CHAPTER 7

"Red alert," muttered Miles Edward O'Brien, lost in thought as he made his way along the crowded corridor. "I just don't get it."

His friend Sutcliffe, who was accompanying him to the turbolift, didn't get it either. He said so.

"I mean," he continued, "I've heard of captains coming on board and trying to make an impression, but that was ridiculous. Everybody running to their battle stations for no reason at all..." He sighed. "If it was a drill, it was a damned stupid time for one."

O'Brien cast a sideways glance at him. "Don't say that."

Sutcliffe glanced back. "Say what?"

"That it was stupid," O'Brien explained.

"And why not?" asked the other man.

"Because he's the captain," O'Brien told him.

"And that means he can't do anything stupid?"

O'Brien nodded. "That's right."

"You're out of your mind," said Sutcliffe. "Captains are as human as anyone else. Or as Vulcan. Or as Andorian. They make mistakes, just like the rest of us."

"That's not the way I was taught," O'Brien countered. "You don't run down the man in the center seat. Not even when you're talking to a friend. Not even when you're talking to yourself." He paused, remembering his old ship and its commanding officer. "That's the way it was on the Phoenix, under Captain Maxwell. And that's the way it'll be here—at least for me."

Sutcliffe smiled. "Blind obedience? Really?"

O'Brien shrugged off the criticism. "Not blind," he said. "Just obedience. You may disagree with a man's orders, or his judgment. But when you start thinking you can replace it with your own, you run into trouble." He grunted. "Starfleet Command isn't in the habit of putting berserkers or ne'er-do-wells in charge of Galaxy-class vessels. If Captain Picard called a red alert, he had a reason for it."

"Uh-huh," Sutcliffe replied. "Even if you can't for the life of you imagine what it might have been."

O'Brien frowned. "Even then. Of course—"

Abruptly, he felt his shoulder bump hard into something. Or more accurately, someone. In this case, it was an Oriental woman with her arms full of transparent flower cases--which went tumbling to the deck as he and she collided.

"Oh, blast," he said, kneeling beside her to help her pick them up again. But she didn't seem to be in any hurry to do that.

"The b'lednaya..." she groaned, her dark eyes wide with pain.

"Don't worry," O'Brien told her. He smiled, trying to put the situation in perspective for her. "I'll give you a hand."

The woman looked up at him. "Don't bother," she said. "B'lednaya are very fragile. As you can see," she said, picking up a case to use as an example, "their stems have been broken."

Indeed, their stems were broken. And though the delicate, violet-and~yellow flowers hadn't been affected yet, it was only a matter of time before they'd begin to shrivel.

He felt badly about that. But he still had to get to the bridge to help with its outfitting, and he was due there in just a couple of minutes. Nor did he want to be tardy, considering the importance of his assignment.

Starfleet captains might understand a lot of things, but lateness wasn't one of them. He knew that from sad experience.

"Listen," he told the woman—who, he couldn't help but notice, was quite attractive--"I'm sorry, really I am. But I've got to make my shift. Are you sure I can't help you in some way?"

She couldn't have given him an icier stare if she'd been an ammonia-breather. "That's all right," she assured him. "I think you've helped enough... don't you?"

Well, thought O'Brien. If that's the way it was to be.

Straightening, he resumed his progress toward the turbolift. Sutcliffe, who was still beside him, clapped him on the shoulder.

"That's all right," he commented. "She wasn't your type anyway, Miles. Too delicate."

O'Brien glanced back over his shoulder at the woman. As she gathered up the cases full of ruined flowers, he felt a pang he'd never felt before. Guilt, probably. Or was it something else?

"You're probably right," he told Sutcliffe. But he still glanced back at her a couple more times before he reached his destination.

 

Tasha Yar didn't feel particularly comfortable in the Ten-Forward lounge. However, it had been one of the first areas in the ship to be completely furnished, and that made it perfect for the various meetings she had to conduct with the ship's personnel.

After all, she was one of the ranking otficers on board. When the rest of the senior staff arrived, her responsibilities would be confined to security per se—but for now, it fell to her to coordinate everything from shuttledeck operations to outfitting sickbay.

At this particular moment, as she nursed her too-rich Dagavarian maltmilk, she was waiting to conduct a meeting with the latest shipment of shuttle pilots. She reeled off their names from memory: Collins, Mayhew, and Prieto. All highly rated, though none higher than her.

Tasha couldn't help but notice that everyone else in the lounge was seated in twos and threes. She was the only one sitting alone. But then, she was used to that. Coming from the kind of place she'd come from, it was unlikely that social interaction would ever be her forte.

Then she realized that there was one other singleton among all the tables in Ten-Forward. It was Counselor Troi, who'd come aboard shortly after the security chief herself. And the Betazoid was looking at her.

A moment later, Troi turned away. But it was too late. Tasha had noticed the scrutiny. And being the kind of person she was, she decided to do something about it.

Picking up her maltmilk, she approached the counselor's table. And without waiting for an invitation, she sat down. Troi smiled, though not without a bit of curiosity in her eyes.

Tasha didn't believe in casual conversation. "You were staring at me," she observed. "Don't deny it."

The Betazoid's smile faded. "Yes," she admitted after a moment. "I suppose I was."

Her honesty surprised the security chief. But it didn't make her bristle any the less. "Because you find my case intriguing," she suggested. "Or maybe just because you had nothing better to do."

Troi's brows came together above her perfectly shaped nose. "I beg your pardon, Lieutenant?"

Tasha grunted. "So what do you think?" she asked. "How does my childhood on Turkana Four stack up with some of the other personal histories you've had the pleasure of dissecting?"

She felt herself stiffen as the memories flooded her. None of them were good.

"I mean," she continued, "do most of your patients see their parents killed in a cadre crossfire at the age of five? Do they spend their lives sleeping in cold, wet tunnels—or rather, never sleeping, because they've always got to keep an ear out for cadre foragers?"

The counselor shook her head. "Lieutenant. Tasha... I—"

"I know," said the security chief. "You're a professional. You're not the least bit shocked about the things I had to do in order to survive. About the blood I had to spill. About the lies I had to tell, or the alliances I had to forge, or the... compromises I had to make in order to get off that festering wound of a world."

Troi frowned. "I am sorry," she said, "but I don't know what you're talking about. Or at least, I didn't— until now."

Tasha looked at her. The counselor seemed sincere, and yet... "You're a Betazoid, aren't you? You read minds," she declared, her tone one of accusation.

"Actually," Troi explained, "I'm only half-Betazoid. My father was human. As a result, I can only sense emotional states." She paused. "Growing up a non-telepath on Betazed was a distinct disadvantage— though nothing like what you've experienced, apparently."

The lieutenant felt her cheeks turning hot with embarrassment. "You can't read my mind?" she said. "Then why were you staring at me just now?"

The counselor looked apologetic. "I know," she admitted. "That was rude. It's just that I was wondering about you. I mean, I knew a little from your personnel file, but there was a lot I didn't know. And it's my job to develop an understanding of every officer on this ship."

Tasha sat back in her chair. "Then you weren't prying into my mind? You weren't reading my thoughts?"

Troi shook her head. "Even if I could, I wouldn't. As much as I need to understand you, I can't go delving into your psyche without your permission. It wouldn't be ethical."

The security chief looked at her. She felt absolutely.. stupid. "It seems an apology is in order, Counselor—but from me to you, rather than the other way around."

Troi shook her head. "That is not necessary. You made a mistake—and not even a big one. I am willing to forget it if you are."

Tasha smiled. "Done." As she gazed across the table at the Betazoid... or rather, half-Betazoid... she hoped that someday they might become friends That would be nice, considering the fact that they were both senior staff members, and would likely be working closely together for a long time to come.

Also, it was good to know that there was someone on this ship she could depend on—someone she could call on in a crisis. Given the captain's already apparent idiosyncrasies, she wasn't sure she would want to call on him.

Suddenly, Troi's eyes opened wide, as she saw something over Tasha's shoulder. "My god," she said. "Look out!" The security chief had always been proud of her reflexes. In one fluid motion, she rose from her chair and whirled—in time to see the waiter stumbling in her direction with a tray loaded with hot drinks.

Someone else would have been lucky to elude the drinks as they spilled. Tasha was able to catch the waiter and steady the tray, so that only a little of the hot liquid washed over onto the lounge's soft deck covering.

"Sorry," said the waiter, looking stricken in the face of his clumsiness. "Are you all right?" he asked.

The lieutenant scowled. "Try to be a little more careful next time. The counselor and I could've wound up in sickbay with some nice burns."

"I know," the waiter agreed. "It's just that we're running all over the place, trying to keep everyone happy. They need someone to take charge of this place. Someone who knows what he's doing."

Tasha looked at him. "Or she," she suggested.

The waiter sighed. "Or she. Just as long as they get someone."

As he retreated, heeding the lieutenant's advice to be more careful, Troi shook her head ruefully. "You know," she commented, "I helped design this place."

Tasha turned to her. "Did you?"

The counselor nodded as the security chief sat down. "The idea was to have a venue where people could let off a little steam. Resolve conflicts. Make new friends. Thirty years from now, when I've retired to do something else, I envision this place continuing to do my work for me."

"You just didn't take into account the need for a strong manager," observed Tasha.

Troi made a sound of resignation. "Apparently. But then, lounge management wasn't exactly my specialty."

As the security chief smiled, unable to help herself, she remembered her meeting. "Excuse me," she said. "I'm supposed to get together with some new shuttle pilots. You know, to get them acclimated to the way we do things here."

"I understand," the counselor assured her. "But stay here. I have to go now, anyway. So you can have the table all to yourself" As she rose, not even waiting for a response, her expression changed. It became a little more serious.

"And, Tasha... if you ever feet you need someone to talk to..."

"I'll know where to look," said the lieutenant sincerely. "Thanks. I mean it."

With that, Troi headed for the exit. As Tasha watched her go, she saw a couple of the shuttle pilots meander in. Collins and Mayhew were just a little early, she noted. But where was Prieto?

Catching sight of her, Mayhew pointed in her direction, and both pilots crossed the lounge to join her. As they sat down, they seemed eager to hear what she had to say. And why not? The sooner they were briefed, the sooner they could do what they were trained to do: fly shuttles.

"Where's your friend?" she asked them. "Prieto?" They glanced at each other. "Er... actually..." Collins began.

"He said he'd meet us here," supplied Mayhew. "As soon as he was..."

Tasha looked at him. "Yes?"

Mayhew winced. "He had a previous engagement, Lieutenant." She grunted. "I see. A romantic liaison, you mean?"

The pilot looked as if he were barefooting it over hot coals. "Something like that."

Tasha glanced at the chronometer on the wall—a temporary fixture, as she understood it. Something about people not being able to relax if they were too aware of tbe time.

"By my reckoning," she said, "Prieto's got exactly thirty-nine seconds to show up. And if he doesn't, he'll be old and gray before he--"

Abruptly, the doors to Ten-Forward slid aside and Prieto came bounding in. Without ceremony, he pulled up a chair and sat down between his fellow pilots.

"Sorry I cut it so close," he said. "You see, I—"

"Save it," Tasha told him. She scowled. "Honestly, Prieto. It's guys like you that'll be the death of me."

 

Picard's quarters weren't quite set up yet. In fact, they were hardly set up at all. There were only a monitor and a couple of pieces of furniture in the anteroom.

Still, it was a shelter—a haven from the wondering glances of his crew, who were no doubt still puzzled by his call to battle stations. Truth to tell, he was puzzled himself—not by the action itself, of course, but by the circumstances that had prompted it.

He had pretty much concluded that his spells of disorientation and the strangers who had appeared on the shuttledeck were all part of some larger problem. He just couldn't imagine what it could be.

Unexpectedly, there was a sound of chimes. The door, thought the captain. But who would be calling on him?

"Come," he said.

As the doors opened, they revealed a round, blueskinned Bolian in civilian garb. The Bolian smiled, perhaps a little too graciously.

"My name is Mot," he announced. "I will be one of your barbers." Picard stared at him. There had been no barbers on the Stargazer. There simply hadn't been room for them.

But on the Enterprise, it seemed, with its considerable population, there was room for almost everything.

Including raggedy wraiths who taunted him from the catwalk.

"Pleased to meet you, Mot," said the captain.

In point of fact, he much preferred to be alone right now. There was too much to sort out, and he had a feeling it was important to do it sooner rather than later.

"Pleased to meet you, sir," replied the Bolian. "Of course, I would rather be speaking to you as you sat in my chair, particularly as I can see that you're in need of some attention... but like your quarters, the barbershop is not yet fully equipped."

Picard nodded in what he hoped looked like sympathy. "I'm sure that problem will be rectified at the earliest opportunity," he remarked. "The outfitting of your shop, I mean."

"I hope so," Mot went on. "You see, a barbershop is a most essential facility on a vessel of this size. It is a place where ideas are exchanged... where consensuses are reached... where the social fabric is woven and rewoven. And, of course, where hair is cut with the utmost delicacy and artfulness." The captain had a feeling that this conversation would go on for hours, if he wasn't careful. Perhaps days.

"I see what you mean," he said. "I'll tell you what. As soon as we've finished our visit, I'll speak with the officer in charge of your deck—and he or she will see to it that the barbershop becomes a top priority."

The Bolian looked delighted. "How kind of you," he remarked. "I hope I will have an opportunity to repay your kindness." He looked at Picard with a critical eye.

"In fact, I could go and get my instruments right now. I normally don't make appointments in quarters, but for someone like yourself... whose last barber was obviously lacking in technique..."

"No," said the captain, a bit too quickly. "That will not be necessary... really."

Mot seemed not to have taken offense. "I understand. You wish to wait until I can accommodate you in the shop. You prefer to participate in the complete experience, to bask in the glow of tradition."

"Yes," Picard responded, becoming a little exasperated. "That's it. That's it exactly. Now, if you don't mind, I—"

"I might have known you'd be a purist," observed the Bolian, "coming from a long line of vintners as you do. Well, you'll be glad to know that barbering has been in my family for generations... almost as long as winemaking has been in yours."

Something flashed through the captain's mind, though he couldn't quite catch it. "How... how do you know so much about my background?" he asked. He was legitimately curious.

"I'm a barber," Mot said proudly—as if that explained it all. "And as I was saying, I come by it honestly. As you Picards toiled in your Terran vineyards, we honed our shears in our shops on Bol. In fact..."

The captain was no longer listening. At the moment when Mot mentioned the Picard family vineyards, that same something had flashed through his mind again. But this time, it lingered as a dreamlike image.

Of a misty sunrise. Of a vine that needed tying. And of a visit from an old friend, with eyes that weren't quite right.

But in the dream—if it was a dream—the captain's hands were old and stiff and difficult to work with. And his mind wasn't quite as sharp. And his visitor was… was Geordi. He remembered now—not just the vineyard, but everything. It came flooding into his brain, a river in springtime overflowing its dam.

That vineyard… those gnarled and knobby fingers... existed in the future. In his future—or some latter stage of it, because he had memories of a different stage as well.

Picard gasped as something else struck him. The haggard figures he'd seen on the shuttledeck... he'd seen them in the vineyard as well. Of a certainty, he had.

Perhaps there had been fewer of them, but they'd been there just the same—pointing and deriding him as they had just a little while ago. And like the officers assembled on the shuttledeck, the Geordi of the future had seen neither hide nor hair of them.

Only the captain could see them. But why? Who or what could be responsible for such a... ?

And then he knew. Or at least, he was able to guess... because now his knowledge extended over the thirty-two years that hadn't happened yet.

"Of course," the Bolian droned on, oblivious of Picard's cogitations, "I remained in the business, as my father wished. But I respect you just as much for striking out on your own. Really, I do. It's not even—"

"Mr. Mot," the captain interrupted. "I don't mean to be curt, but there's a great deal for me to attend to. I would appreciate it if we could continue this conversation at some other time."

The Bolian looked at him. "Oh. Certainly we can." He smiled again in that too-gracious way of his. "And the shop... ?"

"Special attention," Picard promised.

Though he would not have thought it possible, Mot's smile actually broadened. "In that case, I'll take my leave of you," he told the captain. "As you'll no doubt understand, I have a great deal to attend to as well."

Picard couldn't imagine what that might be, but he nodded knowingly—and watched the Bolian back out through the doors with a last, parting wave.

"Thank you," called the barber, as the doors closed again.

"No," said the captain, mostly to himself. "Thank you."