Subject: New TNG story: Masks
From: [email-masked] (Sandra Guzdek)
Date: Fri, 17 Dec 1993 14:56:00 GMT
Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative

12/17/93

This story was supposed to come out for Halloween, but you know what 
they say about the best laid plans.  Hope you all like it.

Please mail directly to me with any comments, as I won't see them here.  
If you download it, or save it to a file, or in any other way keep a copy 
of it for yourself (which I don't mind you doing), all I ask is that you 
please keep my name and email address intact. (Thanks, I appreciate it!)

Happy holidays (hey, at least I got it out around *a* holiday!)!
---
Sandra Guzdek                       "Nothing is impossible, until it isn't!"
email:[email-masked]		-- JLP

---cut here---

Masks                                          Copyright 1993 by Sandra Guzdek
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MISSION LOG:  We have arrived on this arid planet, not hoping or expecting to
find anything but dust.  Yet we have found some of the most incredible
metalworking I have ever seen in my life, housed and perfectly preserved in a
cave far below the ground.  It's hard to believe that these works were from
some millennia ago.  Kelmer told me she had seen something similar in her
short tour with her last assignment.  She is attempting to contact her former
commanding officer regarding their past archaeological finds.

                                   ***

     Costly, costmary, cost-plus, costrel . . .  costume.
     Beverly's eyes stopped on the word she had been scanning for. 
Costuming her latest show wasn't going to be easy, a drama by Sarac of
Vulcan, set in the Pre-Logic days.  She hoped the ship's library would have
something to help her.  Early Victorian, early Vulcan . . .  What was this
subsection, "Earth traditions: Samhain"?
     Her curiosity was piqued.  She forgot for the moment her costume
research and decided to scan this selection, wondering what one had to do
with the other.

          Samhain (sah-ween or soh-wan)  Oct. 31.  The start of
          the Celtic New Year.  The ancient Celts held that on
          this night, the "veil" separating the worlds of the
          living and the dead was at its thinnest, and that the
          living could communicate with their deceased loved
          ones.  It was traditional to leave an offering of food
          for the dead, and to leave lanterns burning in the
          windows and doors to guide the spirits home.  Often
          these lanterns, known as "Jack-O-Lantern's", were
          made from large turnips (and in later times,
          pumpkins) which were hollowed out and carved into
          faces.  The Christian Church later assimilated the
          holiday by adopting November 1 as "All Saints Day"
          and declaring that the night before it was to be
          known as "All Hallows Eve" which was then corrupted
          to "Halloween."  By the 20th Century, especially in the
          United States of America, the Celtic traditions became
          mingled with the traditional celebrations of Hispanic
          and Germanic cultures celebrating the "Dia de los
          Muertes" and "Walpurgisnacht" (see additional entries
          under those titles) until the celebration of Halloween
          dissolved into a festival on which children and adults
          wore costumes representing not only the dead, but
          also famous characters from literature, and media
          icons as well.  The practice of leaving food out for
          the ancestors was transformed into giving treats to
          the costumed children who canvassed their
          neighborhoods knocking on doors and demanding that
          they be given treats or they would play tricks on the
          occupants.  Their cry of "Trick or Treat" reflects
          this.  Adults often used the holiday as a way of
          relaxing, because by wearing a costume and mask they
          were able to conceal their true identities and thus
          feel more free to indulge in play. 

     'Indulge in play.'  She sat back, a smirk on her face.  This was
something she would definitely wanted to pursue for the next October 31.  A
costume masquerade.  She put it in the back of her mind and proceeded on to
the costume research, knowing she had little less than a month to get this
together.

                                   ***

     The dusty air burned a trail down her throat as she wiped perspiration
from her forehead.  Even at dusk, even inside of the cave, was it hotter than
any place she had ever been even on her own Vulcan.  She tugged at the
closure of her tent, hoping to meditate before sleeping.
     "Valar, may I speak with you a moment?"
     Valar turned, the sand whipping up in her face.  "Of course.  I'm
anxious to find out what you've learned.  That is,"  she added dryly,  "if you
were able to get through this time on that . . .  thing . . .  Starfleet gave
us."
     The brunette woman nodded slightly, eyes squinting against the
darkness as they entered the tent.  Valar lit a torch and opened her food
storage container; she pulled out two rations of water, which the other woman
accepted gratefully.  After quenching the thirst that had grown from hours
working in the cave, she spoke.  "I only talked with him briefly.  I did not
want to go into much detail.  I did show him a sample of what we found and
it seemed--"
     Valar knit her thin brows, waiting for her to complete the thought.
     The ivory face of the petite woman seemed distant.  "It seemed like he
had seen it before.  Something no eyes have seen for thousands of years, yet,
he knew it.  I told him of the small piece I shipped off to him last week with
Tamiraat, in case I wasn't able to get through on subspace.  When I spoke of
it, he positively blanched.  That made me almost regret even doing it."
     Valar chastised her with a fixed look.  "No regrets.  There are far too
many of those already in this universe."

                                   ***

     Captain Picard smiled at the image he saw before him, the large hooked
nose making quite the profile and the dark curly hair shifting noiselessly on
his shoulder.  It was no longer his face, but a face transformed, into the
legendary character of Cyrano de Bergerac.  He wasn't especially taken with
social occasions, preferring instead to spend the time with a good journal or
concerto, but this . . .  somehow this was different.  It was a chance to
unmask simply by putting a mask on.  No one would have to know it was you
cutting the rug, or sharing a brew, or making a fool out of yourself.  Hell,
look at the satin, the ruffled shirt, the vest, the pantaloons, the stockings,
and the wide-brimmed hat.  When else would he ever be caught in an outfit
like this one?  A night of no inhibitions and no worries.  And he had to
admit, the thought of seeing his subordinates doing the same was more than
intriguing.
     On went the mask, a kidney-shaped piece of black velvet with generous
eyeholes and brocade, and the captain left his quarters for holodeck 1, the
announced place for the party.  It was not yet 8:30 p.m., so he was just a
little late.  The crew members he passed by in the hall gave him inquisitive
glances.  He didn't care, nodding and smiling, acknowledging them.
     The captain approached the doors and had hardly come in range when
the doors parted, sending a dusty, musty breeze out with a soft whoosh.  He
stepped unsurely into a small, dank foyer, which was lit only by a pair of
makeshift torches, throwing an uneven amber glow over the stone walls.  As
he walked in, his boots made an eerie scraping noise against the floor.
     The outer doors closed behind him and became stone wall themselves; he
did not see any visible inner doors into the actual party itself.  Picard turned
around slowly, squinting to force his eyes to adjust, searching for a handle
or a switch.  After a minute or two he actually felt a wave of uneasiness.  He
took in a deep breath and glanced upwards.  It seemed endless.  Damn the
holodeck.
     Just then, like the specter of Jacob Marley on Ebenezer Scrooge's door,
a greenish, misformed head slowly emerged from the mouldy wall with a
demonic grin on its face, startling the captain well and truly.
     Then came the hearty laughter.
     "Gotcha, Sir."  
     Picard frowned, whispering,  "How did you know it was me?"
     His eyes finally adjusted and he realized that he was looking at Will
Riker.  "Six and a half years, I think I know you by now.  Come on, the walls
are not walls.  Walk right through 'em.  Doctor Crusher did a pretty nice job
on this, didn't she?"
     As he passed through the wall, he glanced around at Bev's handiwork. 
The room was positively dismal, looking very much like a medieval dungeon,
excepting the foul odours that might accompany one.  There were various non-
functional torture devices along the walls, and a couple of bird-cage jails
suspending from the endless ceiling above, skeletons pleading from inside to
be let free.  The only light in the room came from torches similar to the ones
in the foyer.  Light also trickled out from the immense crystal chandelier,
dirty from soot and hanging lopsidedly in a state of disrepair from apparent
age, throwing a macabre sheen over the crowd.  
     Jean-Luc looked to Will, who was hardly recognizable in his costume,
prosthetics, and makeup.  He had chosen a rather eerie interpretation of
Frankenstein's creation; his skin had a faintly unnatural luster to it, and the
greenish tint to the false wounds were absolutely unnerving as well as
repulsive.  The knobs coming out of the base of his neck actually looked like
they connected somewhere behind his throat.  Somehow, though, Riker's charm
seeped through the disguise, and of course his wit could not be hidden by
any amount of masking.
     "Nice nose,"  Riker quipped, as he smiled at a pair of passing ladies.
     "Authentic costuming, patterned after clothing of the time,"  Picard said
proudly.  
     Just then, Picard noticed that Riker's eyes became intensely fixed on
something his own back was turned to.  Picard's questioning look prompted a
comment from his Number One.
     "Deanna's here."
     Picard turned to see her, bewitchingly portraying the Bride of
Frankenstein: wide, frightened eyes, grey streaks beginning at the temples of
a head of hair that stood on end, and a sheer black gown, infused with web-
like patterns, that dove down low in the front and back.
     "Commander,"  said Cyrano, twisting a lock of his wig.  "I believe your
bride has arrived."
     "I believe you're right."  With a thoroughly Rikeresque grin and a wink,
he stepped away toward her, but not before adding,  "Oh, Captain, Doctor
Crusher was looking for you."
     "Oh?"
     "Yeah.  And wait until you see her costume."
     Picard stood there dumbstruck as Riker walked away before scanning
the crowd for her head of auburn hair, then stopping as he realized that was
probably futile.  'She's in costume after all,'  he thought.  'That probably
includes her hair.'
     The music was slow and barely perceptible; there were couples dancing
in the middle of the room, content in each other's presence.  Picard saw, with
a certain amount of envy, Will take Deanna's hand for the dance, and he
decided he should like to start off the evening with his Chief Medical Officer
in his arms.

                                   ***

     Riker held Deanna close, the sweet scent of her intoxicating his senses. 
He felt like it was years earlier, when he was a Starfleet peon and she, a wet-
behind-the-ears psychology student.  Deanna was just as beautiful and just
as--
     "Will Riker,"  she said unexpectedly,  "I think I know what's on your
mind."
     His thoughts jerked back to reality.  "What?"
     "What's on your mind.  I think I have a good idea what it is."
     Will couldn't help but flood with a blush, and he smiled, trying to cover
it up; even if he was covered with a good many layers of makeup, he knew
that she must be aware that he was turning colour.  Plain stupid thing to do
while dancing with a woman who can read emotions: fantasize about her.
     "And what would that be, my dear one?"  he purred, hoping that she
still wouldn't notice.
     "The captain.  You're worried about him."
     "Well . . .  yes."  Her words took him by surprise, for that worry was
tucked into the far reaches of his conscious mind.  "He has been acting a
little strangely lately . . .  after all, he's here tonight."
     Deanna seemed thoughtful.  "I seem to remember his receiving a
subspace transmission a few days ago, while I was on duty on the bridge.  He
took it in the ready room." 
     "Did he tell you what the transmission was about, or from whom?" 
Riker asked, furrowing that ample brow.
     She shook her head in negative.  "Captain's privilege.  He didn't say a
word to me, and I didn't think it was my place to ask."  She sighed.  "And a
day after that, I can recall him bringing a package that he had received into
the ready room with him, and coming out moments later looking as if he had
seen a ghost, leaving the bridge, not saying a word."  She paused to meet his
eyes, and she smiled.  "If it's any consolation, I'm worried too.  I'm the
counselor . . .  I would hope he would come to me with any problems he might
have."
     He stopped dancing, and she asked him what the matter was.
     "We are at a masquerade ball, we're dressed as old horror movie
monsters . . .  and we're talking shop."
     She frowned.  "We're talking about a friend."
     "True,"  he continued.  "And it's fine to worry, but just not now.  Let's
have fun.  Let's dance."
     A cheerful sparkle invaded her dark eyes as she conceded,  "Okay, but
only if you stop fantasizing about me."  
     He looked completely faced as they embraced for another twirl around
the floor.

                                   ***

     Beverly and Guinan had done a fine job supplying this party, as
evidenced by the tall, cool ale that had been sent straight from Earth, just
like the one Cyrano de Bergerac had in his grasp.  He was still looking for
Beverly, and not succeeding.  He was thinking about Ann Kelmer, and he
sighed.
     A voice at his shoulder startled him out of his thoughts.  "What's on
your mind, Captain Picard?"  He turned and saw Cleopatra, and realized he
recognized her somehow.  Couldn't be Bev, for this woman was too short . . . 
who was it?
     His lack of recognition prompted her to ask,  "Care for another drink? 
Perhaps a . . .  hot chocolate?"  She grinned as she finished her question.
     He drew his brows together as he placed who she was.  "Ensign Gomez? 
Is that you?"
     She smiled, happy that he remembered at least that much about her. 
After all, on a ship this big, and a rotation like the Enterprise has, he
couldn't possibly have remembered everyone.  "Lieutenant Gomez.  Yes, Sir."
     "Now, none of that 'Sir' business.  This is not an official function and,
as I seem to recall, I am not even your captain anymore,"  he said, keeping
his voice low, in keeping in disguise. 
     Her smile broadened, surprised that he was able to recall her departure. 
"Yes, I've been with the Monterrey for about three years now . . .  but I
keep in close contact with a lot of the crew that I used to work with.  In
fact, I'm here just for the party to see them."
     They sat and had a cup of cocoa for old times' sake, a dance, and a
good conversation.  Yet the time came when Sonya went to join her friends,
which left him alone at the bar again, in what seemed like no time at all.  He
pondered what Beverly had dreamed up for her outfit, wondering how she had
the time to even think of one, what with her duties, and her acting class, and
getting this whole party together.  She really was quite . . .  extraordinary.
     Much to his embarrassment he found himself staring just a little too
long at the attractive backside of a blonde that stood a good six meters from
him, a pair of finely sculpted legs emerging from a cascade of hair that fell to
well below her hips.  He turned away at once, certain that she had not seen
his lingering look.  'Time to lay off this ale.' 
     As the tempo of the music picked up briskly (Riker had undoubtedly
synthesized a trombone), his head turned back to where she had been, but
she was gone.  He stood to perhaps find her for a dance, and instead found
himself cutting the rug with a good number of his female crew members, who
seemed to have no idea who he really was.  It was exhilarating, long on
laughter, short on breath; intimate, yet at the same time, grand.
     Picard paused long enough for a second beer, realizing that much of the
night had passed without so much as a glimpse of Beverly.  He'd briefly
spoken to Geordie, who had dressed as the legendary character of Ichabod
Crane, and Data, who, in carrying his "cranial unit" in his arm, was
masquerading as Ichabod's nemesis, the Headless Horseman.  Neither one had
seen her.  He had not seen Worf, who at last count hadn't decided between
the party and a calisthenic workout.  Picard suspected he had never had any
intention to attend -- not really the Klingon's style, after all -- but had told
Beverly and the others that he wasn't sure, just to be gracious, as amusing a
thought as that was.  However, Picard was certain that if he were here, she
would have eluded the Klingon as well.
     As he finished a dance with Marie Antoinette, and ascertaining that she
was not Beverly, Riker appeared at his side while the young woman slipped
away.
     "Trick or treat, Captain Hook-nose," he said with a grin.  "You are,
literally, the life of the party."
     The captain was breathless as he spoke.  "I am having a marvelous
time."  Picard reached for a third ale, taking in a good three-quarters of it in
one swallow.  He was incredibly thirsty, and while he knew of alcohol's
dehydrating effect, it's exactly what he was thirsting for.  
     Riker noted the rapid swig and gave him a semi-worried glance before
taking his own stein from the bar.  "I was speaking to Beverly a short while
ago,"  he said,  "and she is curious to know why you haven't yet asked her
for a dance."  Now was Riker's turn for a deep swallow.
     Picard looked around himself, then settled his eyes on Riker, as if he
had not heard the other man correctly.  "I would have asked her long ago,"
he began,  "if I had seen her."
     "Not an excuse.  I know you must have seen her.  She said she saw you
a number of times looking straight at her."
     Jean-Luc's partially inebriated mind raced.  He had looked at so many
lovely women tonight.  Was her costume that good? 
     Suddenly, with the look of fright she had mastered so well since
arriving, Deanna approached.  "Hello, Captain,"  said she, "I'm glad to see
you're having such a good time."
     Picard smiled, acknowledging her comment.  "It's been ages since I've
enjoyed myself so much.  And, I haven't had a dance with you yet."
     She smiled.  "It would be an honour, Sir."
     He held up a singular index finger.  "Call me Cyrano.  What's the point
of a mask if you two keep calling me 'Captain' and 'Sir'?"
     "Don't worry,"  she said in a stage-whisper.  "Everyone's been asking
me all night both, 'Where's the captain?' and, 'Who is that guy with the
nose?'"
     She could feel her little white lie work its magic, and could see him
relax noticeably, reassured that his anonymity was secure.
     As they began dancing, they also began to talk, he more freely than he
had done in any counseling session in recent memory.  She asked questions,
and surprisingly, he answered them.
     In the final moments of the song, Deanna said,  "The reason I came up
to you, Sir--Cyrano,"  she began, blending the formal into the informal with
grace,  "is to tell you that Beverly expects the first dance of the hour."
     Now he was completely puzzled.  "Deanna, I have not seen hide nor hair
of Beverly yet this evening."
     "Interesting that you should choose that particular cliche,"  Deanna
mused.  "It's five to midnight.  Go on and find her, or she'll have your head." 
Deanna indicated the guillotine they had ended near, with a playful grin.
     "How will I know who she is?  What is she dressed as?"  The question
that had not been answered even in part all night.
     This was no exception.  Deanna only offered an enigmatic smile.  
     Picard rolled his eyes, a moot gesture since his eyes were barely
visible.
     The song ended, and Deanna bid him farewell, leaving Picard even more
perplexed than he was to start with, if that were indeed possible.  He decided
that this was it, this was the time for some answers once and for all.

                                   ***

     "Not even a mention?" asked Data's head from waist level.  Deanna shook
her head.
     "We talked about a great deal of things, but not once did he approach a
discussion of that message.  Maybe we're making altogether too much of this." 
Deanna folded her arms, and sighed a hopeless sigh, knowing that she didn't
really believe that in her heart of hearts.  "I can sense a feeling of desperate
anticipation, but that might be just that he's not seen Beverly yet."  She
didn't believe that either.  It was the same feeling she'd sensed when he'd
emerged out of the ready room.
     "Do you think he'll tell her?"  queried Geordie.
     Riker smirked, and everyone knew his comment would be a killer.
     "When he sees that costume," said Riker, "he's liable to tell her that
he's the High Chancellor of Kronos."

                                   ***

     The torture and death devices were highlighted with an unearthly light,
and Picard approached them with some apprehension.  He knew that they no
longer functioned, but still, they were enough to send terror into his heart,
especially reflecting on his own torture.  When one of those highlights began
to move, Picard furrowed his brow until he realized it was a soft silhouette of
skin, undoubtedly female, if his eyes did not deceive him.  As she stepped
nearer to him, her features filled out somewhat as what little light there was
covered her.  
     He did not know exactly what she was supposed to be: a sprite, a wood
nymph, even quite possibly Titania herself.  It did not matter after all; he was
entranced.  Long blonde hair covered this woman's shapely figure; rosebuds,
daisies, lilacs, freesias, and many other fresh flowers were woven into this
hair, into a mask that covered her eyes, and into a generously scoop-necked,
white cotton dress that came up to midthigh.  At the hem of the dress were
delicately tinkling bells that sang out with glee at the tiniest movement.  A
floral fragrance filled his nose, dizzying him.  She radiated warmth and
happiness as her pale, luminescent lips curved into a smile.  He realized with
a mixture of dread and delight that she was the blonde he had so longingly,
and with such shame, looked at.
     She held out her hand and when he took it, she tugged him impishly
toward her.  "Come on,"  said the deep, smouldering voice,  "I want a dance."
     He followed her to the dance floor like an automaton, and they swung
into step for the first dance of the hour.  She saw the torn expression on his
face and tossed back her head in laughter, sending the gossamer ivory hair
around her like silk on the wind. 
     The captain was all too aware of the placement of his hands on her
back, which was in fact quite bare, and the closeness of her body to his,
even through the layers of linen and brocade.  Picard did not know how he
should be reacting to this situation, as it was a totally recreational gathering
and not official in the least, or to her movements, which he found himself
interpreting as suggestive.  He wasn't even one to jump to an outmoded
conclusion like that one under normal circumstances.  
     Unquestionably, these were not normal circumstances.
     In his ear, playfully, she said quietly in French,  "You are very quiet
tonight, Cyrano de Bergerac."
     The ales were coming back to haunt him, and he felt his head swimming. 
Beverly was going to strangle him for forfeiting their dance, and he deserved
it, for that promised dance was the furthest thing from his mind.
     If anyone were to look at his eyes, they might say those blue slates
were a little lost in thought, his body pressed against her blossom-covered
dress.  He was feeling something he hadn't felt since his Academy days,
dancing cheek to cheek with a ravishing, mysterious woman; and there was
the tangible thrill of anonymity, erasing all inhibition.  Imagine, the ever-
proper captain, hearkening back to his lady-killing days!  It sounded
preposterous, yet, the spirit was beginning to move him.  His hands moved
slowly across her back to hold her closer.  The skin there, so velvety, and
the scent of the freesias was doing nothing to ground him . . .
     Close to her ear, he said,  "What can I call you?"
     There was a pause, slightly perceptible, in her step.  She thought a
moment, then said,  "Diana."
     "Beautiful,"  he said, for her ears only.  "Are you with the sciences? 
Have you been with the Enterprise long?"
     "You could say that,"  came the quiet reply, as her fingertips brushed
a tingling trail between his shoulder blades.  "You ask a lot of questions,
Cyrano . . .  whoever you are."
     They danced a little while longer in silence, giving him time to reflect
on the spare conversation, and the stirrings within him.  He hoped the song
could last minutes, no, hours longer, so he might spend this time dancing with
her, learning as much as he could while keeping intact the fabric of
anonymity.  The steady rhythm of her breathing, the rise and fall of her
chest, his hands as they slid down to the small of her back; that too was
exposed, just as soft as the rest.  Goosebumps rose against his tender
fingertips.
     "Will you be with us much longer?"  he asked at last, the noiseless
voice sounding almost hopeful to her ears.
     "I imagine so,"  came the sultry, warm breath dancing on his neck. 
Picard tucked the blonde tendrils behind her ear, and moved to place his lips
on the tender part of her lobe.
     Suddenly Riker's voice was a part of the conversation, much to Picard's
bewilderment.  His head jerked around, sending the curls into this woman's
eyes.
     "Why, Cyrano,"  he said, a smug grin on his mouth.
     Deanna, his dance partner, smiled knowingly.  
     'Dammit,'  he thought,  'Beverly knows.  She knows.  She's put them up
to this, all because I stood her up.  I'm never going to hear the end of it.'
     Diana turned her head away shyly, into Picard's neck.
     The song fainted away to a whisper, and a soft, musical voice said to
him,  "Meet me in the arboretum in ten minutes, and leave your guilt behind 
 . .  maybe then we can have some time alone."
     He found himself more than just considering it.  He closed his eyes and
he heard her sweet voice repeat,  "Ten minutes."  He felt the vacuum of the
absence of her warmth against him before he formed an actual thought about
it; when he opened his eyes, she was gone.
     Picard tried to find her in the crowd, but with the darkness and the
number of people on the dance floor it was impossible to tell where she had
retreated to.  He also looked around himself for any familiar face in order to
avoid them, so he could make his way out of the party unnoticed to the
arboretum in the ten minutes she had given him.  'This is crazy.  This is
pure insanity.'  He could feel the beads of perspiration on his skin; his heart
was racing with exhilaration.  Something he hadn't felt in quite a while. 
Something he missed feeling.
     Dread gripped him as he saw a flash of auburn hair, a fully-masked
Siamese cat beside the bar.  It would be just his luck to run into the doctor
on his way out to the most illicit thing he had done in years, and get
lambasted for it.  He pulled the brim of his hat down and made for the exit.

                                   ***

     "Look, he's off in a big hurry,"  Riker said, still in the company of
Deanna as they stepped out of the crowd of dancers.  It had been a tiring
night and the faster-tempoed songs were beyond them.
     She smiled, but it wasn't heartfelt.  The captain's emotions were
turbulent.
     "Deanna, have you seen Jean-Luc?"
     The voice startled her to reality.  She turned to see Beverly at her
side.
     Riker grinned.  "He just beat it posthaste out of this party."
     Bev mulled it over, and then said, with a smile,  "Thanks."
     They watched as Beverly made her way towards the holodeck doors. 
Riker turned his eyes to see what Deanna's facial expression would tell him,
but she was oddly blank.
     "What is it?"  he asked.
     She sighed.  "It's worse than I thought."

                                   ***

     The sensuality of fresh foliage invaded every faculty as the doors
parted to allow him entrance.  He hadn't been in the arboretum during the
night shift in several years, and he had forgotten how simply beautiful the
starlight reflecting off of every plane and surface was, making the small pool
sparkle as if by the Earth's moonlight.  He remembered with some relief the
argument he and Riker had gotten into while trying to schedule this shift; no
one wanted to take it because of Beverly's party, and since it was not a
critical area, Riker wanted to leave it be.  It was a good thing that Riker had
won that argument, or else a curious scientific lieutenant might have stumbled
upon this liaison.
     He shivered.  What in the world was he doing here?
     A hand on his shoulder startled him, and he whipped around to look
through the dimness at the silent woman who had invited him here.  "Sorry to
frighten you,"  came the shadowy voice, as she came into his view.
     He placed a hand over hers and said,  "It's all right.  I should know
better than to let my guard down like that."
     She reached forward with her free hand, pulling away the false nose
with little effort, before placing her fingers on his face tenderly.  "I'm glad
you came,"  she said.
     He couldn't easily admit to that aloud, so he simply smiled before
reaching and placing his lips on hers, falling into a hungry kiss much too
quickly for the doubt that sat at the back of his mind.  His arms took her
into an embrace, hands rounding her back and sliding over the object of that
earlier gaze.  She sighed, her head falling back slightly, as he lavished her
neck with attention.
     He felt the soft, silky bark of the ricklaw tree at his back, the woman
in his embrace pressing him against it fully.  Her hands played along his
collarbones under the light linen of his shirt, then moved towards his waist to
embrace him.  They slid down the length of the broad tree to sit on the
ground, she straddling his lap, the short dress riding up.  His thumbs teased
the hem, hands playing along the velvet inner thigh and the tender skin
behind her knees, then brushed upwards and across her breasts, the arousal
all too evident there.  
     One by one the buttons came undone, the vest slipping down his arms,
the linen shirt opening to her.  He only had to pull the straps of her dress
forward with a tender tug to make her creamy arms bare, and placed eager
lips on the flesh there.  He could feel the heat rising to meet them, and could
feel the desire building in him, bound by the lacing of his pants.  Her fingers
came down and teased the lacing, loosening it.  Their kisses and caresses
quickened furiously, his hands bringing her dress further up, then pausing
to hold the small of her back.  He felt the mask lifting off of his eyes, hands
pushing the hat and wig from his head and stroking the smooth skin there. 
His fingers danced feather-like across her abdomen to her thighs, to the
repeated sigh of his name as she drew his head towards her bosom.
     His name?
     He pushed her back gently to see the ravishing blonde with her head
tilted back, and he tentatively reached for the mask that hid who she was.  It
lifted, as did the wig it was connected to, his hands playing along the curve
of her cheek.  With the little light available to him, he realized that these
contours were all too familiar.  She opened her eyes and offered nothing more
than the upward curve of her mouth.
     Her name was all he could manage.
     "Beverly."  
     "Jean-Luc,"  she replied breathlessly, her lips lingering in a kiss right
below his burning ear.
     "I . . .  It's you."
     Her brow crinkled slightly as she pulled up to look at him.  "Of course
it's me."  Her fingers still danced on the lacing, driving him mad and making
him feel extremely uncomfortable.
     "I had no idea,"  he muttered.  He tried to slow his breathing, and
could feel his heart pounding in his chest despite his efforts.
     "I thought you . . ."  she began,  "I knew it was you all night, I
thought you knew it was me."  Her eyes lit playfully as she pushed her own
straying cinnamon hair from her eyes.  "Who did you think I was?"  she
asked, her voice husky.
     "Well, I thought you, Beverly, were the cat, and since you said 'Diana' 
 . .  I just assumed that to be your name . . ."
     "Diana, ancient Roman goddess of the moon, and of hunting.  My
interpretation, my costume."  She traced the line of his brow with her thumb
lovingly, as her voice dropped down an octave or two.  "I just thought you
were pretending not to know, to have a little fun with me."  She brushed her
lips against his cheek, her teeth grazing his lobe.  "What fun it is."
     "I don't play games like that."
     She stopped what she was doing instantly, her mood turning at once
serious, as she reeled back to meet his eyes.  "You've done an awfully good
job of it tonight."
     His tone was apologetic as he said,  "If I had known it was you, I
wouldn't--"
     Picard stopped in mid-sentence when he realized from her glare that it
would not be in his best interest to continue.
     She moved from his lap as quickly as she could, and threw her
mask\wig at him.  "Don't tell me.  I don't want to hear whatever excuse
you've invented."  She restored the straps to her shoulders, and ran her long
fingers through her hair.  "It was perfectly fine to make love with me when I
was a woman you hadn't known for more than an hour . . .  yet now, as
'Doctor Beverly Crusher', I am completely off limits."  He opened his mouth to
defend himself when she shook her hand at him.  "Please, don't embarrass
yourself.  I've heard enough."
     Beverly stood, righting the bottom of her dress and throwing back one
last angry look before leaving the arboretum.  Picard sighed, slapping his
forehead into a frustrated palm.
     'Damn.'
     Himself.  Her.  This night.  This room.
     That message.
     Damn them all.

                                   ***

     It hit Geordie as suddenly as a phaser blast that it was two-thirty in
the morning.  His shift in Engineering was to begin in a half-hour.
     He sighed and yawned.  'You'd think being the Chief Engineer would get
me out of these horrible duty shifts,'  he thought as he headed for the door. 
'Whoever said Commander Riker didn't have a sense of humour about his job
was dead wrong.'
     Geordie was rounding the corner for the turbolift, muttering to himself
mindlessly, when he nearly had a head-on collision with Captain Picard.  "Oh,
Sir, sorry,"  Geordie said.  "Heading back to the party?"
     The captain didn't miss a step as he continued walking, saying
something barely audible to his subordinate about getting his own priorities
straight.
     Geordie shrugged and continued towards his quarters.  Right now his
priorities, however unattainable, were a good couple of hours of sleep; he
couldn't imagine anyone having any others.

                                   ***

     She couldn't sleep.  Dammit, it wasn't her fault; she had nothing to be
sorry about.  His actions were completely reprehensible and he deserved
every one of the harsh words she had delivered to him.  But she still couldn't
sleep.
     With unnecessary force she threw back the covers and brought the
lights up.  There was no logical reason why she should feel this way.  Then
again, what did this problem have to do with logic?
     "Computer,"  she asked,  "chamomile tea.  Hot, and sweetened with
honey, please."  By the time she got to the replicator it was waiting for her,
steaming hot.  Beverly took it to her bed, brought the covers back over her
legs, and cursed herself for not bringing that holosuite program back with
her from DS9.  Beverly drained the small glass, set it beside her on the
nightstand and sighed.  Deep inside, she knew that program probably wouldn't
have helped anyway.  She knew, much to her dismay, what she really needed
to ease her mind was to have a couple of words with Jean-Luc.  He was too
good of a friend and they had too much of a history together to just let this
lie stagnant and become a wall between them . . .  yet the thought of facing
him right now made her feel ill.
     Beverly ordered the lights back down and turned over to try to get to
sleep.  It was only a matter of a minute before they were back up and she
was asking the computer for a location on the captain.
     "Captain Picard is in holodeck 3."
     She drew her brows together.  The holodeck?  "Running which
program?"
     "Picard-Four."
     Her heart sank.  This was much more serious than she had imagined.

                                   ***

     The walk down to holodeck was the longest walk Beverly had taken
since going to view the body of her husband so many years ago.  'Ironic,
really,'  she said to herself, as she stood before the doors, which to her
surprise opened without a touch or a word.
     With as much strength as she could muster she walked out of an
Enterprise corridor, and onto the darkly lit bridge of the Stargazer.  Still in
costume, except for the wig, hat and mask, Jean-Luc sat in the command chair,
fingers kneading his eyelids.  He did not turn to her as he said quietly, 
"Come aboard, Beverly.  I knew you would."  He gestured to the seat beside
him and continued,  "You'll ask me what this is all about, so I'll save you the
trouble."  He continued to stare into the star field on the viewscreen; as
Beverly took the seat beside him, she studied his hardened profile and
unwavering eyes.  "For a short moment tonight I saw you as I saw you
twenty years ago, and for that moment, I wondered-- "  He didn't need to
finish.  He straightened up, composing himself as best he could.
     Beverly's voice was smooth, although inside her nerves were in a frenzy
from being on the Stargazer.  "And for that moment,"  she asked quietly, 
"were you afraid of what you were wondering?"
     Finally he looked to her, and it seemed he was surprised to see her in
her civilian clothes and not the provocative costume.  "I was afraid I was
making a giant mistake."
     "Did you have this fear before you knew it was me?"
     He did not respond.
     "And this."  Beverly made a sweeping gesture to indicate the setting,
moot considering his eyes had returned to the star field.  "The Stargazer. 
Why are you here?"  Not really sure if it was the right thing to do, and not
sure if she had forgiven him, she decided to reach out and place her hand on
his knee.
     This brought his eyes back to her.  "I had Jack here.  We shared
stories, talked about Wesley . . .  and you . . ."  He stopped when he saw a
tear fall from her eye, which she whisked away with a quick finger.  "It
reminded me of just what you are to me."
     The silence was cold and thick.  She couldn't bear to look at his face,
so she stood and took long, measured steps to the viewscreen.  Beverly tried
desperately to keep her head level and her breathing quiet, and said in a low
voice that could not hide her pain,  "What am I to you?  Just an unrequited
love?  Just a . . .  former crewmember's widow?"
     He responded emphatically,  "Of course that's not 'just' what you are.  I
was reminding myself of how much you mean to me because of everything that
has happened since that time."  He rubbed his eyes again, and as Beverly
turned to him again, it looked very much to her like he was blotting tears
away.  In an extremely small voice, muffled in his palm, he concluded,  "So I
have no right to entertain libidinous thoughts about you."
     Quickly he stood, barking out a command to get rid of the Stargazer. 
As the yellow-on-black grid materialized he noticed that Beverly had raised a
hand to her face.  The last thing he needed was for her to completely lose it
and start crying.
     Needless to say his shock was unmatched when he heard the distinct
sound of laughter coming from her.
     "'Libidinous thoughts'?  Oh, heavens.  I'm glad someone can have them
about me at my age.  And it relieves me to know you have them, period."  The
grin on her pretty mouth contradicted her reddened eyes, remembering
certain dreams she had been privy to.
     She thought she caught a smile coming from him.  What bothered her
was that he would not acknowledge it.
     Beverly walked over to him and touched his arm.  "You are not a bad
person to feel human desire,"  she said, darting her head to catch the eyes
that looked away.  "And feeling desire for me still should not embarrass you."
     "As long as I don't act on it."
     "Jean-Luc, don't you dare put those words in my mouth,"  Beverly
countered.  "I've never known you to back down from an attainable goal."
     "I cannot and will not objectify anyone in such a manner, especially
you, Beverly.  I respect you too much, you know that."
     She shook her head, smiling, as she walked near enough to the holodeck
door for it to open.  "You, Sir, are missing the point."
     Beverly left the holodeck.

                                   ***

     Coldly, the flattest surface sat upon his palm, demanding his attention. 
He knew every facet intimately, the smoothness under his touch at once as
familiar as a memory.  It hadn't been a memory at all though, had it?  Only a
dream, a glorious dream that had spanned just a brief moment in time, yet
brought to him something more alien than any off-world encounter had ever
done.
     He reached up the span of a few inches to the zenith of this metal
object -- no, this work of art -- that he held in his hand, and touched it
lightly as if he might injure it.  He couldn't decide if it brought him sadness
or joy, and finally realized it was an equal measure of the two.
     The life that once wasn't, and would never be.
     He sighed, placing it on the table beside his bed, and hoped his dreams
would be a little more kind to him than his remembrances were.

                                   ***

     The night had dragged by, and this final meeting was the last hurdle to
a good night's sleep.  Geordie walked into the observation lounge with as
much life as he could muster, and noticed he was the second to arrive,
finding himself with the one person whose neck he'd wanted most to wring for
the entire duration of his late-night shift.  Unwittingly, Riker smiled a "good
morning" to him, but the expression reserved for Riker was less than
pleasant.
     Deanna Troi came in and saw the sour look; Will said to him,  "What's
putting you out?"
     Geordie yawned.  "Only the fact that I haven't gone to sleep yet."
     Riker sat, a cup of coffee at his elbow.  "Why not?"
     Geordie bit the inside of his cheek and said somewhat tersely,  "Sir, if
you recall, you scheduled me for the red eye shift, and I went to the 
party . . .  "
     The beard seemed the tighten around Riker's mouth.  "Sorry about that. 
I had to do it.  Nothing personal, you understand."
     "Yeah, I know, but it doesn't make staying up over twenty-four hours
any easier."  Geordie shrugged, yawning once again.  "I suppose I won't be
the only one feeling a bit hungover today.  I passed the captain as I was
leaving the party for my quarters, and he was not looking like he was going
to retire any time soon."
     Riker and Troi shared a look.  "Where was he headed?"  she asked.
     "Towards a holodeck, I think, though I didn't see him actually go into
one.  He may have gone back to the party.  Said something about his
priorities."  Geordie took a seat and whistled, regaining his good humour. 
"And you thought I was put out.  He was not in a talkative mood, to say in
the least."  
     Riker heard his Imzadi's voice in his head, something he hadn't
experienced in a while, catching him off-guard.  'I hope Beverly got something
out of him last night.'
     Avoiding the obvious double-entendre, he bent towards her, and
whispered,  "Why not just ask him?"
     Captain Picard entered the room, his face unreadable, yet he seemed
distant.  Deanna and Will decided at a glance that he was not in the mood for
questions.  "Good morning,"  he said briskly, taking his seat.
     "Good morning, Sir,"  Geordie ventured.  "Have a good time last night at
the party?"
     Picard looked to Geordie.  "Splendid,"  he replied tautly.  Geordie
decided not to the broach the subject again. 
     When Worf and Data showed within a few minutes, the captain dove right
into the meeting.  Deanna found it odd that the doctor was missing.

                                   ***

     The fine line between duty, friendship, and personal desires had
blurred to non-existence there in the arboretum; Jack's ghost had come
uneasily close to them last night.  In fact, dreams of Jack filled her head as
she slept: dreams of the first time she had met Jack, strangely enough, while
he was in Jean-Luc's company; dreams of that fateful day when Jack had been
returned to his grieving widow, and his captain there to take her to see 
him . . .  
     A buzzing sound penetrated the slumbering consciousness of the doctor,
who jumped to sit up straight in her bed.  She didn't remember even falling
asleep, but rather, remembered sitting with a glass of white wine after
returning from the holodeck.  She noticed the glass on the floor beside her.
     "Yes?"  she asked.
     "Beverly, it's Deanna.  May I come in?"
     Bev looked for the chronometer.  What time was it?  She could feel the
tangles that had settled in her hair during the night without even raising a
hand to her head, and could barely focus.  "Of course."
     Deanna came near to Beverly, slowly, with apprehension; a small part of
her was jealous of the counselor for not exhibiting any ill effects from the
night before.  "We were a little worried when you didn't show for the staff
meeting."
     Her eyes became wide, and she sharpened at once.  "What do you mean,
I missed--?"
     "It's eleven-hundred hours."
     "What?  Why did no one . . ."  Beverly began, exasperated.
     "Well, the captain said that he had excused your presence.  He said he
had kept you up late, in discussion."  She paused to study Beverly's face. 
"It didn't keep me from worrying."
     Bev blinked, hoping it would help her to assimilate this new information.
     Deanna continued.  "That's why I'm here now, though I didn't think you
would still be asleep."  She sat on the edge of the bed, beside Beverly.  "I'd
like to know what you talked about."
     Beverly had to wonder at once what Deanna's interest was in any of
this.  She was about to voice her query when Deanna added,  "That is, in
strictest confidence, if you did indeed do nothing but talk."
     Beverly let a scant smile escape the corner of her mouth.  "Well, almost
nothing."  Deanna smiled in return; she had suspected as much, if she had
read Picard's emotions correctly last night.
     Deanna asked the computer for a couple of mugs of coffee; after
bringing them to the bedside, she got down to brass tacks.
     "I'm interested in anything he may have told you about the transmission
he got a few days ago.  We were all wondering what was in that message; if
he told anyone about it, I figured it would be you."
     Beverly's smile dropped.  The stinging hurt that this news brought
surprised her in its intensity.
     "I assume from your expression that would be a 'no'."  Deanna wrapped
her hands around the stone mug and sighed.  "I was hoping you would
answer differently."
     Finally Bev found her voice, and it was laden with concern.  "Where did
the message originate from?  Earth?  Has something happened to his family?"
     "I'm not sure.  I think somewhere in the Solarian sector."
     The name seemed all too familiar, ever elusive.  Troi gave her a
inquisitive look until it dawned on Beverly where she had heard that name
mentioned before.  She snapped her head around to meet Troi's eyes and felt
a word escape her lips.
     "Kamin."
     A name she had heard enough times in casual conversation over
breakfast to associate it with the Kataan system in the Solarian sector; a name
that lit Troi's eyes with recognition, undoubtedly from past counseling
sessions.
     "You don't think . . ."
     The redhead looked into the coffee she hadn't even sipped.  "I do
think."  With uncertainty, she continued,  "Is it more appropriate for you or
for me to go?"
     Deanna closed her dark eyes to think a moment, then said,  "I think the
best situation would be if we went to him together, not just as concerned
crew, but as friends who care about him."
     "That might be intimidating."
     Deanna unexpectedly laughed;  Bev glanced to her.  The counselor
explained her outburst:  "What shall we do then?  Draw straws?"
     Bev sighed nervously, running her hands through her bangs. 
"Deanna,"  she said.  "I would like to go . . .  alone."
     Deanna acquiesced.  "Go carefully."

                                   ***

     The patina of the small statue drew his eyes away from the computer
terminal again, like it had a thousand times before.  And like a thousand times
before, a stab of pain shot through his heart.  He could almost feel the
roughness of his worn hands; the crow's feet that had settled around his eyes
from the years of working in the sun; the tender feel of Eline's hands
caressing every one of those coarsely chiseled lines in his face.  The
happiness that had filled his heart at the sight of young Batai and Meribor
was the happiness of a man who was content to spend his days in one place,
doing one thing, being with one woman, being the father of her children.
     Beverly was not Eline.  He knew that.  Yet, she had that same care and
concern for him, and yes, there was an undeniable love between them.  There
had always been.
     He heard the chime on the ready room door; somehow, he knew it would
be Beverly.  He didn't need any blasted implant; he just knew.  He turned off
the terminal he had convinced himself he was interested in before meeting her
at the door.
     She had a half-grin on her face, one he suspected was there with some
effort.  "How many times do I have to come chasing after you?"  she asked,
trying to be light.
     He smiled and let her pass into the room.  She waited for the door to
close before dropping her facade, thrusting her hands into her lab coat
pockets.
     "I'm going to be blunt with you, Jean-Luc,"  she began.  "Deanna has
told me that you received a message from Kataan . . .  and I was just a little
 . .  no, very greatly hurt, and worried, that you didn't want to talk about it
with me.  Why?"
     He sat on the edge of the desk, fixing his eyes on her.  "I am going to
be equally blunt, Beverly.  Last night, right before you left, were you
suggesting that you were an attainable goal?"
     She met his even gaze.  "I asked you first."
     Her smile was comforting to him as he waited for her inevitable
question.  "What was it that compelled you to go to the arboretum last night? 
It obviously wasn't me."
     His eyes darted to the statue before he could stop them, and Beverly
could not help but follow them.  Curious, she walked towards it and picked it
up, turning it in her hands.  He looked as if he wanted to protect it, and
momentarily reached out for it before his senses reminded him it was just a
statue.
     "Oh. Jean-Luc.  This is the most beautiful statue I have ever seen." 
She turned her eyes to him.  "Where did you get it from?"
     Hesitant, he said,  "This was found on that very planet.  Kataan.  First
the message came, then this piece.  I haven't been able to think of anything
else but that life."
     She hardly seemed surprised as she turned to it again; it was as if
everything had finally fallen into place.  "This was . . .  this was Kamin's,
wasn't it?"  A question she already knew the answer to.  Her fingers gently
traced each delicate plane of the statue.  
     Suddenly, almost impulsively, he said to her, as if he might change his
mind about it,  "If you want it, it's yours."
     She drew her brows as she continued studying it.  "Oh, no.  I could
never take this from you.  It obviously means a lot to you."
     He reached out, taking one of her hands away from the statue.
     "So do you."
     She felt a cool burning creep up from her insides and her face pulling
into a smile on its own accord.  
     He placed the statue back on the desk, so he might hold both of her
hands and her full attention, pulling her to sit beside him on the desk's edge. 
"I understood your parting remark last night.  It's just that I thought you
had no interest in furthering our friendship beyond what it is now." 
Surprisingly, he smiled.  "It's a strange sort of limbo we live in."
     "What is that supposed to mean?"  she asked.
     "Well, we are admittedly more than just friends . . .  we've shared each
other's thoughts, and quite literally our dreams.  I am much closer to you
than I have been to any other woman I've loved."
     Beverly looked fixedly at him, barely blinking.  "You still do, don't
you."  It was more of a statement than a question, her voice low and
thoughtful.
     He looked away to the window, watching that never-changing, ever-
different eternal field of stars fade away out of his sight at light speed.  He
spoke at last.  "I can't put words to that at this point, Beverly."  He turned
to her again, one of his slow-blooming smiles taking her by surprise.  "But I
think I might like to try to find those words."
     "Well,"  she began,  "we could always go back to square one and try
this again."
     "How so?"
     She stood, her hands in her pockets again.  "Well . . .  I hear the
arboretum is magnificent at night."  Her smile widened slightly as she turned
back to look at him from the parted ready room doors.  Just before passing
through them, she whispered for his ears only,  "Leave your mask behind."

     Many thanks to the author of the Samhain computer entry, Kellie
     Matthews-Simmons, and to Kathy Nielson and Andra Barrow for
     their valuable (or is that invaluable?) suggestions.

The end.
Copyright 1993 by Sandra Guzdek. 
Standard disclaimers about Paramount, and threats of death for plagiarism,
apply.