THE HEAT OF THE SUN warmed Christine Vale’s skin as she lay napping on the beach of her aunt and uncle’s house, making her feel as if she were glowing. A sudden wind wafted over her, then, cooling the skin down, and even causing a goose bump or two to pop up on her bare arms.

She lay parallel to the coastline of Rarotonga, the capital of the Cook Islands in the Pacific Ocean on Earth. If she opened her eyes, she could see the mountain at the island’s center to her right and the gently lapping waves of the Pacific on her left. But she had no interest in opening her eyes, content to nap, with the sun’s heat on her eyelids causing bursts of color in her vision. She had enjoyed the time spent with her aunt and uncle, whom she hadn’t seen since graduation day. Her mother’s sister met her future husband on Izar, but they moved to Earth shortly after they got married, since her uncle had this beautiful beachfront property.

Most of Vale’s leave had been spent lying on this beach wearing a bathing suit, the sun shining brightly on her while she thought about nothing. It was something—or, rather, nothing—she hadn’t done in far too long

The sound of footfalls on the nearby back porch of the house interrupted her nap. The tread was too heavy to be either of her relatives—who, like Vale, were rather petite, and unlike Vale, were also very slight—especially since they never wore the Starfleet-issue boots that were making the steps. Vale recognized whose boots they were within a moment.

Without bothering to open her eyes, she said, “I was wondering when you’d get here, sir.”

She finally did open her eyes to see Captain William T. Riker standing on the deck. He looked—confused. Then again, given what they all went through, it’s not surprising.

“You knew I was coming?” As Riker spoke, he bent down to take off his footwear before coming onto the beach. Smart man, Vale thought. Navigating the shifting sands in anything but bare feet was just asking for trouble.

“I had a hunch. We may be in the middle of nowhere, sir, but news still makes it here.” She propped herself up by her elbows on the beach chair. “I heard the basics of what happened with the Romulans, and I heard who died—including Data.”

Riker rolled up the pants of his uniform and then walked over to where Vale’s beach chair sat. “Not exactly the milk run to Betazed we were expecting.”

“What’s the whole story? I heard the reports, but that’s not really the same thing.”

Taking a seat on the end of Vale’s beach chair, Riker did as she asked. He spoke of positronic emissions detected on a planet near the Romulan border, and the subsequent discovery on that planet of a prototype android that, like Data, was designed by Noonien Soong and that the eccentric old roboticist had named B-4. Immediately afterward came the part Vale knew from the Federation News Service: there was a coup d’état on Romulus, with a Reman named Shinzon now ruling the Romulan Star Empire. This was major news, given that the Remans had, up until now, been a slave race within the empire.

What the FNS didn’t mention was that the Reman wasn’t really a Reman—he was a human clone of Jean-Luc Picard. Part of a since-abandoned plot by the Tal Shiar, the Romulans’ secret police, to replace high-ranking Starfleet officers with their own agents, Shinzon was raised in the Reman mines, eventually rising to prominence as a centurion during the Dominion War.

To make matters worse, Shinzon needed Picard—something in the captain’s blood would save the clone from an early grave—and he used whatever means he could to get it. In the end, the Enterprise crew triumphed, but not before suffering heavy losses in battle to Shinzon’s powerful ship, the Scimitar.

Among those losses: Lieutenant Commander Data, who sacrificed his life to stop Shinzon once and for all.

“It should’ve been me.”

Riker shot Vale a look. “What was that, Commander?”

“I said it should’ve been me. I’m chief of security, it’s my job to do what Data did.”

“Nobody could’ve done what Data did. And if you were on board, you’d have been doing what Worf was doing in your place: repelling the Reman boarders.”

Vale didn’t accept that. Her job was to keep the rest of the ship safe—that’s what security did. That’s what Domenica Corsi did for her when she shot Dar back on Izar, and that’s what Vale swore to do every day of her life since then. That’s what she’d been doing for four years on the Enterprise.

She sat up all the way, as regulation as she could be while sitting in a beach chair and wearing only a bathing suit. “I’m sorry I let you down, sir.”

Riker looked at her as if she’d grown a second head. “You didn’t let anybody down, Commander. You took a vacation—”

“When I should’ve been doing my job. I took advantage of your offer, and—”

“Did what every officer’s entitled to. I checked, by the way—you didn’t just have ‘a little bit’ of leave time coming, you had as much as possible without getting a formal reprimand on your record. Commander, you are entitled to the occasional break. We all are. And I think, particularly after what you’ve done for the past year, you earned the right to some time for yourself.” He leaned forward. “Duty doesn’t mean you’re on every hour of every day, Christine.”

“If you say so, sir.” Intellectually, she knew the captain was right. But thinking about the fact that Data, who was functionally immortal, was dead, it still didn’t feel right in her gut.

It should’ve been me.

She got up from the beach chair. The sunbaked sand flowed around and between her toes, sending a warm feeling through her feet.

Dammit, maybe Genestra was right about the guilt.

Then she realized just what she was thinking. Am I going to believe the smug manipulative bastard who was sent to the ship to give us a hard time by an admiral with an agenda? Or am I going to believe William Riker?

It wasn’t even a contest.

“You’re probably right, sir,” she finally said, favoring Riker with a small smile.

“I’m the captain now, Commander Vale—I’m always right.”

Running a hand through her auburn hair, she said, “Very good point, sir, I should’ve remembered that. My apologies.”

“I’ll forgive it this time,” Riker said with mock gravity.

She thought back over what Riker told her about the battle against this Reman, or human clone, or whatever he was. “Can I ask you a question, sir?”

“Name it.”

“What would this Shinzon guy have done if Starfleet sent a different ship? Or if someone else found that prototype android?”

Riker blinked. “I don’t know, Commander. To be honest, that really wasn’t our primary concern.”

“Yeah, I can understand that. So this android—what’s it called, B-4?—is still around?”

Nodding, Riker said, “Yes, and he’s got all of Data’s memories.” Suddenly, Riker squinted, as if he realized something. “Come to think of it, that also means he has Lore’s memories, Lal’s memories, and the personal diaries of the entire Omicron Theta colony where Data was created.” He shook his head and chuckled. “All in a brain that’s barely at the level of a four-year-old. That android’s gonna have an interesting life.”

“I’ll bet.”

With that, Riker stood up, and walked over to where Vale was standing. A gust of wind blew through, ruffling his hair and making the strands of gray stand out. “In any case, I didn’t just come here to give you the inside scoop. I came to make you an offer.”

This time, Vale blinked. “Huh?”

Grinning, Riker said, “The first officer position on the Titan is yours if you want it.”

Shaking her head a few times, Vale said, “But—what about Commander Worf?”

Riker hesitated. “After—after what happened to Data, Captain Picard requested to have him back on the Enterprise. On top of everything else, Worf’s star is pretty high right now, especially after single-handedly rescuing the embassy. It’ll be good PR for the Enterprise to have him on board after everything we’ve been through this past year.”

Vale nodded. “Can’t argue with that.”

“Besides,” Riker added, “you look much better in a bathing suit than Worf.”

Despite herself, Vale laughed. “Sir, you are a married man.”

“Yes, and my wife would rather Worf was in the bathing suit. But I’m the captain, so I get to make those determinations.”

“Lucky you.”

Vale looked up at Riker’s pleasant, bearded face. She liked the man, admired him, thought he’d make an excellent captain.

But will I make a deserving first officer? Or do I want to go on protecting the people on the Enterprise?

“What do you say, Christine?”

Vale made her decision.

 

The Traveler watched as a galaxy died.

Remnants of stars, fragments of planets, gases and particulate matter, energy of all kinds, it swirled toward the center like water flowing down a drain.

How many people lived there? the Traveler wondered. How many trillions of creatures lived and died in that galaxy? Who will remember them now that they’re gone?

“You shall,” said a voice that was both right next to him and across the universe. “That is why we travel—to witness the glory that is the cosmos.”

The Traveler let out a very long sigh. It was an affectation from his time as a human being named Wesley Crusher that he had never been able to shake. “I know,” he said. “And I wouldn’t give it up for anything.”

His fellow Traveler spoke in a teasing voice. “You almost did.”

“I know. When I went to save the Enterprise at Rashanar, it was really tempting to go back.” Thoughts of Colleen Cabot filled the Traveler’s mind, the scent of her hair, the taste of her lips—and the sound of the Orion disruptor blast that killed her.

He looked back out over the galaxy going through its death throes. “But then I wouldn’t have been able to see this. Or that stellar nursery. Or those spacesingers. Or—” He smiled. “Well, you get the idea. I couldn’t go back to a life where I’d be restricted to one corner of one galaxy when I’ve got the whole universe to explore.”

“So what brought you to this place?”

The Traveler paused and reflected on the question his fellow Traveler posed to him. Finally, he answered in one word: “Data.”

“The android you served with on the Enterprise?”

“Yeah. He died right after I saw him on Earth—and I knew when I saw him that he was going to die, but I couldn’t do anything about it.”

“You could have.”

“No. I learned my lesson on that score after Rashanar, believe me. But that’s why I made sure I was at the wedding. I wanted a chance to see him—and everyone else—one last time, before…” He trailed off. “It’s the cycle, I know that—life, death, rebirth. This galaxy will eventually be reborn. By the time that happens, the galaxy I’m from will be doing what this one’s doing now.”

The other Traveler prompted him. “And yet?”

“There’s an old human saying that one death is a tragedy and a million deaths is a statistic.” He pointed at the dying galaxy. “Trillions of trillions of life-forms are dying or have died because this galaxy is collapsing. But I can’t make myself feel that the same way I feel about Data. He was one of my best friends, and he should’ve been able to outlive all of us.” He smiled. “Well, except me, now, but you know what I mean.” Then, for the first time, he looked at his fellow Traveler, the one whom he first met on the Enterprise-D in the company of a small-minded fool named Kozinski, the one who later welcomed him into the Travelers’ ranks on Dorvan V. “There’s so much more I understand now, so many new ways of looking at the universe. That’s the other reason why I couldn’t go back—it’d be like living in a box to just be a regular human again. But if I’m so much more, then why can’t I—”

The other Traveler shook his head. “Ah, Wesley—don’t you see? When you became one of us, you became more than human, it’s true—but you didn’t become less human. You still love your friends, and you still care when they die. Even though you’ve expanded the nature of who you are, that doesn’t change the core. And at your core, you are still Wesley Eugene Crusher, son of Jack and Beverly Crusher, and friend to an android who is now gone.”

The Traveler turned back to the galaxy. He squinted, and could see the singularity at its center, pulling all matter and energy into its vortex.

After several moments, during which he saw three suns disappear into the singularity’s maw, he asked, “Does it ever make sense?”

“No. But we’re working on it.”

“I guess that’ll have to do. But you know what?” He turned back to the other Traveler. “I’m tired of dead things. Let’s go look at something living.”

Together, the two Travelers left the distant galaxy. One thought of how proud he was of his protégé, and how far he was progressing.

The other thought about how much he would miss his friend.

 

Sunrise on Qo’noS was beautiful.

Alexander had never really seen the sunrise over the Klingon Homeworld before. Watching it paint its fiery yellows and oranges across the First City filled Alexander with a sense of pride and accomplishment.

Today, finally, I’m home.

He had been Alexander, the son of K’Ehleyr. Then he was Alexander Rozhenko, after Father’s foster parents took him in. Then he joined the Klingon Defense Force, was made a part of Martok’s House as his father was, and he was Alexander, son of Worf.

Now he was Ambassador Rozhenko. Father had written a glowing recommendation, and President Bacco had formally appointed him to the post.

It was his first day on the job, and he was looking forward to it. The second-floor office had been stripped of all personal items, save one: a picture of Alexander as a mere babe with his mother and father, taken back on the Enterprise-D not long before Mother died. Father must have left it behind for me.

The picture hung on the wall, looking rather overwhelmed by the blank space around it. I’ll have to do something about that.

Moving over to the large wooden desk, Alexander stared down at the scattered mosaic of padds that covered the desktop, broken only by a com terminal. The padds’ displays were full of words like “resolution,” “request,” “meeting,” “extradition,” “High Council,” “Federation Council,” “legality,” “treaty,” and so on. He had no idea where to start.

Then he sat at the desk. He felt almost lost in the large leather chair, which had obviously been designed for his much larger father, and made a mental note to ask for a smaller one. “Computer, call up the day’s correspondences for Ambassador Rozhenko.”

The computer obligingly did as he said, and listed all seven hundred and ninety-four correspondences.

Alexander felt the blood drain from his face. “C-c-computer? Are these just today’s correspondences?”

“Results match search criteria. Messages displayed are those addressed to Ambassador Rozhenko since 2400 hours.”

Clutching the arms of his chair, Alexander asked, “What am I supposed to do with seven hundred and ninety-four messages? I mean, I’m not gonna have time to read them all. And then there’s all these padds.” He picked one up at random. It was ostensibly written in English, but Alexander found he couldn’t make heads or tails of what it actually said. “How can I—”

A voice from behind him said, “Computer, delete correspondences from this station.”

The screen went blank.

Alexander whirled around to see Giancarlo Wu standing in the doorway, wearing a blue shirt, matching pants, and a yellow vest.

The aide added, “Computer, raktajino.”

With a hum, the replicator provided the beverage. Wu removed it from the slot and handed it to Alexander, who grabbed it hungrily. His mouth had gone completely dry, and he needed something to calm his nerves. Okay, a stimulant may not be the best way to do that, but any port in a storm…

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner, sir.” Wu pulled a padd out of his vest pocket. “You don’t need to view all those correspondences. That’s what the staff is for.”

Alexander felt fourteen kinds of stupid. “Oh.”

“If there’s anything that requires your personal attention, I or one of the other staff members will bring it to you.”

His heart rate starting to approach normal again, Alexander indicated all the padds. “What about all this?”

“I intended to clean this up before you got here, sir, but other matters distracted me. We’re still recovering from the takeover, plus there were several items that required my attention while you were getting settled in, so I haven’t had time—”

Holding up a hand, Alexander said, “It’s all right. You don’t need to explain yourself to me, Mr. Wu. I’m the new guy in town, and you’ve been doing this a long time. Just tell me what I need to do.”

Wu smiled and made a note on his padd. “Very good, sir.”

“One question—is that normal?”

Frowning, Wu asked, “Is what normal, sir?”

“That many messages—I mean, seven hundred and ninety-four just in one morning?”

Wu nodded. “That is unusual, sir.”

“That’s what I thought.” Alexander picked up his raktajino.

“It’s usually much more than that.”

Alexander almost broke his arm stopping himself from sipping the raktajino as he sputtered in shock. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. That’s why the staff goes through the correspondences.”

This time he sipped the coffee, then muttered, “Let’s hear it for the staff.”

As Wu started to go over the day’s agenda, Alexander finally let himself relax. Okay, a few bumps in the road, but this is definitely a good thing. It feels right. The Enterprise, Minsk, the Defense Force—I never fit in anywhere. But here—here I can really make a difference. Here I can be somebody.

He looked up at the picture sitting alone in the middle of an empty wall, and cast a thought at his parents: I’ll do you both proud, I promise you that.

 

Worf was mildly apprehensive concerning what he was about to do. However, Geordi La Forge had asked Worf to accompany him to clean out Data’s quarters, and the Klingon could think of no good reason to refuse him.

When Captain Picard had asked Worf to remain on the Enterprise following their mission to Romulus, Worf found himself unable to refuse that, either. He owed Picard a great deal, and as much as he looked forward to serving with Riker on the Titan, to be back on the Enterprise was the greater honor.

But this was not his Enterprise.

The vessel on which he had served proudly for eight years was long gone, and—though he had been on its successor several times, against the Borg, in the Briar Patch, during the gateways crisis, and any number of other occasions including this latest battle against Shinzon—he was never truly a part of this ship.

Until now. Worf was finally doing what he wished. Of his four years as an ambassador, he had no regrets, but he also knew that the best years of his life were in the service of Starfleet, whether on the bridge of the Enterprise-D or in Deep Space 9’s operations center or in the command chair of the Defiant or by Martok’s side on the Rotarran.

None of that, though, made what he and La Forge had to do any easier.

“Thanks, Worf,” La Forge said as they approached the door to Data’s cabin, each of them holding a small plastiform container. “I feel better having someone else along.”

“Of course.” If nothing else, La Forge was a good comrade of many years’ standing—as was Data.

They entered the darkened cabin. Data had decorated his quarters on this ship in a similar fashion to the way it was on the Enterprise-D. The walls were lined with paintings—Data’s own work—and a full computer station had been installed to allow the android a greater range of work functions.

Worf had never thought much of Data’s paintings, though he had never said so. One of his regrets about the destruction of the Enterprise-D was that the hideous painting Data had given him as a birthday present, The Battle of HarOs, had survived the ship’s crash landing intact, thus forcing Worf to keep the work. It was currently hanging in the Rozhenkos’ living room, where Worf had sent it prior to his posting to Deep Space 9. He briefly considered sending for it to keep as a tribute to his fallen comrade, before Klingon aesthetics triumphed over human sentimentalism.

La Forge went over to the desk where Data kept his violin, then proceeded to where he kept the pipe and deerstalker hat that went with a literary holodeck program that the two of them indulged in fairly often.

I should not be here, Worf thought as he set the container down on the floor. This was La Forge’s time to grieve. Data had started painting in part because La Forge encouraged him. The Sherlock Holmes program was something the two of them shared. The music Data played on his violin was human music that to Worf was just painful noise, but which La Forge genuinely appreciated. Worf had many fond memories of Data, but none of the items in this room prompted them.

“Geordi—”

“It’s weird. You know that they took his emotion chip out last year after Rashanar, right?”

Worf nodded.

“I was really worried there for a while. At first, he wasn’t interested in doing any of this.” La Forge gestured at the paintings on the walls and to the items on the desk. “I felt like I lost my friend. But after the Dokaalan mission, he started to act like himself again. Maybe not the same as he was with the chip, but he was definitely more than he was before he put it in. Now—” He shook his head. “Now I’ve lost him all over again.”

La Forge’s voice was shaking, and Worf wondered if he was going to cry. Can he even cry with his optical implants? Realizing that his friend needed some kind of response, and not wanting to deal with the spectacle of human tears, Worf said, “When Kahless appeared on Boreth, Data questioned me about the nature of my faith. He was—curious.”

Smiling, La Forge said, “That was Data all over.”

“When Kahless was exposed as a clone, Data remarked on the Klingons who still believed in him despite his origins in a laboratory. They had made a leap of faith, trusting that the clone was the true reincarnation of Kahless. Data told me of his own leap of faith after he was discovered on Omicron Theta.”

Looking at Worf quizzically, La Forge asked, “What do you mean?”

“He said that he was told that he was an android—a machine—and that he could not accept that he would be nothing more than an automaton. So he made a leap of faith that he could grow as a sentient being.” Worf moved closer to La Forge, and spoke in a softer tone. “Everything he did after that was an attempt to become more than what he was programmed to be—including his sacrifice to save the captain. It was a very Klingon gesture—and a very human one.”

La Forge took a long breath. “Yeah, you’re right.” Then he smiled. “Being an ambassador definitely had an effect on you, Worf—you never used to be this eloquent.”

Worf straightened. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I merely did not have anything eloquent to say.”

Chuckling, La Forge said, “Right. C’mon, let’s get this stuff—”

A meow interrupted La Forge’s sentence.

Oh no.

Spot ambled in from the bedroom. The cat, who was now well over ten years old, leapt onto the table, right next to the deerstalker.

The last thing Worf wanted to deal with was Data’s pet, so he reached to move the creature out of the way. Before he could do so, however, Spot leapt into the Klingon’s arms. Instinctively, Worf caught the animal.

The cat then seemed to almost burrow into Worf’s chest, making a noise like the one a tribble made when it was near humans. Worf found it nauseating—yet also oddly soothing.

“I think she likes you,” La Forge said with a grin.

“I am not a—cat person.” Even as Worf spoke, Spot started to close her eyes and fall asleep. This is a nightmare.

La Forge was still grinning. “Looks like you are now. Hey, look, she never liked me—remember what happened when I tried to take care of her? And as I recall, when Data was having those problems with his dream program, you were the one who took her in and did just fine.”

Worf sighed. La Forge’s words were true, but he was not sure he would be able to tame the animal a second time. Absently, he started to stroke the cat’s fur as La Forge continued gathering Data’s personal items, from the volume of William Shakespeare’s works that Picard had given him to the handkerchief with the “D” monogram Riker had given him shortly after getting his emotion chip (“for the next time you start crying,” Riker had said).

Perhaps once again attempting to tame Spot will be a proper tribute to Data’s memory. It is certainly preferable to putting that painting back on my wall.

Bending over, Worf gently let the animal onto the floor. Spot woke up and ambulated toward her bowl of water, pausing for a moment to turn her head back toward Worf and meow at him.

Suppressing the urge to growl at the cat, Worf picked up the container and placed it on the desk.

Worf exchanged a nod with La Forge, and the two of them began gathering their friend’s possessions.

 

“You know, if you’d told me when we started this whole shebang that the Romulan government was gonna fall five minutes after I took office, I would’ve stayed on Cestus III where it’s safe.”

Esperanza Piñiero sat in the guest chair of the presidential office in Paris, saying, “Yes, ma’am,” in reply to President Nan Bacco’s diatribe. Piñiero knew that, as long as she served as Bacco’s chief of staff, she would have to listen to these diatribes. Why stop now? she thought. She had, after all, been listening to such diatribes all her life.

Piñiero looked around the office, and found it a bit too minimalist for her tastes. White carpet, a Federation flag on a pole, and a large metal desk. Piñiero suspected that Bacco would put at least some personal touches into the office—a picture of her daughter and her family, if nothing else.

Then again, there was always the spectacular view. Although not quite as exquisite as Venezia, Paris still had an unparalleled majesty to it.

Bacco was still carrying on. “I haven’t even had a chance to figure out what height to put this chair at, and one of the major superpowers in the quadrant has its government literally fall apart. See, this is why I like baseball: It’s predictable. There’s an order to it.”

Piñiero tried to hold back a smile and didn’t entirely succeed. “Aren’t you the one who’s always telling me that what makes baseball a great game is that it’s completely unpredictable?”

Bacco pointed at Piñiero and said, “Listen, you, I’m president now, and that means there are six security guards outside those doors who will kill you on my say-so, so kindly watch your mouth.” She picked up the mug of coffee on her desk, started to sip, then stopped. “Dammit, they make these mugs too small.”

The president started to get up, but Piñiero said, “Ma’am, the replicator’s right there on the desk, remember?”

Sitting back down, Bacco said, “Of course I don’t remember. I’m old and feeble, I haven’t had enough coffee, and you’re giving me nonsense about the Romulans.” Looking at the desk, she asked, “So where is it?”

“Just tell the computer what you—”

“Computer, coffee, black, unsweetened.”

A mug of coffee materialized in the center of the desk, right next to the com unit.

Taking the steaming mug in hand and smelling its contents, Bacco said, “I think I can get used to this.” She took a quick sip, set the mug down, then said, “All right, what’re we doing about the Romulans?”

Consulting the padd on her lap, Piñiero said, “You’re meeting with their ambassador, as well as Ambassador Spock, at 1300.”

Bacco frowned. “Spock? Does he know anything about Romulans?”

Panic gripped Piñiero. Oh no, please, no, don’t let this happen, not now. “Uh, ma’am, Ambassador Spock has lived on Romulus, and—”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Esperanza, that was a joke.”

Piñiero tried to regulate her breathing. “Ma’am, you really can’t do that as often as you used to.”

“When it’s just you and me in the room? Like hell, I can’t. Don’t forget, I changed your diapers.”

“I couldn’t possibly forget with you reminding me every five minutes, ma’am. In any case, there’s another situation.”

“Naturally.”

“The Deltans’ water reclamation system is horribly out of date and falling apart. They like the system on Gault and wish to utilize it.”

“So let ’em.”

Piñiero winced. “The problem is that the one on Gault is actually a Carreon design, and the Carreon refuse to allow the Deltans to use it.”

Bacco rolled her eyes. “Of course they do. How can we talk the Carreon into it?”

“That’s what I’m going to ask the Carreon ambassador when I meet with him this morning.”

“Good. What’s next?”

Piñiero went through the day’s meetings and events and happenings. Most of the staff was in place now. Fred MacDougan had taken over as communications director, with Ashanté Phiri serving as Esperanza’s deputy chief of staff. Jas Abrik had accepted the position as security advisor, a move that turned many heads. Kant Jorel, the Federation Council’s press liaison, also worked for the president, so Bacco and Piñiero had both strongly recommended M’Tesint to now-Governor Gari on Cestus III to replace the woefully inadequate Piers Renault. Helga Fontaine had moved on, currently running the campaign of a minister on Kharzh’ulla.

When she was finished, Bacco said, “Good. I’ve got my security briefing, where I’m sure I’ll get an earful from Abrik about the Romulans. We really had to take him on?”

Nodding, Piñiero said, “Yes. And you know why.”

“Know, yes. Like, no. Go on, get out of here and talk to the Carreon ambassador before they decide to go to war with the Deltans again.”

Rising from the guest chair, tucking her padd under her arm, Piñiero said, “Thank you, Madam President.”

She turned to leave the office, her feet not making a sound as they pressed against the soft white carpet.

“Oh, Esperanza?”

Stopping and turning around just as the security guard opened the door for her, Piñiero said, “Ma’am?”

Bacco gave Piñiero a warm smile. Not the smile she used when she was giving people a hard time or when she was talking about baseball. This was a heartfelt smile that she usually saved only for family. “Thank you for talking me into doing this.”

Piñiero gave her an equally warm smile in return—and for that moment, they weren’t president and chief of staff, or even governor and campaign manager, but two old friends sharing a happy moment. “No need to thank me—just do the job right.”

 

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

Kahless ran a brush over his canvas, transferring the black paint from the bristles onto its target. For this painting, he had decided to begin with the rocks. The fortra flowers were no longer in bloom—his “rescue” by the Enterprise meant that re-creating that particular vista was lost to him for at least a year—so he contented himself with simply painting the river. No trees, no bushes, very little of the sky, no mountain. He would simply convey the liquid-ruby nature of the water as it flowed downstream.

He had spoken briefly with the android on the Enterprise about his painting, and he had provided some good advice. Kahless intended to take it at some point, but for now he simply wished to paint the river. If it was not the best work available, it would at least be a learning experience.

For many turns, he had been what he was programmed to be. He had done his duty, like any good Klingon, and he had made the world a better place than it was when he arrived in it. What warrior could ask for more?

As he put the finishing touches on the rock, the sun broke out through the clouds overhead, brightening the vista in front of him. It was just noontime, so he had the best light at the best time to have light. Any flaws in the work would be the result of his own shortcomings, not a lack of visibility.

Today, he thought with a smile, is a good day to paint.

He mixed in the bright red with the black paint he already had handy. It was time to start the river.

 

Jean-Luc Picard entered the bridge of the Enterprise.

He had not had this feeling in fifteen years, when he brought the Enterprise-D out of Farpoint Station. Then he was surrounded by a command crew he barely knew. Some he’d just met, some he knew primarily from their service record, some he knew only in passing—in truth, at the time only one person on the ship, Beverly Crusher, could be considered a friend of any standing. In the decade and a half since, on two different ships, the core had remained together. It was the second time he’d been so fortunate; the senior staff of the Stargazer had also stayed more or less intact for most of the two decades he’d commanded that vessel.

Now, he was once again entering a bridge that had more strangers than familiar faces. The first and second officers, counselor, and chief medical officer on whom he’d relied for so long that they were almost extensions of his very person, and who had been there from that beginning at Farpoint Station, were gone. Old faces had returned, new faces had come on board, but in truth the only constant was Picard himself.

Each station reported ready, all systems were functioning, and the crew awaited their captain’s orders.

Picard sat in his command chair and looked forward at the new viewscreen, replacing the one that had been destroyed in the battle with Shinzon. Earth rotated beneath them, the blue gem of a planet visible through the structure of McKinley Station. He looked at ops, half-expecting the familiar black hair and opalescent skin of Data, and Picard experienced a pang of sadness in the knowledge that he was gone forever.

But we have had our time to mourn—now it is our time to dance. “Helm, set course for the Denab system, full impulse until we are clear of the solar system, then engage at warp seven.”

The conn officer replied crisply. “Aye, sir.”

Picard leaned forward in his chair, his hands gripping the armrests, and a smile playing across his lips.

“Let’s see what’s out there.”