Servant of the temple here
in Our royal city," Joakal began. "Our
beloved Elana has spoken to Us of your wish
to resign your office of Service. If this is
truly your wish, We will not. keep you from the years of
rest you have earned. But We are sorry to see you go.
You have served this people well and We bear you great
respect and affection."
"Thank you, Divine Majesty," Faellon
said, bowing. "But I am an old man and I am
tired. The ways of our world are changing. Your
Majesty will need a Chief Servant with the energy
to help you.""
"If this is truly your wish," Joakal
repeated, inclining his head graciously. "Who would you
name as [*thorngg'your successor?"
Faellon motioned the two other Servants
forward. "I present to Your Divine Majesty the
two I believe 266
are the most worthy. You must choose between them, for
I cannot. "This is Sambl, who has
Served at the temple for thirty years." The older
man bowed to the King. "And this is Liiyn. Although she
is young," Faellon said as the woman bowed, "she
is strong in the ways of the God. Either of these will
serve Your Majesty and this world well."
Joakal stared at the two applicants. Troi
felt the discharge of psychic power and knew that
Joakal was using his new abilities to read the
Servants.
"You present us with a most difficult choice,"
he said to Faellon after a moment. "And your words were
full of Wisdom when you said that We will need the
help of those at the temple during Our rule. In
both We see the heart of dedication that would make a
wise leader, but it is Our pleasure to name Liiyn
to the
j Office of Chief Servant, to be so
ordained at the date i of your choosing. And may the
God bestow to her the Wisdom and compassion that have so
marked the
years of your Service."
The three Servants bowed and backed away.
Once more Tygar stepped out and pounded the floor with his
staff. But this time no people were waiting at the great
doors. Instead a small door in the
back of the room opened and Yesta, captain of the
palace guards, came through. Behind him, bound
by ankle chains, marched Beahoram, Aklier, and their
accomplices, Tymlan, the boy who worked in the
palace kitchen, and Benget of the guards of
Aklier's House..
Troi felt their emotions easily. Tymlan was
frightened and a little bewildered by the rapid changes he
had been through in the last two days. Aklier, alone
among the prisoners, walked with his head bent. He
was filled with contrition and yet resigned, accepting
the fate he knew awaited him. Beahoram
walked in
defiantly. Both he and Benget held their
heads high and "I'roi could sense no remorse from
either of them.
The prisoners were brought before the throne. The people in the
room waited in a hushed anticipation that was almost
palpable. Would the new Absolute act with
vengeance? Would the ruler who spoke of new ways still
demand the deaths of the offenders, as was the law?
Joakal did not look at the prisoners for a
long moment. He stared at his feet as though still
struggling with the judgment that was to coma. Finally, he
raised his eyes, but still he did not look
at the prisoners. He looked at Captain
Picard. Troi saw that the captain was watching
Joakal intently, and she felt an unspoken
message pass between them. Joakal motioned to Tygar
who stood at the base of the throne. The Elder
banged his stag:
"Beahoram I'lium, Aklier Ti'Kara,
Benget Marta, Tymlan Krai, you are here
charged with the following crimes: Conspiracy against the
King, now Absolute, Joakal I'lium; the
abduction and imprisonment of the King; treason;
blasphemy; the abduction and imprisonment of the
representatives of the United Federation of
Planets in the persons of Captain Jean-Luc
Picard and Counselor Deanna Troi of the
Starffeet Flagship, the USS Enterprise, and
Mother Veronica of the Little Mothers.
"Further, Beahoram I'lium, you are charged
with the impersonation of the King, now Absolute,
Joakal I'lium, and the twice traitorous
actions of attempting to usurp his crown, powers and
titles, and making false our most sacred and holy
rite of coronation.
"The law demands your deaths. The manner of
execution as set forth in our laws comes from
the time of our fathers. On the thirteenth day of-was
"Stop," Joakal commanded. Tygar swung around to
look at him, but Joakal would not meet his
eyes. He looked at the prisoners.
"Our world knows no more foul or heinous crimes,
save that of willful murder, than the crimes with which
you are charged," he said. "The laws of this world call
for your deaths. Yet, We believe there has been
too much death upon this world. We would, s therefore, be
merciful." He looked now at Tygar. "For true
Justice must have room for mercy."
Joakal turned back to the prisoners.
"Yesterday it was Our great pleasure to abolish forever
the old law that required the death of so many innocent
children. This has been Our intention for many years and We
j have brought to this world the Little Mothers to help Our people
learn to love those children the old ways would have
destroyed. We understand that it was this law that sparked your
actions. Because of this, We would offer you a choice. As
punishment for your to crimes, you may stay here on
Capulon and devote your lives to Service with the
Little Mothers, helping them in their care for our children, or
you may leave this world and never again set foot upon Our
planet. Choose now, but remember that this choice
is a final one."
Aklier was the first to speak. Troi could feel his
sorrow slowly transmuting to wonder.
"Please," he said slowly, as if hardly daring
to believe what he had just heard. "I'll stay.
I'll serve the Little Mothers and I'll gladly work
with the children. Thank you, Your Divine Majesty.
Thank you."
He bowed his head, tears running freely down his
cheeks. But he smiled as well; he had been
given agift. "I'll stay too, please,"
Tymlan said quickly. His voice cracked with
nervousness and youth, but his fear was gone.
"And you, Benget?" Joakal asked.
"No, Your Majesty," he said. "I bear no
ill to the Little Mothers and I wish them good fortune with the
work that they will do, but I will not serve another House,
even theirs. I would rather take my own chances and make
my own way elsewhere."
Joakal nodded as if he knew, even understood,
Benget's decision. Then, finally, Joakal
looked at Beahoram. "And you, Brother?" he
asked. "Will you stay?"
"'Oh no-Brother," Beahoram said. His
voice was (araJust and unrepentant and his eyes were still
full of hate. "I made my decision
long ago. Even with- out your "mercy," I would rather
die than watch you rule:."
Joakal stood. He walked. slowly down the
dais steps until he was face-to-face with his
Brother. He stared for several seconds into his
mirrored face.
"You still don't understand," Joakal said softly.
"I would have shared everything with you. I would have opened my
heart and welcomed you. I would even have loved you."
"What I understand," Beahoram said through clenched
teeth, "is that I lost and you won. I have the stomach
to accept that even if you do not. No, Brother, this world
has never offered me comfort. I leave it gladly.
Sit upon your throne, Brother. Be called Beloved
by your people, but remember that there is one among the stars
who does not revere the name of Joakal I'lium."
Joakal look sadly at Beahoraxrt. "Very
well," he said. "You have made your choice, and though
We wish it could be otherwise between us, We will grant
your exile. And We will pray that someday, somewhere, the
God will grant you happiness."
Joakaa turned and remounted the steps. conHe
waved his hand and the prisoners were led away. He
watched
them go, and when the door had closed behind
them, he closed his eyes and was silent for a moment more.
Then he turned to the captain and smiled, and if the
smile was a little ragged, no one but Picard could see
it.
"Now; Captain Picard," he said. "It is
time for the treaty."
a Joakal stood. He held out his hand
to Eiana and together they descended the steps. Picard
and the others followed. Tygar stepped behind the dais and
brought forth a large silver tray that bore the
copies of the treaty and two golden pens. He
held the tray out to the King.
Joakal picked up one of the pens. "Captain
Picard," he said, "it is Our great joy to gut
Our name to this paper as a symbol of this world's new
union with the Federation." He bent and signed his name
with a flourish to the bottom of the documents: Then he
stepped back and waited for Picard to do the same.
Picard also signed the treaty and placed the pen
back on the tray "On behalf of the worlds that make
up the United Federation of Planets, I
welcome the people of Capulon IV into our midst.
We are all enriched by your presence."
Joakal picked up the golden pen Picard had
laid down and handed it back to him.
"Please keep this, Captain," he said, "as a
small remembrance of your time among us. We hope
that this day will begin a new era of exchange between
Capulon IV and all other worlds of the Federation.
Our home is open to all who would visit us in
brotherhood and understanding."
Joakal now turned to the Little Mothers. "It is
time for Our surprise," he said, smiling with
delight. "Be hind the palace is a stand of
woods and in the middle
of the woods is a lake. We believe this to be the
most beautiful place in Our city. At dawn
today, We sent a 271
team of workers there to begin the construction of the home
for the Little Mothers. This is Our gift to you." He
looked directly at Mother Veronica.. "If you
will tell Us what you require, it will be provided."
Mother Veronica met Joakal's eyes for a
moment, then she turned away. She walked over
to Sister Julian. Mother Veronica reached up and
removed the cross from around her own neck and lowered it
over the head of the surprised nun. Then Mother
Veronica returned to stand before the King. Two feet
away, Troi held her breath. She hoped she
knew what was to come. "On behalf of our
Order, I thank you, Your Majesty," Mother
Veronica said. "Your gift is a. very noble and
generous one. But I shall not be here to enjoy it. I will
stay only until the other members of my Order
arrive. Then Sister Julian-Mother Julian-will
lead the Community."
Joakal frowned. "You're leaving?" he said.
"But why?"
"I am leaving, Your Majesty, because God is
leading me elsewhere. As soon as my Mother House can
arrange it, I will be going to Vulcan to enter training
in the mental disciplines they teach. I believe it
is God's Will that I learn to use these gifts that
He has given me."
J[*reggg'akal reached out and took her hand.
"We cannot argue with the Will of the God," he said. "But
it will remain Our great hope that someday you will return
to U."
""The future, Your Majesty," Mother
Veronica said, "is in God's hand. All we can
do, is to have faith."
An hour later, Picard and Troi again stood
on the bridge of the Enterprise. On the planet
below, the royal court would continue throughout the rest of the
272
day, but it stood in recess now while Joakal,
Elana, and the Little Mothers said their good-byes. Their
faces filled the main viewscreen of the bridge.
"We are sorry to see you go, Jean-Luc,"
Joakal was saying, "but we understand that duties are
duties."
"And we hope that those duties will soon bring you
back to our world," Elana added. "Capulon is
an open planet to all members of the Federation, but
we particularly hope that you and your crew will think of
it as another home."
"Thank yes, Your Majesties," Picard said.
"And Joakal," he added, "King Solomon, and
King Joakal, would have been proud."
j 3oakal smiled. He and Elana stepped
back to let Mother Veronica say her farewells.
"Thank you, Captain Picard," she began, "for
all you have done for us and for me. Our community will keep
you and your people in our prayers."
"I hope the future will bring you the peace you
desire, Mother Veronica," he said. "You have
certainly earned it."
"The future, Captain, is in the hands of
God-and it is full of promise."
Captain Picard nodded his farewell
then returned to the command chair, leaving Troi standing
alone before the big screen. "Counselor Troi,"
Mother Veronica began, "you have taught me so much.
How can I thank you?"
Troi looked at the image before her. She was no
longer the haggard, desperate woman who had stumbled
through Trop's door three weeks ago. Gone were the
dark circles of exhaustion around her eyes; her
skin was no longer stretched tightly across her
cheekbones and her expression was not filled with fear.
"You already have," Troi said. Mother Veronica smiled
at her. Troi started to turn away.
273 Rebecca Neason
"Before you go," Mother Veronica added. "May I
speak with Mr. Data?" Data looked up from his
station at Ops. He stood to address the nun.
"Yes, Mother Veronica?"" Mother Veronica
smiled at him, also. "Don't give up your
search, Mr. Data," she said. "Don't stop
asking your questions. Remember that the quest, like God,
is eternal." "Thank you," Data said. "I will
remember everything." The three figures on the
viewscreen raised their hands in farewell and
communication was severed. "Course, Captain?"
Riker asked. "Back to Starbase
212," Picard said as he took his place in the
command chair. "We have a treaty to deliver.."
Trai turned to leave the bridge. There were duties
she had neglected too long, like the final log
entry on Lieutenant Salah; she was ready
to face that now. And she needed to write a letter to her
mother. She also had patients waiting for her. Among
them was Ensign Johann Marshall. Troi knew
what to say to him now. It's true, she thought as she
walked up the ramp. The doctor is often healed
by the patient, and the teacher learns from the student. When
she reached the turbolift, she stopped and turned
around. "Data," she said, "was Mother Veronica
able to give you the answers you were looking for?" "Not
entirely, Counselor," the android replied.
"There are still many things for which I do not have an
adequate definition. Although I have found some
answers, I find those answers have only evoked more
questions. I shall keep searching." "That's all any of us
can do, Data," Troi said.
274 His
Epilogue
COUNSELOR DEANNA TROI Stepped into her
quarters on her way to the transporter room. The
ship was currently docking at Starbase
079 where it would receive Ensign Johann Marshall
back on board. He was returning from a trip
home to visit his family, his first in over two
years, and Troi wanted to be there to greet him.
She had only stopped by her quarters because the first
grade class she had visited this morning had
presented her with some artwork. She carefully placed
the small collection of youthful masterpieces on the
table and turned back toward the door. Out of the
corner of her eye, she saw the blinking light on
her computer terminal that indicated a private
message. Quickly, she crossed the room and
switched it on. It was a communique from Mother
Veronica. Sur- prised and delighted, Troi
sat down to read. Dear Counselor Troi, it
began. l have been on Vulcan
275 Rebecca Neason
for six months now, and today my teachers announced
that they were satisfied with my progress. I have
learned that this is high praise from a Vulcan, 1,
too, am satisfied. I have learned far more than I
ever. imagined possible when I fast left you, and I
am learning more every day. The Vulcan dedication
to nonemotional logic, which I feared would be an
obstacle to our understanding one another, has
proved to be quite the opposite. Their minds are so
ordered that contact with them, even in deep telepathic
rapport, is re/l and makes learning a joy.
I have not written to you for all these months because I was
not certain of my future plans. Until today. l
have now realized that my place is back on
Cccaputon IV. When I complete my
studies, I shah return there and set up a
school, as part of our Order's work,, to help the people
of Capulon 1"V rediscover their psychic
heritage. I have written to King Toakal for his
permission, and to my Mother House, but 1 am certain
the permissions will be granted. It is indeed true that
all things happen far a purpose. You taught me
so much and I shall always be grateful. Although I
admire my Vulcan teachers, the lessons you
taught me are the mast precious of all. It was you,
my dear Counselor Troi, who taught me by both
your words and your example, that peace is only found
through accepting mysel, from." Because o f you, I am
free of the fears that held me captive for so long.
For the first time and for all time, I am free to be
alive. Troi turned off the screen. She sat
back in her chair and smiled. She was glad for Mother
Veronica and far all the people the nun would
help. Her communicator chirped. "Tuttle
to Counselor Troi."" "Troi here."
"Counselor," Tuttle said. "Docking is
complete and

Ensign Marshalt has signaled that he's ready
to beam aboard. Did you still want to be here to meet
him?" "I'm on my way. Thank you, Chief,"
Troi said and she stood. Her step was jaunty as
she walked from her room. She smiled at people as she
strolled along the corridors on the way
to welcome back her recovered patient. All in
all, it had been a wonderful day for Deanna
Troi.