Lwaxana looked over at Sulel, aghast. “Don’t tell me you think she’s responsible!”
What Picard could only describe as the faintest hint of a Vulcan smile played on Sulel’s lips. He had no experience working with her, but something about the ambassador’s manner suggested she found Lwaxana—amusing.
“Lwaxana…” Sulel started.
“Hopeless. Hopeless!” Lwaxana flung her fan on the table. “How am I supposed to handle the House leaders now?”
“Patience,” Sulel said. “Captain Picard, as the Federation ambassador to Betazed, I would like to formally request that the Enterprise pursue Aviana Virox’s ship.”
Picard’s hopes flared.
“Of course, Commander Rusina, you will continue the investigation here on Betazed, as we discussed,” Sulel continued. “Finish your interviews with anyone who was backstage. Be thorough with Aviana Virox’s House and attendants. Perhaps”—she held up a hand to stop Lwaxana—“the Enterprise will find Aviana Virox, and discover if she had a hand in this unfortunate incident.”
Sulel turned to Picard. “Captain?”
“The Enterprise would be honored to assist the people of Betazed in the recovery of Xiomara’s treasures.”
“Wait,” Lwaxana said, rising up from the table. “Jean-Luc, you must stay.”
Sheer terror lanced through Picard.
Sulel looked up at her. “Could you explain why, Lwaxana?”
“Yes, please do,” Picard said carefully.
“We are facing a potential worldwide diplomatic crisis.” Lwaxana strode dramatically to the head of the table, sweeping her heavy gown past Commander Rusina. “The stolen treasures are objects of significant cultural importance. This could be the opening shot from an antagonistic force.”
“Go on,” Sulel said.
Was Sulel on Lwaxana’s side? Picard felt like a specimen pinned to a board.
“Jean-Luc’s skills are unparalleled.” Lwaxana retrieved her folded-up fan from the table and pointed it in Picard’s direction, a plume of trembling feathers. “Why, only a few years ago, he saved me from the clutches of a Ferengi using Shakespeare.”
Heat rushed to Picard’s cheeks.
“As ambassador of Betazed, it’s my duty to ensure that no one acts against the interest of my people.” Lwaxana stopped a few paces away from Sulel. “If this turns out to be more serious than we thought, then we’ll need Jean-Luc here, not aboard the Enterprise.”
To Picard’s horror, Sulel seemed to be giving this proposal serious consideration. “Well, I don’t—”
“I am going to need all the help I can get with the House leaders,” Lwaxana said to Sulel, punctuating her words with the fan. “They’re asking questions, and they are not going to be terribly happy that we handed the pursuit to outsiders.” Lwaxana looked over at Worf. “No offense.”
“None taken,” Worf said.
Picard felt his escape slipping away. Damn Lwaxana. They were facing a diplomatic crisis here on Betazed. He had experience. He wished, desperately, that he was a lowly green lieutenant.
Sulel did that small, quick Vulcan smile again. “Captain Picard’s assistance here would be invaluable.”
Was Sulel making fun of him? Did Vulcans do that?
Picard felt as if the room was filling quickly with water and he was straining to keep his head above the surface.
“Captain,” Worf said, “if I may—”
The water was rising. Picard managed a nod.
“I would be honored to command the Enterprise on this mission.” The Klingon waited for his response.
Deanna Troi was watching him with that clear, implacable counselor’s expression. What is she thinking? That it will be good for me. Picard didn’t need to be a telepath to know that.
“I believe Mister Worf has proven himself more than capable,” Lwaxana said. “And quite frankly, the longer we sit around debating this, the harder it’ll become to recover the treasures.”
Picard couldn’t argue.
“Captain?” Sulel lifted an eyebrow in his direction. “Is this agreeable to you?”
He could tell, by the tone of her question, that there was only one answer.
“It is, Ambassadors.”
And the water overtopped him and swallowed him whole.
* * *
Deanna Troi sat in her chair beside the captain’s seat. Worf took the center seat. He glanced at her and she gave him her brightest, most encouraging smile. She could sense his anxiety, his desire to succeed. All around them the bridge crew waited at their stations.
“Lieutenant Besta,” he said. “Do you have a lock on the ship’s warp signature?”
“Whoever’s flying that thing is trying to hide their tracks,” Besta reported from the security station.
Troi knew that the Betazoids, by necessity, were not private people. They saw no purpose in lying, or in hiding themselves. What Aviana had managed with her attendants—the private telepathic conversations—was decidedly un-Betazoid. But not as un-Betazoid as stealing away the three treasures of Xiomara. Have I really been gone for so long that I no longer understand my mother’s people?
“Got it,” Lieutenant Besta reported. “The ship is heading in the direction of the colony on Uesta. Warp four.”
“Match course, warp five,” Worf said. “Engage.”
The deck plates thrummed as the ship slipped into warp speed, stars streaking into white lines on the main viewscreen. Troi leaned back in her seat, taut with anticipation.
“Sir, we should overtake the ship in forty-five minutes,” Besta said.
“Very good.” Worf sat ramrod straight in the captain’s chair, his eyes fixed forward. He was tightly wound, ready for action.
“What’s your plan once we catch the ship?” Troi asked.
He considered her question. “It will depend on what we find. Do you think Aviana Virox is the thief?” Worf paused. “I would appreciate your insight on the matter.”
Troi smiled, flush with a surge of affection. “Honestly? I don’t know. This situation is an unusual one, certainly.”
Worf nodded in acknowledgment. “We will be prepared for anything.”
He fell into a meditative silence, the ship maintaining the course. The soft sounds of the bridge always soothed Troi, and she was finally able to really relax Enterprise’s midnight had been Betazed’s noon. She hadn’t slept for hours. Her eyes fluttered, wanting desperately to close, and her chair was so comfortable—
“Sir, we have a problem.”
Troi straightened up, feeling the tension rippling through the bridge.
“Go ahead.” Worf was already on his feet, moving toward the forward stations. He stopped abruptly, turned around.
“The ship…” Besta’s hands flew across the security station. “I’ve lost the trail. Impossible.”
Worf asked, “How close were we to the last known location?”
“We would have intercepted in nine minutes. Now—” Besta studied the readouts. “I’ve got it again! The ship is looping back around.”
“Stay on it.” Worf squeezed his hands into fists.
“Lieutenant, the target keeps dropping out of warp,” Lieutenant Mosweu said from flight control. “I suspect it’s on purpose.”
“Keep a sensor lock on that ship,” Worf said.
He stalked back to the captain’s chair. Troi whispered, “You have this.”
“Dropping out of warp,” Lieutenant Mosweu announced.
“Match speed,” Worf ordered. “Get ready on the ship’s flight trajectory.”
On the main viewscreen the stars collapsed back into points. Both Mosweu and Besta studied their screens. Troi leaned forward, waiting.
“Got it!” Mosweu said. “Still headed toward Uesta. Taking a roundabout route.”
Worf looked over at Troi. “Are there any ties between Uesta and Betazed?”
Troi shook her head. “No.”
“Mister Besta, report on Uesta,” Worf ordered.
/> “Uesta is a Class-M planet located in the Kaelon system,” Besta said. “Population of 250,000.”
Troi said, “It’s a Federation colony.”
“Yes, Commander. Uesta was settled by Federation and non-Federation citizens.”
“Unusual,” Worf murmured.
“Why go to a Federation colony? It seems risky,” Troi said.
“Federation Security reports an increase of criminal activity clustered in the western hemisphere.”
Troi considered this. Uesta seemed like the sort of place a Betazoid would think the best planet to offload stolen goods. Virox could have heard about Uesta’s criminal elements.
But how was a Betazoid house leader so skilled at evasion?
“Sir, the ship is still heading toward Uesta,” Mosweu said. “Back at warp four. I have a lock on its warp signature.”
“Match speed. Let us see where she is going. Keep a lock on that ship. If she moves even a degree off course—”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
16
The House leaders were far more inconsolable than Picard could have imagined. He was going to need a lot more than Sh’yan and a dusty old replicator to help him now.
He was backstage, standing side by side with Ambassador Sulel, and feeling profoundly absurd in the white pantaloons of his guest costume. Replicating a Starfleet uniform for him was an extremely low priority for Betazed Security.
Spread out before Picard and Sulel were a dozen furious Betazoids, most in elaborate formal wear. The women seemed particularly fond of towering headdresses made out of materials Picard would never have imagined going into clothing items: flowers, greenery, bits of glass, some kind of shimmery floating light fixtures. Their outrage and worry was understandable, but to see it festooned in finery gave everything a sharp, surrealist edge.
“Have you found the treasures?” demanded one of the leaders, the others immediately chiming in with their own similar demands.
“Where’s Lwaxana?” someone called out.
“Ambassador Troi is aiding the search for the treasures,” Sulel said, unfazed by the emotion welling up in front of her. “She will be joining us shortly.”
Mumbles of discontent followed. Lwaxana was at the command station, on standby as Worf led the search for the missing Aviana Virox. Sulel had requested that Picard accompany her as she updated the leaders on the status of the investigation.
Why am I still here? Picard thought. I could be on the Enterprise, tracking down Virox and whoever else might be behind this crime.
“We are in pursuit of a potential culprit,” Sulel said, and the leaders immediately devolved into shouted questions, drowning one another out.
Sulel raised her hands. “Please,” she said. “Remain calm.”
“Who is this culprit?” someone asked. “Everyone involved has been keeping their thoughts shut tight.”
“I’m not at liberty to share that information,” Sulel said.
“Then why did you round us up?” demanded a man wearing a long, silver tunic. Picard tried very hard not to stare at him. “We don’t keep secrets. It is highly unusual how little information has been transmitted so far.” He narrowed his eyes. “We ask that our High Guests—any guests on the planet, for that matter—adhere to our custom out of politeness.”
“Sir, we are not here to keep secrets from you,” Picard said. He knew it ran counter to Betazoid mores, but the decision to lock out the identity of their top subject had been Commander Rusina’s. The last thing we want is panic from the House Leaders, he’d said, frowning.
“We’re here to prepare you,” Picard finished. He glanced sideways at Sulel. She gave him a small nod of encouragement. “We understand the importance of retrieving the treasures as quickly as possible.”
The House leaders went silent. If they were communicating telepathically, Picard couldn’t tell. He didn’t think they were. Dozens of dark eyes stared at him fervently, waiting for him to speak.
“We want to prepare you,” Picard said, “for the possibility that you may need to serve in a diplomatic capacity.”
A gasp rippled through the leaders, and they turned to each other, their voices in hushed whispers. That had their attention.
“Why?” one of them asked. “Where are the treasures?”
“We don’t have those answers,” Sulel said. “We are working to procure them.”
“We promise to bring you everything we can as soon as it’s possible,” Picard added. “But in the meantime—”
Picard cut himself off as Sulel peered at him.
“I want to personally assure you both Starfleet and Betazed Security are working together on this matter,” he said. “The Enterprise is currently tracking down the potential culprit.”
At first, the reaction was only a stunned silence. Picard let out a low breath.
Then the yelling started.
Questions lobbed out like phaser fire. Picard resisted the urge to turn heel and leave, holding himself still.
“There is no need for panic at this juncture,” Sulel said, raising her voice slightly to counteract the din. “We are simply looking to honor Betazed custom and asking you to be prepared in the event that you will need to sit in on a diplomatic session.”
“With whom?” someone asked.
Sulel said smoothly, “Ambassador Troi and myself will be doing all of the communication. But I know custom dictates the House leaders have the right to be present for any negotiations.”
The protestations quieted down into soft murmurs.
“It’s our hope that we will have this matter settled quickly.” Sulel turned toward Picard. “Captain, if you could share with the House leaders what your starship is capable of.”
Picard felt his shoulders loosen. He immediately launched into a perhaps too-technical description of the Enterprise’s scanners as well as the skills of Lieutenant Worf, who was leading the chase. As he spoke, he was aware of the Betazoids listening intently, nodding their approval.
“I assure you, we have everything under control,” Picard finished.
Sulel said, “Now, we ask that you remain on standby in the event that we do need to open diplomatic negotiations. But remember”—she held up one finger when the Betazoids began to bubble up with questions again—“we are still in the early stages of our investigations.”
She and Picard stepped out into the hallway, leaving the Betazoids to their own devices. The captain was anxious to get back to the command center; he was as ready for answers as the House leaders were.
“Thank you again,” Sulel said as they strode down the hallway. “Your presence was reassuring.”
“I suppose,” Picard said softly.
“It was.” Sulel paused. “You do not feel comfortable among Betazoids, do you?”
Picard set his mouth into a straight line. “They are marvelous people.”
“Of course. But many find their love of pomp and circumstance… overwhelming.”
Picard didn’t answer.
“I felt the same, during my first year on Betazed.” A faint grin curved at the edge of Sulel’s lips. “Vulcans have our share of ceremony, but nothing can compare with the ceremonies of Betazed. They are so imbued with emotion. I believe it is where they get their power from.”
Picard looked over at her. “Forgive me, but it’s surprising to hear a Vulcan say so.”
“My people could learn from the Betazoids,” she said. “Their telepathy makes their emotions a strength, not a weakness. The art and music of this world—it’s unlike any else. Don’t you agree?”
Picard thought back to the pageant, before the treasures had been revealed to be gone. He’d had a limited view from his place backstage, but he had heard the music and narration, the drama of the story of Xiomara. As much as he hated his ridiculous costume and the endless parading around he’d been forced to do, he had to admit that there had been something stirring about it all.
“Betazed is my preferred posting,” Sulel continued.
“It’s important to me that this matter is handled swiftly.”
A Vulcan enamored with Betazed. It wasn’t something Picard expected to ever encounter. But then, nothing about this had gone the way he had expected.
17
Doctor Beverly Crusher shot awake. The sleeping quarters were dark and cool and quiet, and each of the beds held a sleeping inhabitant.
What had woken her?
She listened, then heard a soft, mechanical whump coming from somewhere in the walls, or possibly outside the station. Crusher sat up and listened, holding her breath.
There it was again. Whump.
She slid out of bed, wrapped herself up in a blanket, and padded softly out of the sleeping quarters. A single light glowed in the smaller laboratory, but when she peered in through the doorway, it was empty, a dissembled tricorder scattered across a workstation. Data must have heard the noise and was investigating.
Crusher told herself she was overreacting. Data was more than capable of handling any emergency. But her doctor’s instincts had her too wired to fall back asleep.
She activated her combadge. “Crusher to Data,” she whispered as she shuffled down the hallway. “Where are you?”
“Outside,” Data responded. “There is an issue with the station’s power.”
“What kind of issue?” Crusher’s thoughts went back to the replicator and the piles of spilled food.
“I am not sure.”
“I’ll lend a hand.”
“Come ahead.”
Crusher slipped out through the front entrance. The wind rolling across the grasses swept her hair into her face and she pulled it away with one hand, tucked it behind her ear. Stars sprayed across the sky, the night a deep, rich shade of purple. She followed the trail of safety lights glowing in the biomass of the station structure until she found Data. He had peeled back the outer layer of the structure’s organic covering, revealing the delicate network of fine optical data network cables that served as the structure’s data system.
“I heard something,” Crusher said. “I guess it was the generator.” The wind gusted around them. “It woke me up.”
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