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“Well, who better?” Lwaxana also smiled. “The funny thing is, the reason why I called is to say that I wanted to add an after-ceremony party at the house, just for close family and friends, plus a few people I forgot about that need to go on the guest list, and so—”

Riker grabbed Troi’s hand and squeezed it. “Lwaxana, do whatever you need to do. We’ll just show up, strip, and get married.”

Lwaxana let out what sounded like a sigh of contentment. “Of course, Little Ones. I’ll see you in a few weeks on Betazed, then.”

“Of that, you can rest assured, Mother.”

With that, Lwaxana signed off.

Riker stared at Troi. “So is she gonna start calling me ‘Little One’ now?”

“Apparently.”

Shaking his head, Riker stood up, pulling Troi into a hug. “So I get to go from Number One to Little One—both from people shorter than me.”

“You’ll live.” She looked up at him. “You know, when I said I needed help getting past my anger at Minza, I didn’t mean for you to get angry instead of me.”

Riker laughed. “Yeah, sorry about that. I guess I just let your mother get to me. I just can’t believe we didn’t think of doing two ceremonies sooner.”

“I can. We just wanted to keep things simple—two ceremonies belie that, as does what Mother is doing.” She smiled, and Riker felt his heart melt, as it always did when she favored him with the expression. “But it doesn’t matter. Like you said, as long as we’re married at the end of it, I don’t care how we do it—or how many times we do it.”

Rather than respond verbally, Riker kissed her passionately.

When they broke the kiss several joyous eternities later, Troi stroked his beard and said in a small voice, “Yuck.”

“I’m not shaving the beard again, Deanna.”

Troi shrugged. “That’s your choice—just as it’s mine to say, ‘yuck.’ “

“Suit yourself, Counselor.” He broke their embrace and indicated the ready-room door. “Shall we get back to the business of finding lost emperors?”

“After you, Little One,” she said with a smirk.

The red-hued river flowed down from the distant mountain, its current splashing regularly against the black rocks.

When he first came to this world, he had heard about the crimson rivers, and he had assumed that they would look like blood, but they didn’t. This one in particular looked more like a ruby given liquid form.

As he stood before the mighty river, the yellow grass staining his boots, he marveled at the natural beauty, which, he was told by the natives, had remained unchanged for countless millennia.

He had memories of standing near a similar river by a volcano, at which he forged a mighty weapon. But that memory was false, implanted within his mind by those who would use him for their own ends.

For a time, he was content to let them do so, for his own desires matched theirs. Was it because they programmed those desires into me? Perhaps. But ultimately, it did not matter. I did what I was compelled to do, and I was happy to do it.

Reaching into the large satchel he had carried with him to the riverbank, he pulled out the easel, canvas, paints, and brushes. His landscapes had improved in recent weeks—indeed, they hardly could have gotten worse. Those who made him did not feel the need to provide him with any artistic ability, but he was a living creature, capable of learning and adapting. After several false starts, and dozens of truly abysmal landscapes, he finally was getting the hang of painting. It was a most soothing and—now that he was actually starting to approach competent—satisfying way to pass the time.

The process fascinated him. He began with an empty canvas. Initially, the process was laborious and irritating. The smell of the fresh paint overpowered the natural scents beyond. Worse, there was always the vexing process of where to start: the river? the large tree to the right? the smaller one to the left? the sun? the mountain? the sky? the grass? the fortra bush? Then there was the matter of color, finding the right blends of the too-bright red and the black