Home in a Handbasket

Much appreciation to Rocky, for constructive criticisms offered while this was being written. Said crits aided in the editing process and final decision making.

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Adolescence is like cactus. ~ Anais Nin

——————-

Dear Isha,

We’ve only been here a few weeks, but it feels like months. It’s weird how time seems to flow differently here. Pierre thinks it has something to do with actually having days and nights. I don’t really care. I just want to feel normal again. Maman says we’ll get used to living here, that people move on and off ships or away to other planets, and that transitions may be difficult but they’re not impossible. She said it’s part of growing up and we need to be willing to work through changes. I just think it would be easier if Papa were here, too.

I miss our school. I miss you and the others, and being able to go anywhere with you on the holodeck. We don’t have one at the school we’re going to – I guess that has something to do with the power grid being inadequate. Someone said there would be field trips to public holosuites, sometimes. The material they’re giving us is different. Some of it I already learned, some of it I’m not sure why they want us to know it.

I hope you like your new school. What’s London like? San Francisco is odd but fun. There’s so much to see and do, and some parts of the city are well-kept old buildings from the past few centuries, others are all metal and trans-aluminum. There’s this one neighborhood where people have built houses that match the landscaping, so instead of seeing buildings you see hills or vine-covered walls with doors. Maman said we’d take a tour sometime.

Maybe we can talk direct, or visit. We’ll probably be in France sometimes, so it’s not like we won’t be so far apart. We’ll have a lot to talk about.

Yves

——————-

“Mrs. Picard, your son falls asleep in class. He nods off occasionally, but yesterday he actually fell asleep. Is there some reason he’s so exhausted?”

Yves had already explained everything to his mother after school the previous day, so he had no fear of her response to Mrs. Gramere’s opening salvo. In the empty classroom, things sounded loud; Maman’s chair creaked, the only indicator of movement. Maman had come before school, before she had to be in her own classroom at the Academy. Early morning sunlight angled through the wide window and put sharp shadows of desks and chairs on the gray tile.

Maman smiled, didn’t look at him, and gestured as she spoke. “My son isn’t falling asleep. He’s trying to block out the emotions of everyone around him. Privacy is of great importance to Betazoids, and we all learn to preserve it very early, as soon as we begin to develop our talents.”

The teacher was immediately alarmed and staring at each of them in turn. “Shouldn’t he be in a different class? I had thought that telepaths – “

“He’s an empath, Mrs. Gramere. It’s not the same. It’s true that on Earth the tendency is to put telepaths in a class with a telepathic instructor, but Yves is not able to hear the thoughts of others, only their emotions.”

“I wasn’t aware – I had thought that his father . . .. I wasn’t aware that Picard could be a Betazoid name.” Mrs. Gramere glanced down at the padd she held. “There’s nothing in his file about this.”

“My husband is human. Hybrids tend to be empaths. I’m sorry, I did intend to speak with you before now, but the Academy is also in its first week of classes. I hope that this won’t spread to the other children. Yves should be allowed to tell others when he decides to, if he does. He doesn’t make a habit of using his abilities to take advantage.”

Yves watched his mother, admiring the slim uniformed neatness of her as compared to his teacher’s bulkier frame in loose floral-print blouse and slacks. Mrs. Gramere’s hair was blonde and brown, without a hint of gray; Maman had a few streaks of gray showing and didn’t hide it.

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Gramere said, and beneath it he detected the sliding, nested emotions of someone trying to decide. “Perhaps the other children have a right to –”

“Mrs. Gramere,” Maman exclaimed, in a voice Yves had heard many times – a firm call to attention, a demand. “You think that the other children have a right to know he knows exactly how they feel all the time? What about my son’s right to privacy? He respects their privacy – I am here now because of that. I know exactly what he was doing because I taught him how. He wanted to block out the emotions of those around him so he could concentrate on your class. I had been given to understand that the philosophy here is to treat all students with equal respect and equal expectations. If my son is to be singled out from the rest and marked as someone to be wary of, perhaps I should take him elsewhere.”

“Well,” Mrs. Gramere began. “Well.”

Yves stared at Mrs. Gramere’s face, settled into the familiar lines of vague disapproval, and knew what was beneath the façade. His teacher didn’t want him there. Maman put a hand on his arm, acknowledging both what he sensed and how he felt about it.

“I see,” Maman said calmly. “I shall have to find a teacher with more concern for students than her own preference for predictability and order. Come with me, Yves.”

“Mrs. Picard, I don’t understand.” Mrs. Gramere jumped up and nearly followed them. “I didn’t say – “

“You don’t have to. I can sense it well enough. I can tell that this is not something you are able to accept and I would never wish to force you –”

“Mrs. Picard, you give me no chance to explain,” the teacher cried, losing the shifting decision-making emotions and the reluctance — now she felt cheated. “I will admit that the prospect of having an – an empath in my class is somewhat – but you must remember I’ve only just heard of it. I’ve never had a Betazoid in my class before. They always go down to Mr. Fral’s class. I hope that you understand, teaching is not only my career, it’s who I am, and if any student of mine would benefit from a transfer to another class I would arrange it, but you’ve not given me a fair chance.”

Maman rested a hand in between Yves’ shoulders. He dropped his hand away from the door control and looked up at her; she smoothed that stubborn curl of hair back from his forehead and looked back at the teacher.

“Would you like to stay, Yves? Would you feel comfortable here?”

Yves could feel the teacher’s hope, the sliding sensation of her uncertainty. “I’ll try it for a while.” The teacher’s uncertainty settled. Now she was determined. Which was precisely what Maman had wanted, most likely. Her subtle way of forcing the teacher to make a decision to try reminded him how persuasive she could be.

“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Gramere. He’ll be back momentarily with his books.”

Yves walked with his mother to the small flitter waiting in front of the school, alone in a wide spot where others would be dropping off kids soon. “I don’t think she likes me,” Yves said distantly.

“Teachers and starship captains are not there for liking. I think she’ll try. If this doesn’t work there are other options.” Maman touched the passenger-side panel. It read her prints, opened the door, and closed it again after she retrieved his book bag.

“Like what?”

“We’ll talk about it if it’s necessary.” She smiled, but something in her expression told him she didn’t like the options she was thinking about. Something in her emotions told him why. She was right, sometimes people developed particular patterns of emotion when thinking about specific things or people.

“It has something to do with Papa. Doesn’t it?”

Her smile vanished. She measured him for a moment, one eyebrow raised. “You’re nearly sixteen. I suppose I shouldn’t expect you to go along with my reassurances so blindly.”

“What about him?”

“I need to go. Your sister should be ready by now, and I’ll have to drop her off before I can go to my own class.” Maman kissed his cheek. “We’ll talk later.”

Mrs. Gramere waited in her classroom, still standing at the end of her desk where they’d left her. She smiled as he came in but still felt doubt and anxiety. “We have a few minutes before class. Why don’t we spend them talking for a bit?”

Yves shrugged and stood there with his book bag hanging from his right shoulder. “Sure.”

“Your mother is a Starfleet officer – a captain. And your father is. . . ?”

“Captain Jean-Luc Picard. He’ll be an admiral in a month or so, when he gets back from Alliance borders.”

“I see.” Another smile, this time less nervous and more genuine – and ingratiating. Perhaps she imagined having a famous captain in to speak to the class. Tom Glendenning had already warned him that might happen, as news of his father’s promotion was being used liberally in the media. “Have you spent any time aboard his ship?”

“I grew up there.”

“And now you’ve come home to be with your mother.”

“She was his first officer until last month. She finally accepted a promotion – it came with accepting the teaching position at the Academy.”

Mrs. Gramere’s smile faded. She looked at the floor, leaning against the end of her desk. “Yves, you could have told me yesterday what the problem was.”

“I guess. I’d rather the other kids didn’t know until I got to know them better, Mrs. Gramere. It wasn’t you.”

“Well, we’ll just start over, shall we? I hope you like it here at Mercy Hills.”

Behind him, the distant noises of kids in the halls echoed through the open door. “Yeah. I hope so.”

——————-

After the last class, Yves found himself in the crush of kids anxious to get out of the school building, Malcolm struggling to walk alongside him and forced to dodge others. “Hey, want to come over? I have a new game – Starship Battle, latest version. I downloaded some great scenarios from Fednet.”

Yves almost rolled his eyes. After all the simulations he’d participated in on the holodeck, the game Malcolm was talking about seemed amateurish. He’d seen the 3D game consoles in the store, when his mother went to shop for a house computer, and with Geordi along to make recommendations, the house system they now had made anything Malcolm had look inconsequential.

“Maybe this weekend. I’m supposed to find my sister and get out front. Mom’s having guests tonight. Want to come over? She won’t mind. She just wants me to put in an appearance, y’know. Old family friends.”

“Sure. Around seven?”

A quick calculation to deduce that he meant nineteen hundred hours, and Yves nodded. “I’ll see you then.”

Malcolm parted ways at the top of the school steps, waving, and Yves made his way through the thinning crowd while looking for Amy’s red ponytail. She found him first, appearing at his side as if she’d beamed in.

[Where’s Mom?]

“Maman is probably waiting in the flitter,” Yves said. Before he could say anything else Amy darted away toward the line of nearly-identical silver vehicles. As he caught up Amy was leaning in the passenger door chattering about someone named Hailey.

“ – be home by ten, and Hailey’s mom can bring me, she said, so I won’t be walking or anything.”

“Perhaps some other time, Amy. When I have time to meet them. We have guests tonight.” Maman sounded tired; Yves could tell she was frustrated and felt like snapping at Amy. His sister, so wound up and focused on what she wanted, probably wasn’t paying attention; her empathy tended to be easily clouded by her own widely-varying emotions.

“Front or back, Amia.” Yves grabbed her book bag and tossed it into the back seat floorboard, making Cordelia yelp when it hit her feet. “Sorry, Cord. Didn’t see you.”

Amy whirled around, cheeks red. “Just hold on a minute!”

[Maman isn’t in the mood for this. She’s got something going on. Think of someone else for once, already.] He made it loud, focused, imagining his target to be the center of her forehead, just inches away. She actually winced.

Cordelia shoved the front seat, folded it forward, and leaned out. “I’m hungry! Can we go?”

Amy frowned, her entire forehead wrinkled, and tossed her ponytail as she stepped into the back and folded herself in next to the twins. Yves eased the front seat back and dropped his bag between his feet as he settled. He glanced at the groups of students milling about the drop-off area; some of them were watching casually, with practiced indifference. Just as most of his classmates always did. He had yet to really talk to any of them, other than Malcolm.

After the door shut and they were silently moving away from the school, maneuvering between pedestrians and turning down a side street to avoid a knot of traffic at the corner, Maman glanced at him, curious. He shrugged. She sighed and set the autopilot to take them home.

“I can see we’ll have to get a bigger vehicle. I’m sorry about the crowding.”

“No problem,” Cordelia said. “If Pierre would get his elbow out of my kidney.”

“That’s my bag. My elbow’s over here,” Pierre grumbled. Surly Jean-Pierre and his bluntness. Funny how much Cordelia put up with that.

Amy just sat looking out the tiny triangular window to her right. Yves watched her in the middle mirror for a bit; she never wavered. The familiar stubborn firmness of jaw and high angle of her chin told him, even if he couldn’t sense it, that she had decided this was unjust imprisonment, her request had been reasonable, and she was being treated badly.

Yves looked at their mother again, studying her weary face until she noticed and met his gaze. “How was school?” she asked, as if nothing was wrong and Amy weren’t inflicting her ire on all of them.

“Hardly anyone knows I exist yet. Malcolm wanted me to come over and play games. I asked him over instead.”

“How come he can have his friends over and I can’t see mine?” Amy exclaimed, leaning forward, her whine too sharp in Yves’ left ear.

“You didn’t ask if your friend could come over. You know we’re having guests tonight, Amy. I’ll compromise with you – stay long enough to greet our friends and serve appetizers, and you can go see your friend, if her mother is willing to pick you up or Yves is willing to drop you off. And the usual homework policy applies.”

“I don’t have anything due tomorrow. I’ll do all my reading over the weekend. Yves?” Her arms snaked around Yves’ shoulders, her fingers meeting over his chest and her hair brushing his ear as she put her chin on his left shoulder. “Would you? Please?”

“It’ll cost you.”

The arms slipped away and she fell back, almost colliding with Cordelia, who squealed and bumped against Pierre. “What?”

“I’ve got yard duty this weekend. Leaves, watering, weeding – “

“All right.”

“This must be some friend,” Yves said, glancing at Maman.

“Hailey is the first real friend I’ve made. And Jennifer will be there, she lives next door to Hailey. Stop it!” The twins were shoving each other and bickering over seat space, and Cordelia wasn’t minding where her elbow went.

“Jean-Pierre, Cordelia,” Maman said sternly, and the wrestling stopped. “We definitely need a larger vehicle.”

“We could always get another and keep this one,” Yves said. “Then I could take us to school while you went to work, and save time for everyone.”

Maman eyed him with raised eyebrow and a wry twist of the lip. “That’s one possible scenario, I suppose.”

Yves shrugged. “I had to try.”

The house looked smaller from the front than it was. Yves had seen the pictures when Papa had submitted his choices for Maman’s approval. This house differed from the others in its design; from above, one could see that there were two wings at right angles to the living area and a yard in the center, with a tall wall closing in the back. The garage they were pulling into was an addition, a block attached to the southwestern corner of the house. Once the flitter halted, the doors opened automatically.

“Wash hands, change clothes,” Maman called after the twins as they hurried into the house. Both of them looked like they’d rolled around the playground. From the open door came barking, and the family dog trotted out. “Hello, Fidele.”

“Good afternoon,” he said, sitting down precisely two feet from Maman’s toes. Yves scratched behind the dog’s ears out of habit as he headed for his room, dropped off his bag, and went down the hall to the bathroom.

As he suspected, there was little to correct – he hadn’t been to phys ed yet as it wouldn’t start until next week due to some issue with the instructor. His self-inspection in the bathroom mirror lasted long enough for him to see that his hair was combed down and his clothes remained in decent condition, then the twins burst in demanding use of the sink. Yves left Cordelia trying to convince Jean-Pierre to wash his face.

The door chime went off as he came into the living room from the kid’s wing, as it was known, and since Maman was nowhere to be seen he went to answer. When the white tritanium door slid open, Tom Glendenning stepped up on the threshold.

“Hey, Yves,” he said with his usual lazy ease. His blue eyes swung left, his gaze traveling over Yves’ shoulder. “Nice carpet.”

“We’re waiting for Papa to get here to choose furniture and new carpet for this part of the house. There’s chairs in the dining room. Hi, Aunt Bee.”

Beverly shoved Tom gently out of her way and threw her arms around Yves. “You’re taller. As tall as your father, I think. It’s good to see you!”

“Come on in. Is Lora here?”

“She couldn’t make it. She’s in the middle of the first week of the semester – medical school isn’t easy, and absences only make it harder.” Beverly must have just done her hair; the gray he remembered from last visit was gone, its former bright red restored.

He led them into the dining room to the long oak table and realized it wasn’t big enough – there were only six chairs. “We still need to put in the leaves,” he said as he pulled back chairs to make room. Tom helped him pull apart the table and bring two leaves from the bottom of the linen closet near the patio door.

“You have enough room for another table,” Beverly exclaimed, looking up at the twin chandeliers glittering overhead. “Planning on entertaining?”

Yves was about to answer when Maman came in from the other hall, her hair loose over her bare shoulders. She wore a variegated green dress with dropped sleeves. “Probably. Hello, Bev, it’s so good to see you.” Beverly hurried to greet her with an affectionate hug.

Tom swooped in as they parted and caught her up in a rough embrace. “Dee! You look wonderful.”

“Thank you,” she said, stepping back as he let go. She smiled fondly, and genuinely felt that way, though his roughness had irritated her. “Where is Amy?” she asked Yves.

“Probably waiting for the twins to finish in the bathroom. Cordelia was trying to get Pierre to wash.” Yves fastened the last catch on the underside of the table and returned to the closet for a tablecloth. As he tossed the length of plain white linen over the varnished oak, he noticed Maman’s expression. She was thinking about something and feeling sad, with the pinch of pain she usually experienced when Papa was far away.

He went to the patio door, closing the closet as he passed, and pressed the control. The trans-aluminum slid open with a neat hiss. “Amy! Food!” Yves shouted, aiming approximately at the small bathroom window visible between branches of a tree.

“Leave the door open. That breeze is nice,” Maman said. “Would you care for some wine, Tom?” She crossed to the sideboard, and as she took glasses from the overhead rack a door slammed in the distance and pounding footsteps approached. Amy, in a pair of calf-length billowing pants that were popular at the moment with girls on Earth, whipped through the dining room so fast Yves could hear the air snap through the brilliant turquoise material. She skidded through the door and dodged left into the kitchen. Probably in a hurry to get her “chore” done and leave for her friend’s house, Yves guessed. Maman glared after her, while Tom and Beverly blinked in surprise. Tom had actually jumped backward out of her way.

Yves imagined Amy’s smooth white forehead and dark, dark eyes, and then imagined his words coming to a needle-sharp point, aimed only at her. [Greet them, idiot!]

Amy reappeared in the door, breathing hard, flushed and dismayed. “Oh! Hi,” she gasped. “I mean, hi!” Flinging her arms open, she lunged into Tom’s arms. “It’s good to see you!”

Yves went to Maman’s side and took glasses as she poured. He gave the first two to their guests and blinked when Maman brought him one of his own with just a few swallows in it.

“Hey,” Amy cried, as always demanding equal treatment. Maman held out her own half-full glass and allowed Amy one sip before taking it back. Amy made a face.

“Then don’t ask for any. Are you forgetting something?” Maman smiled as the reminder sent Amy fleeing into the kitchen.

“Aren’t you only fifteen?” Beverly asked, staring at Yves’ glass.

“Jean-Luc has been giving him sips of wine since he was ten. He wants the children to develop well-informed palates.” Something about that bothered Maman; another deep-rooted twinge of pain reached Yves, barely hitting the threshold of emotion he could sense. “What do you think?”

She meant the wine, not what he sensed, he realized after a stunned moment of staring at her. Yves sniffed, sipped, and swished before letting the wine go down his throat. “It’s not as good as the last bottle of chardonnay. That’s probably why Amy turned up her nose.”

“I’m just not as fond of chardonnay, is that wrong, having personal preference?” Amy breezed out, pant legs drifting about, sticking out her chest to show off the tiny bumps in the skin-tight turquoise shirt. She had a platter of appetizers in each hand. “Would you care for a sandwich?”

Tom picked a tiny triangle from a platter. “If that’s a sandwich, I’m a ballerina.”

“I’ve heard that about you,” Yves said, grinning. Teasing his “uncle” was a family tradition.

The door chime interrupted what showed promise of being a verbal duel, from the good-natured finger-shaking Tom was doing. Yves put his glass on the sideboard as he went through the door into the empty living room. This time, the door slid back to reveal Malcolm, grinning and eager as always.

“Hey, neat. You need furniture, I have an uncle over in Oakland who sells it.” Malcolm came in and eyed the mottled gray carpeting. “He could probably get you some decent carpet, too.”

“Come on, we’re in here.” Yves led him through and introduced everyone.

“Malcolm Reed, huh?” Tom said.

“Not related to the Malcolm Reed. It’s a coincidence. My folks didn’t know he existed until my history class got to early pre-Federation space exploration. But, yah, that’s me.” He grinned and looked from one person to the next, bouncing on his heels. “Nice house, Mrs. P.”

Maman sighed softly and gave Malcolm an indulgent smile. “Thank you, Mr. Reed. Would you care for an appetizer? Something to drink?”

“I’ll have what he’s having,” Malcolm exclaimed, his eyes following Yves’ glass to his lips.

“Sorry. We don’t condone underage drinking – Yves only gets a few sips in the best interests of his possible future in wine-making. He may be stuck running the family vineyard some day, after all. Amy, would you get him something?” Maman took the platters from her; she flounced into the kitchen again.

“So where’s your dad?” Malcolm spoke casually, but too much so.

“On his ship. He’ll be here in about a month.”

Amy came back with a glass of Lesca, a popular sugary beverage that most vending machines on campus dispensed in various flavors. Malcolm thanked her. His uninterested politeness sent her mood from hopeful to irritated; she tugged her sleeves down over her wrists and went back to the kitchen.

“I’d like to meet him,” Mal continued.

“Well, sure, but there’s a perfectly good captain right here if you’re in a hurry.” Yves pointed at Tom. “He’s been out of circulation for a few years but he still remembers some good stories.”

“Oh, thanks,” Tom exclaimed dryly. “From the old retired has-been.”

“At least I didn’t call you a ballerina.” Yves sidled for the kitchen with the empty wine glass.

Amy was sitting on the counter near the sink, kicking the cabinets with her heels. She watched him put the glass in the sink. “My teacher wants me to invite Papa to our class,” she said.

“I suppose you agreed, so you can make lots of friends.” Hard to keep his voice low. Sarcasm wanted to be louder than that.

“No. I told him he should talk to Papa himself.”

“Come on. We should be sociable.”

Amy got herself juice to drink, and Yves replicated water for himself. By the time they returned to the group, the conversation in progress seemed to have taken an interesting turn; Malcolm stared at Beverly and Tom across the table, his drink apparently forgotten even though his fingers still gripped the glass. Maman had taken a seat at the end of the table nearest the kitchen. Yves and Amy glanced at each other and moved further down, taking the two chairs to Malcolm’s right.

“It’s a well-known fact that if you present an image of all things good and right, everyone will want to know the dirty secrets you’re hiding,” Beverly said. “We love our heroes until they drop their guard, then dig up all their past indiscretions.”

“Like what?” Malcolm asked. All the adults looked at him until he fidgeted and shrugged sheepishly.

“It’s not a crime to be curious.” Maman sighed and shook her head. “I wished it were the first day of class, but it’s not. You should ask about something else, Malcolm.”

“Are there any unclassified things you could talk about?” Malcolm tilted his head, smiling. “Ever been in a battle with Romulans?”

“I don’t think he can help you with your games, if that’s where you’re going,” Yves said. “Reality tends to be a lot different. You don’t control the ship with a few buttons and a roller or joystick, for instance.”

“I hardly ever battled them, but I’ve spied on them – not recently, mind you. That was a long time ago. Back when you were a few cells in someone’s – “

“Geraint Thomas!” Beverly scowled at him.

“The kid knows about human reproduction, Verly – he’s what, sixteen?”

“Fifteen,” Malcolm said. “Yeah, I know about that stuff. Did you ever spy on the Praetor?”

“Boys,” Amy moaned, rolling her eyes. “Can I go now?”

“With a jacket. It’s getting dark.” Maman watched her nearly tip over her chair. “Amy’s going to a friend’s house for a few hours. I’m sure she would love to stay if she hadn’t made a commitment.”

Amy darted around the table to give Tom a peck on the cheek, threw an arm around Beverly, and whirled off again. “Bye, see you all later.”

“I’ve been volunteered to take her,” Yves said to Malcolm. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“No problem.” Malcolm turned back to Tom. “What about Klingons, have you met any?”

Yves headed for the garage, but before he made it through the living room, a hand on his arm stopped him. “I’d like you to meet them,” Maman said, gripping his elbow. “If there’s anything about them you don’t trust, bring her home.”

He almost blurted out an angry reply, probably would have asked why she didn’t just take her, but she looked so weary and resigned that he only nodded. But she didn’t let go.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know it isn’t fair.”

“But moving in has been difficult, your new job is either more frustrating than you thought it would be or just not what you wanted, and Papa’s not here to help – “ He couldn’t continue. Tears had gathered in her eyes, and he’d seen them before she turned away. “I’m sorry, I – “

“Yves!” Amy shouted from the garage.

Yves leaned to kiss his mother’s cheek and snapped his fingers at Fidele. The dog had come inside and curled up in a corner. “Let’s go.”

They climbed in the car, the dog in the back seat but standing with his head between the front seats. Amy put up with the dog for four blocks, then snapped, “Sit back!”

Fidele disappeared from between the seats, where he’d been standing with his head even with Yves’ shoulder. “I am sorry.”

“You said Beringer Circle,” Yves exclaimed accusingly, irritated by her impatience.

“It’s up at the end – the big white one.”

They pulled up behind a flitter, the light of street lamps gleaming on the domed silver mass of a six-passenger luxury model. Yves told Fidele to stay with theirs; the dog sat patiently on the curb and watched them go up the walk.

“You don’t have to come in,” Amy said, overly-pleasant and vibrating with anxiety.

“I won’t. Just want to say hi.”

A girl answered the door. She had dark brown hair, wore an outfit almost exactly like Amy’s but for the coloration – a swirling abstract pattern of yellows and oranges – and when she saw Yves, her hazel eyes widened.

“My brother,” Amy intoned. “Did you get it?”

“Sure,” the girl breathed. She pulled open the door wider and Amy pushed in.

“Yves Picard. And you are?” Yves stuck out his hand.

“Hailey Sebring. Hi.”

“Is your mom or dad home?”

“Good bye, Yves,” Amy exclaimed, yanking off her jacket.

A woman stepped up behind Hailey. “I’m Mrs. Sebring. Did you need something?”

“I’m Yves Picard, Amy’s brother. I just wanted to check on what time I should pick her up.” Yves studied her quickly, counting presences in the vicinity – there were four total besides Amy. Mrs. Sebring smiled.

“Around ten would be fine. The girls should be done with their makeovers by then. Thank you for being willing to drop her off.”

“I’ll be back by ten. Good evening.” Yves smiled and backed off the porch, then jogged back to let Fidele in the front passenger seat.

“Did you run a scan of the house?”

Fidele looked at him, panting. “I did. There is nothing out of the ordinary.”

Yves turned on the autopilot and glanced out the window as the flitter left the curb. “Didn’t seem like it to me, either. Home we go.”

When he got back, the twins had finally emerged. Jean-Pierre sat with Tom and Malcolm at one end of the table, listening to Malcolm ask questions about Tom’s adventures. Beverly had Cordelia at the other end; the two of them were munching on what was left of the appetizers and chatting about school. Fidele chose a corner and reclined nearby to observe, as usual. The only person missing was Maman. He asked, and was told she’d excused herself for a minute. When she didn’t reappear, he went to the kitchen, turned right, and wandered down the other wing of the house.

The first room was the utility room, with laundry and recycling unit and in an overhead cabinet, the main core for the house computer. The second and third would be used for a library and study; right now they were full of packing crates. It was in the third that he found Maman, standing in the middle of stacks of drab brown crates with one open. He had already gone in when he realized he shouldn’t have disturbed her.

She dropped whatever she held back in the crate and sighed. When she turned around she wore a smile. “All went well?”

“Amy’s fine. I’m going to go get some of my homework done – Malcolm’s having a good time with Tom and I have a few hours before I have to go back. I just wanted to let you know. . . .”

Maman laid a hand on his cheek, as she habitually did with her children, though not so often with him any more. “I’ll be all right, Yves. It’s been a long time – you probably don’t remember the last time your father and I were separated for more than a week.”

“I don’t remember ever seeing you so tired.”

She put her arms around his chest, her head on his shoulder. “When he gets here, you’ll see. You’ve been very helpful, Yves. Thank you. I should get back to our guests.” She slipped out of his arms and past him, and he couldn’t help thinking she was escaping.

He glanced in the open crate. She’d been holding a small clear stasis box, which contained a large blossom. He didn’t recognize the type or remember seeing the box out on a shelf. What did it mean?

Shrugging, he headed for his room. He could get his homework and work at the dining room table, where he would be able to hear what was going on. It had happened before that he’d missed a good joke and only sensed the amusement from afar. He preferred not to guess based on what he sensed, and curiosity killed this cat every time.

——————-

Jean-Luc,

I hope you understand that I am only breaking the silence because I am unable to stop thinking about doing so, and the pressure is now unbearable. I hope that I do not distress you with this.

What am I saying? I know it will. But I also know that if I am enduring this, you must be suffering in similar fashion. I don’t understand why it must be this way, nor is it clear why each time we are apart, it’s so different. I don’t remember feeling quite so empty before.

You will be very proud of our children. They are each suffering in their own way and bearing the stress well. The twins fight often, but I think it’s their way of venting the tension they feel at school, and they don’t seem to bear any long-standing grudges toward each other. Amy frets about clothes and seems to be desperately trying to decipher the “rules” of her new peer group. Yves is quite solid and very much your son, as usual. He brought home a friend who, while he seems very much interested in meeting the legendary Captain Picard, also authentically likes Yves. Even so, I think Yves has made the least progress in adjusting socially. He seems moodier than usual and we had a talk with his teacher about his attempts to cope with the emotions of the other students, which she mistook for falling asleep in class. I believe that situation is resolved for the moment.

I miss you.

Teaching will be good for me, and has been pleasant so far. The students in two of the three courses I am teaching have challenged me, which is a welcome distraction. The third class is the basic first year psychology course, so all of them are brand new and raw as can be, full of excitement at being in Starfleet and more interested in the engineering, piloting, or science courses than in something of dubious importance, in their eyes. I have of course quoted you extensively in these first days, stressing to them that if there were a class in null gravity harp-playing at the Academy, it would be there for a reason and they would do well to focus on the work. I have been assigning them more homework than I intended; if they will not pay attention in class, they will work harder. I am using empathy to my advantage here. I know who is paying attention. If the work does not improve, I will inform them that I am aware and I will be grading them partially on class participation. I should not have to work harder than they are.

I unpacked some of your books.

LXVI from Cien Sonetos de Amor
by Pablo Neruda

I do not love you- except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
from waiting to not waiting for you
my heart moves from the cold into

the fire. I love you only because it’s you I love; I hate you no end, and hating you bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you is that I do not see you but love you

blindly. Maybe the January light will consume
my heart with its cruel
ray, stealing my key to true

calm. In this part of the story I am the one who
dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.

Love, come home to me.

Deanna

——————-

Yves woke fully the third time his alarm sounded, turned it off, swung his feet off the bed, and almost stepped on Malcolm. He sat for a moment wondering how his friend, wrapped in a blanket and curled up on a pad his mother had somehow come up with at midnight, was able to sleep through the alarm. Yves had at least been awakened enough to ask for more time.

He heard the twins in the bathroom before he reached the door. They were arguing about who got to shower first. Bursting in, Yves shoved past Pierre and jumped in the shower stall, whipping off his pajama bottoms and tossing them over the door before either twin could do more than shout about it.

“Maman!” Cordelia ran out, shrieking for their mother all the way. Pierre slammed the door behind him. Yves enjoyed a hot shower, a leisurely drying-off, and wrapped himself in a towel. He looked both ways before crossing the empty hall and found Malcolm mostly-awake and sorting through one of his drawers.

“You’d better hit the shower if you want one.”

Malcolm studied an isolinear module. “Why do you have so many of these?”

“There’s games, music, old homework, books and letters on those. Why?”

“I’ve just never seen so many.”

“We still use Starfleet standard issue. It’s not the same casing you’re used to getting commercially, but it’s the same technology. Hurry up, before the twins get back.”

While Malcolm complied, Yves dressed and headed for the kitchen. Maman was there, still in her robe and with her hair awry, looking as she often did before she woke completely. She squinted at the coffee maker, which was dripping slowly toward a full pot.

“You and your siblings need to establish a more peaceful way of deciding whose turn it is to go first,” she said wearily.

“Sorry. I didn’t think they’d get you out of bed.”

“Well, they’re in my bathroom now. I suggest you start breakfast. We’ve all managed to get up later than we should.” She pulled the pot out of the coffee maker and poured, jammed the pot back into place, and shuffled off toward her room with her cup.

Amy arrived shortly after Yves replicated toast. “Does anyone at school know yet?”

He handed her the plate, plus the pitcher of juice that followed. “I haven’t told anyone but the teacher.” He knew exactly what she meant. They’d talked about it with Maman the week before school. The twins were less concerned about anyone knowing they were empaths than Amy, and Yves still wavered on the subject of disclosure.

“I guess it’s inevitable that someone will find out, especially if Maman keeps showing up.” Amy took the food to the dining room. She’d chosen another pair of those ridiculous baggy pants, a bright shade of green this time, and nearly tripped over one flopping cuff as she reached the table.

“So you’re going to start telling people,” he said, bringing out a dishtowel to mop up juice.

“I told Hailey last night.” Amy put the toast out of the way of the puddle of orange and hurried back to the kitchen. “She was — surprised, I guess.”

“You guess? Get another towel.” It explained Amy’s silence on the way home, and the pensive, anxious mood he’d attributed to Just Being Amy.

Amy returned and joined him in mopping up before the juice could drip off the table. “I think it upset her. I mean, I know it did — she just wouldn’t talk about it. It was just her, after everyone else left and we were waiting for you. She said something about Abie acting up — he’s Ullian, and he sits in with us for math. The rest of the time he’s in Fral’s class. I said Abie was just nervous because he doesn’t know anyone in our class yet. She wanted to know why I thought that, so I told her. And then she looked at me with this blank expression, I asked her what was wrong, she shook her head, and then you showed up.”

“I was wondering what that was about. What will you do?”

“Go to school. See what happens.” She made a face as she piled the wet towel in one hand. “Do you know what this ‘other option’ Maman keeps referring to is about?”

“Well, there’s only three other options I can think of — going back to Betazed, which will mean retirement for both Papa and Maman; going to France, which will mean a long commute for one or both of them; or, we’re going to end up in one of those prep schools they mentioned before. I know they’ll keep the family together.”

Amy scowled and looked at the floor.

“Yeah, it’s a little scary. But we’re not done yet with Mercy Hills. Give it a chance.”

“We’d better get breakfast done.” Amy took the other towel from him and went to throw them in the recycler.

Malcolm arrived as Yves put down the last plate. “Wow,” he exclaimed, picking up a napkin neatly tucked through a ring. “That’s formal.”

Before Yves could question, Maman arrived, in uniform and fit for duty. “Thank you, Yves, for getting breakfast.”

“Amy helped,” Yves put in as Amy reappeared with two more glasses.

“We’ll have to get a schedule going over the weekend,” Maman commented. She took her chair at the end of the table and ignored Malcolm’s shock. “It’s been nice to not have one for a while, but now that we’re all going to school the lack of structure is slowing us down. Cordelia can manage a draft for us to work with, I’m sure.”

The suggestion was nicely timed with Cordelia’s entrance. Unlike her older sister, she felt no urge to conform to trends; she had on her usual leggings and loose tunic in different shades of blue, with a blue ribbon to tie back her hair. “How many weeks should I start with?” She flung herself into the chair next to Malcolm, who eyed her as if she’d beamed in.

“One rotation around, however many weeks that turns out to be. Is something wrong with the food, Malcolm?”

Pierre charged into the room and reached for the platter of eggs before he even sat down, nearly elbowing Cordelia in the ear. She smacked at him, landing a glancing blow on his shoulder, and bit into her toast. Maman glared, and Pierre acknowledged her with a glance and settled down in his chair.

“No, ma’am,” Malcolm blurted. He picked up his fork, then realized he had nothing on his plate yet and blushed.

“We’re probably not the sort of family he’s used to,” Yves said. “We’re Starfleet, and not quite human.”

Amy paused in shoveling egg in her mouth, but kept her face straight and reached for her juice instead of reacting. The twins paid no attention to anything but the food. Maman looked down the table, an eyebrow raised, and Yves sensed her questioning, but knew if he said nothing further she wouldn’t press the issue. Not right away, anyway.

Malcolm stared down the table at Maman. “You’re Betazoid,” he said, as if slowly realizing that.

“Mostly so, yes.” Maman sipped coffee and nibbled toast, which, strangely, was all she seemed interested in; usually she had fruit and sometimes a pastry, the latter shared with Papa.

“So you can tell what I’m thinking,” Malcolm exclaimed, staring at Yves.

“No. I’m only a quarter Betazoid — I can tell how you feel, sometimes. Which isn’t such a big deal, since it’s easy to tell from the look on your face.” It was more complicated than that, but he trusted Maman’s advice that simple was better, and minimizing their abilities would make their lives easier. Full disclosure could happen without repercussion only after a close relationship was established.

“Oh.” Disappointment wasn’t what Yves expected. Malcolm scooped eggs on his plate and said nothing more about it.

Until they unpacked themselves from the crowded flitter and left the twins and Amy behind, that is. The instant they reached the entrance to Mercy Hills Building A, Malcolm turned and said, “How do I feel?”

Yves poked him in the stomach. “Squishy. Come on, Mal, we’re going to be late.”

Malcolm glared at him, but turned and rushed through the open door into the crowded hall, narrowly missing a couple of girls who had slowed to look at them.

A couple of hours later, in the middle of algebra, Yves finished a particularly complicated problem and relaxed for a moment, only to find an interesting mixture of amusement and interest coming from behind him. Certainly equations hadn’t brought this reaction from his classmates before. He glanced over his shoulder and saw only Malcolm and three other people with their attention too raptly on their work.

Yves turned back to his padd. Maman had told him more times than he could count that he shouldn’t assume much about what he sensed from others. He did his best to remember it as the time dribbled off the clock toward lunch.

After Mrs. Gramere’s dismissal, Malcolm disappeared while Yves searched his bag for his ID chip, which he needed for the replicators. The cafeteria was loud, as always. Yves stood in the hall, contemplating the shifting mass of pedestrian traffic flowing in and out, feeling as lost as he had the first day of school. As long as he had a destination or a purpose, he could manage, but this was the first time he’d been totally adrift. Malcolm had approached him the first morning with a smile and shown him how to find the administrative offices. He’d grinned upon finding out Yves was in his class. They’d spent their free moments together all week. Now he was nowhere to be seen.

He turned, about to go back toward the classroom, and suddenly felt a twinge of suffering, piercing the collective clash of teenaged emotion around him. Maman was right — when it was from someone he knew well, he could sense them at greater distances and with more clarity. Doing an about-face, he navigated the busy white-walled hall to the nearest lift.

He found Amy outside, sitting on the edge of the paved yard on the tennis court, a bright lime green blotch against the forest green. She hugged her knees and appeared to be gazing longingly at the wire fence on the other side of a row of tall trees. As he approached, she spoke without looking up.

“Where’s your friend?”

“Don’t know.” He sat next to her, crossing his legs.

“Let me guess. It’s ‘too weird’ to know you can tell how he feels even when he’s doing his best to hide it.”

“He hasn’t said anything other than asking how he feels. He’s just doing something else right now. What are you out here for?”

“I was tired of having my own table in the lunch room.” She unwrapped her arms, tore off a bit of a sandwich she’d been holding, and stuffed it in her mouth.

“I wish we were back on the ship.” The words fell out before he thought about them, and to his surprise, they rang true. He hadn’t really thought about much beyond the present, beyond making his way into the future his parents had begun for them here. It had only been a month. He still felt that this was all unreal, just a diversion, like the school term he and his siblings had spent on Betazed with their grandmother for the sake of immersing themselves in the Betazoid language. At some point, they would return home.

Only this was home, now, and when their father arrived, they would never be able to return to the_Enterprise_. The thought of coming here every day instead of their small, not-crowded classroom on the ship brought on a sense of hopelessness.

“Yeah, it’s like that,” Amy said, waving her fingers at him listlessly. “Maman said we’d make friends. I tried that.”

“Maybe it’s not the end.” Yves reached for the sandwich; Amy’s hand met him halfway. He tore off roughly half of what was left and gave her the half she’d already been nibbling on. “Maybe this is a transitional phase. Maybe if we stick with it, endure the — “

“Do you really think Maman has a backup plan for us?” Amy blurted, turning away and tearing a great chunk of sandwich off with her teeth.

“Of course. I think it has something to do with Papa, though.”

“Papa said once he thought about home-schooling us.”

Yves sighed. The sandwich was familiar, a vegetable paste smeared on whole-grain bread, all the ingredients Betazoid. Amy must have spent a long time programming the lunch room replicators, or brought in a module from home with favorite recipes on it.

“I don’t know if I could do that,” Amy went on. “It’s not that I don’t like spending time with Papa — or even with you or the twins.”

“Thanks,” Yves replied dully.

“That’s not what I mean. It’s just. . . . The goal of school is to learn. Maman says the social side is an important part of that. We’re supposed to be making friends. We did on Betazed.”

“I didn’t think it would be a big problem, either. But maybe that’s because it wasn’t a problem at h — on the ship. Everyone there knew all about Maman and about our abilities. And maybe it’s mostly Starfleet people who’re exposed to Betazoids. My teacher seemed to think I belonged in Fral’s class. Maybe I do.”

“Maybe I did something wrong — maybe all of it was wrong.” Amy stuffed the last bite in her mouth, propped her hands against the hard surface of the tennis court behind her, and leaned back to look at the sky. “I thought getting to know them first then saying something was the best thing to do.”

Yves knew she was caught up in the regret and despair; she didn’t sense the presence approaching them. He barely did, and only when it was within hearing range. He had no opportunity to warn her.

“I thought,” she went on, closing her eyes, “that if they knew me they’d be able to accept it. I had so much fun at Hailey’s last night. . . . I really felt a connection with her. And now she doesn’t — “ At last, the tears came, and her grimace as she tried not to give in to the sobbing was painful to see.

“It isn’t anyone’s fault. Betazoids are quicker to connect with people. We can sense things about them that non-Betazoids have to learn by experience, over time.”

“I know,” she cried, smiling through her pain and looking at him through wet eyelashes. “I know. Maman’s warned us about that forever. I thought I could tell when — I thought it was really there. You know? She really liked me.”

“She might like you again, when she gets over the shock.”

Amy sat up, then lay back on the court and rested her forearm over her eyes. “I want to go home.”

Yves glanced over his shoulder at last. A girl stood four meters away, uncertain and determined to approach; she flinched when Yves met her eyes but stood her ground. It took a minute for him to realize it wasn’t one of Amy’s friends but the girl from his own class, the blonde who usually sat nearest the door.

“Something we can do for you?” he exclaimed. Amy came up off the ground, all the way to her feet, and Yves brushed bread crumbs from his shirt as he stood.

“You’re a Betazoid-human hybrid,” the girl said. “That’s what everyone else is talking about.”

“So?” Yves didn’t like the confirmation, but supposed it was just as well that he knew.

“I’m Rebecca Hall. I just started school here, too. My family moved from the New York area so my mother could teach at a college down the coast.” Rebecca had light gray eyes. With hair the color of corn silk, one would expect her eyes to be blue.

“Our mother teaches at Starfleet Academy,” Amy said at once. “Do you like it here?”

Rebecca’s immense sadness didn’t match her diffident tone. “Not really. You know what the problem is?”

Amy glanced at Yves and shook her head.

“These people are fine with the idea of aliens, but applying the lesson of tolerance the teachers promote isn’t on their priority list.” Rebecca’s thin, pale lips tightened. “The kids here aren’t like us.”

“You’re not like us, either.” Yves crossed his arms.

“I’m more like you than the other human kids here. Before we lived in New York, my parents lived and taught on Vulcan. I grew up with a lot of kids who had pointed ears and aspired to be just as controlled and cold as their parents. Everyone analyzes and dissects everything, and I could do that, too. No one here does that. They’re not interested in anything but what they like, what they want.”

“And so how are you like us?” Amy had taken a clue from Yves’ reserved manner. She crossed her arms.

“No one else likes me either. Because there’s something about me — my body language, the way I talk, I don’t know exactly — something that makes them uneasy in a way they can’t or won’t accept or understand. It’s easier to ignore or make fun of me.” Rebecca looked at the ground. “It was like this in New York, only worse. My parents moved here because of me. They thought putting me in a school where there were non-human students would help. But everyone who’s not human thinks like you — I’m human, so I’m like the other kids, so they don’t want to even talk to me.”

“I’m sorry,” Amy said.

“That’s interesting, but what made you approach us? There’s nothing we can do about it, either.” Yves glanced at the handful of kids gathering not far away. He recognized most of them from his class. Other students were playing on ball courts across the yard, or watching the players, paying no attention.

“I was hoping you might be interested in having a friend who understands,” Rebecca glanced at the group behind her. “Can you tell me what’s going on with them?”

“They’re curious. Probably trying to figure out what to do with what they know about us. Want to go talk to them?” He looked at Amy. “What do you think Grandmother would do?”

Amy grinned. “I have a brilliant brother. I know exactly — “

“No, wait,” Yves exclaimed, catching her arm as she started to move. “I don’t mean to do it — just think about this. Remember Maman doing something like Grandmother would do, only doing it her way? She wasn’t as outrageous, but she was just as confrontational.”

“And those rude people in the restaurant just about fell over,” Amy said, referring to just the situation he’d remembered, a confrontation in a Betazoid restaurant with total strangers who’d commented on the mixture of Betazoid eyes and human among the siblings. One man had mumbled something about ‘unfortunate dilution of Betazoid blood.’ Maman’s reaction had been pointed, nonverbal and effective: she’d put herself between the people and her children, then stared them down with such an expression of affronted dignity and disapproval that they’d apologized as they backed away to take another exit.

“We need something like that, something that says what they’re doing is stupid without actually saying it.”

“What are you talking about?” Rebecca blurted at last. Amy explained in detail. Yves watched the group of kids and noticed Malcolm among them. He wasn’t laughing like some of them were, but staring across the playground. He met Yves’ gaze briefly and looked at the ground.

“There’s the bell,” Yves said as it went off. “Amy, we have to react. We just have to do it without appearing to confront them about it. No apologies and no shame. We’re not the ones who should apologize — we’re being what we are.”

“Meet their eyes,” Rebecca said. “Don’t look angry or upset, just — just look like “so what,” like they can’t really do anything to hurt you.”

“Except they did,” Amy replied uncertainly.

“That can come later. Maybe if they start talking to us again. Let’s go, we don’t want to add being late to our problems.”

As the three of them moved toward the building, the other kids moved ahead of them in loose knots of three and four people, and a lot of them looked back. Yves met their eyes each time he spotted someone looking and the person always jerked around to face forward again.

“They know better,” he said softly as they reached the door. “We’ll just keep reminding them.”

——————-

Deanna,

I believe I’ve deleted a message every day since you left. Sometimes simply because what I had to say was not quite as coherent as I would want.

I’m certain you are handling the children’s issues quite well. If our positions were reversed, I do not believe I would be able to handle the added strain. Which is not to say there is no stress at present — given the nature of our final mission, there’s more than usual. But I am as usual finding it easier to cope with diplomacy than with thwarting my impulse to indulge our children.

_I find it easier and easier to face leaving the_Enterprise_ now that you are gone. It isn’t the same without you and the children. Still, this ship and I have been together through a lot of turmoil and adventure, and I almost think it might be easier to part with a limb. I have been quite sentimental, especially late at night when I can’t sleep and I am reduced to walking the corridors, remembering not the work but the time we spent playing cards, or strolling to or from a concert or play, or the trips to the holodeck. Perhaps it is a sign of how deeply affecting it is that I actually thought of one of your mother’s visits fondly._

I have no words to help me express the depth of my inexplicable distress. I will be there as soon as I am able. Thank you for breaking the silence, cygne. I had thought that not communicating would be helpful as it has been before. We have changed over time, and I suppose I should not be surprised that this too has altered.

Give the children my love. I miss you.

——————-

When Yves met Amy again on the curb where everyone who didn’t walk home gathered to meet up with their transportation, he sensed her exhaustion. It matched his.

[Thank you. Your suggestion helped.] Amy’s dark eyes caught hints of yellow from the setting sun.

[It wasn’t easy, but I think it’s working. Maybe they’ll settle for ignoring us tomorrow.]

“Hey! Picard!”

They turned simultaneously. Malcolm ran to them, his padd in hand, open jacket flapping. He glanced from Yves to Amy and back. “Hey.”

“Where’ve you been all day?” Yves asked, his sarcastic tone registering; Mal looked properly chastised, right before he got angry.

“Look, you should’ve told people,” he exclaimed. “That wasn’t fair.”

“Yeah, I should tell people and let them avoid me because they can’t accept anyone who’s more perceptive than they are. It’s too scary. I told you because I thought I could trust you and you would trust me. I told you earlier than I thought I would. I should’ve waited until you knew me better, so you’d figure out I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, but I didn’t.”

Malcolm looked at the ground, glanced off to the right — there were a few guys at the other end of the drop-off zone looking suspiciously interested — and set his jaw. “It wasn’t fair.”

“It’s not fair that you and everyone else has decided we’re dangerous without even understanding us. You just assume. It’s wrong.”

Mal glanced at the other guys again and shook his head. “No one’s scared — you pretended you were just like everyone else. We thought you were.”

“You pretended you cared,” Yves exclaimed, finally giving in to anger. “So go back to your pals over there and tell them your sob story. They’ll accept you because you’re just like them.” Which was, Yves realized, a strange realization; Mal hadn’t had many friends at this school, supposedly because he was so interested in things the other guys didn’t care about. He’d even criticized them for not appreciating everyone’s differences.

Shrugging, Mal looked away, to his left this time, and stepped back, resting his weight on his heel. “It’s not that I don’t like you or — it’s just — “

“You felt like he betrayed you,” Amy said gently. “But he was giving you the information because he thought you were his friend, and that you’d understand, or at least try to, and you’d keep being his friend. But you can’t accept someone who’s different than you.”

“I accept plenty of people who’re different,” Mal exclaimed. Anger flared again.

“Just not me,” Yves replied, matching his volume. Now people were turning to stare at them. “Thanks. Have a nice life.”

Mal stared, horrified, and Yves realized — this could have gone differently. Disappointment and pain mingled with anger, overwhelming him, and he couldn’t sort out whose was what.

“Yves!”

He spun about. His mother had pulled up behind him. Amy already sat in the back seat, and her and the twins peered out the window, crowding together to look at him. Yves got in and slapped the door control without looking at Malcolm again.

Maman waited for him to say something. Everyone in the car silently projected sympathy at him, until he sighed and asked, “Can we go home?” Then everyone’s attention drifted as Maman pulled away from the curb. Amy began to tell her what happened but stopped mid-sentence as Yves’ humiliation registered.

There were days when he agreed with Papa — living among empaths was not easy. He understood Mal’s point too well.

When they got home, everyone got out of the flitter but gathered at the door to the house. Yves was the last out; he sighed and held out his arms. “What?”

“I know we’ve talked about this before,” Maman said, shifting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “I’ve gone to great lengths to teach all of you how to talk about emotions, because you’ll sense it from everyone around you and I need to be able to help you understand what to do about that. But now you have to realize — this gives you an advantage over others your age who lack empathy. You understand more about your own feelings than they do and you know how to articulate that. Not everyone can do that at fifteen. Betazoids develop their abilities later than this; it’s human genetics causing your maturation, as they did mine.”

“We know,” Yves interjected at the first brief pause in Maman’s reiteration of everything she’d said nearly every time one of them experienced any distress due to being an empath. But she went right on, and while the wording was somewhat different, the message was the same.

“I want to help you to not experience the difficulties I had. In doing that, I’ve pushed you to mature in understanding something that your peers are still learning. This means developing patience in dealing with them. They have to experience life on their own and work at it, or not — sometimes humans don’t ever learn how to manage even their own emotions. Betazoids, or anyone else with the ability to sense thought or emotion, don’t have that option. An inability to handle emotions is more damaging to us.”

“It’s stupid,” Yves blurted, surprised by his own volume. “It’s stupid that they can’t understand — this is the Federation! We learn about this every day, their parents probably learned the same thing when they were in school, and there’ve been non-humans on Earth for — for more than a century! And the Academy is here, and these are kids with relatives in Starfleet!”

But Maman calmly waited for him to finish, patient and unsurprised. “Research the statistical data on how many telepathic species actually reside here, as opposed to visiting. I also suggest research into the socio-cognitive learning principle. Let me know what you find out.” She turned to go inside.

“I’ll help,” Amy said as she followed Maman into the house. “I’m interested too.”

“Are you doing it now? I want to use the holo,” Pierre exclaimed, pushing in front of Yves.

“Homework first. You know better, petit.” Maman’s voice drifted back as she disappeared into the kitchen. The twins were already racing down the hall toward the back of the house where the computer room was. Yves considered reiterating the command, but shared a grin with Amy and let them go.

“After dinner. I have to catch up with my homework,” Amy said. “Once Maman figures out what they’re doing, they’ll lose the holo for a week. She’s right — I wanted to talk about things with Hailey, and she couldn’t do it. She just doesn’t understand. Someday I’m going to know everything like Maman.”

“She doesn’t know everything.”

“Everything about people,” she corrected. “She’s always right about people.”

“Well, yeah,” Yves agreed, walking with her toward their rooms. The sounds of the theme to Pierre’s favorite holo simulation game started in the distance.

——————-

Dear Isha,

I’m glad to hear you’re having a good time — I’d like to play soccer too. I don’t think we have a team here, though. There’s basketball, racquetball, tennis and springball. I’d play springball if I trusted anyone not to hit the ball at me, as in to hit me, but ever since it got around that I’m part Betazoid people are acting oddly. I was asked a few times why I wasn’t in Fral’s — that’s the telepathic teacher — class. Fral is Betazoid and I don’t like him much. He’s sort of “super” Betazoid, one of those people who’s sure he’s better than the rest of us.

So far the only subject I really like is literature. Well, there’s history, but the teacher keeps getting things wrong. She’s working on the last century. I guess she starts with recent events and works backward. But she’s confusing me sometimes because we were taught differently.

I don’t know when we’re going to France. I hope we go soon. Remember the birthday party I had on the holodeck, in the simulation of Papa’s house? I’ll check with Maman and ask her if you can come with us, if your parents will let you.

Thanks for the pictures. London looks great. The ones of the palace were interesting. Reminds me of some of the Houses on Betazed.

Amy and I are reading about socio-cognitive learning. Maman suggested it because we’re having so many problems understanding the kids here. I guess it’s helping. Basically, the socio-cognitive learning principle says that people form their perspective on life based on what their parents believe, that they are confronted with social settings as they get older that modify that perspective but the base belief structures are still in place and show up as a series of assumptions made about what “normal” is. I guess Maman meant for us to understand that the kids we’re trying to deal with are not really at fault. The school and a lot of the parents probably try to work with them to help them develop a larger perspective, but later experiences are what moderate the initial assumptions, and most of them haven’t left their neighborhoods. There are some who’ve vacationed offworld or in other places around the Earth, but that’s not enough.

Sometimes I wish we’d gone to Betazed instead. We didn’t have this problem there.

Hope you pass that big exam. Talk to you later, I hope. I’ll call direct if I can figure out time differences next weekend.

Yves

——————-

The following week at school wasn’t so difficult as it’d been; mostly people ignored Yves, including Malcolm. Yves sat in class and did what was required. He ate lunch with Rebecca, who talked a lot about her favorite subjects with little provocation. Listening to her describe Vulcan and Terran libraries filled the time, and was sometimes interesting. She loved books, which Yves understood, and particularly old books, which he didn’t care so much about, though his father had taught him to respect them.

Amy showed up twice to eat with them, which made the conversation different; she wanted to talk about clothes, which she’d been obsessing over since they’d started school. Rebecca responded to that with enthusiasm, and Yves realized that the two of them were trying to understand trends. Evidently, there was some segment of the student body that criticized those unfortunate enough not to dress to their standards.

“Why do you care?” he asked them near the end of the second such conversation. Rebecca stopped listing the types of pants that had been popular the year before and frowned at him.

Amy stole another grape from him. “You may not care whether you make friends, but I do. No one’s said anything to me, but they haven’t acted like they hate me, either. And all the girls in my class love clothes.”

“And so do you, but you don’t know much about what they like.” Yves shoved his plate across the table at her, as half a bunch of grapes was all he had left and he didn’t want them.

“I thought you were interested in everything.” Amy popped one of the grapes between her fingertips before putting it in her mouth.

“I’m curious about stuff, yeah. Like why it matters that everyone likes the way you dress.”

Amy’s brows drew together. “I didn’t say that.”

“You act like it.”

“It’s a way of connecting with people. Like, if you ran into a guy who loved starship battle simulations as much as you, you’d probably go play games with him for hours. I like clothes, everyone in my class likes clothes — I just don’t understand what they like and why, yet.”

It reminded him of Malcolm, and before he could say or do anything Amy noticed it and said, “Oh.” [Sorry. ]

“Remember the other part,” he said. “Like Maman said.”

“What?” Rebecca asked, reminding them she was still there.

“That people don’t feel comfortable with us yet,” Amy said, giving him a warning glare.

“And that we’re more comfortable with emotions than we would be if we were human,” he added, not liking the lie Amy told.

“Why’s that?” Rebecca took another bite of her pear. Bits of green skin were stuck in her white teeth.

Yves returned the kick Amy gave him under the table. “We can sense them, and they’re not easy to block out.”

Rebecca sat, slowly chewing, and Yves could sense that something bothered her. She seemed to be building up to tears, a process that he’d sensed many times before from both his sisters, but it wasn’t clear why Rebecca was upset. As he was about to ask, she got up suddenly. “I forgot, I need another book from the library,” she announced, sidling off the bench. “Paper for North American lit class. See you.” She hurried off, dodging a group of boys playing with a soccer ball.

“What the — “

Amy threw a grape at him. “Cretin!” That was her favorite word for either of her brothers, when she caught one of them behaving thoughtlessly.

“I was being truthful, which is more than I can say for you,” he exclaimed. “Besides, she already knows — what’s she upset for?”

“She probably didn’t realize you could sense how she felt all the time. Are you dim enough that you can’t tell she likes you?”

“I know she likes me! Why would she keep showing up at lunch if she didn’t?”

“What a stupid — “

“Amia,” he cut in sternly.

“Well, you are! She likes you, as in, scribbling little hearts around you.” Amy snatched up the padd Rebecca had left behind and held it out. Now that it was at a more readable angle, he saw what she meant. Rebecca had drawn a lopsided heart around a ‘Y’ in the upper right corner of her math homework. “And she’s so upset she took off without it.”

“It’s not my problem how anyone feels.” He tore the padd from Amy’s fingers, intending to return it to Rebecca in class after lunch, but a hand shot over his shoulder and wrenched it away from him. He twisted around and blinked up at Rebecca, who clutched it to her chest and stomped away. Her expression and the intense anger she radiated told him this was worse than he’d thought.

“That didn’t sound too good,” Amy whispered. “To her — I know what you meant. You can’t control how anyone feels. We’ve been lectured and lectured and disciplined for trying. You’re upset so maybe you can’t tell, but she’s really hurt now, not just embarrassed.”

“Why?” he exclaimed, getting up and backing over the bench.

Amy shrugged. “Go ask her.”

Yves caught up to her outside the library. Since that was across campus, in the northeastern corner against the fence, he was out of breath by the time he reached the foot of the steps. Rebecca glared at him and kept going.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped.

She stopped on the top step but didn’t turn around. “You don’t care, so why bother?”

“That isn’t true. I wasn’t saying — that wasn’t what I meant! I don’t even know what you thought I meant, but — “

“What else could you mean? You don’t care.”

“I meant that I have no control over anyone’s feelings! And I don’t! That doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings myself, it doesn’t meant I don’t care, and I don’t get how you would have thought that!”

He thought she’d glared before — this time, she looked so angry he thought his skin would blister. Her anger eclipsed his frustration and left him speechless. He took a step, but caught his toe on uneven pavement and almost fell down, twisting at the last minute and landing in a sitting position on the bottom stair.

When he looked up again, she was gone, the door closing behind her.

“It isn’t fair,” he shouted. There was no one around to care.

——————-

Papa,

I’m sending this from school. I hope it gets to you okay.

I don’t know what to do about anything. I’m sure you have enough to worry about right now and Maman said that you had a lot to do, but she’s not —

I’m worried about Maman, and I can’t seem to make any friends, and the ones I thought I had are mad at me and won’t talk to me. You always taught us to talk about it when we’re angry at each other. Even Pierre will stop sulking eventually. But I don’t know what to do with people who won’t say anything and won’t listen! They just walk away!

I’m confused and Maman’s not happy at all, and I hate to bother her with stupid things like this, but I don’t know what to do anymore. And I don’t know what you can do, either. Maybe some advice on how to get someone’s attention? Rebecca got really angry because she thinks I don’t care, even though I do, and I guess she liked me differently than I thought, or something. Which doesn’t make sense to me because I thought I would have sensed it.

I don’t know. I guess I should go back to my math now. I hope everything’s working out okay wherever you are.

Yves

——————-

Yves,

I can only say that given time, people will be less angry and more open to discussing what went wrong. And if they do hold a grudge for whatever reason, that is their choice and as upsetting as it can be, it’s not your place to convince them to change their mind. They may be making mistakes they will regret later but it’s their mistake. In the meantime, you may feel anger and grief, but that’s temporary.

Your mother will be fine. Please remember that she would be upset if you were to keep things from her, even if she’s having her own difficulties. She would want to help you if she could.

Love, Papa

——————-

Cygne,

I’m sure you already realize how upset Yves is. He may not mention that he sent me a message about it, or that part of his difficulty is related to your pain. He’s trying to protect you. I didn’t tell him how futile that activity could be.

Tom sent me a message offering the use of his beach house. I think we should take him up on that, even if it means he’ll be present.

Please check on the vineyards. I haven’t heard from Henri in weeks.

Love you.

——————-

When Yves joined Amy at the curb after school, she said nothing to him, nor did she mention anything about Rebecca to Maman. Once the flitter was on its way, however, Maman reached across to grip his arm. A brief squeeze and she pulled away again.

“You probably heard me all the way from the Academy,” he said miserably.

“I sensed it,” Amy blurted. “I was almost back to class. It made me cry.”

“I’m sorry.” The misery was getting worse; empathy wasn’t helping anyone at the moment.

“Does anyone else want ice cream?” Maman exclaimed suddenly.

Cordelia’s head appeared between the front seats, and Amy’s popped up alongside. “You sound like Grandma,” Pierre announced.

Maman flicked the autopilot on and poked the ‘home’ icon, then covered her face with her hands. As Yves and all three of his siblings began to worry about this, she dropped her hands and laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound.

“We’re going to change clothes, then we’re going to France. Pack enough for the weekend. With the time difference it will be hard, but we’ll manage.”

“Maman?” Cordelia’s voice wavered; she was about to cry.

Maman’s voice softened at last. “It will be all right, Cordie. All of us will be all right. Do you see why it’s important to learn how to manage your feelings? We all feel badly for Yves, but it’s easy when there are five of us to be caught in it.”

“I felt bad for Yves before, but now it’s like I feel bad for Pierre who also feels bad for Yves who’s feeling everything we feel for him and — “

“Amia, we know. And now I know why my mother learned to be so randomly inappropriate. I think we need a little vacation, and we haven’t been to visit Tante Marie yet.”

Once in the garage at home, they left the flitter as if evacuating a burning building. As they went in the house the twins talked loudly to each other in incomplete sentences about all the things they would do at the chateau. “How many bags can I take?” Amy asked, rolling her eyes when Maman held up one finger. She followed the twins. Yves followed Maman.

“I’m getting a sandwich before I pack,” Yves said, stopping in the kitchen.

“Make one for me.” Maman hurried away. Fleeing, Yves thought. She’d probably meditate for a few minutes. He replicated two salad sandwiches, and as he took them from the slot and placed them on the kitchen counter, the door chime announced a visitor. Yves knew who it was halfway to the door.

He leaned on the control, the door slid back, and Malcolm’s head came up in surprise. They stared at each other for a few minutes. A query arose in the back of Yves’ mind; Maman asked, in her subtle, wordless way, what was going on and whether she could help. [No, Maman. I’m fine.]

“I’m sorry,” Yves said. “I was angry. I didn’t want you to just — I wanted — I want to be friends.”

Mal’s face pulled in on itself in a mask of wounded confusion. “It wasn’t what I meant to say either. But they — when I got here last year, I tried to make friends with Kevin and — as long as I had something to tell them, they acted like — “

“I know. Remember the first day? Kevin and the others were friendly to me, except I could tell it was just curiosity and they were less interested at the end of the day than in the beginning. It’s why I haven’t made the effort to talk to any of them again. You were genuinely interested in being friends. So was I. Kevin and his friends aren’t interested in anyone else, except when you have something they can use.”

Mal grinned sheepishly. “So I should have been asking how they felt about me instead of how I feel?”

“You know how you feel. Why ask? Come in, already.”

He did, sidling by Yves and glancing at the twins, who stood in the hall, each holding a bag. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Pierre said.

“I made sandwiches for me and Maman. If you’re hungry, get something.” Yves glanced at Mal. “Want something? We’re about to leave for France, but we’re eating first.”

“Sure!”

By the time Maman came into the kitchen, Amy had joined the group and everyone was eating while leaning against the counter. Maman glanced down the row of chewing children and smiled. “I don’t remember having another child,” she exclaimed brightly.

“He doesn’t look anything like Papa, either. Guess you’ll have to explain that one.” Yves grinned and the twins laughed.

“Not to mention where he’s been for the past fifteen years.” Maman picked up her sandwich. “Everyone’s packed?”

“I answered the door and made sandwiches instead. I’ll go do it now.” Yves took his half-eaten sandwich with him, and Mal followed without a word. Behind him, Amy complained about not being able to fit clothes and homework in one bag.

“That’s dumb — all her homework is on a single padd,” Mal commented quietly.

“She doesn’t want to take it. She knows better but she tries.”

Fidele was on Yves’ bed, reclining like a sphinx, both ears standing up. Exactly where Yves had left him. “Fidele, when I said ‘stay’ I didn’t mean ‘stay just like that.’” Fidele cocked his head and thumped his tail. Yves glanced at Mal. “Go get in the baggage compartment of the flitter, ‘dele.”

“What?” Mal cried. Fidele flung himself eagerly from the bed and galloped off, bumping the door on the way out.

“Don’t worry, he’s not a real dog. He’s an android. He’s ridden in there before.” Yves pulled a bag out from under his bed and selected shirts and pants from folded stacks of laundry on his pillow.

“You have the weirdest — “ Mal stopped himself.

“Different isn’t weird. It’s just what you don’t know about. I’m having a tough time with that feeling, too, but it’s because I grew up surrounded by people who thought ‘different’ meant ‘interesting and worth learning about,’ and that doesn’t seem to be how people approach things at school. So ‘weird’ to me is being around people who make assumptions without learning about me.” Yves rolled socks and tucked them in the end of the bag.

“Where are you going in France?”

“Papa’s house. Our house, but — well, we have several houses. There’s one on Betazed, and this one, and the one where Papa grew up, which is in France. That’s where we’re going for the weekend. Our aunt lives there.” The Fifth House didn’t count as no one ever lived there, though Amy might have included it.

“Wow. Uh, I was going to ask — if you didn’t tell me to go away, I thought if you wanted to come over to our place this weekend, my mom said that’d be okay. But I guess you can’t.”

Yves sealed the bag and stuffed his homework in the end pocket. [Mal wants to know if I want to come over this weekend.]

Maman was on the alert, and probably had been since sensing his difficulties at lunchtime; she “heard” the thought, even though he merely projected it without a target. [What do you think?]

[I think I’d rather go to France. I was also hoping I could see Isha, remember?]

[A separate issue. See if he wants to do it next weekend.]

“I could come over next weekend. I’d like to.”

Mal’s eyebrows rose and nearly met, and his skeptical expression finally registered, along with the continued state of stunned near-belief.

“You thought I was going to shut the door on you.” Yves sat on his bed and draped his arm over the bag. “You didn’t expect me to accept your invitation.”

Mal stared, mouth open, and his confusion grew. “Not really,” he said at last.

“So why did you come?”

He shrugged. “I hoped you would?”

Yves studied his friend’s wrinkled brow and pursed lips, trying to ignore what he sensed and respond to what he saw. “Do you still want to be friends?”

“Yeah,” Mal said at once.

“So. . . should I pretend I can’t figure out how you feel, or. . . .”

“I dunno.” Another shrug.

“Well, Maman’s good at helping us figure out stuff like this. I’m sure she’ll be willing to help, next week.”

Yves saw him out, waving as Mal walked off down the street, then took his bag out to the flitter. The garage lights were off, and the open storage compartment all in shadow, so when he threw his bag in and Fidele moved, it startled him.

“Sorry. Forgot you were there.”

Fidele’s tail thumped hollowly. “Where are we going?”

“France. We’ll get to go for long walks and maybe we can borrow Mr. Fournier’s horses.”

The door slid open again. Maman, followed by Pierre, arrived with bags. “Are we ready? There you are, Fidele. I wondered where you got off to.”

“He stayed a little too well. He’s been on my bed all day.”

Maman settled her green satchel in next to Yves’ black one and reached back; Pierre put his navy-blue duffel in her hand. “Maybe you should run a diagnostic, Fidele. Especially on your linguistic databases and contextual filters. That sort of thing hasn’t happened for a long time.”

“I shall initiate a level one diagnostic.” The dog curled against the end of the compartment farthest from their bags and put his head on his paws, ears folding down.

Cordelia arrived next, tossing her open bag in. A hairbrush fell out. She glanced at Yves, patted Fidele’s head, and went to get in the back seat.

Maman eyed Yves. “Is everything all right?”

He knew what she meant. “No, but it’s better than it was. There’s this girl at school that I was eating lunch with, and she misunderstood something I said. I guess she liked me differently than I thought. That was what I had trouble with today. Malcolm ignored me all week.”

“But now he’s not ignoring you,” Maman half-asked.

“It looks like he changed his mind.”

“Like the time you and Isha argued and she didn’t talk to you for four days.”

“Not really, because we’ve been friends for a long time. I didn’t know if Malcolm would talk to me again. It was the first time he got mad.”

Maman smiled, a relieved-and-proud sort of expression, and turned to go back in the house. “I’ll be back in a bit, and we’ll leave.”

Yves closed the back of the flitter and found Amy in the front passenger seat. “Well, okay, but you’ll have to let me in the back.”

“Go around the other side.”

The twins giggled as he walked around the flitter. “Yeah, you laugh about it now, Just wait til I get in there!”

Maman returned to interrupt the shrieking. “I’d let you keep tickling them, but I have to concentrate on navigation,” she said, flicking her fingers across the console. She glanced back, smiling. Maybe she was right and the trip to France was just what they needed.

——————-

Isha,

I’m sending this from Labarre. We’ll be here til tomorrow afternoon. Let me know if you want to come visit.

Yves

——————-

“Yves!”

Maman’s call echoed from downstairs. Yves dropped his padd on his bed and leaped for the door. He’d been so intent on solving an algebra equation that he hadn’t been paying attention; now that he was, he could tell Isha was waiting downstairs. The twins responded as well and raced him to the stairs.

Cordelia reached their guest first, throwing her arms around Isha’s neck. “Hi, Cordie,” Isha said, returning the hug. She leaned and put an arm around Pierre, who mirrored the one-armed hug and grinned at her. “How are you guys?”

“I’ll get something for everyone to drink,” Maman announced over her shoulder on her way through the dining room to the kitchen.

“Where are your folks?” Yves asked. Isha followed him from the front hall toward the dining room.

“They dropped me off. Mom wanted to visit Paris. She actually thanked me for the excuse to come to France.” Isha smiled at him. He had forgotten how dark her skin was, and how white her teeth looked by comparison. Her parents were Indian, her grandparents still living in Pondicherry, and while on leave her family would be visiting an aunt in London for a month.

“Let’s play a game,” Pierre exclaimed, racing off toward the hall closet where such things were kept.

“Sorry,” Yves said, shrugging. He pulled out a chair for Isha; she took it with a shrug of her own. “We don’t have to, if you don’t want.”

“It’s all right. We can play a game.”

Cordelia dragged the chair next to Isha out just far enough to squirm into. “How’s Mink?” Cordie had bonded with Isha’s small brown dog, back on the ship.

“He’s not happy at my aunt’s house, because she has a big dog, but he’s okay. Where’s Fidele?”

“He’s probably still upstairs. We’ve been having problems with him. Sometimes he stays too well.”

Maman returned with a tray about the same time Pierre arrived with a narrow box. “I don’t suppose I could play?”

Yves glanced at Isha, who nodded. “Sure, Commander — sorry, I mean Captain. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Isha.” Maman put a glass of lemonade in front of each of them, an extra for herself, and shoved the tray down the table out of their way before sliding into the chair opposite Cordelia. “Are you enjoying your vacation?”

“It’s okay.” Isha picked up the game pieces and rolled them around in her hand. “It’s totally different than I expected. I was only four the last time we were on Earth.”

They chatted as they moved pieces around the board. Yves didn’t really care for the game, but it kept them laughing at Pierre, who kept hitting a square that would send him almost back to the start. The rest of them rolled smaller numbers than he did, by some chance. Finally, Yves noticed how it happened.

“You’re not even counting right. You’re doing it on purpose.”

Pierre grinned and turned a little red. “So?”

“Pierre,” Cordelia exclaimed, shaking her head.

“I was thinking a walk would be nice — we could walk down to Fournier’s and say hello to his horses.” Maman began to gather empty glasses. “What do you think?”

The usual pre-walk activity ensued, with Pierre running to the nearest bathroom, Cordelia wanting to change into a short-sleeved shirt, and Maman disappearing to put on riding clothes. Isha and Yves stood together on the front porch looking across the lawn.

“It’s just like you said, like the holodeck,” she commented. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s good to see you.”

She smiled at him again, meeting his eyes, and he felt the pull; this time, he had no trouble deciphering what he sensed from her, and knew Isha had missed him as much as he’d missed her. Even as he leaned closer to those wonderful dark eyes with the gold flecks in them, he remembered the handful of empaths he was with and the urge faded. So did her smile.

“Everyone’s Betazoid,” he whispered. “And one of them is my mom.”

Isha laughed, then leaned and kissed him on the lips. It lasted only a second. He blinked, stared, but before he could do more than that the door opened behind them. Maman brushed a hand over his shoulder on her way past.

“Come on!” Cordelia shouted as she ran out and across the porch. Jean-Pierre, her apparent target, followed her. Amy appeared next and hesitated on the bottom step.

“Yves and Isha are staying,” Maman said, turning to walk down the path. “Let’s go.”

“But why?” Pierre exclaimed. He looked up at Isha beseechingly.

“Isha isn’t dressed for riding. Plus, she came all this way to visit him, not the rest of us.”

When the four of them reached the other end of the yard and disappeared around the hedge, Isha giggled. “She’s Betazoid, all right. And she’s a lot nicer about it than my mom would be.”

“Your mom would be all over our thoughts and trying to see if we’d done our homework.”

“Or worse.” Isha hunched her shoulders and sat on the top step.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I guess.” Isha smoothed her hair back over her ear and watched him sit next to her. She huddled on the step, her arms tucked into her lap. “Remember when I told you she talked to me about sex, and how I shouldn’t have it and why?”

“Is she doing that again?”

“She gave me a lecture before they dropped me off. She said the only reason I would be allowed to stay here with you is that I’ll be supervised by your mom.”

“Technically, that’s still true. Maman could go to the North Pole and still be able to tell exactly what I’m doing.”

“Really?” Isha straightened and met his eyes again.

“She’s not exactly your standard model Betazoid. Anyway, I really didn’t invite you here with any particular idea of what we might do. I just wanted to see you again.”

Isha’s warm smile returned. “What does your mom think about you having sex?”

“She doesn’t really tell me what to do, just that she trusts me to do what’s right for me.”

“Wow, and she just left us here alone.”

Yves looked across the yard and tried to ignore the mixture of expectation and anxiety from her. Or was that his? “Your mom doesn’t want you do it. I won’t do anything that would complicate your life. I’d rather see you again.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t really have anyone I can talk to at school. Even Malcolm — this guy I met, we hang around, but he doesn’t really get it. He got all mad at me and I still don’t understand exactly why. And there was this girl, Rebecca, and I guess she liked me more than I knew. She got mad at me, too. So I’d rather not mess up our friendship, and I’m not doing so well at friendships these days, so. . . .”

Isha shrugged and leaned to bump shoulders with him. “You worry an awful lot.”

“What’s new about that?”

She laughed with him and reached for his hand. “I’m not going to be on Earth for long, Yves. I’m going with my parents on some starship called the_Reliant._ It’s a big one, with lots of other kids, Mom keeps saying. I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again.”

“Why not?”

Isha pulled her hand away. “You don’t need to get angry! It’s not my idea, either. It’s just what’s going to happen, just like you’re going to stay here and go to the Academy — “

“I don’t know if I’m going and I don’t care right now!”

“No, you’d rather get angry and wreck what time we have left.”

Yves let himself fall against the post to his right. The wood felt rough against his forehead. “It isn’t fair!”

“No, but it’s pretty much the way it is. Anyway, if we’re not going to do anything my mom would disapprove of, what are we going to do now?”

“I guess. . . .” Yves took a deep breath and thought about it. “I could show you around.”

“All right. Are you going to be mad the whole time I’m here?”

“No,” he said dully. “I’m just tired of things going wrong. Sorry.”

“I was really upset when Dad told us where we were going. Mom kept talking about maybe staying on Earth for a while, because there was this position she was interested in, but they gave it to someone else, and then Dad landed an assistant engineer position on this ship. . . . I guess it’ll be all right. It’s a ship, and it’s what I’m used to, and you’re right about everything being different here. But none of my friends will be there, and that’s sad.”

“We’ll still be able to talk to each other once in a while.”

Isha smiled and nodded, but Yves knew she was right. His best friend Tanner had left the_Enterprise_ when he was ten; Tanner’s father had transferred. Kids came and went in Starfleet whenever their parents did, and it wasn’t really fair, but it was the way it worked.

“What do you want to see first? I guess I could show you our treehouse.”

——————-

Dear Papa,

I found out yesterday that Isha’s parents have a new assignment and she won’t be on Earth much longer. I was really upset for a while, and in a way I still am. But I suppose it’s unavoidable. I miss my friends and it looks like I’m going to keep missing them.

I haven’t heard from Keph or deRia. I tried to send messages. I thought they were still on board — are they?

Maman doesn’t seem to sleep much any more. I hope you get home soon. We all miss you a lot.

Yves

——————-

Yves groaned the fifth time his alarm went off. He fumbled at it, rubbed his eyes and rolled on his left side — and flinched when he saw Amy standing in the door. Suddenly wide awake, he sat up. “What?”

“Good morning to you, too,” she exclaimed sarcastically, then softened. “I need to ask a favor of you.”

It registered that she was still in her pajamas. “What’s that?”

“Can you give this to Rebecca?” She held up a folded pair of glittery blue pants. “I told her I’d loan them to her.”

“Give ‘em to her yourself.” Yves yawned. “She won’t come near me, remember?”

“I’m not going to school today.”

“What? You’re not sick. Maman won’t let you stay home.”

“No, but she’ll let me go with her to the Academy.” Amy tossed the pants on the end of Yves’ bed. “Thanks.”

“Hey!”

By the time he got out of bed she’d shut herself in the bathroom. He pulled up his sagging pajama pants and shook his head. The twins ran down the hall from their rooms and bumped into him one at a time. Both of them were already dressed.

“I hate time zones,” Yves muttered, heading for the kitchen.

Maman appeared to be on her second cup of coffee, and she smiled at him as she turned from the coffee maker. “Good morning.”

“Are we all going to the Academy with you, or is that just Amy?”

The smile faded. “I see not all of us have recovered from the time change. That’s an unusually peevish attitude for you, Yves.”

“Can I have some coffee?”

Maman eyed him and passed her mug to him. “Don’t make a habit of it.”

“I like coffee.”

“I’m losing my children. They’re turning into adults.” Maman felt a confusing mixture of woe and joy; the former showed in her eyes, the latter in her smile.

“You haven’t managed to really lose any of us yet.” Turning it into a joke usually helped. Maman’s smile broadened, and she came to lean on his shoulder.

“Get something to eat and get ready.” She headed for her room, the long fluffy white robe swaying around her feet, then hesitated in the hall. “Do you know why Amy wants to go with me?”

“No.” Probably because she didn’t want to go to school, but why Maman would agree to help her ditch confused him.

“She wants to talk to a recruiter and start the paperwork for the Academy.”

They’d talked about it as a family — there were no expectations that they should do any particular thing, but they were expected to be considering possible careers, because it helped if they had an idea of what they should be taking in those last few years before college. That Amy, three years his junior, had already decided on Starfleet. . . .

“I want to go, too.” The words fell out without much conscious thought. In the seconds after, he turned the idea over in his mind. He wasn’t comfortable in school, and he doubted he ever would fit in. That was probably Amy’s motivator, too. Papa had given them information on the process already; announcing their intentions early would gain them a guidance counselor at the Academy who would help them in picking classes to prepare. Starfleet felt like home. This house might feel like home at some point, but Papa and Maman were still Starfleet, and they would be the only reason any house would be comfortable.

Maman said nothing, but tears filled her eyes. She struggled for a few moments, then nodded and strode down the hall.

Amy arrived a short time later as he took a plate from the replicator. She’d gotten ready in record time, and wore not one of her trendy new outfits but a bright gold-on-red tunic and black slacks she used to wear while they lived on the_Enterprise_. The red was deep enough that it didn’t clash with her coppery-brown hair.

“Maman’s having one of her sentimental times,” she commented offhandedly.

“Two of her kids are signing on at Starfleet. What do you think she’d feel?” Yves ate leaning against the counter, pulling apart his toast and eating sausage with his fingers.

“At least she’s not in pain.” Amy turned from the replicator. “You’re going too?”

“I guess it’s sort of inevitable. Nothing about the school feels like home. It’s not like once we’re signed up we can’t change our minds — the whole point of everything prior to the exam is to see if you really want to do it, right?”

Amy grinned. “Which discipline?”

“What do you think? I don’t think I’d make a good doctor, and I’d prefer to stay out of engineering.”

“I want to be a pilot.”

“You?” Yves blurted, regretting it immediately. She frowned. “Sorry. I would have expected medicine or maybe communications.”

“I really don’t know, but pilot sounds like it might be fun.”

“Also dangerous.” Yves finished his breakfast and dropped the plate in the recycler. Amy chewed slowly on her croissant and looked thoughtful.

“Everything’s dangerous about Starfleet,” she said at last.

He thought she must be doing the same thing he was — remembering visits to sickbay, to see Natalia, or deLio, or one of their parents. The last time had been only weeks before they left the ship on a runabout bound for Earth.

“Papa’s been in Starfleet all his life,” Yves countered.

“And Maman, and most of their friends. But it’s still dangerous. But what else is there?”

“I don’t know, but that’s why we’re going to the school we’re in. To find out.”

Amy rolled her dark eyes. “I don’t like what I’m seeing.”

Maman returned in uniform and in a hurry. “Bring breakfast with you,” she announced on her way through.

After dropping off the twins, Maman took the expressway to the Academy. She had to park in a lot with other flitters and led them at a rapid walk along paths that took them across the campus. Cadets on the way to classes were everywhere, wearing white jumpsuits with departmental colors across the shoulders. The grounds were landscaped beautifully, and Yves kept his eye out for an old man who might be Boothby, about whom he’d heard much from both his parents.

“You’ll find kiosks at regular intervals if you need directions to anywhere on campus,” Maman said as they hurried along. “I’ll leave you at registration and when you’re finished with the recruiter, you can come and find me.”

“Is there anyone else around? What about Beverly?” Yves asked.

“Starfleet Medical isn’t in walking distance. She’s in research, which is in Sausalito. And you don’t have clearance to visit.”

She led them to a domed building that was, as far as Yves could tell, at the center of campus. Sunlight off the one-way translucent aluminum walls around the door nearly blinded Yves. He followed Maman through the sliding panels as they opened.

The administration building had been designed for show, and in the high-ceilinged lobby a group of potential cadets milled around a large multi-level fountain that contained rocks and rainforest plants. There seemed to be about a dozen boys and half as many girls; another large group of giggling girls came out of a restroom tucked in a nook behind the fountain. Some of them noticed the new arrivals and stared at Maman.

“I’ll leave you here,” Maman said over the echoing sounds of water and loud conversations.

Amy rose on tiptoe and bounced happily, then leaned to kiss Maman’s cheek. “We’ll find you when the tour’s done and the recruiter’s tired of us.”

“Let’s check in.” Yves headed for the information desk, a half-circle of counter space along the wall to their left.

Once they’d given their names and expressed interest in Starfleet, the receptionist put them in the system. Upon hearing their surname she flicked her eyes up to stare at them briefly, but said nothing and gave each of them a badge. “This is your identification, your pass for the Academy for the day, and an emergency-only communicator. Please wear them at all times. Enjoy your tour of the Starfleet Academy.”

“Thanks,” Yves said, smiling at the cadet. She had two hollow pips; that meant second year. “Are you sciences track?”

She blinked, as if no one ever asked her questions other than where the restroom was and when the tour would start. Maybe no one else did. “Yes, I am. Astrophysics.”

“I think astrophysics is pretty interesting.”

She smiled, and it reached her previously-empty brown eyes. This probably was a boring job to do. “Maybe we’ll see each other again, then. Your group is forming over there,” she exclaimed, pointing. A uniformed man was gesturing for the group to form up.

“Thanks.” Yves followed Amy into the milling mass of teenagers.

————————-

At the end of the tour, which was more superficial than the one Maman had given the family before the beginning of the term, the tour guide, a third-year cadet named Ken, read off names and assigned them to recruiters. Yves wondered if either of his parents had ever worked in recruitment. He couldn’t picture either of them burbling happily about any of the hundred or so memorials to dead admirals or describing the wonders of the Academy Library with its five hundred terminals and extensive collection of busts of famous captains.

While waiting for their names to be read, Amy nudged Yves with her elbow. “So what do you think?”

“What am I supposed to think? The tour taught me there’s a decent library, with a really bad bust of Papa on the second floor. The guide didn’t say anything that helped me decide whether or not to sign up.”

“Picard. Yves.” Ken looked around until Yves raised his hand. What remained of the group stared at him. “Room 235, Julie Manning.”

“See you later.” Yves left the group and went down the hall, waving to Amy.

Room 235 was a long way down, and he lost sight of the group as the hall curved gently to the right along the west wing of the building. When he announced himself the door opened immediately and he found himself in a small, bare office space with another cadet.

“Hi,” she exclaimed with an enthusiastic smile, gesturing at the single chair across a low desk. “How do you say your name?”

“Ev. Silent s. Hi.” He dropped into the chair and leaned to shake her hand.

“So what did you think of the tour?”

“Okay, I guess.”

Julie looked up from the padd in front of her. “I see you were raised on the_Enterprise._ You’re Captain Picard’s son?”

“Yep. I was hoping you could tell me what the requirements are for admission. Whether it’s different depending on the field you want to pursue.” He was certain that it was, but he had to start somewhere. Julie wasn’t very pretty, he thought. She looked almost masculine, except for the long dark hair tucked into a knot on the back of her head. Her smile cooled, and Yves sensed some confusing emotions going on behind the pleasant façade.

“If you are interested in the sciences, particularly astrophysics, cybernetics, or medicine, then yes, there are different requirements.” She started going into detail, but Yves waved for her attention and she stopped.

“How about command track? What are the requirements for that?”

“We want our command track students to have a broad base — math, science, and the arts. It’s essential to have a well-rounded education prior to entering the Academy.” That sounded like something she’d learned by rote.

“Are you command track?”

Julie’s face fell, losing the vestigial smile. “I’m going into security.”

“But. . . ?”

She stared at him. Behind her, on the other side of the window, trees swayed gently in the breeze.

“I’m sorry,” Yves blurted. “I just — is something wrong? You look — “ But she hadn’t really shown on her face the depth of what he’d sensed from her. There was no way to truthfully extricate himself from this. “I thought, if you were command track, you would know, um, some of the things you can’t read about, like tips, or, or you know. . . .”

She slumped suddenly, smiling in the way of someone trying not to cry.

“Here is a list of requirements,” she managed, shoving a padd across at him. “If you have any questions you can contact the recruitment office.”

Yves sat stunned for a moment. “That’s it?”

“Yes, that is indeed it. I’m sure you can find your way out. Good luck, I’m sure you’ll have a bright future in Starfleet, Mr. Picard.”

Speechless, he took the padd and left her there. Outside in the hall, he paused, sure that she was now crying. But she wasn’t anyone he knew, really. He should have resisted the urge to pry.

A lift at the end of the wing took him down to the ground floor, and he found an exit into a shaded courtyard. Getting his bearings, he pushed through foliage and jogged across the rolling lawn toward the medical services building. Maman would be in class, but he could sit in. He was crossing a bed of short flowering shrubbery when a shout caught him.

“You! Use the sidewalk!”

Yves turned to find an old man wearing a broad-brimmed hat and wielding shears standing on the edge of the flower bed, glaring. “Are you Boothby?”

“What matters is that you’re in my flowers, young man, and you’re breaking the branches. Get out of there! Do you know those plants came all the way from Cardassia, in stasis? Very fragile, very hard to obtain.”

Yves carefully made his way back out. “I’m Yves Picard. My father told me about you.”

The old man straightened, swept off his hat, and squinted at Yves. A smile wiped away the disgruntlement. “Well. I should have known. I’ve been expecting you.”

“What?”

“Certainly. Here to sign up for the Academy, I see. How is your father?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Now, there was someone born to the job.” Boothby planted his hat back on his head and swiped his gloved hand across his forehead. “Though he certainly wasn’t sure of it all the time.”

“I guess that’s part of the process,” Yves said, repeating what his mother had told him.

One of the bushy white eyebrows rose slightly. “Yes, indeed. How did you come to be out in my flower beds and not in school?”

“I was supposed to be spending the next hour or whatever with a recruiter. I think I upset her — that and she wasn’t really happy in the first place. I just asked if she was command track, and she shoved this at me and ended the meeting.” He held up the padd.

“And you think she wasn’t happy in Starfleet because of this?”

“Her name’s Julie Manning. She said she was going into security but she wasn’t happy about it.”

“Ah, Julie. Yes. Well. I see.” Boothby glanced up at the building. “Going to find your mother?”

“She’s teaching right now. I thought I could sit in the back until she’s done.”

“Or you could help me weed the pachysandra, over behind the student union.”

Yves didn’t care much for the idea, but both his parents had endorsed the notion that Boothby was a good friend to have. He smiled. “Sure. Why not?”

Maman found him some time later. Yves sensed her late, just as she stopped on the path along the flower bed. Weeding had been more involved than he’d expected, as it also involved lessons in weed identification and botanical trivia.

“I see you’ve found Boothby,” she said as the gardeners rose and shook off dead leaves and soil.

“I know I was supposed to find you, but he asked for my help.”

Maman tilted her head. “How long have you been doing this? I expected you to be with the recruiter, still.”

Yves couldn’t find the words. Suddenly, it came home to him what that short time with the recruiter might imply. Boothby surprised him by saying, “He was at a disadvantage. The luck of the draw put him with someone who’s struggling through her own choices about her future.”

“I only asked her if she was command track. I wanted to know more about it. She sort of. . . she didn’t want to talk about it, I guess, because she handed me a padd and said we were done.” Yves shrugged. Unfortunately, Maman wasn’t fooled for an instant; she had that familiar expression that told him she knew there was more to it. Fortunately, she didn’t say anything.

“Are you free to talk to me, then?”

“I’ll be fine — this is almost done. Thank you for all the help.” Boothby put his gloves back on and went about gathering the pile of pulled weeds into his arms. “See you later, Yves.”

“Okay. It was nice meeting you.” Yves stepped over the stones bordering the path and walked with Maman, away from the student union.

“Amy is with her recruiter. I saw them walking toward the astronavigation building. I’m sure from her excitement that she’s about to have a look at some of the flight simulations used