CHAPTER 13

'Dr. Pulaski?"

Kate Pulaski looked up from her solitary table, where she'd been playing the Andorian game of choctoq—and losing. She wasn't sure whom she expected to see… but it wasn't the Daughter of the Fifth House of Betazed, Holder of the Sacred Chalice of Riix.

"Ambassador Troi?" she responded, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice. A few of her fellow officers looked up from the surrounding tables and then went back to their own conversations.

Lwaxana Troi hadn't changed much in the five years since the doctor had seen her last. Her hair was a dusky red instead of brunette, but she still had that friskiness about her that sent strong captains sprinting wildly for the escape pods.

Then again, Pulaski thought, who am I to talk about other people being frisky? Those who're been to the trough as often as I have shouldn't throw stones... to mix a metaphor.

"I see you remember me," commented the Betazoid. "And yes, I have changed the color of my hair. How sweet of you to notice."

Pulaski reddened. Telepathy was a damned inconvenient trait, when you came right down to it. Gesturing to the chair on the other side of the table, she said, "Please, sit down."

The ambassador sat. Picking up one of the choctoq tiles, she inspected the dragonlike symbol on its smooth, white face. "I know," she began. "You're wondering what I'm doing here on the Repulse. Well, Ambassador Zul of Triannis took ill just a few days ago..."

"And you took his place on the Alpha Tiberia negotiating team," the chief medical officer finished. "I've got it. But Ambassador Zul was one of our foremost experts on Ferengi barter techniques..."

"So he was," Lwaxana agreed, replacing the tile in its starburst configuration. "Which is why they asked me to take his place. You see, I've had some dealings of my own with the Ferengi. And let me assure you, Doctor, they were a lot more colorful than Ambassador Zul's."

Pulaski smiled. "I have no doubt of it. So, tell me… how's Deanna? And the rest of the Enterprise crew?"

The Betazoid frowned. "You may not believe it, but Deanna's still not married. And she's got the prettiest face on that entire ship, if I say so myself." She sighed. "As for the others... they're about the same, I suppose." She thought for a moment. "Did Will Riker have a beard when you were with them?"

The doctor nodded. "He'd just grown it."

"And… did you meet Alexander?"

Pulaski shook her head. "The name doesn't ring a bell. Who's he?"

Lwaxana smiled. "Just the most precious little Klingon child you ever saw. It's hard to believe his father is someone as grim as Mr. Woof."

The doctor looked at her, amused. "You mean Worf"

"Woof, Worf..." She shrugged, as if the difference were insignificant. "In any case, Alexander came aboard after his poor mother died. Did you know K'Ehleyr?"

Pulaski put cha' and cha' together. "K'Ehleyr was the boy's mother?"

The Betazoid nodded. "Poor dear. She was killed by some horrid High Council member, when her research threatened to expose his family's treachery."

The doctor shivered. "How awful. But the boy is all right?"

"He is now," Lwaxana told her. "Thanks to the attention my daughter showers on him."

Pulaski had liked Worf—but she couldn't picture him raising a youngster all on his own. It had to be hard on someone like him.

"It is," the ambassador replied.

Again, Pulaski had reason to regret the development of telepathy in Betazoids. "And Data?" she asked. "How's he doing?"

Lwaxana looked at her. "The android?" She considered the question. "Actually, he doesn't seem to change much, does—" She stopped herself. "No, I take that back. He doesn't change physically. But now that I think about it, his personality has developed quite a bit. He's become more socially adept. More... human, I'd say, for lack of a better word."

The doctor sighed and looked down at the primary-colored choctoq pieces on her side of the table. "I was so wrong."

"About what?" asked the ambassador.

"About Data," she answered. "When I was on the Enterprise, I really believed he was just a fancy bucket of bolts. After all, he wasn't a biological entity, and I didn't think there was any other kind. But I've been accessing his Starfleet personnel file from time to time, and I see now that I was off the mark." She grunted philosophically. "Way off."

Lwaxana regarded her. "You ought to tell him so. I bet he'd like to hear it from someone like you. Someone he respects."

Pulaski nodded. "Maybe I will. I don't know about him, but it'd sure as Shadrak make me feel better." She paused. "In fact, maybe I'll pay a little visit to the Enterprise. I've got some time coming, and—"

The Betazoid leaned forward and shook her head."Not right now, dear," she said in a hushed tone.

Lwaxana looked around to make sure no one else in the rec room was looking. Then, satisfied that they had some privacy, she went on.

"The Enterprise is on a secret mission," she explained. "At the Romulan Neutral Zone. There's some sort of anomaly there—whatever that is."

The doctor eyed her. "But if it's secret, how do you...?" And then she answered her own question. Telepathy.

The ambassador smiled. "It pays to hang around with an admiral now and then. You never know what you might find out." Suddenly, the smile disappeared. "Of course, I wouldn't want any of this to become common knowledge. Deanna would kill me—and Riix knows, the poor girl has enough problems. Did I tell you she's still unmarried?"

Pulaski grinned. "Yes, ma'am. I believe you did."

Lieutenant Reginald Barclay heaved a long, tremulous sigh as he remembered the details of his recent transformation.

"Actually," he said, "it wasn't so bad being a spider. I mean, I wasn't really aware of what was going on. I just had this general... I don't know, perception, I guess you'd call it... that things had changed. That they'd slowed down, somehow. Or that my reactions had speeded up. And... oh, yes. Then there was that other thing."

He turned to look at Counselor Troi. As ever, she was gazing at him sympathetically from her chair on the other side of the room.

"You mean the appetite for flies?" she suggested non-judgmentally.

He nodded. Even now, it was hard for him to think of one without salivating just a little. "Yes. That."

The counselor smiled. "As I've told you before, Reg, what you're feeling isn't at all abnormal. Everyone on the ship was affected by that protomorphosis disease. And everyone—myself included—has some unsettling memories of what happened to them while they were devolving."

He grunted. "Yes, but not everyone on the ship had the disease named after him."

Troi looked at him. "Dr. Crusher did that as a matter of scientific tradition. If you want her to change it..."

He pondered the possibility for a moment, then shook his head. Now that he thought about it, he sort of liked the idea, even if it did imply that he was to blame for the whole epidemic.

After all, it guaranteed him a certain immortality. For hundreds, maybe thousands of years, Federation doctors and scientists would be speaking of Barclay's protomorphosis syndrome in reverential tones.

That is, if the Federation was still around. The way things were going, he wasn't so sure that would be the case.

"I guess the spider thing isn't what's really bothering me," he confessed. "Or even the fact that I've had a disease named after me."

The counselor had known that all along, of course, though she hadn't said so. That's how she worked, he mused.

Now, for instance, she was waiting patiently for him to tell her what the real problem was. Finally, he spoke up.

"It's this mission," he explained. "The anomaly that's been discovered in the Devron system... all those Warbirds that the Romulans have sent to the Neutral Zone." He tried to swallow back the trepidation he felt rising in his throat. "We had to fill out a combat readiness report in engineering. You know what that means, don't you?"

Troi just returned his gaze. "No, Reg. What does it mean?"

He said it as calmly as he could. "That we're going to war with them. The Romulans, I mean." He looked down at his hands, which were shivering ever so slightly.

"No one's come out and made an announcement, but I can see the handwriting on the wall."

The counselor leaned forward and took her time responding. For once, his anxiety had some solid basis in reality, and they both knew it.

"I think you're jumping to conclusions, Reg. I can't tell you for certain that there won't be a war. However, that's only one possible result."

Barclay frowned. "What about the combat-readiness reports? You don't ask for those unless you expect something to happen."

"Or expect that something might happen," she corrected. "As of right now, we don't know very much about the situation. We haven't figured out where the anomaly came from or why the Romulans have such an interest in it. So we're being cautious... until we do know."

That made him feel a little better—but not much. "But what if the Romulans react to our reaction? What if they see us coming and decide we've... urn, misinterpreted what they've done?"

Troi's expression remained a tolerant one. "There's always that risk," she conceded. "But I wouldn't characterize the Romulans as an impulsive people... would you? It seems to me they'd think twice before initiating any hostile actions."

Barclay looked at her. "They sent thirty Warbirds to the Neutral Zone. If they're not planning a hostile action, then why... ?" His fear rising to choke him, he found he couldn't finish the sentence.

"Reg," replied the counselor, "I don't know how this will turn out. I'm just saying that, until we have more information, there's no point in getting worried about it." She smiled reassuringly. "Besides, you know that Captain Picard will do everything in his power to avoid an armed conflict."

That much was true. But it seemed to the engineer that Picard might not have all that much control over the situation. Hell, he might not have any control at all.

He was about to point that out--but a voice on the intercom system filled the room before he had the chance.

"Riker to Counselor Troi. The captain's asked me to convene the senior staff in the observation lounge... immediately."

The counselor seldom looked perturbed, Barclay told himself. But she looked perturbed now.

"On my way," she assured her fellow officer.

The engineer felt as if somebody had cut the deck out from beneath his feet. "But... what about my session...?" he asked her.

Troi took him in tow as she headed for the door. "We'll continue as soon as we can." she said. "I promise."

Inwardly, he panicked. "But... I never got to tell you about my..."

The counselor stopped at the threshold. The doors to her quarters were already opening to let them out.

"Reg," she said, "I know that this isn't easy for you, but try to relax. Getting yourself all keyed up isn't going to make things better."

"Try to relax," he echoed, focusing on the advice as she guided him out into the corridor. "That's a good idea." But deep down, he had a feeling it wouldn't work. Relaxing wasn't one of his strong points.

And a moment later, it was too late to remind her of the fact—because Troi was on her way into the turbolift opposite her quarters. As the lift doors closed, he was left standing in the middle of the hallway, watching as other crewmen went about their business.

Easy for them to face what was ahead, he thought. They weren't so petrified they could hardly breathe. Or stand up straight. Or see.

And it wasn't just that he was scared of dying. He suffered from another, more insidious fear... the nightmarish idea that he would freeze at a crucial moment and be responsible for others losing their lives. He was afraid that if the pressure got too great, he might make a gibbering, useless spectacle of himself.

In other words, he was frightened of being frightened. Terrified of being terrified. Paralyzed by the prospect of paralysis.

But maybe the counselor was right. Maybe all he had to do was relax. A holodeck program would…

He stopped himself. No, not the holodeck. He'd had his share of problems there.

Then the gym…

Again, he stopped short. He wasn't very physical. Going to the gym would only make him feel inadequate.

There was always that other place. Come to think of it, he was in the mood for one of Guinan's lime rickeys.

And she was always willing to listen to him, no matter how silly his concerns were.

His course set, he turned to the turbolift. After a wait of only a few seconds, the doors opened to admit him.

But as he stepped inside, feeling he was taking the proper steps to solve his problem, he felt a flush crawl up his cheeks.

Wait a minute…

Why had the counselor been called away so abruptly? Could it be that something had happened... something related to the massing of Romulan ships along the Neutral Zone? Something really bad?

Had there been an attack? Were they at war already?

Before he could come to grips with the notion, the calm of the lift compartment was shattered by the urgent sound of a klaxon.

"Red alert," announced the ship's computer in a feminine voice. "This is not a drill. Red alert. This is not a drill..."