Rikkilä looked over at Data. “Sir, is that, uh, safe?”
Data said, “It appears that we do not have a choice.” He nodded. “I will go first.”
Rikkilä nodded and watched as Data skittered over the sand. He made it down safely, but he was both a superior officer and an android. She didn’t have quite the same faith in herself to make her way down the dune without landing face-first in the sand.
Rikkilä turned to Muñoz, but he was already sliding down the dune, his arms lifted over his head. He let out a loud whoop as the wind pushed his hair back from his face.
Rikkilä sighed.
“All right,” she said. “Here goes nothing.” She closed her tricorder and eased herself over the peak of the dune. At first she tried to walk, rather than slide, but the sand was too loose and silky, and before she fully understood what was happening, gravity had grabbed ahold of her. White sand flew up around her legs, sticking to the fabric of her uniform, and the lovely glistening beach was barreling right toward her.
When she hit solid ground, she immediately fell forward, scrambling over her feet.
But then a hand grabbed her arm, pulling her upright—Muñoz. He smiled at her. “Can’t wait to do that again,” he said.
“Sure,” Rikkilä said, who in fact hoped she never had to do it again.
Talma was already getting set up over by the tide pools, pulling out supplies from his sampling kit. Solanko waved over to Rikkilä and Muñoz. “One of you is going to grab samples of dry sand, the other wet. We need at minimum ten different samples from up and down the beach. Make sure you can get exact locations.”
Touching the tricorder reassuringly, Rikkilä snuck a glance over at Muñoz. He grinned back.
“Which one of you wants to get your feet wet?” Solanko asked.
“I’ll do it,” said Rikkilä.
“Great. Shoreline. I’ve got Talma sampling the tide pools.” He clapped his hands together and started walking past them. “And Commander! I’d love to have your insight…” His voice trailed out on the wind, as did Data’s answer. But a few moments later, Data was crouched over near the outcropping of rocks, studying a tide pool.
Rikkilä smirked at Muñoz. “Race you to see who finishes first?”
“You’re on.” Muñoz unfolded his testing kit. “Starting now.”
Rikkilä gave a shout of protest, yanked off her boots, and plunged into the lapping water. It splashed cold against her uniform as she fumbled with her testing kit, pulling out vials and stoppers. Muñoz was hunched over the dry sand.
It was easy work, gathering the samples, even though the waves sometimes splashed high as they rolled in, spritzing the ensign’s face with a shivery sea spray. Up close, the water was as clear as glass and it was easy to see the rippled sand that made up the seafloor. Sand was all that Rikkilä could see. No flutters of alien seaweed, no darting flashes of ocean life.
Rikkilä knew the water contained microscopic life—but even so, the beach felt barren. The rest of the planet bloomed with plants, but not the ocean.
The ensign frowned as she waded deeper into the water, crouching down to pull another sand sample. This strange, empty beach unsettled her. On every world she’d read about, areas such as this teemed with life. The ocean was like the galaxy in that way. It only seemed vast and empty on the surface.
Muñoz shouted something from the shore, jolting Rikkilä out of her thoughts. He waved his hands wildly at her. He was halfway down the beach. Well, she lost that contest. Good thing they didn’t wager anything.
She gave him a loser’s shrug, then turned back to the empty water. It couldn’t be poisonous; Solanko would never have sent her in without protection, and it supposedly contained invisible life. And yet it seemed as sterile as medical saline.
Muñoz yelled again, but when Rikkilä looked up, she couldn’t see him. In fact, she realized with a low dawning of dread, she didn’t see anyone. The beach was empty.
“Muñoz?” she called out, shoving the samples back into her kit. “Lieutenant Solanko?” She splashed back to the shore, the water cold and clammy against her skin. That was when she saw a streak of black and gold against the white expanse of the beach.
“Muñoz!” She plunged forward, her feet sinking into the sand. Muñoz had collapsed, his testing kit propped up beside him. He stirred, then rolled over, his eyes glossy.
“You were the only one I could see,” he mumbled.
Rikkilä knelt beside him, immediately pulled out her tricorder, and scanned him. His temperature was a little high, as was his blood pressure. “What happened? Talk to me, Muñoz.”
“I don’t know.” He pushed himself up to a sitting position and dug his palms into his forehead. “I was taking the samples, and then Lieutenant Talma ran by and said Lieutenant Solanko was sick. I didn’t think I’d heard him correctly.”
Rikkilä frowned down at the tricorder readings. None of her scans were picking up a source for Muñoz’s fever or elevated blood pressure.
“Where’s Commander Data?” Rikkilä asked.
“Talma said something about him going farther down the beach. He was hailing me—” Muñoz dropped his hand and squinted out at the water. “Then I started to feel dizzy. Everything was spinning—I couldn’t stand up straight. That’s when I called for you, the second time. You ignored me the first.”
Rikkilä jerked her head up. “I thought you were telling me you were done!”
Muñoz shook his head. “I’m…” He squeezed his eyes shut and lay down on the sand. “I don’t even know where they are.”
Rikkilä laid her hand on his shoulder. “We need to get you back to the station. All of us. Which direction did—”
Fatigue slammed into her, almost knocking the breath out of her lungs. She slumped, dropping the tricorder into the sand. Her limbs felt as if they weighed five hundred kilograms.
“Oh,” she said, bracing herself against the sand. “Oh, I feel—”
The beach was moving like ocean water, rippling up and down. Rikkilä pressed her hands into the sand, trying to steady herself.
“You feel it too,” Muñoz muttered.
Rikkilä dug her fingers deeper into the sand, as if she could push the beach into staying still. Her muscles ached. Distantly, she knew she needed to follow the medical procedures she had learned. Diagnose, make the patient comfortable and secure.
But she didn’t have a diagnosis. The tricorder couldn’t find anything wrong with Muñoz.
Rikkilä’s head hit the sand, the grains cool against her cheek. How did she get down here? She blinked and pushed herself back up. The effort exhausted her.
She slapped her combadge. “Rikkilä to Doctor Crusher. We have a medical emergency.”
Even that action was too much. As Doctor Crusher’s voice trickled out over the combadge, Rikkilä dropped back down in the sand, her eyes fixed on the purple waves crashing against the shore.
6
Deanna Troi rapped on the door to the captain’s guest quarters. It was early morning, the sun sending up strata of pink and orange over the horizon. The commander had to beam down at this time if she wanted to fetch Picard before her mother.
The door to the quarters swung open. Picard sagged with relief when he saw her, leaning his weight into the door.
“I told you I’d be here first thing,” she said.
“You did, and I must say I appreciate it.” Picard held the door open so that Troi could step inside. The room was small but lushly decorated in a style associated with the Third House: great swaths of silk hanging from the ceiling, a twinkling solar-powered chandelier, and plants. Lots and lots of plants, spilling out of stone pots carved with swirling, abstract designs.
Troi had to stifle a laugh; Picard, still dressed in his pajamas, looked out of place among all this finery.
“The opening ceremonies are scheduled to begin in an hour, sir,” Troi said casually.
Picard gave her a dark look. “I suspect you know the horror that a
waits me in that closet.”
Troi smiled. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.”
She could tell, from the waves of discomfort rippling off Picard, that he did not agree.
“Come now, Captain.” She strode across the room, batting aside the flimsy, billowing silk. “It’s only for a few days. And remember. It is a great honor.”
She slid aside the closet door and found a froth of shimmery fabric waiting inside.
“Do you understand now?” Picard asked.
Troi pulled out the first item: a traditional First House–style gentleman’s tunic, the fabric a rich, jeweled blue that, when it caught the light, let off a rainbow sheen. The tunic paired with a set of white pantaloons and stockings, both dangling from their own hanger. White, high-lacing boots sat neatly at the bottom of the closet.
“It could be worse,” Troi offered. “You could be going to a Betazoid wedding.”
As Picard scowled, the commander could sense that annoyance wasn’t the only emotion roiling around in him. The captain was anxious. Maybe even frightened—the emotions shifted so rapidly that she couldn’t quite get a handle on them.
“Captain,” she said, laying the tunic out on the bed. “I can sense your anxiety. But remember that you aren’t going into the ceremony alone. I’m here to help you through it. And most of the Enterprise crew will be attending the ceremonies as well.”
Picard ran his hands down over his face. “I really could do without this particular honor.”
“Relax,” Troi told him. “Try to enjoy yourself… sir.”
This earned her another scowl, but at least when she offered the tunic to him, he took it with one hand.
She left his quarters so he could change, stepping out into the sunny, breezy day. The guests’ quarters were all grouped together, a tangle of rooms that blended into the surroundings. Troi could see glimpses of Isszon Temple in the curving gaps between the buildings, its white stone draped in colorful House flags.
Footsteps sounded on the path behind her, and she turned around to find the captain, his tunic buttoned up high to his throat, the long bell sleeves grazing the tops of his knuckles. His combadge gleamed on his right chest.
“You could take that off,” Troi said, “and treat this as a vacation.”
“This,” Picard said, “is not a vacation.”
“I’m sure you’ll wind up enjoying yourself.”
Picard made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.
“Shall we?” She gestured toward the temple over the tops of the guest quarters.
Troi started down the path, and Picard followed her, tugging anxiously on his tunic hem. Other guests made their way toward the temple, all dressed in costumes from various periods of Betazed history. A Benzite in a slinky cape dress laughed uproariously with her Betazoid escort. There were four Rigelians whispering among themselves, their excitement rolling off them like jasmine-scented perfume. Picard seemed to be the only guest who wasn’t thrilled.
The path curved around the last of the guest quarters and Troi found herself gazing upon a riotous ocean of colored fabric. The lawn of Isszon Temple had transformed overnight, bright-colored food stalls and billowing tents blossoming like hothouse flowers. Visitors streamed across the lawn, many draped in traditional Betazed clothing. Vendors called out singsong merchants’ chants, imploring guests to try their grilled sea slugs or their blackened honeycake. When a streak of light soared overhead, voices clattered with excitement.
“Oh, they have a bird-soar!” Troi cried. “I haven’t seen one of those since I was a little girl.”
Picard pressed his mouth into a thin line.
Her own excitement bubbled up, drowning out Picard’s mood. Troi told herself there would be plenty of time to explore later that evening. Worf had promised to beam down once he was off duty. She couldn’t wait to see how he reacted to the bird-soar.
“My mother sent over your itinerary last night.” Troi noticed Picard’s ever-deepening scowl. “I’m to take you into a side chamber in the temple so you can prepare for the opening ceremony.”
Picard let out a deep and world-weary sigh. “Let’s get this over with.”
“That is not the right attitude to have, sir,” she chided him.
They walked toward the temple, keeping to one side of the celebrations. The scent of flower cakes and honey swirled on the wind, plunging Troi back to the midwinter festivals her parents would take her to when she was a child. Those had been much smaller, but the scent was the same, and it made her mouth water for the syrupy cakes.
The steps to the temple were roped off with long silk scarves. Betazed Security officers stood at evenly spaced intervals, checking guests and their handlers before letting them in the building. The Starfleet officers fell into line behind a Bzzit Khaht that had shimmering stones draped over its tunic.
“Would you mind sharing what exactly will be expected of me?” Picard asked. “It never was fully explained.”
“I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”
“I’ll manage.”
A swell of music, jangly and bright, rose up behind them, eliciting cheers from the crowd.
“All Betazoid ceremonies incorporate the Five High Arts,” Troi said. “So as a High Guest, your presence is key to ensuring the ceremony goes off exactly as it should.”
Picard pressed her. “What am I going to have to actually do?”
The line moved closer to the last security check.
“Walk onstage and parade through the crowd,” Troi said, “and wear the right clothing.” She smiled, gesturing at his tunic and pantaloons. “Don’t worry, it’s all choreographed ahead of time. You’ll just have to do whatever the person in front of you does.”
“And how much of this am I going to have to do?”
They stepped up to the security officer, who immediately put the thought Name? in Troi’s head.
“Jean-Luc Picard,” she said, a bit of heat tingeing her cheeks. She really wasn’t fond of the traditional mode of Betazoid communication. “I’m his handler. Deanna Troi.”
The security officer was still skimming along the surface of her thoughts. You’re Ambassador Troi’s daughter!
She gave him a stern look.
“Sorry,” he mumbled before running his tricorder over them. “You can go on in.”
They joined the rest of the guests making the long trek up the glittering stairs. Troi took a deep breath, steadying herself—it had been a while since she’d last spent any time on Betazed, and the differences in communication always took some getting used to. As a half-Betazoid, her skills were empathic: she could read emotions of most species, but she couldn’t read thoughts unless those belonged to another Betazoid who would share them with her.
She sensed more discomfort from Picard, drawing her out of her reverie. He was frowning deeply up at the doors, which were flung open and draped in garlands of Catarian gems that caught the light the same way his robes did.
“I never answered your questions,” Troi said. “It’s only three days.”
“I know.” Picard shook his head. “I take it I can expect a lot of this pomp and circumstance, then?”
“Betazoids do place an emphasis on ritual,” Troi said after a pause.
They filed in through the doors, the inside of the temple swirling with guests in their extravagant costumes. The room had been transformed; the shutters that covered the stained-glass windows had been removed, and fragments of rainbowed light spilled across the polished stone floors. A massive platform was set up against the far wall, draped with colorful curtains as well as hovering stage lamps that sent rays of light crisscrossing each other.
At the center of the platform was an empty display case, a force field around the simple black base.
“There,” Troi told Picard, “is where the artifacts will be displayed.”
Immediately, Picard’s curiosity rose, overcoming the low-grade dread that had been flowing off him all morning. “It will be remarkable,”
he said, “to see them brought together after all this time. These items reflect so much of Betazed’s history.”
“Betazed’s history certainly kept them apart for long enough. By the way, you’ll be onstage when they’re revealed.” She grinned at him. “One of the perks of being a High Guest.”
“Really.”
A horn sounded through the temple, the rich sound amplifying off the walls. Troi resisted the urge to clamp her hands over her ears.
There were a few moments of confusion as the guests spun around, trying to find the source. A voice rippled through Troi’s thoughts: Upper balcony, please.
All of the Betazoids looked up, and the rest of the High Guests followed, quiet eventually settling over the room. Sildar Syn stood next to the balcony’s edge, clutching a silver horn in one hand. “Welcome to the Unveiling of the Three Treasures!” he said, his voice reverberating through a speaker and a burst of telepathy. “On behalf of the Betazed Cultural Committee, it pleases me to see Isszon Temple filled with guests from across the Federation. So many testaments to the creativity and ingenuity of life in the known universe all to help us celebrate this important moment in Betazed’s history!”
Polite applause rippled through the room.
“We will be starting our opening ceremonies shortly,” Syn continued. “High Guests, I ask that you join your assigned choreography coordinator!” He pointed toward the stage, and the entire room turned around to find that the five ceremony staff members, each dressed in the corresponding costume style of the five guest categories, had stepped out from the billowing curtains.
The room was a riot of emotions, but Picard’s discomfort managed to stand out.
“You’ve been through worse,” Troi said to him.
“Yes,” Picard said. “I was stabbed through the heart, and nearly died.”
Troi laughed. He gave her one last pained look before making his way toward the stage. The commander watched the guests gather, the choreography coordinators all waving their hands around wildly as they attempted to corral them into some semblance of a position. She kept her eye on the captain, who was hanging back, looking utterly put out. Mother really shouldn’t have put him in this position. But perhaps it would be good for him; she had been encouraging the captain to step outside his comfort zone.
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