Star Trek-TNG-Novel-Imzadi 1

  that I can only appreciate one work of art at a

  time."

  "And right now you're still appreciating me."

  "I guess so, yes."

  She sighed, took him by the hand, and said, "Come

  on." She pulled him toward the building and through the

  large columned doors.

  Inside there was music playing, loud and

  sonorous, and it sounded somewhat like organ music.

  It was coming from a large, multiple-piped

  instrument in the middle of a great rotunda. Seated

  in circles around the musician were various

  Betazoids, who were listening to the music, their

  eyes closed, their faces blissful. Riker

  looked around and tried to get a feeling for what was

  going on. The music sounded okay to him, but nothing

  particularly special. He couldn't understand why it

  seemed to be affecting the listeners so deeply.

  He looked at Deanna, and she, too,

  appeared to be totally taken by it. Her eyes were

  half-lidded, and she was swaying slightly to the

  tones. Riker whispered, "Are you all right?"

  She opened her eyes and looked at him. Her

  stare was almost incredulous, as if she couldn't

  believe that he was still capable of speech. "This is

  soul music," she whispered. "Listen to it. Let

  it pervade you. What does it say to you?"

  He listened. He let it pervade him.

  "What is it supposed to say?" he asked.

  With an irritated noise, she pulled at him

  and dragged him off down a large corridor.

  The air in the cavernous building was cool.

  Riker looked around, trying to take things in. His

  eyes adjusted to the dimness, and he kept trying

  to find something that would be startling and revolutionary

  to him. Something that would give his innermost thoughts a

  voice and fill him with understanding. Nothing in

  particular seemed to leap out at him,

  however.

  Deanna led him into a room and made a

  sweeping gesture.

  Paintings hung on the walls. All of them

  appeared to be what Riker would term "abstract"

  ... that is, they didn't seem to be pictures

  of anything in particular. In front of every single

  painting was a small bench, and in a number of

  instances, Betazoids were seated on the benches staring

  intently at the works.

  "I come here once a week," whispered

  Deanna. Her voice, although it was as low as she

  could possibly make it, still attracted glances from

  the occupants of the room. Silent communion was the

  norm here. People looked from her to Riker and then

  back to her, and their expressions changed from mild

  irritation to understanding tolerance ... and even, in a

  couple of cases, a degree of pity--mch

  to Riker's annoyance.

  "Once a week? Why?"

  She led him over to one work in particular, which was

  concentric splashes of red, blue, green,

  white, black, and a couple of colors that Riker

  didn't recognize. Here, in one of the more far-off

  sections of the room, no one else was sitting

  nearby at the moment.

  "Because, W," she said quietly, "it's one of the

  methods I use to stay in touch with myself." At his

  blank expression, she continued gamely, "In

  order to fully understand others, you must learn to understand

  yourself. Only by being in touch with what motivates you

  can you then grasp what motivates others."

  "I studied this in the Academy. The course was

  called Dynamics of Command."

  "Commanding who?"

  "Other officers. Crewmen."

  "Yes, well, you see ... here the only

  person you're trying to command is yourself. Now ...

  I want you to look at the painting and tell me

  what it says to you."

  "This is supposed to talk to me, too? Can't

  anything on this planet keep its mouth shut?"

  His comment came out sounding a bit more sarcastic

  than he would have liked, but Troi appeared

  undeterred. "On Betazed, we believe in

  full communion. Communion with each other.

  Communion with our world. But before any of that can

  occur, we must have communion with ourselves."

  "What's the painting called?"

  She stared at him in confusion.

  "What?"

  "What's it called? What's the name of the

  painting? At least I'll have some clue to what the

  artist was trying to put across if I know what he

  called the damned thing."

  "The "damned thing"' doesn't have a name. That

  would be presumptuous ... it would be as if the

  artist were trying to impose his own worldview upon the

  viewer."

  "Terrific. Look, maybe we can start with

  another painting? Something that looks like something?"

  He started to rise and she pulled him back

  down again. "Will, you're not even trying. You said you

  were going to cooperate."

  "I'm sorry," he sighed. "I'll try,

  all right?"

  The problem was, every time he looked at her,

  he kept thinking about trying to get her clothes off.

  But he knew that such unguarded thoughts were only

  going to get him into trouble again. So, gamely, he

  focused on the picture again.

  It was swirls. Splashes of color. No

  matter how long or how intently he looked at

  it, it still looked like jumbled paints and nothing more.

  "You're trying too hard."

  He blew air through his lips in exasperation.

  "First you tell me I'm not trying at all, and

  now you tell me I'm trying too hard. Now which

  is it?" He looked at the painting. "Would you

  mind telling me what it is you want of me?"

  Then he felt two strong fingers at the base

  of his skull, squeezing together and massaging him.

  Deanna's arm moved in a steady, circular

  motion.

  He started to feel tension that he didn't even

  know he had ebb from him. He was glad that he

  couldn't see his face because he had the distinct,

  detached feeling that he had a rather goofy expression

  at the moment.

  "Now," she said softly, "while you're

  relaxing ... look at the painting and tell me

  what you see. Learn to look below the surface,

  beyond the superficial. What is there to learn from the

  painting ... and what can we learn from ourselves?"

  His head swayed back and forth in gentle rocking

  motions. He stared at the painting for what seemed

  an eternity.

  "I see ..."

  "Yes?"

  He was silent for a moment and then said,

  "I see ... paint swirls."

  She stopped the rubbing. "That's it?" she said with

  flat disgust.

  "That's it. I'm sorry." He turned to her,

  not sure whether to be more irritated with himself or with

  her. "You wouldn't want me to lie to you ... and I

  doubt I could, even if I wanted to. I see

  paint swirls. Big, goopy paint swirls."

  "Goopy? This is a ^w? Goopy?"

  "I don't have much taste for
abstract art.

  When I look at something, I like it to look like

  something."

  She paused, her hands carefully arranged on

  her lap. "Tell me, Lieutenant. As you

  further explore the galaxy, you will inevitably

  run into things that don't look like anything you've ever

  imagined that anything could look. What are you going

  to do in those instances? Are you going to decide that

  they're inferior somehow? Or that there's something

  wrong with them? How are you going to judge? By their

  degree of goopiness?"

  "In those instances, when encountering new

  life-forms beyond my experience, I'll have

  instrumentation to help me. Sensor arrays.

  Medical scans. Instantaneous translators

  and communications devices. I won't have to--"

  "You won't have to depend on yourself."

  "Now I didn't say that."

  "No, you didn't. But that's what it boils

  down to, Lieutenant. And believe me, you're

  going to find yourself in situations where all the

  instrumentation in the world isn't going to do you a bit of

  good. They can guide you, but you're going to have to rely

  on something beyond that. As a matter of fact, I'll

  wager that there will be times when you have to act in ways that

  are contrary to what instrumentation is telling you ...

  that are contrary to what people are telling you, for that

  matter. And you have to be fully conversant in why

  you think what you think, because otherwise you're going

  to find yourself heading down the wrong road."

  "Thank you for your opinions, Miss Troi

  ... drawn, no doubt, from your many years of

  experience with Starfleet."

  "I don't have to be experienced with Starfleet,

  Lieutenant, in order to be aware of the

  importance of knowing your own mind."

  "Really?" He took her hand in his and

  squeezed it firmly. "And what does your mind

  tell you about your feelings for me? Hmmm?"

  She met his gaze levelly. "It

  tells me that perhaps we have to begin with something a bit

  more fundamental than this." She stood. "Come on.

  We're getting out of here."

  "Where are we going?"

  "Back to basics."

  The tree towered over them, its trunk brown and

  gnarled. There were no leaves on it, and its

  branches seemed to stretch up forever.

  The trunk was so twisted that climbing up it was

  easy. Deanna did so and gestured for Riker

  to follow. He climbed, relieved that this was at

  least something that was mildly entertaining ...

  particularly because he liked watching the play of

  Deanna's muscles under her tight clothes.

  She stopped at a point about ten feet above the

  ground. Large branches stuck out in either

  direction. She sidled out onto one, and when

  Riker started to follow her, she shook her head and

  indicated that he should go in the other direction. With a

  shrug he did as instructed.

  "Your problem, Lieutenant, is that the demands

  of your body have too much sway on your mind," she

  said once they were both perched on their opposite

  branches.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Your attraction to me, for example. Indeed,

  your attraction to most women, I would think. It's

  purely hormonal. It's being fueled entirely

  by your sex drive, which is biological, not

  intellectual. But you are more than willing to turn

  your intellect over to the requirements of your

  biology."

  "What about what you were saying before? About love

  at first sight being something you believe in? Where

  does biology figure into that?"

  "It doesn't. Love at first sight is

  spiritual. You're too primal for that."

  "You're saying"--he smirked slightly as he

  spoke--?t I'm incapable of falling in love with

  someone at first sight because I think with my glands and

  that automatically pushes out all higher

  emotions?"

  "That's correct."

  "Well, thanks a lot, Miss Troi."

  "It wasn't a compliment," she said primly.

  "Higher emotions are what separate us from the lower

  orders of life."

  "Is that all?"

  "Higher emotions, and table manners."

  "Tell me, Deanna, have you ever had really

  good sex? Or is that just a theory to you?"

  She actually laughed at that. "You really can't

  figure me out, can you, Lieutenant. You think that

  all you have to do is smile at me, wink

  devilishly, overpower me with your charm and strength,

  and I will willingly succumb to your overwhelming

  manliness."

  "Something like that."

  "Commander, welcome to the twenty-fourth

  century. I don't know what goes on on

  Earth, or even aboard starships ... but on

  Betazed, a woman wants more from a man than for

  him to simply be a strong hero figure. Someone

  who is going to carry the helpless damsel off in his

  big, muscular arms, causing her to swoon and

  give herself over to him in hot and sweaty throes of

  passion. Women aren't like that here. I'm not like

  that."

  "No, of course not. You're much too busy

  doing precisely what Mommy tells you, and being

  precisely what she wants you to be, to let yourself

  be influenced by anyone as down-and-dirty as me."

  Her expression was not a particularly pleasant

  one. "Listen, do you want to do this or not?"

  "Sure. Sure. You were going to show me how

  to separate the needs of my mind from the needs of my

  body."

  "All right. It's very simple, really. I

  want you to get a solid grip on the branch, just

  like I'm doing." He followed her demonstration and

  she continued, "Then we're going to just drop off from

  the branch and hang on for as long as possible."

  "This is a test of muscular strength ... which

  seems kind of silly, since obviously I'm

  stronger than you. So if this is some sort of

  competition ..."

  "The only one you're going to compete with,

  Lieutenant, is yourself. And furthermore, it

  has nothing to do with muscular strength because

  muscles, and the body, invariably have limits,

  no matter how well trained they are. You reach a

  point that can't be surpassed. But the properly

  trained mind, on the other hand, has no limits.

  Ready? And ... go."

  Deanna dropped down off the branch and hung

  there, her feet suspended more than a meter above the

  ground. Riker did likewise.

  He stared at her, noticing that her toes were not

  pointed downward, but rather were straight out.

  Her eyes were fluttering closed as she said in a

  low, melodious tone, "Now ... sooner or

  later, your fingers will want to release. Your

  instinct will be to fight this impulse. Do not fight

  it. Instead ... simply ignore it. Banish it

  to the inner core of your being, and instead focus on

&nbs
p; something else."

  "Like what?"

  "Like anything. Anything that will take your mind

  away from your body--the sky. The clouds.

  Birds in flight. The creation of a star. Anything

  to disassociate yourself from the demands of the physical.

  Now do what I'm doing--bring an image to mind,

  a focal image. Close your eyes. Breathe

  slowly and steadily, in through your nose, out through your

  mouth, like this," and she demonstrated. "Slowly,

  steadily, gradually ... that's it."

  Riker had closed his eyes, but now he turned

  and peered again through narrowed lids at Deanna.

  She seemed perfectly at ease. Her

  breasts were rising and falling so slowly that the motion

  was almost imperceptible.

  Clear his mind. Think about something else other

  than the fact that his fingers were starting to ache a bit,

  and his upper arms were feeling a tad numb.

  He thought about Deanna.

  He pictured her as he had first seen her at

  the wedding--naked and smiling.

  She stood on a beach, having just come out of the

  water, her body covered with thin rivulets of

  moisture. She shook her head in slow motion,

  water spraying out in all directions from her thick

  hair. Then she came toward him slowly,

  smiling, her arms outstretched toward him, her

  fingers gesturing for him to approach her ...

  Her fingers waving ... her arms outstretched

  ...

  He felt an ache growing beyond his ability

  to ignore it. He opened his eyes and found that his

  fingers were covered with perspiration and were slipping,

  losing their grip. He tried desperately

  to readjust, but now his fingers felt nerveless. He

  had no idea how long he had been hanging there,

  for he had lost track of time ... but however long

  it was, it was enough for him to have lost all feeling above

  the elbows.

  With a low, muttered curse, he dropped from the

  branch and landed with a hard thud.

  He sat there, dusting himself off, and looked up.

  Deanna was still hanging there.

  Serenely. Calmly. Looking as if she had

  all the time in the world. Her eyes were still closed,

  her breasts still rising and falling at the exact

  same pace as before ... no. As a matter of

  fact, they were moving even more slowly.

  He sat there and watched her, shaking his arms

  to try to restore circulation.

  Deanna hung there.

  As blood began to return to Riker's upper

  arms, he felt a fierce pain, and he winced as

  he touched the abraded skin on his palms. He