CHAPTER I

He hated balalaika music, hated it with a passion.
However, he would put up with it just this once. And not
because he had to. He would put up with it specifically
because he didn't have to.
    As he sat at his solitary table on a candlelit balcony
overlooking the beach, sipping at his vodka and pushing
a pitted olive around his plate, a woman emerged from
the dining room within.
    By local standards, she was quite beautiful, with
alabaster skin and pale blond hair woven into a bun. She
wore a safari outfit, though she had probably never been
on a safari in her theoretical life.
  "The nights are beautiful here," she said.
    He shrugged. "I suppose... if you like that sort of
thing."
    She gazed at him from under long, straw-colored
lashes. "Don't you?"
 "I guess I don't have much of an opinion," he
 admitted.
     "How strange," she said. "An attractive man like
 yourself, alone on a night like this... usually has opin-
 ions about a great many things."
     He smiled at her. "If I'm not mistaken, you came into
 this place with such a man. I'll bet he's wondering where
 you are even as we speak."
    She moved and the moonlight glinted off her hair.
"Perhaps he is. And he certainly does have his share of
opinions. It's just that I'm a little tired of them."
    'I see," he told her. "And now you'd prefer to hear
some of mine."
    "You're a very clever man," she observed. "You catch
on quickly."
    "Yes," he agreed. "I do. And for just a moment there,
you were almost interesting. But..." He smiled polite-
ly. "I think that moment has passed."
    The woman's eyes went wide. "How dare you... ?"
she gasped. For a moment, she seemed on the verge of
slapping him in the face. But in the end, she decided not
to, and simply disappeared back into the dining room.
    Oh well, he told himself. I guess that's the way the
flaxen-haired tourist bounces.
    Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two figures
hopping around down below--removing their shoes, he
gathered. As he watched, they slipped away from the
mellow, orange circle of light that emanated from the
tavern. One was male, one female; one broad-shouldered
and big-boned, the other comparatively slender.
    He knew them, of course. Knew them quite well, in
fact.
    They were both barefoot as they made their way along
the margin of the sea, leaving wet footprints in the sand.
From time to time, one of them would reach for the
other's hand, then let it go again. It was obvious that
they were still in the courting stage, feeling each other
out, uncertain of how far to take this evening without
overstepping some unstated boundary.
    Such a waste of time. If they wanted to procreate, why
not do so? Why this elaborate and confusing ritual, when
they could be spending their time on more valuable
pursuits? On the improvement of their backward race,
for example?
    But no. Not them. All they could think of was their
own, petty concerns. He shivered at the inanity of it. At
the sheer, unmitigated ego--a subject on which he was
quite the expert.
    The breeze ruffled the stars in the clear night sky,
bringing him the primitive scent of the prize-winning
goulash cooking in the kitchen below. It would have
made his mouth water, if his mouth had had the
prospensity to do such things.
    Of course, it didn't. But then, he wasn't really here to
soak up the scenery--or the local vodka, for that matter.
He was making his plans--weaving his web like a big,
fat, black spider, strand by dangerous strand.
    And the best part was they had no idea what was
coming... no idea how it would affect their puny lives,
or what role he would play in it. They didn't even know
he was here in their holodeck fantasy, or they would
have put their Shoes back on and railed at him to leave
them alone.
  Humans liked their privacy. They liked it a lot. And
even if these two weren't completely human, they still
shared that particular trait.
    So he remained a.part of the scenery and tolerated the
balalaika music. Soon enough, he consoled himself,
they'd be dancing to his tune. And not just the two
fainthearted lovers on the beach, but the whole kaboodle
of them.
    A waiter emerged from the dining room. "May I get
you something more?" the man asked, in his twentieth-
century Russian dialect. "Some dessert, perhaps? We
have lovely fruit."
    He looked up at the waiter. "No, thank you," he
replied, in the same dialect. "I'11 be leaving in a moment.
Places to go, things to do, Starfleet officers to torment.
You know how it is."
    The waiter didn't, of course, so he just smiled. "If you
are leaving," the man suggested, "may I bring you your
bill?"
    He nodded. "Why not? We've all got to pay the piper
sometime, don't we?" He frowned as the music swelled
to even more infuriating levels. "Or in this case, the
damned balalaika player."
    According to the ship's computer, the Eskimos of
Earth's North American continent had sixteen words for
snow. In that light, it had always seemed strange to Worf
that his own people, the Klingons, should have but one
word for honor.
    The word was batlh. And for all its simplicity, it was
forced to cover a wide variety of situations.
 For instance, there was the sense of honor that accom-
panied a promise kept, or a job well done. There was the
standard of honor that encouraged warriors to die
bravely. And there was the principle of honor that
presided over a government, or a ship, or even a
marriage bed, when all parties dealt openly and fairly
with one another.
    It was this last sort that occupied Worf's mind as he
escorted Deanna Troi from one of the Enterprise's
holodecks. For as much as he enjoyed her company, it
did not come without its share of... inconveniences.
    "That was an incredible program," said Deanna,
smiling as she looked up at him.
    The Klingon nodded. "I am glad you approve. I have
always found the Black Sea at night to be a most...
stimulating experience."
    His companion rolled her eyes at him as they walked
down the stark, metallic corridor. He wondered what he
had said to occasion such a reaction.
    "Worf," she moaned, "we were strolling barefoot
along the beach while balalaika music played in the air.
A sea breeze washing over us... stars in the Sky... a
full moon rising... and the most you can say is 'stimu-
lating'?"
    He groped for a more appropriate responseú "It was
ú.. very stimulating? Extremely stimulating?"
    Deanna shook her head in mock disapproval as they
approached a turbolift. "Honestly, Worf. If you weren't
such a delightful companion..."
    Entering the lift, she instructed it to take them to deck
eight. As the doors closed, the Klingon looked at her. She
looked back. And, unable to help himself, he looked
away.
     Strange, wasn't it? He would rather face a roomful of
 Romulans than speak of certain personal concerns...
 even with someone like Deanna, who was bound to
 understand them. HeWs blasted battleground... if she
 didn't, who would?
    "The truth is," said the Betazoid, obviously changing
the subject for his benefit, "I don't spend nearly enough
time in the holodecks. I should take my own advice and
use them to relax."
    Worf thought about his rolodeck calisthenics pro-
gram. "Most times," he confessed, "I use them for other
things besides relaxing."
    Deanna chuckled softly. "Yes," she said. "I've heard."
As the doors opened, depositing them on deck eight,
they stepped out. The entrance to her quarters was just
opposite the lift.
    "Next time," she went on, 'I'll choose the program. If
you like the Black Sea, you're going to love Lake Cataria
on Betazed. Especially the aurora... the way it folds
and twists and changes from blue to violet to a sullen
orange. And the scents that come out of the forest that
surrounds the lake... You'd really enjoy it."
    For a moment, as they stood outside her suite, their
eyes met and established a bond. Worf basked in the
scent of her, in her warmth, in her beauty. He felt his
discomfort slip away... and decided this was as good a
time as any to mention his misgivings.
    'Deanna;' he began, "perhaps before there is a 'next
time,' we Should discuss... Commander Riker."
    She grinned playfully. "Why? Will he be coming
along?"
    Worf frowned. This was a serious matter, and she
didn't seem inclined to make it any easier for him.
    "No," he said. "But I do not wish to... I mean, it
would be unfortunate if he..." He took a breath,
started again. "If you and I are going to continue
to... to..." He gave up. "I do not want to hurt his
feelings."
    Deanna took his hands in hers. "Worf... I think it's
all right to concentrate on our feelings. Yours ... and
mine."
    Her smile was contagious. Gazing into her eyes,
reassured, he began to forget about Commander Riker
mand everything else in the world. As he leaned over to
kiss her, she lifted her lips to his.
    But before they could touch, the turbolift doors
opened with a hiss--and the captain burst out of them.
Worf stared in disbelief. Not only was Pieard uncharae-
teristically wide-eyed with panic, he was wearing noth-
ing but a blue-and-white striped bathrobe!
  "Counselor!" cried the captain.
    Coming between her and Worf, apparently oblivious
of what he had just interrupted, Picard gripped Deanna
by her arms.
 "What's today's date? The date?" he demanded.
    "Stardate four-seven-nine-eight-eight," the Klingon
said, interjecting the answer.
    Letting go of the Betazoid, Picard turned away from
them and mulled it over. He seemed to be having
enormous difficulty, considering the simplicity of the
concept.
 "F0ur-seven-nine-eight-eight.. ?' the captain echoed.
Deanna looked at him. "Sir, what's wrong?"
Picard's brow furrowed. "I'm not sure," he told her. "I
don't know how... or why, but..." He shook his'
head. "I believe I'm moving back and forth through
time."
    A chill ran UP along Worf's spine. His relationship
with Deanna would have to resume its progress some
other time. It was clear what honor demanded of him.
    Looking up at the intercom grid, he called on Com-
mander Riker.

CHAPTER

2

As Worf entered his quarters, he saw that the light was
on in Alexander's room. And that Alexander himself was
at his desk, studying his monitor.
    The security chief temporarily put aside his concern
for the captain's condition and approached his son.
Noticing him, Alexander looked up and smiled. He had
the smell of cookies and milk about him, though a
human might not have noticed.  "Hi, Father."
    Worf didn't smile back. It was late--well after ten
o'clock.
  "Alexander... should you not be in bed?"
    The boy shrugged. "I have an organic-chemistry exam
tomorrow morning, and there are a few things I'm still
fuzzy on."
    The security chief grunted and moved to his own
room. He could hardly fault Alexander for taking his
studies so seriously. What's more, he felt badly that he
hadn't spent much time helping with them lately.
    However, he'd had other things on his mind. Things
that he could not seem to ignore. Like Deanna.
    Removing his casual clothes, he changed into his
uniform and noted how comfortable it made him feelm
more so than any other garb. Commander Riker had
ordered several scans done, in order to determine if the
captain had indeed left the ship for some period of time.
He was to report to the bridge as soon as he was properly
attired.
    As he reached for his heavy, ceremonial sash, he saw
Alexander standing at the threshold. He was still smil-
ing. "You were with Deanna, huh?"
    Worf gave his son a quizzical look. "What makes you
say that?"
    "I can always tell," the boy replied--and padded back
to his room on bare feet.
    The security chief followed him there. "What do you
mean, you can 'always tell'?" he asked.
    Alexander peered at his monitor. "She puts you in a
good mood. Whenever you spend time together, you
come back with a smile on your face."
    Worf straightened. "I was not smiling when I came in
the door."
    His son turned to him. "Dad... I know when you're
smiling, even when no one else does." He paused. "You
like her. It's obvious."
    The Klingon wasn't comfortable admitting it--but
he couldn't deny Alexander's observation altogether.
"Counselor Troi is a... close friend," he said. "That is
all."
    The boy nodded. "Right." And without another word,
he went back to his studies.
    Worf thought for a moment. It had not been so long
since Alexander's mother had died from an assassin's
attack--and right before the boy's eyes. He did not wish
to cause his son any more trauma than was necessary.
    And yet, if his relationship with the counselor contin-
ued in the direction it was going in... well, it would be
unfair not to sound the boy out on the subject. After all,
his life would be affected as well.
    "But if that were not the case," the security chief said,
opening the conversation again, "if Deanna were more
than a friend to me... how would you feel about that?"
    Alexander looked up with barely contained excite-
ment. "You mean it? You're going to start seeing her
romantically?"
    The Klingon held up a hand. "I did not say that. I was
merely posing a... hypothetical situation."
    The boy tried out the word. "Hypo... thetical. That
means it's possible, right?"
  Worf shrugged. "Well... yes."
    Alexander considered the prospect. When he re-
sponded, it was with great seriousness. "Then...
hypothetically, you understand... I would approve."
    The Klingon nodded. He was greatly pleased, even if
he didn't show it. "I will see you later," he assured the
boy. "After I have performed some special scans." He
paused, for effect. "And when I come back this time, I
expect you to be in bed--sleeping."
    His son nodded. "Yes, sir." Then, almost as an
afterthought: "And say hi to Counselor Troi for me."
    Worf scowled. He didn't like being teased, even by
Alexander.
 "I will," he said, and departed for the bridge.
    "The Iron Feather?" Geordi repeated. "Interesting
title."
    "Yes," said Data, who was walking along beside him
in the gently curving corridor. His voice echoed slightly
from bulkhead to bulkhead. "It is the latest work by
Christian McCloy... the story of one man's journey of
self-discovery set against the chaos of mid-twenty-first-
century Earth."
    "The post-atomic horror," the chief engineer noted.
He grimaced. "Not my favorite period in Terran his-
tory."
    "Nor mine," agreed the android. "However, I found it
to be a most engrossing work of fiction. I highly recom-
mend it."
    Geordi nodded. "I see. And is there a holodeck
version?"
 "I do not believe so," Data replied.
    In that case, the human wasn't all that interested. But
he didn't want to offend his companion, so he didn't say
that.
    "You know, Data, I think I'd rather be in the story
than just read about it. So thanks for the offer, but I'll
take a rain check."
    The android glanced at him. For a moment, the
engineer expected to have to explain his colloquialism.
Then Data turned away again, so apparently no explana-
tion was needed.
    Without question, Geordi's artificial friend had come
a long way since he'd first set foot on the Enterprise. For
one thing, he no longer took people's words so literally.
And for another, his mastery of behavioral nuances was
such that... sometimes... one could almost forget he
was an android.
    As they stopped by a turbolift, Data turned to him
again. "Although I have found the holodeck to be a most
effective means of expanding my understanding of exist-
ing works, I still find the experience of reading the
author's original narrative to be the most--"
    He was interrupted by the swish of the opening lift
doors. To be continued, Geordi mused--whether I like it
or not.
    As they stepped in, however, they saw that Worf was
already in the compartment. That raised a question in
the engineer's mind.
 "What's wrong?" he asked the security chief.
    Worf frowned. "How do you know that something is
wrong?"
    "I believe," Data interjected, "it has something to do
with your being in uniform, when your next tour of duty
is several hours from now."
 Geordi nodded. "Exactly."
    The Klingon's frown deepened. "It is the captain," he
said at last. "He was in the corridor just a little while
ago. Wandering about in his bathrobe."
 The engineer couldn't believe it. "Really?"
    Woffnodded. "He asked what stardate it was. As if he
had no idea."
 "That does not sound like Captain Picard," the an-
droid noted. "Has it been determined what was wrong
with him?"
    The security chief shook his head. "Not yet. Counsel-
or Troi is with him now." He paused. "I think that is all I
should say. After all, there are questions of privacy here
and--"
    Geordi held up his hand. "Go no further. I under-
stand, Worf."
    And he did. But he resolved to look in on the captain
as soon as his own tour was over. With any luck, this
incident would turn out to be nothing... but one never
knew.

CHAPTER

3

Picard stared into the wispy vapors coming up from
his tea. So far, he hadn't touched the stuff--and not
because it wasn't to his liking. After all, Earl Grey was
his favorite blend.
    He was simply too distracted to think much about
drinking anything. He had too much else on his mind.
    "It was," he blurted, "as though I had physically left
the ship and gone to another time and place. I was in the
past .... "
    He shook his head. Why couldn't he get a better
handle on what had happened? It seemed to be on the
brink of his consciousness, teasing him... but when he
,reached for it, it slipped away.
    Deanna sat on the other side of the smooth, dark
coffee table that her mother had given her as a gift. The
counselor's incredulity was visible only in the slightest
wrinkling of the skin above the bridge of her nose.
Outside of that, she seemed completely nonjudgmental.
"Can you describe where you were?" she asked.
"What it looked like?"
    The captain sighed as the scent of the tea teased his
nostrils. "It's all so difficult to nail down," he told her.
"Like the details of a nightmare after you've woken up."
    "What can you remember?" the Betazoid prodded
carefully.
    Picard concentrated. "It was years ago... before I
took command of the Enterprise. I was talking with
someone... I don't remember who. It was dark
outside ...."
    The half-formed image lingered before his mind's eye.
His head hurt with the effort of trying to refine it, to
understand it.
 "But then..." he began.
 "Yes?" said Deanna.
    He struggled with it. "Then everything changed. I
wasn't in the past any longer. I was an old man, in the
future. I was doing something... something outside."
He cursed softly. "What was it?"
    Abruptly, he realized that his fingers were moving, as
if of their own accord. They were rubbing together. But
why? For what purpose?
    Then the image was gone. "Sorry," he told the coun-
selor, bowing his head. "I just can't remember."
    Deanna smiled cornpassionately. "It's all right," she
assured him. And then, as gently as she could manage:
"Captain ... have you considered the possibility that
this was just a dream?"
    Picard looked up. "No. It was more than a dream," he
said, with a certainty that took him by surprise. "The
 smells and the sounds... the way things felt to the
 touch... they escape me now, but at the time it was all
 very real."
    The Betazoid accepted the statement with equanimi-
ty. "How long did you stay in each of these time
periods?" she inquired, apparently taking a different
ú tack. "Did it seem like minutes... hours?"
     The captain thought about it. "I'm not sure," he
 concluded after a moment. "At first... at first there was
 a moment of confusion, of disorientation. I wasn't sure
 where I was. But that passed .... "He frowned. "And
 then I felt perfectly natural... as though I belonged in
 that time." He grunted. "But I can't remember now how
 long I stayed there."
     It was all so frustrating. The counselor sensed it, too,
 because she didn't press him any further.
     "I know," he told her. "This doesn't make much
 sense. It's a set of feelings more than a distinct mem-
 ory."
     "It's all right," said Deanna. "Maybe it would be
 easier to try identifying specific symbols. Can you
 remember anything you saw... anything at all? An
 object, a building, perhaps... ?"
     He took a breath, let it out. "No," he answered finally.
 "Nothing."
     Finally, feeling that he'd run up against a wall, Picard
 focused again on his tea. It was no longer producing any
 vapors. Obviously, he had let it sit too long.
     The counselor had noticed as well, it seemed. "Here,"
 she said, reaching across the table. "Let me have your
 cup. I'll get you some more."
    "Thank you," he said. Picking up the smooth, ceramic
cup and its matching saucer, he extended them to
her...
    ... and took hold of the rough-skinned grapevine.
Suddenly, Picard had the strangest feeling that he had
been reaching for something else.
    For a moment, he felt lost, out of place. Peering out
from under the brim of his straw hat, he took in the long,
graceful contours of his family vineyard. He saw the fog
lifting off them in the low rays of the rising sun...
smelled the richness of the soil... heard the buzz of
flying insects... and confirmed that he was just where
he was supposed to be.
    Still, for just a second there, it seemed to him he was
in another place altogether. He wasn't sure where, or
even when, but... oh, what the hell. When people aged,
their minds were allowed to wander a bit.
    There was nothing wrong with that, was there? With
all the thinking his mind had done, it had earned a little
excursion now and then.
    Concentrating on the vine in his hand, he appraised it
with the trained eye of someone who had grown up
under the tutelage of expert vintners. Then, reaching for
a pair of pruning shears, he snipped off a few stray
branches. Certainly, he could have hired others to do
this work--but it felt good to be useful. And Lord knew,
he wasn't qualified to do much else these days.
 "Captain Picard to the bridge!" a voice rang out.
    Picard could scarcely believe his ears. He looked up
from his work and squinted.
    To his surprise, there was someone standing there in
the vineyard--though the figure was silhouetted in the
early-morning sun, so he couldn't tell who it was right
away. Then, as he shaded his eyes, he made out a
familiar and welcome visage.
 "Geordi," he whispered. "Geordi La Forge."
    His former chief engineer smiled with genuine enthu-
siasm as he approached. "Sir, I think we have a problem
with the warp core, or the phase inducers, or some other
damn thing. It'd normally take days to repair--but if
you need me to, I can fix it in a few minutes. No--make
that a few seconds. And if you want, I can run a few
diagnostics while I'm at it as well."
    The older man stood, though not without a bit of
difficulty. "Damn," he said, scratching at his bearded
chin. "It's really you, isn't it?"
    La Forge was wearing civilian clothes--and why
shouldn't he? He had left Starfleet a good many years
ago, though not as many as Picard himselfi Also, the
man's VISOR was gone--replaced by artificial eyes--
and with his face rounded by age, and punctuated with a
gray mustache, he was no longer the bushy-tailed young
officer that the captain had known.
    But then, time had passed for both of them. So much
time, in fact, that it was depressing to think about it.
    La Forge held out his hand. Picard grasped it with all
the strength he could muster--which wasn't much,
anymore.
    "Hello, Captain," said his visitor. "Or should I make
that Ambassador?"
    Picard snorted. "It hasn't been Ambassador for a
while either."
  The younger man shrugged. "How about Mr. Picard?"
  "How about Jean-Luc?" countered the vintner.
    La Forge looked at him askance. His eyes glinted. "I
don't know if I can get used to that, but I'll give it a
shot."
    For a long moment, they stood in the slanting rays of
the sun, each taking in the sight of an old friend and
comrade. Picard was the first to break the silence.
  "Good lord, Geordi. How long has it been?"
  La Forge grunted. "Oh... about nine years."
    "No, no... I mean, since you called me Captain last?
When was the last time we were all together... on the
Enterprise?"
    It took La Forge a little longer to answer that question.
"Close to twenty-five years," he decided.
    Picard shook his head. "Twenty-five years..." He
smiled. "Time's been good to you, Commander."
    The younger man patted his middle. "It's been a little
too good to me in some places." He took a look around,
his gaze finally fixing itself on the gardening tools that
Picard had lugged out herewjust as he did every morn-
ing. They were stacked just a few meters away. "Can I give you a hand, sir?"
    The older man shrugged. "Oh, I'm just tying some
vines. I can handle it on my own."
    La Forge knelt down anyway and examined one of the
vines.
    "Looks like you've got leaf miners," he announced
after a second or two. "You might want to use a spray on
them."
    Picard looked at him. "What do you know about leaf
miners?" he asked, full of curiosity.
    To his knowledge, La Forge had never set foot in the
ship's botanical gardenwmuch less acquainted himself
with Terran parasites. He'd been far too busy running
herd over the ship's engines.
    "My wife is quite a gardener," La Forge explained.
"I've picked up a little bit of it. I mean... when you live
with somebody who eats and breathes the stuff, it's hard
not to. Just the other day, she spent hours planting a
single flower. Something real fragile... a b'lednaya, I
think she called it."
    Without asking permission, he picked up a small
length of shielded wire off the ground and began tying
some of the vines. Satisfied--and yes, surprised--that
his friend was taking the proper care, Picard knelt down
beside him.
 "How is Leah?" he asked.
    La Forge chuckled softly. "Busier than anyone has a
right to be~even when she's not planting flowers. She's
just been made director of the Daystrom Institute. That
means she'll be working harder than ever~but it's
something she's always wanted."
    Picard nodded, duly impressed. "The Daystrom Insti-
tute, eh? And what about the little ones... Bret and
Alandra? And, er..." He tried to remember the last
one's name.
    Fortunately, his companion supplied it. "And Sidney.
They're not so little anymore, Captain. Bret's applying
to Starfleet Academy next year. His teachers think he'll
make it, too--if he can beef up a little more on his
quantum mechanics."
 The older man swore under his breath. "Incredible,"
he remarked. Then, looking up at his visitor: "So what
brings you here?"
    La Forge kept his eyes focused on the vines he was
tying. "Oh... I just thought I'd drop by. You know how
it is. I'd been thinking about the old days on the
Enterprise, how much fun we used to have... and
anyway, I was in the neighborhood..."
    Picard smelled a rat. "Don't give me that," he rasped.
"You don't make the trip from Rigel Three to Earth just
to... to drop by. It's..." He tried to think of how
many light-years, but finally gave up. "A long way," he
finished lamely.
    La Forge swallowed. He was no more skilled at
deception now than he had been a quarter of a century
ago.
  "Yes," he agreed. "I suppose it is."
Picard eyed him. "So you've heard," he pressed.
The younger man turned to him. "Well," he con-
fessed, "Leah has a few friends at Starfleet medical, you
know? And word has a way of getting around...
especially when it concerns someone of your stature."
    Picard flushed with indignation. "I'm not an invalid,
you know. Irumodic syndrome can take years to run its
course."
    La Forge nodded. "I know. But when I heard, I
just... I wanted to come by all the same."
    The older man looked at his friend for a moment. La
Forge hadn't meant to offend him... just to lend some
support. Certainly, he didn't deserve to be condemned
for that.
 When Picard spoke again, his voice was softer, less
 cantankerous. "Well," he said, "as long as you're here,
 you can help me carry in some of these tools." 
 La Forge grinned. "It's a deal," he said.
     Awkwardly, and not without some pain, Picard got to
 his feet. "My cooking may not be up to Leah's stan-
 dards," he warned. "But I can still make a decent cup of
 tea."
     Grabbing an armful of his farming implements, he
 saw his visitor do the same. Together, they started
 walking toward the house where Picard had been raised.
 It was barely visible around the bend of the hill.
    "By the way," said the vintner, "I read your last novel.
ú Not bad, not bad at all."
     "Really?" replied La Forge. Like a great many authors
 before him, there was something of the small child about
 him, seeking approval.
     The captain nodded. "Really. It had a certain, er...
 authenticity to it that I found quite refreshing. Of
 course, I didn't like the main character all that much...
 what was his name?"  "Patrick."
     "Patrick, of course. Not quite the fellow I would have
 chosen t() run my ship. But that's just my own,
 personal..."
     Suddenly, Picard stopped dead in his tracks. Standing
 in the vineyards, not fifty meters away, was a trio of the
 sorriest, scraggliest excuses for human beings that he'd
 ever seen.
     He didn't recognize any of them. In fact, he'd never
 seen them before in his life. So what in blazes were they
 doing in his vineyard?
    Before he could ask them that question, they began
pointing at him--pointing and jeering. Then shouting at
the tops of their lungs, as if they found something
amusing about him. Picard suppressed his indignation.
    Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his compan-
ion looking at him. He looked concerned.
"Captain," asked La Forge, "are you all right?"
"I'm fine," said Picard, keeping his eyes on the
intruders. "I just want to know what these people are
doing in my vineyard .... "
  "Captain?"
      Picard turned at the sound of the shuttle pilot's voice.
"Yes, Lieutenant?" he muttered.  "Are you all right, sir?"
    He wasn't sure. He seemed to have drifted off--but
not merely figuratively. It was almost as if he'd been
somewhere else until just this second... somewhere
very different from the shuttlecraft Galileo.
    But of course, that was ridiculous. For the last several
minutes, he'd been sitting in the copilot's seat of the
small, crisp-looking craft, making the brief trip from the
shipyard offices to his new command.
    Perhaps he was just nervous, he told himself. After all,
it had been several years since he'd sat in the center seat
of a starship--and the assignment he was headed for
was significantly more demanding than the Stargazer
had been.
    "Sir?" prodded the pilot, who was also to be one ofhis
senior officers when he took command.
 Picard turned to her, noting the way her prickly,
 no-nonsense attitude clashed with her striking good
 looks. Her skin was tinted a pale green by the craft's
 interior lighting; it accentuated the green of her eyes.
     He smiled, a little embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Lieuten-
 ant Yar. My mind seems to have wandered for a mo-
 ment. What was it you were saying?"
     She seemed to relax a bit. "I was asking if you'd ever
 been aboard a Galaxy-class starship before, sir."
     Picard focused his mind on answering the question.
 Though he still had the nagging sensation that he'd left
 something unfinished somewhere, he tried to ignore it.
     "No," he replied. "I'm, of course, very familiar with
 the blueprints and specifications... and I've seen holo-
    grams of its performance projections... but this will be
ú my first time aboard."
     The young woman smiled--an expression of pride
 more than one of pleasure. "Well then, sir, if I may be so
 bold... you're in for a treat. The Enterprise is quite a
 ship."
  The captain nodded. "I'm sure she is."
     Of course, he couldn't see it yet, with all the yard's
 other ships hovering in the way like a pack of high-tech
 herd animals. But he would get an eyeful of the Enter-
 prise soon enough.
     As it was, he found Lieutenant Yar's face much more
 interesting. There was something about it that seemed
 ú.. familiar, he thought, even though he was only notic-
 ing it now for the first time.
     Perhaps it was just one of those faces. He was relative-
 ly certain he had never met her before today. Or had he?
     After a moment, Yar seemed to notice that he was
 scrutinizing her. She glanced back at him.
    "Sir?" A pause. "Have I done something wrong?" she
asked.
  "No," he said. "Of course not, Lieutenant."
    He was sorry for the misconception he'd caused. No
matter how curious he was, it had been wrong of him to
stare.
    "You just seem familiar to me," he explained further.
"I was wondering if we had run into one another on a
prior occasion."
    The woman's brow wrinkled. "I don't think so," she
replied.
Picard nodded. "No," he agreed. "Perhaps not."
Yar returned her attention to her control console. A
second later, the communications panel beeped. She hit
the appropriate control pad.
    "Enterprise to shuttlecraft Galileo," announced the
ship's offcer in charge of shuttle traffic. "You are cleared
for arrival in shuttlebay two."
    The lieutenant's response was crisp and professional:
"Acknowledged, Enterprise."
    Working her controls for a moment, she pointed to a
spot dead ahead, between two smaller starships. The
captain craned his neck to follow her gesture, but he
couldn't see anything yet from where he was sitting.
  "There she is," said Yar.
    A moment later, he saw what she was talking about, as
the Galaxy-class Enterprise swam into view. Picard felt
his heart skip as he took in the majesty and the grace and
the magnitude of her.
    Her saucer section alone could accommodate more
than a thousand people, he had learned. And her
nacelles positioned underneath the ship, where the
Stargazer's had been placed abovetwere not only ele-
gant, but highly efficient. Even in the midst of all the
other half-ready vessels in the yard, she seemed to stand
outtto shine.
    "She's beautiful," he commented, without intending
to. And then, because the word didn't seem to praise her
enough: "Absolutely breathtaking."
 The lieutenant nodded. "She certainly is .... "
 "... Captain?"
    Picard blinked. He was in Deanna's quarters again,
holding out his ceramic cup full of cold tea. The counsel-
or herself was staring at him, her dark eyes fixed on
histas if he'd just said or done something entirely
inappropriate. And there was a feeling in his stomach
the likes of which he'd never felt before.
    "Tasha," he muttered, his eyes going in and out of
focus.
 "I beg your pardon?" responded Deanna.
    "Tasha," he repeated dully, his own voice sounding
strange in his ears. "I was just with Tasha, in the
shuttle .... "
    Suddenly, it was all too much for him. His accumu-
lated feelings of disorientation swept over him like a
tidal wave, threatening to crush him. Somewhere off in
the distance, he heard the sound of his cup shattering on
the table.
    In what seemed like a long, dizzying fall, Picard
slumped back into his chair. His skull was ringing
furiously, like a thousand chiming clocks. He put his
hands to his ears in an attempt to shut them out, but he
couldn't. They were too loud, too insistent.
    "Captain?" came a cry, taut with concern. And again, ~
tighter still: "Captain?"
  "I..." he began. "I... can't..."
    There was a dull sound--like a hand hitting some-
thing hard, something metallic. His stomach lurched.
    "Troi to Dr. Crusher." The words seemed at once very
close and very far away. "Something's wrong with the
captain. We're on our way to sickbay."
 And then he blacked out altogether.

28

CHAPTER 4

Dr. Beverly Crusher had seen her friend, the captain,
in many a narrow strait. However, she had never seen
him look quite so meek or helpless as he did now.
    Sitting in his robe on the biobed in front of her,
Jean-Luc was just staring into space, and had been for
nearly a minute. He seemed oblivious of the doctors and
nurses going about their business elsewhere in sickbaY.'
    It made her feel helpless, too--because even after the
battery of brain~activity tests she'd put him through, she
still couldn't figure out what was wrong with him.
Sighing, she completed one last scan with her tricorder
and considered the results.
    Troi, who was standing at the foot of the bed, looked at
the doctor hopefully. Unfortunately, Crusher would
have to dash that hope.
    "I don't see anything that might cause hallucinations
or a psychogenic reaction," she said.
 The captain turned to her. "Nothing?"
  "Nothing," echoed the doctor.
    "Is there any indication of temporal displacement?"
queried Troi. "Anything that might shed some light on
the problem?"
    Crusher shook her head. "Not that I can see. Usually,
a temporal shift would leave some kind of trypamine
residue in the cerebral cortex. But the scans didn't find
any."
    Gently, she put her hand on Jean-Luc's shoulder. He
half-smiled at the gesture, but his mind was clearly on
his troubles.
    "Frankly," she said, trying to lighten things up a bit,
"I think you just enjoy waking everyone up in the
middle of the night."
    The captain looked at her. He seemed grateful for her
effort to ease the considerable tension.
    "Actually," he replied, picking up on her gibe, "I
enjoy running around the ship in my bare feet. I find
it..." He pretended to search for the right word.
"Invigorating," he decided at last.
    Now it was the doctor's turn to smile. "No doubt you
do."
 "Dr. Crusher?"
    The chief medical officer turned. Alissa Ogawa, one of
her nurses, was headed this way with a padd. Ogawa was
six months pregnant and looked every minute of it.
 "Here are the biospectral test results," said the nurse.
 "Thanks, Alissa," said Crusher.
    Smiling, Ogawa crossed sickbay to attend to other
things--and the doctor looked over the results displayed
on the padd. Finally, satisfied that there could be no
error, she turned to her patient, who had been watching
her as she went over the data.  "And?" he asked.
    "Well," she told him, "your blood-gas analysis is
consistent with someone who's been breathing the ship's
air for weeks. If you'd been somewhere else, there would
be some indication of a change in your dissolved oxygen
levelsrebut there isn't any such indication. You haven't
left the Enterprise, Jean-Luc. Not as far as I can tell."
    He frowned. "I don't understand," he said. He got
that faraway look again--the one that tore at Crusher's
heart. Unfortunately, the doctor thought, that wasn't the
worst news she would give him today.
    Turning to Troi, she asked, "Counselor... would you
be good enough to excuse us for a moment?"
    The Betazoid looked a little surprised, but she took the
request in .stride. "Of course," she replied. And then, to
the captain: "I'll look in on you a little later."
    Jean-Luc nodded--but his gaze was fixed on the
doctor now. He, too, wondered what kind of remarks
required such privacy.
    As Troi headed for the exit, Crusher met his scrutiny.
This wasn't going to be easy, she told herself. But, as his
doctor, she had to tell him.
    "Jean-Luc," she began, "our scans didn't show any
evidence of Irumodic syndrome. But it did reveal a
particular kind of defect in your parietal lobe." She
paused, choosing her words carefully. "It's the kind of
defect that could make you susceptible to several neuro-
logical disorders later in life... including Irumodic
syndrome."
The captain absorbed the news. "I see," he said.
Until this moment, he had been dealing only with
something he'd experienced elsewhere--more than like-
ly, it seemed, in a particularly vivid nightmare. Now the
nightmare--or at least this one aspect of itwwas invad-
ing his real world.
    Still, whatever dark prospects he contemplated, he
kept them to himself. Outwardly, he didn't show the
least sign of self-pity.
    "Now," she continued, "it's possible you could have
that defect for the rest of your life without developing a
problem. And even if the syndrome does develop, many
people lead perfectly normal lives for a long time after its
onset."
    Jean-Luc smiled wrylyweven courageously. "Then
why," he asked, "do you look like you've just signed my
death sentence?"
    He said it with a hint of a smile, so she wouldn't get
the wrong idea. Just as she had tried to break the tension
earlier, he was trying his best to break it now.
    After all, he knew that she would not be pleased about
this either. Not only was she his physician, she was his
friend. And at times, she had been on the verge of
becoming something even more.
    "Sorry," said Crusher, unable to quite bring herself to
smile with him. "I guess... this has caught me off
guard."
    The captain took a contemplative breath and let it out.
"Well, it'll either happen or it won't. However, since we
have no control over it, there's no point in worrying."
He looked at her with something akin to defiance in
his eyes. "Besides," he added, "something tells me
you're going to have to put up with me for a very long
time."
    The doctor shrugged. "It won't be easy," she told him,
attempting to match his attitude, "but I'll manage."
    She wanted to say more, but she was interrupted
by the entrance of First Officer Will Riker. Crossing sick-
bay in several long strides, he looked as serious as
Crusher felt. Of course, Riker didn't know anything
about the potential for Irumodic syndrome, which
worried the doctor even more than Jean-Luc's current
malady.
    The captain eyed his second-in-command. "Well?" he
inquired. "Did Worf find anything?"
    Riker shook his head. "No, sir. His security scans
came up negative." He held his hands out in a gesture of
apology. "They're checking the sensor logs... but
there's still no indication that you left the ship?'
    Jean-Luc slipped off the biobed and harrumphed. "It
wasn't a dream," he insisted. "Something did happen."
    Abruptly, they were interrupted by a voice on the
intercom net. "Worf to Captain Pieard."
 The captain looked up. "Go ahead, Lieutenant."
    "Sir, there is an incoming transmission from Admiral
Nakamura. It is a Priority One message."
    Priority One? Crusher knew that Starfleet didn't use
that designation lightly.
 Jean-Luc turned to her. "Beverly?"
    She knew what he wanted--and she had no objec-
tions. "Go ahead," she said. "Use it if you like."
 The captain nodded by way of a thank-you. "Mr.
Worf," he instructed, "route the communication
through to Dr. Crusher's office."
 "Aye, sir," replied the Klingon. "Rerouting..."
    As Jean-Luc started across sickbay, the chief medical
officer sighed. She hoped that Nakamura didn't want too
much of the captain. It wasn't as if he didn't have enough
on his mind.

CHAPTER

5

Entering the doctor's office, Picard sat down at her
 desk and activated the desktop monitor. After a mo-
 ment, the solemn visage of Admiral Nakamura appeared
 on tho screen.
  "Captain," said the admiral:
     "Admiral," returned Picard. One didn't drag out
 Priority One messages with small talk.
     Nakamura shifted slightly in his chair. "Jean-Luc, I'm
 initiating a fleetwide yellow alert. Starfleet intelligence
 has picked up some disturbing reports from the
 Romulan Empire."
  "What sort of news?" asked the captain:
     The admiral frowned. "It appears that they're mobi-
 lizing for something. At least thirty Warbirds have been
 pulled from other assignments and are heading for the
 Neutral Zone."
  That was disturbing news indeed. "Is there any indica-
tion why they would make such a blatantly aggressive
move, Admiral?"
    "Perhaps," said Nakamura. "Our operatives on Rom-
ulus have indicated that something is happening in the
Neutral Zone--specifically, in the Devron system. Our
own long-range scans have picked up some kind of
spatial anomaly in the area, but we can't tell what it
is--or why the Romulans might have taken an interest
in it."
    "I see," responded Picard. "And what are our or-
ders?"
    The admiral scowled. "As you can imagine, this is a
delicate situation. I'm deploying fifteen starships along
our side of the Neutral Zone. And I want you to go there
as well--to see if you can find out what's going on in the
Devron system."
    The captain pondered his instructions. "Am I autho-
rized to enter the Zone?" he inquired.
    Nakamura shook his head. "Not yet. Wait and see
what the Romulans do. You can conduct long-range
scans, send probes if you wish... but don't cross the
border unless they cross it first."
 "Understood," Picard assured him.
    "Good luck," said the admiral. And with that, his
image vanished, replaced with the official insignia of
Starfleet.
 Turning off the monitor, the captain stood...
    ... and felt a sudden wave of vertigo wash over him.
He felt himself falling... falling... reaching out...
until he was caught by a pair of strong arms.
      Looking up, he saw that it was La Forge who had
rescued him. The man's face was puckered with concern.
  "Captain... what's wrong?" he asked.
    With his friend's help, Picard steadied himself and
looked around. His family's vineyard seem to stretch out
forever in every direction. But... that wasn't right, was
it? He didn't belong in the vineyard... or didn't...
  "Is something wrong, sir?" pressed La Forge.
    The older man tried to think. "I don't know," he
responded. "I... I wasn't here a moment ago .... "
    His visitor's worry lines deepened. "What do you
mean? You've been right here with me, sir."
    Picard groped for an answer. He tried to concentrate,
to remember... but the damned Irumodic syndrome
kept dragging down his every effort.
    If only he were younger. If only his mind hadn't
deteriorated. If only...
    Stop it, he told himself. You're not going to get
anywhere feeling sorry for yourself. Now, what hap-
pened to you? Try to remember, dammit.
    "No," he said at last. "I wasn't here. I was somewhere
else... a long time ago." He concentrated harder. "I
was talking to someone .... "
 And then it came to him. Beverly...
 "Beverly was there."
    He looked up at La Forge and saw an expression of
disbelief. Picard's former comrade was beginning to
wonder if the old man was losing it. It was evident in his
eyes, even if they had been created in a lab somewhere.
    "It's okay, Captain." He took hold of the vintner's
arm. "Everything's going to be all right."
 Flushed with anger, Picard pulled his arm away. "I am
not senile. It happened, I tell you. I was here, with
you... and then I was in another place..." But where
was it?
    Again, he had a flash of insight. "It was... it was
back on the Enterprise!" he croaked.
    But how was that possible? He hadn't been on his old
ship in a quarter of a century. And the more he thought
about it, the more a host of doubts began to set in.
    "At least," he went on, "I think it was the Enterprise. It
seemed like sickbay... yes... but maybe it was a
hospital... or..." He shrugged. How could he know?
How could he be sure?
    La Forge looked at him. "Captain, I think we should
go back to the house. We could call a doctor .... "
    Picard felt his anger crawl up into his throat, where it
threatened to choke him. "No, "he grated. "I know what
you're thinking. It's the Irumodic syndrome. It's be-
ginning to... to affect the captain's mind. Well, it's
not that. And... and I wasn't daydreaming either,
dammit."
    La Forge held up a hand for peace. "All right, sir...
all right. Just calm down."
    The older man felt the heat in his face start to ebb
away. He straightened to his full height. "Apology
accepted," he said, even though--technically--his visi-
tor hadn't tendered one.
    "So," La Forge probed, "something's happened.
You've gone... er, somewhere else. And back again."
Picard nodded emphatically. "Damned right I have."
"Then..." The younger man appealed to him with
his artificial eyes. "What do you want to do about it?"
  The vintner considered the request, doing his best to
seize on a course of action. Finally, one came to mind.
  "I want to see Data," he announced.
  La Forge mulled it over. "I don't get it. Why Data?"
  This was annoying. "Because I think he can help."
    The younger man looked at him. "If you don't mind
my asking, sir... help how?"
    The anger exploded in him, almost as hot and bright
as before. "I don't know!" roared Picard. "I don't
know--but I want to see him, do you understand me?"
    In the aftermath of the captain's outburst, La Forge
hesitated. Obviously, he still wasn't putting much cre-
dence in anything the older man said. But in the end, he
seemed to come to terms with the idea.
"Okay, sir. We'll go see Data, if that's what you want."
"It is," Picard confirmed.
The younger man's eyes narrowed. "He's still at
Cambridge, isn't he?"
    It was a good question. "Yes," said the vintner. "I
think he..."
    He never finished the sentence, distracted by a sudden
movement in the corner of his eye. Turning toward it, he
saw the intruders again--the scraggly, undernourished,
hollow-eyed souls he'd noticed before.
    But this time, there weren't three of them. There were
six.
    As before, they were jeering and pointing at Picard--
though he hadn't the slightest idea why. Nor, for that
matter, could he guess what they were doing here a
second time.
 He grabbed La Forge by the arm and, with an effort,
managed to turn him in the intruders' direction. "Do
you see them?" he asked. "Do you?"
    The other man looked out over the rolling vineyards.
Then he looked back at Picard. "See who?"
    The captain pointed to them. "They're out there," he
said. "Laughing at me. Why are they laughing,
dammitT'
    Why indeed? What was so funny7 And who were they,
anyway?
    La Forge put his arm around Picard. It was a patently
protective gesture. "Come on, Captain. Let's go see
Data."
    Picard started to protest--and then realized that the
intruders were gone. There wasn't a sign ofthem--not a
rag, not an echo. He scanned the vineyards in all
directions, to no avail.
    But how could they have disappeared so quickly? It
was as if they'd dropped into a hole in the earth.
    Or was it possible that he had imagined them after all?
That they had never existed in the first place?
    The older man swallowed. "Yes," he muttered. "Data
ú.. yes, of course."
    And, feeling a little weak in the knees, he allowed his
former comrade to guide him as they walked back
toward the house.
    Cambridge University hadn't changed much over the
millennium or so since it was founded. At least, that was
Geordi's understanding. Personally, he had been
through the place only once before, on a family outing--
and that was when he was very small.
    Data's residence at the university was an old English
manor house, built around the end of the sixteenth
century. It had the smell of old wood about it. As Geordi
approached the front door, with the captain at his side,
he noticed the large brass knocker. It had been molded
in the shape of a long-maned lion's head.
    Geordi smiled. Here, as on the Picard family proper-
ty, the primitive had been preserved and venerated. No
doubt it was making the captain feel right at home.
    He had been alarmed by Picard's behavior back in the
vineyards. However, the captain hadn't seemed nearly
so distracted on the way here. In fact, his excitement had
seemed to focus his thoughts--to make him more lucid.
    Why, there had been times on the trip from France to
England when Geordi had completely forgotten that the
man had Irumodic syndrome. Well, almost completely.
There had been the incident with the poodle.
    Reaching for the knocker, Geordi banged it a couple
of times on the heavy wooden door. After a moment, the
door opened. A dour-looking, red-faced woman some-
where in her fifties peered out at them. She looked broad
enough to put the average Tellarite to shame.
    "State your business," said the woman, with a heavy
English accent. Her small, deep-set eyes announced that
the two men were anything but welcome here, and dared
them to say otherwise.
    Still, they hadn't come all this way to be turned back
now. "We're here to see Mr. Data," the former chief
engineer explained. "My name is Geordi La Forge and
this is Jean-Luc Picard. We're old friends of his."
    The woman's eyes narrowed almost to slits. "t'm sure
you are, sir. Everyone's friends with Mr. Data, it ap-
pears. But the professor's busy right now and can't be
disturbed, y'see."  "But..."
  "I'm sorry, sir."
    As she began to close the door, Picard put his foot in
the way. The woman glared at him.
    "It's very important we see him immediately," he
elaborated, glaring back. "We've come all the way from
France."
    The woman's expression indicated that she was not
impressed. "Have you got wax in your ears?" she asked.
"I told you he's busy, sir. If you wish to make an.
appointment, you'll have to go through the university--
and let them decide how important it is. Now, don't
make me call the constable on you, because I won't
hesitate toa"
  "Jessel? Who's at the door?"
    Geordi would have known that voice anywhere--
although there was a range of expressiveness in it that he
hadn't heard before. The woman looked irritated. Obvi-
ously, she had no choice now but to announce their
presence there.
    "Just some jkiends of yours, sir," she called back into
the house. "I told them to come back another time, when
you're not so busy."
    "Now, Jessel, I told you about frightening people
away...
    As the sentence hung unfinished in the air, an inner
door swung openmrevealing none other than their old
colleague, Data. Being an android, he hadn't aged over
the years. However, there was a prominent streak of gray
on one side of his head--not a natural streak, but one
that looked as ira paintbrush had been taken to his head.
    Data was wearing a cranberry-colored, synthetic-silk
smoking jacketathe perfect complement to his sur-
roundings. As he peered out at Geordi and the captain,
his eyes seemed to go blank for a moment. Then, slowly,
a smile broke out on his face.
    "Geordi!" he exclaimed. "Captain!" He held out a
hand to them.
 Being a bit closer, Geordi was the first to take it.
 "It's good to see you, Data."
 Picard shook hands with him, too.
 "It's been a long time," he noted.
    The android nodded. "Too long, sir." Turning to his
housekeeper, he said, "Jessel, these are my old ship-
mates. The ones I have told you about."
    The woman harrumphed. "Oh. The Enterprise bunch.
How delightful." And turning on her heel, she vanished
into the house.
    Unperturbed, Data ushered them in. "What a pleas-
ant surprise this is." And then, glancing back at the
departing housekeeper: "Tea and biscuits for everyone,
Jessel."

CHAPTER 6

To Picard, Data's library looked like something out of a
Sherlock Holmes story... spacious, comfortable, the
walls lined with a wide assortment of leather-bound
books. He could smell the oils that had been used to
preserve them. A fire--not a real one, ofcourse, but a
rather authentic-looking hologram--was roaring cheer-
fully in the hearth.
    And there were any number of cats wandering about
or sleeping on the furniture. Apparently, the android's
mixed experience with Spot hadn't turned him off to
felines altogether.
    La Forge nodded appreciatively. "This is quite a house
you have here, Data. I see they treat professors pretty
well at Cambridge."
    The android shrugged. "Holding the LucasJan Chair
does have its perquisites. This house originally belonged
to Sir Isaac Newton when he held the position. It has
since become the traditional residence." He paused. "Of
course, being a creature of habit, I tend to use only three
of the forty-seven rooms in the manor."
    Just then, Jessel entered the room with a silver tea
service, which gleamed in the firelight. Judging by her

expression, she'd been keeping track of their conversa-
tion.
    "Might as well board up the rest of the house, for all
the use it gets..." Her voice trailed off, but she'd made
her point.
    Wiping her hands on her apron, she leaned in close to
La Forge and spoke quietly--though not so quietly
Picard couldn't make out what she was saying. "You're
his friend, eh?"
    He saw the former engineer nod. "That's right. And I
have been for quite some time."
    "Well then," said the housekeeper, "as his friend, see
if you can get him to take that gray streak out of his hair.
He looks like a bloomin' skunk, he does. People will
soon start walking on the other side of the street when
they see him coming."
    Data, who had obviously overheard, cast a remonstra-
tire look at Jessel. "Thank you," he told her. "That will
be all."
    Without another word, she made her exit. The an-
droid turned to his guests with a wry look on his face.
    "She can be trying at times," he admitted. "But she
does make me laugh now and then."
    La Forge smiled. "So... what is it with your hair,
anyway?"
    Picard was glad someone else had mentioned it.
Unfortunately, Data looked a bit embarrassed.
"I have found that a touch of gray adds an air
of... distinction," he explained. "Unfortunately, I
don't seem to have it quite right yet." Indicating a pair of
chairs, he glanced at each of his old comrades in turn.
"Please," he said. "Make yourselves comfortable."
    Crossing to the tea set, the android began to pour.
When he was done, he brought them their cups.
    Then, sitting down himself, he eyed Picard. "Since
neither of you has a predilection for sudden visits, I
assume you are not here just for afternoon tea."
    Picard nodded, grateful for the opening. "That's true.
Data, I need your help .... "
    It took a while for him to explain what had happened:
to him--even longer than it should have, perhaps,
thanks to his illness. But in the end, he managed to get it
all out.
    "I know how it sounds," the older man finished. "But
it happened. It was real. I was back on the Enterprise."
    He saw Data and La Forge exchange a look--but he
was willing to disregard it. After all, he told himself, if
their positions and his were reversed, he would have
been a bit skeptical as well.
    "Temporal displacement would normally leave a re-
sidual tachyon signature," the android noted, as a clark
brown cat walked over his lap. "I've scanned' you, sir,
but I can't see anything out of the ordinary." Turning to
La Forge, he asked, "When this happened, did you
notice anything unusual?"
    The man with the artificial eyes shook his head. "No.
We were walking through the vineyard and he just...
stumbled."
    Data considered that for a moment. He looked back to
Picard. "And you say this happened to you twice?"
    The older man nodded. "Twice that I know of...
though I suppose it could've been more often .... "He
hated not being able to remember. "I wish I could be
more specific," he said, "but this damned condition of
mine... I just can't seem to think straight sometimes."
    At that point, Jessel entered to reclaim the tea service.
By then, whatever they hadn't finished had gone coldin
as a number of cats could bear witness, having peeked
inside the cups themselves. While the housekeeper gath-
ered up the cups and saucers, the android renewed his
questioning.
    "Captain," he began, "when was the last time you saw
a physician about your Irumodic syndrome?"
    Picard felt his spine stiffen. "A week ago. I was
prescribed peridaxon. And yes, I'm fully aware that it's
not a cure. Nothing can stop the deterioration of my...
my synaptic pathways. I know that."
    Again, Data and La Forge exchanged looks. This time,
it rankled the older man, and he couldn't contain it.
    "You think I'm senile," he told them. "That this is all
some... delusion or something. Admit it."
"No one said anything like that," replied La Forge.
But Data gave him the unvarnished truth. "In all
honesty, Captain, it's a thought that has occurred to me.
However, there is nothing to disprove what you are
saying, either. So I suppose it's possible that something
is happening to you."
    Picard felt hopeful as he watched the android pace
across the room, sending a number of sleeping cats
scurrying for cover. It seemed Data had become a lot
more... human since they saw each other last. Or at
least, he'd picked up some human habits.
    "The first thing we should do," said their host, "is give
you a complete series of neurographic scans. We can use
the equipment at the biometrics lab here on campus."
Turning to the housekeeper, who was shooing a SiameSe
cat off the couch, he said, "Jessel, ask Professor Rippert
to take over my lecture for tomorrow... and possibly
for the rest of the week."
    The older man grinned. "That's my Data!" he ex-
claimed. "I knew I could count on you!" He jumped up
from his chair and--
--felt his feet strike the unyielding metal of the
shuttledeck.
    Looking around, Picard had that feeling again... the
one that he had been somewhere else until this very
second. He was tempted to reach back, to steady himself
against the Galileo. But in the next moment, the feeling
passed.
    A moment later, he saw that there were a couple of
dozen officers lined up for his inspection. They were
standing at ease in three distinct ranks.
    One was a Klingon--Worf, wasn't it? He recalled the
gist of the man's personal history. Nor was it a difficult
task, considering how unusual it was for a Klingon to be
raised on Earth.
    Stepping out from behind Picard, Lieutenant Yar
called out in a loud voice, "The commanding officer of
the Enterprise/"
    The words echoed from bulkhead to bulkhead. It was
a proud moment for him. And it wasn't over. Right on
cue, an ensign brought an old-fashioned bosun's whistle
to his lips and blew on it. At the high, shrill sound,
everyone in the bay snapped to crisp attention.
    Shrugging off the last shreds of his disorientation,
Picard moved to a nearby podium, placed his padd on it,
and surveyed the crowd. There were other faces here that
he recognized from their Starfleet files--but there would
be time to study them at length later on. Right now,
everyone was waiting for him to officially announce his
assumption of command.
    Moving forward with the ceremony, he read from the
padd. "To Captain Jean-Luc Picard, stardate four-
one-one-four-eight..."
    Something made him look up. To his astonish-
ment, there was a trio of humans up on the shuttle-
bay's catwalk. They were haggard, sunken-cheeked...
dressed in rags.
    And the captain had the strangest feeling that he had
seen them somewhere before--though he couldn't re-
member where.
    As Picard stared at them, and they stared back, One of
the figures pointed to him. Then all three began to laugh.
The captain blinked, unable to believe the evidence of
his own eyes.
 And then they were gone.
    Jarred, he just stood there for a moment, trying to
decide what had just happened--if anything. He was a
perfectly sane, perfectly rational human being. He had
no history of hallucinations. And yet, he had thought
he'd seen something that was plainly not there.
    Someone cleared his or her throat. Remembering the
officers who had assembled to greet him, Picard looked
at them. They were waiting.
    Gathering himself, he returned to the orders written
on the padd. "You are hereby requested and required to
take command..." he read.
    And a second time, something caught his eye. Glanc-
ing up, he saw that the figures on the catwalk were
back--but now, there were six of them. And they were
pointing at him and jeering even more wildly than
before.
    Then, as if by magic, they weren't. They had vanished
again. He looked all around the room and could find no
sign of them.
    It was only then that he put two and two together.
Might the sight of the hollow-cheeked hecklers have
something to do with his feelings of disorientation?
Might it not be all of a piece?
    Unfortunately, he couldn't puzzle it out now, in the
presence of all his officers. They would think he'd gone
over the edge.
    Later, after he'd had time to rest, to mull it over, he'd
be able to put these things in some reasonable context.
He'd see that there was a logical explanation for all of it.
    But right now, he wanted to get this ceremony over
with and retire to his quarters. As before, he applied
himself to reading the words on the padd.
    "... to take command of the U.S.S. Enterprise as of
this date. Signed, Rear Admiral Norah Satie, Starfleet
Command."
    Turning off the padd, he stepped out from behind the
podium and looked at his crew. They looked back at him
silently, waiting for the first words he would offer
them--their first bit of sage advice from the captain of
the newly commissioned Enterprise.
    But before he could advise them, he saw that the
scraggly figures had returned--and this time, in force.
There were ten of them now, up on the catwalk, all
shouting at Picard with murderous intent. Out of reflex,
he took a step back, prepared to respond if they came
leaping over the rail to get at him.
    But it never happened--because a fraction of a sec-
ond later, they were gone. An eerie, echoing silence filled
the shuttlebay, as the captain made his decision.
    This wasn't his imagination. This wasn't the product
of a tired or distracted mind. Something was going on
here--and until he knew what, he would take whatever
precautions he deemed necessary.
    Addressing his officers, he shouted, "Red alert! All
hands to battle stations!"
    For a moment, they just looked at him, dumbfounded.
Surely, their faces said, this had to be a joke. Only one of
them took it seriously right from the start.
    "You heard the captaint" barked Lieutenant Yar.
"Move!"
    That broke them out of their initial paralysis. An
instant later, they were sounding the alert, rushing out
the shuttlebay doors to their respective duty stations.
    And as Picard watched them go, he mused that in
twenty years on the Stargazer, he had never encountered
anything like this. Welcome to the Enterprise, he told
himself.

CHAPTER 7

Red alert," muttered Miles Edward O'Brien, lost in
thought as he made his way along the crowded corridor.
"I just don't get it."
    His friend Sutcliffe, who was accompanying him to
the turbolift, didn't get it either. He said so.
    "I mean," he continued, "I've heard of captains
coming on board and trying to make an impression, but
that was ridiculous. Everybody running to their battle
stations for no reason at all..." He sighed. "If it was a
drill, it was a damned stupid time for one."
    O'Brien cast a sideways glance at him. "Don't say
that."
 Sutcliffe glanced back. "Say what?"
 "That it was stupid," O'Brien explained.
 "And why not?" asked the other man.
 "Because he's the captain," O'Brien told him.
 "And that means he can't do anything stupid?"
 O'Brien nodded. "That's right."
    "You're out of your mind," said Sutcliffe. "Captains
are as human as anyone else. Or as Vulcan. Or as
Andorian. They make mistakes, just like the rest of us."
    "That's not the way I was taught," O'Brien countered.
"You don't run down the man in the center seat. Not
even when you're talking to a friend. Not even when
you're talking to yourself." He paused, remembering his
old ship and its commanding otficer. "That's the way it
was on the Phoenix, under Captain Maxwell. And that's
the way it'll be here--at least for me."
Sutcliffe smiled. "Blind obedience? Really?"
O'Brien shrugged off the criticism. "Not blind," he
said. "Just obedience. You may disagree with a man's
orders, or his judgment. But when you start thinking you
can replace it with your own, you run into trouble." He
grunted. "Starfleet Command isn't in the habit of put-
ting berserkers or ne'er-do-wells in charge of Galaxy-
class vessels. If Captain Picard called a red alert, he had
a reason for it."
    "Uh-huh," Sutcliffe replied. "Even if you can't for the
life of you imagine what it might have been."
O'Brien frowned. "Even then. Of course--"
Abruptly, he felt his shoulder bump hard into some-
thing. Or more accurately, someone. In this case, it was
an Oriental woman with her arms full of transparent
flower caseswwhich went tumbling to the deck as he
and she collided.
    "Oh, blast," he said, kneeling beside her to help her
pick them up again. But she didn't seem to be in any
hurry to do that.
    "The b'lednaya..." she groaned, her dark eyes wide
with pain.
    "Don't worry," O'Brien told her. He smiled, trying to
put the situation in perspective for her. "I'll give you a
hand."
    The woman looked up at him. "Don't bother," she
said. "B'lednaya are very fragile. As you can see," she
said, picking up a case to use as an example, "their stems
have been broken."
    Indeed, their stems were broken. And though the
delicate, violet-and~yellow flowers hadn't been affected
yet, it was only a matter of time before they'd begin to
shrivel.
    He felt badly about that. But he still had to get to the
bridge to help with its outfitting, and he was due there in
just a couple of minutes. Nor did he want to be tardy,
considering the importance of his assignment.
    Starfleet captains might understand a lot of things, but
lateness wasn't one of them. He knew that from sad
experience.
    "Listen," he told the woman--who, he couldn't help
but notice, was quite attractivem"I'm sorry, really I am.
But I've got to make my shift. Are you sure I can't help
you in some way?"
    She couldn't have given him an icier stare if she'd been
an ammonia-breather. "That's all right," she assured
him. "I think you've helped enough... don't you?"
    Well, thought O'Brien. If that's the way it was to
be...
    Straightening, he resumed his progress toward the
turbolift. Sutcliffe, who was still beside him, clapped
him on the shoulder.
    "That's all right," he commented. "She wasn't your
type anyway, Miles. Too delicate."
    O'Brien glanced back over his shoulder at the woman.
As she gathered up the cases full of ruined flowers, he felt
a pang he'd never felt before. Guilt, probably. Or was it
something else?
    "You're probably right," he told Sutcliffe. But he still
glanced back at her a couple more times before he
reached his destination.
    Tasha Yar didn't feel particularly comfortable in the
Ten-Forward lounge. However, it had been one of the
first areas in the ship to be completely furnished, and
that made it perfect for the various meetings she had to
conduct with the ship's personnel.
    After all, she was one of the ranking otficers on board.
When the rest of the senior staff arrived, her responsibil-
ities would be confined to security per se--but for now,
it fell to her to coordinate everything from shuttledeck
operations to outfitting sickbay.
    At this particular moment, as she nursed her too-rich
Dagavarian maltmilk, she was waiting to conduct a
meeting with the latest shipment of shuttle pilots. She
reeled off their names from memory: Collins, Mayhew,
and Prieto. All highly rated, though none higher than
her.
    Tasha couldn't help but notice that everyone else in
the lounge was seated in twos and threes. She was the
only one sitting alone. But then, she was used to that.
Coming from the kind of place she'd come from, it was
unlikely that social interaction would ever be her forte.
    Then she realized that there was one other singleton
among all the tables in Ten-Forward. It was Counselor
Troi, who'd come aboard shortly after the security chief
herself. An~d the Betazoid was looking at her.
    A moment later, Troi turned away. But it was too late.
Tasha had noticed the scrutiny. And being the kind of
person she was, she decided to do something about it.
    Picking up her maltmilk, she approached the coun-
selor's table. And without waiting for an invitation, she
sat down. Troi smiled, though not without a bit of curi-
osity in her eyes.
    Tasha didn't believe in casual conversation. "You
were staring at me," she observed. "Don't deny it."
    The Betazoid's smile faded. "Yes," she admitted after
a moment. "I suppose I was."
    Her honesty surprised the security chief. But it didn't
make her bristle any the less. "Because you find my case
intriguing," she suggested. "Or maybe just because you
had nothing better to do."
    Troi's brows came together above her perfectly shaped
nose. "I beg your pardon, Lieutenant?"
    Tasha grunted. "So what do you think?" she asked.
"How does my childhood on Turkana Four stack up with
some of the other personal histories you've had the
pleasure of dissecting?"
    She felt herself stiffen as the memories flooded her.
None of them were good.
    "I mean," she continued, "do most of your patients
see their parents killed in a cadre crossfire at the age of
five? Do they spend their lives sleeping in cold, wet
tunnels--or rather, never sleeping, because they've al-
ways got to keep an ear out for cadre foragers?"
    The counselor shook her head. "Lieutenant...
Tasha... I--"
    "I know," said the security chief. "You're a profes-
sional. You're not the least bit shocked about the things I
had to do in order to survive. About the blood I had to
spill. About the lies I had to tell, or the alliances I had to
forge, or the... compromises I had to make in order to
get off that festering wound of a world."
    Troi frowned. "I am sorry," she said, "but I don't
know what you're talking about. Or at least, I didn't--
until now."
    Tasha looked at her. The counselor seemed sincere,
and yet... "You're a Betazoid, aren't you? You read
minds," she declared, her tone one of accusation.
    "Actually," Troi explained, "I'm only half-Betazoid.
My father was human. As a result, I can only sense
emotional states." She paused. "Growing up a non-
telepath on Betazed was a distinct disadvantage--
though nothing like what you've experienced, appar-
ently."
    The lieutenant felt her cheeks turning hot with embar-
rassment. "You can't read my mind?" she said. "Then
why were you staring at me just now?"
    The counselor looked apologetic. "I know," she ad-
mitted. "That was rude. It's just that I was wondering
about you. I mean, I knew a little from your personnel
file, but there was a lot I didn't know. And it's my job to
develop an understanding of every officer on this ship."
    Tasha sat back in her chair. "Then you weren't prying
into my mind? You weren't reading my thoughts?"
    Troi shook her head. "Even if I could, I wouldn't. As
much as I need to understand you, I can't go delving into
your psyche without your permission. It wouldn't be
ethical."
    The security chief looked at her. She felt absolutely
.. stupid. "It seems an apology is in order, Counselor
--but from me to you, rather than the other way
around."
    Troi shook her head. "That is not necessary. You
made a mistake--and not even a big one. I am willing to
forget it if you are."
    Tasha smiled. "Done." As she gazed across the table at
the Betazoid... or rather, half-Betazoid... she hoped
that someday they might become friendsú That would be
nice, considering the fact that they were both senior staff
members, and would likely be working closely together
for a long time to come.
    Also, it was good to know that there was someone on
this ship she could depend on--someone she could call
on in a crisis. Given the captain's already apparent
idiosyncrasies, she wasn't sure she would want to call on
him.
    Suddenly, Troi's eyes opened wide, as she saw some-
thing over Tasha's shoulder. "My god," she said. "Look
out!"
    The security chief had always been proud of her
reflexes. In one fluid motion, she rose from her chair and
whirled--in time to see the waiter stumbling in her
direction with a tray loaded with hot drinks.
    Someone else would have been lucky to elude the
drinks as they spilled. Tasha was able to catch the waiter
and steady the tray, so that only a little of the hot liquid
washed over onto the 1ounge's soft deck covering.
    "Sorry," said the waiter, looking stricken in the face of
his clumsiness. "Are you all right?" he asked.
The lieutenant scowled. "Try to be a little more
careful next time. The counselor and I could've wound
up in sickbay with some nice burns."
    "I know," the waiter agreed. "It's just that we're
running all over the place, trying to keep everyone
happy. They need someone to take charge of this placeú
Someone who knows what he's doingú"
 Tasha looked at him. "Or she," she suggestedú
    The waiter sighed. "Or she. Just as long as they get
someoneú"
    As he retreated, heeding the lieutenant's advice to be
more careful, Troi shook her head ruefully. "You know,"
she commented, "I helped design this place." Tasha turned to her. "Did you?"
    The counselor nodded as the security chief sat down.
"The idea was to have a venue where people could let off
a little steam. Resolve conflicts. Make new friends.
Thirty years from now, when I've retired to do some-
thing else, I envision this place continuing to do my
work for me."
    "You just didn't take into account the need for a
strong manager," observed Tasha.
    Troi made a sound of resignation. "Apparently. But
then, lounge management wasn't exactly my specialty."
    As the security chief smiled, unable to help herself, she
remembered her meeting. "Excuse me," she said. "I'm
supposed to get together with some new shuttle pilots.
You know, to get them acclimated to the way we do
things here."
    "I understand," the counselor assured her. "But stay
here. I have to go now, anyway. So you can have the
table all to yourself"
    As she rose, not even waiting for a response, her
expression changed. It became a little more serious.
    "And, Tasha... if you ever feet you need someone to
talk to..."
    "I'11 know where to look," said the lieutenant sincere-
ly. "Thanks. I mean it."
    With that, Troi headed for the exit. As Tasha watched
her go, she saw a couple of the shuttle pilots meander in.
Collins and Mayhew were just a little early, she noted.
But where was Prieto?
    Catching sight of her, Mayhew pointed in her direc-
tion, and both pilots crossed the lounge to join her. As
they sat down, they seemed eager to hear what she had to
say. And why not? The sooner they were briefed, the
sooner they could do what they were trained to do: fly
shuttles.
  "Where's your friend?" she asked them. "Prieto?"
    They glanced at each other. "Er... actually..."
Collins began.
    "He said he'd meet us here," supplied Mayhew. "As
soon as he was..."
 Tasha looked at him. "Yes?"
    Mayhew winced. "He had a previous engagement,
Lieutenant."
 She grunted. "I see. A romantic liaison, you mean?"
    The pilot looked as if he were barefooting it over hot
coals. "Something like that."
    Tasha glanced at the chronometer on the wall--a
temporary fixture, as she understood it. Something
about people not being able to relax if they were too
aware of tbe time.
 "By my reckoning," she said, "Prieto's got exactly
thirty-nine seconds to show up. And if he doesn't, he'll
be old and gray before hem"
    Abruptly, the doors to Ten-Forward slid aside and
Prieto came bounding in. Without ceremony, he pulled
up a chair and sat down between his fellow pilots.
 "Sorry I cut it so close," he said. "You see, I--"
    "Save it," Tasha told him. She scowled. "Honestly,
Prieto. It's guys like you that'll be the death of me."
    Picard's quarters weren't quite set up yet. In fact, they
were hardly set up at all. There were only a monitor and
a couple of pieces of furniture in the anteroom.
    Still, it was a shelter--a haven fi'om the wondering
glances of his crew, who were no doubt still puzzled by
his call to battle stations. Truth to tell, he was puzzled
himself--not by the action itself, of course, but by the
circumstances that had prompted it.
    He had pretty much concluded that his spells of
disorientation and the strangers who had appeared on
the shuttledeck were all part of some larger problem. He
just couldn't imagine what it could be.
    Unexpectedly, there was a sound of chimes. The door,
thought the captain. But who would be calling on him?
"Come," he said.
    As the doors opened, they revealed a round, blue-
skinned Bolian in civilian garb. The Bolian smiled,
perhaps a little too graciously.
    "My name is Mot," he announced. "I will be one of
your barbers."
    Picard stared at him. There had been no barbers on
the Stargazer. There simply hadn't been room for them.
But on the Enterprise, it seemed, with its considerable
population, there was room for almost everything.
    Including raggedy wraiths who taunted him from the
catwalk.
 "Pleased to meet you, Mot," said the captain.
    In point of fact, he much preferred to be alone right
now. There was too much to sort out, and he had a
feeling it was important to do it sooner rather than later.
    "Pleased to meet you, sir," replied the Bolian. "Of
course, I would rather be speaking to you as you sat in
my chair, particularly as I can see that you're in need of
some attention... but like your quarters, the barber-
shop is not yet fully equipped."
    Picard nodded in what he hoped looked like sympa-
thy. 'Trc, sure that problem will be rectified at the
earliest opportunity," he remarked. "The outfitting of
your shop, I mean."
    "I hope so," Mot went on. "-You see, a barbershop is a
most essential facility on a vessel of this size. It is a place
where ideas are exchanged... where consensuses are
reached... where the social fabric is woven and
rewoven. And, of course, where hair is cut with the
utmost delicacy and artfulness."
    The captain had a feeling that this conversation would
go on for hours, if he wasn't careful. Perhaps days.
    "I see what you mean," he said. 'TII tell you what. As
soon as we've finished our visit, I'll speak with the officer
in charge of your deck--and he or she will see to it that
the barbershop becomes a top priority."
    The Bolian looked delighted. "How kind of you," he
remarked. "I hope I will have an opportunity to repay
your kindness." He looked at Picard with a critical eye.
"In fact, I could go and get my instruments right now. I
normally don't make appointments in quarters, but for
someone like yourself... whose last barber was obvi-
ously lacking in technique..."
    "No," said the captain, a bit too quickly. "That will
not be necessary... really."
    Mot seemed not to have taken offense. "I understand.
You wish to wait until I can accommodate you in the
shop. You prefer to participate in the complete experi-
ence, to bask in the glow of tradition."
    "Yes," Picard responded, becoming a little exasper-
ated. "That's it. That's it exactly. Now, if you don't
mind, I--"
    "I might have known you'd be a purist," observed the
Bolian, "coming from a long line of vintners as you do.
Well, you'll be glad to know that barbering has been in
my family for generations... almost as long as
winemaking has been in yours."
    Something flashed through the captain's mind, though
he couldn't quite catch it. "How... how do you know
so much about my background?" he asked. He was
legitimately curious.
    "I'm a barber," Mot said proudly--as if that ex-
plained it all. "And as I was saying, I come by it honestly.
As you Picards toiled in your Terran vineyards, we
honed our shears in our shops on Bol. In fact..."
    The captain was no longer listening. At the moment
when Mot mentioned the Picard family vineyards, that
same something had flashed through his mind again. But
this time, it lingered as a dreamlike image.
    Of a misty sunrise. Of a vine that needed tying. And of
a visit from an old friend, with eyes that weren't quite
right.
    But in the dream--if it was a dream--the captain's
hands were old and stiff and difficult to work with. And
his mind wasn't quite as sharp. And his visitor was...
    ú.. was Geordi. He remembered now--not just the
vineyard, but everything. It came flooding into his brain,
a river in springtime overflowing its dam.
    That vineyard..ú those gnarled and knobby fingers
ú.. existed in the futureú In his future--or some latter
stage of it, because he had memories of a different stage
as well.
    Picard gasped as something else struck him. The
haggard figures he'd seen on the shuttledeck... he'd
seen them in the vineyard as well. Of a certainty, he had.
    Perhaps there had been fewer of them, but they'd been
there just the same--pointing and deriding him as they
had just a little while ago. And like the officers assembled
on the shuttledeck, the Geordi of the future had seen
neither hide nor hair of them.
    Only the captain could see them. But why? Who or
what could be responsible for such a... ?
    And then he knew. Or at least, he was able to
guess... because now his knowledge extended over the
thirty-two years that hadn't happened yet.
    "Of course," the Bolian droned on, oblivious of
Picard's cogitations, "I remained in the business, as my
father wished. But I respect you just as much for striking
out on your own. Really, I do. It's not eveN--"
    "Mr. Mot," the captain interrupted. "I don't mean to
be curt, but there's a great deal for me to attend to. I
would appreciate it if we could continue this conversa-
tion at some other time."
    The Bolian looked at him. "Oh. Certainly we can." He
smiled again in that too-gracious way of his. "And the
shop... ?"
 "Special attention," Picard promised.
    Though he would not have thought it possible, Mot's
smile actually broadened. "In that case, I'll take my
leave of you," he told the captain. "As you'll no doubt
understand, I have a great deal to attend to as wellú"
    Picard couldn't imagine what that might be, but he
nodded knowingly--and watched the Bolian back out
through the doors with a last, parting wave.
    "Thank you," called the barber, as the doors closed
again.
    "No," said the captain, mostly to himself. "Thank
you."

CHAPTER 8

Captain's personal log: stardate 41153.7. Recorded
under security lockout Omega three-two-seven. I am
now convinced that I am shifting between three
different time periods in my life. I've also decided not
to inform this crew of my experiences. If it's true that
I've traveled to the past, I cannot risk giving them
advance knowledge of what's to come.
Picard stared out one of the ports in the Enterprise's
observation lounge as three of his officers filed into the
room behind him. Later on, they were to pick up
additional personnel at a nearby starbase. But for now,
he would make do with Lieutenant Yar, Counselor Troi,
and Lieutenant Worf.
    Knowing that none of them would sit before he did,
the captain took a seat at the head of the polished,
synthetic-wood table. A moment later, the others fol-
lowed suit.
    In the future, Picard would come to know these people
well. He would come to trust them implicitly. For the
time being, however, be eyed them warily, and they
looked at him the same way. At this point, they were
comfortable neither with him nor with one another.
 Addressing Yar, he said, "Report, Lieutenant."
    She wasn't at all taken aback by his curtness. In fact,
he thought, she seemed to prefer it.
    "We've completed a full subspace scan of the ship and
surrounding space," said Yar. "We detected no unusual
readings or anomalies."
    The Klingon spoke up. "With all due respect, sir... it
would help if we knew what we were looking for."
    The captain nodded. "Your comment is noted, Mr.
Worf." He turned to the Betazoid--or more accurately,
half-Betazoid, since her father had been human. "Coun-
selor, do you sense anything unusual aboard the
Enteqvrise... say, an alien presence that doesn't belong
here... perhaps operating on a level of intelligence
superior to our own?"
    Troi applied her empathic powers. A little while later,
she shook her bead. "No, sir. I'm only aware of the
crew... and the families aboard the ship, of course."
    "I see," said Picard. Getting up, he took a few steps
around the table. He knew that their eyes were on
hirn--that they were sizing him up even as they awaited
his orders. "Mr. Worf, I want you to initiate a level-two
security alert on all decks until further notice."
    The Klingon looked surprised. As the captain
watched Worf glanced at Yar, an awkward expression on
his face. The blond woman stood and met Picard's gaze.
Clearly, she was perturbed.
    "Sir, with all due respect... I'm the security chief on
this ship. Unless you're planning to make a change, that
is..."
    The captain cursed inwardly. She was right, of course.
It was just that his instinct was to think of Worfas the
security chief.
    "No," he assured her. "I'm planning no such thing.
Security alert two, Lieutenant."
  Yar inclined her head slightly. "Aye, sir."
    But before she could move to comply, they heard a
voice piped in over the ship's intercom system: "Captain
Picard to the bridge, please."
    Picard knew the voice. It belonged to O'Brien--to
whom he'd assigned primary conn duties.
     "On my way, Chief," he informed O'Brien. Then,
 leading the others out of the lounge, he exited onto the
 bridge.
    As Tasha followed her new captain out of the observa-
tion lounge, she saw Miles O'Brien, a rather likable
Irishman, waiting for them in the command area with a
padd in his hand. As Picard approached, O'Brien ex-
tended it to him.
    All around them, crew members were busy at one task
or another--hooking up the circuitry in an open panel,
lugging diagnostic equipment around, or linking a con-
sole to the ship's computer. It was chaos--but no
different from what one would expect on a vessel still
being outfitted for duty.
    "What's this?" the captain asked O'Brien over the
clamor.
    The chief grunted. "Starfleet has just issued an alert,
sir! It appears a number of vessels are moving toward the
Neutral Zone between Romulan and Federation space."
    That caught Tasha~s interest. "What kind of vessels?"
she asked.
    O'Brien turned to her. "Freighters, transports... all
civilian. None of them Federation ships."
    As Picard read the specifics on the padd, he frowned.
Tasha got the impression that it meant something almost
... personal to him.
    "It says," he announced, "that a large spatial anomaly
has appeared in the Neutral Zone. In the Devron sys-
tem."
    Worf's response was quick and heated--no surprise,
given his racial heritage. The Klingons and the
Romulans, once allies, were now the most vicious of
enemies.
    "Perhaps it is a Romulan trick," he suggested. "A plan
to lure ships into the Neutral Zone as an excuse for a
military strike."
    O'Brien eyed the Klingon. "I don't know about that,
sir. But Starfleet's canceling our mission to Farpoint
Station and ordering us to the Neutral Zone as soon as
we can leave spacedock."
    To Tasha, that news wasn't all bad. Sitting here in
drydock had made her edgy--irritable. She couldn't
wait to put this new ship of theirs through its paces, and
as far as she was concerned, the Neutral Zone was as
good a place to do that as any.
 "No," said the captain.
 She looked at him, a little taken aback. "No, sir?"
    "That's correct," he told her. "We will not go to the
Neutral Zone. We will proceed to Farpoint, as planned."
    Tasha looked at him. She began to object--but Worf
beat her to it.
    "Captain," he blurted, "the security of the Federation
may be at stake! How can we--"
    Picard silenced him with a glance. "Man your station,
Mr. Worf--or I will find someone who can."
    For an instant, Tasha didn't know whether the
Klingon would back down or not. But a moment later,
he whirled angrily and returned to the aft science station
that he had been working on.
    Troi frowned. "Captain, perhaps if we understood
your thinking... if you could explain..."
    Unflappable, Picard shook his head. "I don't intend to
explain anything, Counselor..." Then he turned to
Tasha, as if she represented the rest of the crew. "To
anyone," he said, completing his sentence. "We will
proceed to Farpoint Station, as I indicated."
    For what seemed like a long time, nobody moved.
There was an air of quiet tension on the bridge that
nobody seemed eager to break.
    Tasha tried to come to grips with the captain's intran-
sigence. Surely, he could see that a confrontation with
the Romulans--even a potential confrontation--wasn't
something to be ignored. And their mission at Farpoint
was hardly an urgent one.
     Now that she thought about it, Picard had been acting
 strangely almost since she met him. First, she'd caught
 him staring at her on the shuttle. Then, in the shuttle-
 bay, he'd given the red-alert order even when there was
 no imminent danger. And finally, in the observation
 lounge, he'd forgotten that she was chief of security.
    She'd chalked up his staring to some distraction
connected with his new assignment. The red-alert order
ú.. well, at the time, she'd imagined he just wanted to
keep them on their toes. And as much as she'd resented
the mix-up in protocol, it seemed like an honest mistake
--if one that a top-notch officer could be expected to
avoid.
    Now, however, there was this. A directlye to disregard
Starfleet orders. An option within the captain's purview,
to be sure--but one that was rarely exercised, and only
after careful consideration.
    Picard turned to O'Brien. "Now, if I'm not mistaken,
Chief, we're having some problems with the warp plas-
ma inducers."
    O'Brien seemed surprised. "That's right, sir. But how
did..."
    "I think I know a way to get them back on-line," the
captain continued. "You're with me, Chief." To Tasha,
he said, "We'll be in main engineering if you need one of
US."
    She nodded and watched the two of therr, exit into the
turbolift. No sooner were they gone than she saw Worf
make his way toward her. He came close enough to keep
anyone else from hearing what he was saying.
    "I do 'not understand," muttered the Klingon. "The
Romulans may be planning an attack, and he does not
seem to care." A pause. "Are you certain this is the same
man who commanded the Stargazer? Who defeated the
Ferengi at Maxia Zeta?"
 Tasha shrugged. "As far as I know," she replied.
 He grunted. "What are you going to do?"
    Indeed, what would she do? Alert Starfleet to Picard's
contrary ways? Or follow the instructions he had laid out
for them?
    "I'm going to do what I'm told," she answered finally.
"And prepare to go to Farpoint."
    That was obviously not the response Worf wanted to
hear. Still, it was the only one she was prepared to
make... for now.
    Picard sat in the chief engineer's office, at a console,
with Miles O'Brien standing beside him. Out in main
engineering, in the shadow of the warp reactor, several
crewmen were getting the ship ready to go.
    But what the captain was doing was even more
essential--a job that would have taken many hours,
under normal circumstances. Fortunately, he remem-
bered what the problem was--and knew how to take
care of it. That was one advantage of having lived in the
future.
    Handing O'Brien a padd, the captain sat back in his
chair. He watched for a moment as the redheaded man
looked it over.
    "I've bypassed the secondary plasma inducer," Picard
explainedú "Now I want to begin realigning the power
grid to the specifications I've given you. Any questions?"
    O'Brien's eyes narrowed as he pondered what the
captain was calling for. When he looked up again, there
was a certain amount of insecurity in his expression.
  "You have to realize, sir... this isn't exactly my area
 of expertise. The chief engineer should be making these
 modificationsú"
    "But the chief engineer isn't on board yet," Picard
pointed out. "Nor will she be for some time. And even if
she were, I asked you to do the job."
    O'Brien still looked less than confident. He seemed to
need a boost of some sort.
    Leaning back in his chair, the captain added, "Chief
ú.. trust me. I know you can do this. All those years you
spent as a child building model starship engines repre-
sented time well spent."
    O'Brien stared at him as if Picard had just confessed
to being a Ferengi on his mother's side. "How did you
know that, sir?"
    Abruptly, the captain realized that he'd put his foot in
his mouth. O'Brien had confided that information to
him, he remembered now... but in a conversation that
wouldn't take place until years hence.
    Picard cleared his throat to cover his reaction. "From
ú.. your Starfleet records, of course. Where else could I
have learned such a thing?"
    The other man looked impressed. "Really, sir? I didn't
think anyone studied those things so closely."
    "Really," said the captain, relieved that O'Brien
seemed to believe him. He would have to be more
careful about such things if he was to accomplish
anything in this time periodú "Now, about that power
grid..."
    O'Brien smiled. Apparently, he felt a bit more equal to
the task, now that his ego had been massaged. "Yes, sir,
I'll get right on it."
    Taking the padd, he headed across the engineering
section. Picard watched as the chief recruited several of
the other crewmen on duty, taking them away from less
important work.
    "Fletcher," called O'Brien. "Tell Munoz and Lee to
get up here right away. We have to realign the entire
power grid. We're all going to be burning the midnight
oil on this one."
    "That would be inadvisable," came a reply from a
part of engineering that the captain couldn't see. Getting
up from what would be Geordi La Forge's desk in due
time--though it would belong to several others before
himmhe walked over to the office door and peered
around it.
    "Ah," he said softly, understanding the remark now
that he knew who had made it.
    As he looked on, Commander Data approached
O'Brien. From the looks of it, they were meeting for the
first time.
 "Excuse me?" replied the chief.
    "If you attempt to ignite a petroleum product on this
ship at zero-hundred hours," the android warned him,
"it will activate the fire-suppression system, which will
seal off this entire compartment."
    Picard had forgotten how naive Data had been when
he first arrived on the Enterprise... how innocent and
literal. It was amazing how far he had come in the years
since.
    In the meantime, O'Brien seemed to be at a loss.
"Sir," he ventured, "that was just an expression."
 The android looked at him. "An expression of what?"
 The redhead groped for a response. "Er... a figure of
 speech, you know? I was trying to tell Mr. Fletcher here
 that... we were going to be working late."
     Data tilted his head to the side as he absorbed the
 information. "I see," he replied at last. "Then to 'burn
 the midnight oil' implies late work?"
  O'Brien smiled a little tentatively. "That's right."
    "I am curious," said the android. "What is the etymol-
ogy of that idiom? How did it come to be used in
contemporary language?"
    The chief recoiled a bit at that one. "I don't believe I
know, sir. If you like, I suppose I could..."
    Finally, the captain came to O'Brien's rescue. "Com-
mander Data," he enthused, "welcome aboard. It's good
to see you."
    And it was. Picard smiled at him warmly, genuinely
glad to have someone here he could completely rely on.
    The android turned and acknowledged the captain's
presence. No doubt, thought Picard, he didn't compre-
hend why this man he had just met was being so friendly
to him. But, like a lot of things, he seemed to take it in
stride.
    "It is... reasonably good to see you, too, sir," Data
replied.
    The captain indicated a wall panel near the warp core
with a tilt of his head. "I could use your assistance with
the infusor array. There are a few adjustments I'd like to
make."
    Data's head moved ever so slightly. "Certainly," he
said.
    Together, they moved to the wall panel and pried it
open. Picard pointed to a conduit.
 "As you can see, we're having a bit of difficulty here.
Something seems not to be working very well, though
we've been unable to determine what it is..."
    The android scrutinized the mechanism behind the
panel. "This will require a completely new field induc-
tion subprocessor," he concluded. He turned to the
captain. "It appears that we will be required to...
ignite the midnight petroleum, sir."
    Picard smiled. Data learned quickly, didn't he? Focus-
ing his attention on the mechanism, the captain...
    ... found himself staring at a darkened monitor.
Looking around, he saw that he was in Beverly's office,
back in what he had come to think of as the "present."
And as if to emphasize his lack of control over his
existence, he was still in his bathrobe. "Jean-Luc... what's going on?"
    He turned to see Beverly herself standing at the
entrance to the office. Riker was standing behind her, his
eyes asking the same question that the doctor had asked
out loud.
  "It happened again," he told them.
  Beverly's brow creased. "A time shift?"
  He nodded. "Yes."
    She held up a hand. "Don't move," she told him--
and disappeared. A moment later, she came back with a
medical tricorder and used it to scan Picard's head.
  "What happened?" inquired Riker.
    The captain sighed. "It's still a little vague... but I
can remember more of it this time. I think the more
often I shift between time periods, the more memory I
retain." He stopped to gather his thoughts. "First, I was
in what appeared to be the future... years from now.
Then I was in the past again ... right before our first
mission."
      Having finished her scan, Beverly read the results. Her
eyes narrowed at something she saw there.  "What is it?" asked the first officer.
    The doctor shook her head in disbelief. "I scanned his
temporal lobe--and compared it with what I found just
a few minutes ago. There's a thirteen percent increase in
neurotransmitter activity in his hippocampus." She
looked directly at Picard. "Within a matter of minutes,
you accumulated over two days' worth of memories."
  "Two days?" repeated Riker. "But that's..."
  "Impossible?" Picard suggested. He nodded. "Unless
  you've spent a lot of time somewhere else between ticks
  of the clock."
    He smiled grimly. Finally, they had some proof of
what he was experiencing. He wasn't crazy--he was
actually traveling through time.

CHAPTER 9

The habak was a rectangular room in a high tower,
which served the Indians of Darvon V as a ceremonial
chamber. The only way to enter it was via a wooden
ladder that came through a hole in the floor. Another
ladder led through a hole in the ceiling, which opened
the place to the long, pale rays of the sun.
    There was also a firepit. Though it hadn't been used
for several days, it still gave off a thick, acrid smell of
burrled wood.
    Wesley Crusher had spent the morning studying the
sacred hangings that decorated the walls of the habak.
He had studied them before; he would study them many
more times before his journey--or this part of it--was
done.
    And the funny thing was, as many times as he scruti-
nized the woven wall hangings and the colorful symbols
that populated them, he never grew bored. There always
seemed to be some level of meaning he hadn't contern-
 plated yet... some subtle, new wisdom to be discov-
 ered in them.  "Wesley?"
    The young man turned and saw that the Traveler had
joined him in the chamber. Wes hadn't seen him enter,
but that was nothing unusual. The Traveler didn't come
and go as normal people did.
    More and more as time went on, neither did Wesley
himself. As he practiced translating himself into other
planes of existence, he was gradually eliminating the
need to walk anywhere... or, in this case, to climb a
ladder.
    Of course, most of the time, he walked and climbed
anyway. It just felt better. And a part of him hoped that
it always would.
  "Yes, Traveler?" he replied.
    The being from Tau Ceti eyed him with an intensity
that surprised him. "Do you not sense it?" he asked.
    Sense... it? Wesley shook his head. "No... I don't.
What is it I'm supposed to sense?"
    Rather than answer out loud, the Traveler moved to
one of the wall hangings and pointed. The young man
followed his teacher's finger to a picture of something
bright and multicolored--something Wesley couldn't
readily identify. What's more, he was reasonably certain
that the image hadn't been there before.
    Opening his mind to it, he wove himself into the
picture's reality--inspecting it not only on this plane,
but on several others. He was intrigued to see how
pervasive it was, how it seemed to transcend every layer
of existence he touched.
 Then, urged by an instinct he couldn't name or
pretend to understand, he turned to another image near
it. This one was more easily recognizable. It was the
Enterprise. But like the burst of color, he found, it
existed on more than one plane.
    Suddenly, Wesley got it. When he turned back to the
Traveler, it was with a weight on his heart. "No," he
said. "I can't let it happen."
  "It is already happening," his teacher advised him.
  "Then I've got to stop it," he said.
    The Traveler smiled benignly at him. "Then you
believe it is wise for you to intervene?"
    The young man's mouth went dry as dust. "Traveler
... they're my friends. My family. How can I fail to
intervene?"
    His teacher continued to smile. "Not so long ago, it
appeared that there would be violence in this village. Do
you remember?"
    Wesley nodded. How could he forget? The Indians
who lived here had made prisoners of some Cardassians,
and Captain Picard had been duty-bound to free them.
For a few tense moments, the Federation security team
had squared off against the villagers, and it seemed like a
good bet that there would be blood spilled before the day
was out.
    He had wanted to do something back then--but the
Traveler had convinced him not to. He'd said, "They
must find their own destinies, Wesley. It is not our place
to interfere." And then: "Have faith in their abilities to
solve their problems on their own."
     Sure enough, the captain found a way to avoid disaster
 that day. But was it sheer luck that things had worked
 out... or did the Traveler know in advance that it
would happen that way? Even after all his studies,
Wesley still wasn't entirely sure.
    "Is it like... the Prime Directire?" he asked out
loud. "Are we forbidden to get involved?"
    His teacher shrugged a bit. "There are always laws,
Wesley. Some are self-imposed, and others are imposed
upon usmbut they are laws nonetheless."
    The human frowned as he glanced again at the burst of
color. "But aren't there times when a law needs to be
broken? Aren't there exceptions?"
    The Traveler tilted his head in a way that made him
look a little like Data. "Perhaps. But to whom should we
entrust that decision? Who has the wisdom to know
when we should make an exception?"
    Wesley sighed. It was like the Prime Directive. "Then I
can't do a thing to help them? To tell them what's going
on?"
    His teacher gazed at him sympathetically. "If I were
you," he replied finally, "I would not interfere... even
if it were within my power."
    The human walked over to the bench that was built
into the western wall and sat down hem/ily. Running his
fingers through his hair, he breathed a ragged breath.
 "Morn..." he whispered.
Riker shook his head as he sat in his customary place
at the observation 1ounge's dark, reflective table, sur-
rounded by the ship's other senior officers. He'd seen his
share of fantastic phenomena, but this one took the cake.
The idea that the captain was traveling through time,
the victim of some capricious agency as yet beyond their
understanding... it was bizarre, to say the least. And
more than a little unsettling.
    As the first officer gazed at Picard, he had the feeling
that the captain might pop in and out of their reality at
any time--an entire journey, perhaps two or three days'
worth, completed in the space of an eyeblink.
    Still, it wasn't anyone's imagination. It was happen-
ing. Dr. Crusher had shown him proof of that--and
they'd had their run-ins with Time before, so they all
knew that temporal travel was possible.
    Riker might have felt better if they'd had a little more
to go on--some data they could sink their collective
teeth into. Unfortunately, they had nothing of the kind.
    But then, that was the purpose of this meeting, wasn't
it? To see what they could nail down with regard to
Picard's time-shifting. And then to see what--if any-
thing--they could do about it.
    "Thank you all for being prompt," the captain told
them. "As you know," he added only half-seriously,
"time is of the essence." Then, turning to Deanna, he
asked, "Counselor, do you remember the first day I came
aboard the Enterprise?"
 She returned his gaze. "Yes, I think I do."
    Picard leaned forward. "What happened after the
welcoming ceremony?"
  "You mean after you disembarked from the Galileo?"
  He nodded. "Yes."
    Deanna thought for a moment. "There was a recep-
tion in Ten-Forward. I introduced you to Worf and the
other senior officers .... "
    The captain held up his hand to stop her. "Do you
have any memory of me calling for a red alert in
 spacedock? Do you remember Starfleet diverting us
 from Farpoint to the Neutral Zone to investigate a
 spatial anomaly?"
  She thought again. "No... I don't."
     Picard leaned back in his chair. "As you may have
 gathered, I do. I experienced those events just a few short
 hours ago."
     "It would appear," remarked Data, "that there is a
 discontinuity between the time periods you have de-
 scribed. Events in one period would seem to have no
 effect on the other two."
    "And yet," Riker offered, "in both the past and the
present... there's a report of the same anomaly in the
Devron system. It's hard for me to believe that's a
coincidence."
    The captain nodded. "And for all I know, there may
be a similar anomaly in the future, as well."
    "Maybe," commented Geordi, "the anomaly is some
kind of... temporal disruptien." He positioned his
hands as if he were holding a bowl, in an attempt to
describe the thing. "A hole in the continuum, so to
speak."
    Beverly turned to Picard. "But how is all this related
to your time-shifting?"
    The captain grunted. "A good question. I suspect I
may have some answers when I make my next round-trip
to the past... or the future, whichever comes first."
    "In the meantime," Riker reminded him, "we've got
the Romulans to keep us from getting bored."
    Picard turned to him, acknowledging the need for
discussion. Regardless of what else was happening to
him, that problem hadn't gone away.
    "Thank you for reminding me, Number One. Insofar
as the current mission is concerned, all departments
should submit combat-readiness reports by oh-eight-
hundred hours tomorrow." He looked from one face to
the next. "I hope it won't come to that, of course--but if
it does, I want to be ready. Dismissed."
    Everyone rose to go, intent on their respective assign-
ments. As Deanna headed for the door, Riker caught her
attention.
    "Looks like it's going to be a late night," he said.
"Want to get some dinner first?"
    There was something in her eyes that he hadn't quite
expected. A hesitation, a feeling of awkwardness. He
wondered why.
    "Actually," said Deanna, "I..." She glanced over the
first officer's shoulder. "I mean... we have plans."
    Riker turned to follow her gaze--and found himself
looking at Worf. It caught him off-guard, but he recov-
ered quickly enough.
    Apparently, the relationship between Deanna and his
Klingon friend had progressed further than he realized.
But hell... that was no fault of theirs, was it? They
didn't have to keep the first officer apprised of their
every move.
    "I see," he said, doing his best to sound casual. "Well,
then... see you tomorrow morning."
 Worf inclined his massive head. "Good night, sir."
 Riker inclined his head in turn. "Worf..."
    He stood there for a moment, watching the two of
them file out after the others--and acknowledged an
emptiness in the pit of his belly that was directly related
to the sight.
    Not that he had any right to tell either of them whom
they could spend their time with. No one was in a
position to do that.
    But, even though he and Deanna hadn't been lovers
for several years now--since his assignment on Betazed
came to an end--he'd always thought of her as his
special friend. His confidante. His close companion.
    And now, he saw that someone else might be taking
his place in that regard. Someone he liked and respected,
true--but it was still a change he wasn't looking for-
ward to.
    Or was there rr. ore to it than that? Did his feelings run
deeper than he cared to admit? At some level, had he
harbored the hope that, in the end, he and Deanna
would wind up together again?
    Beleaguered by such disturbing thoughts, he sighed
and went back out onto the bridge.

CHAPTER

Picard paused by the aft science station to give Data
his orders. The android's face was caugllt in the glare of
his monitors.
    "I want continuous subspace sweeps," he said. "We
might detect a temporal disturbance."
    "Aye, sir," replied Data. Without hesitation, he got to
work manipulating his instruments.
    Seeing that Riker was headed for the empty command
area, the captain joined him. Together, they took their
seats and settled in.
    "Will," he said, his eyes trained on the forward
viewscreen, "this time-shifting business... when it
happens, I experience a moment of disorientation. If
this should occur during a crisis, I want you to be ready
to take command immediately."
    There was no reaction. Turning to his first officer,
Picard saw the faraway look on his face.
  "Number One?"
    Abruptly, Riker realized that the captain was looking
at him. He straightened in his seat.
    "Sorry, Captain. Be prepared to take command. Aye,
sir."
    But a moment later, it was clear that he was still
absorbed by something--and Picard was willing to
wager it had nothing to do with his duties.
    The captain frowned. "Speaking of disorientation...
are you all right, Will?"
    The first officer nodded reassuringly. "Just a little
distracted. I'm fine, sir. Really."
    Picard didn't quite believe him, but he decided not to
pursue the matter. Even Will Riker was allowed a
daydream now and then. If an emergency arose, the
captain had no fear that his exec would respond to it.
    Besides, Picard told himself, I have to get some work
donembefore I pop out of this time period again. It
Sounded silly when he put it that way, but right now he
had to juxtapose the unfathomable with the very mun-
dane.
    "You have the bridge, Number One. I'll be in my ready
room."
    Riker turned and smiled at him in a perfunctory way.
"Aye, sir."
    Rising, the captain made his way to his ready-room
door. It slid aside at his approach, and the room itself
was revealed to him.
    As never before, he was grateful for the sanctumlike
nature of it... the steady, predictable peacefulness.
Everything was right where he expected it to be, from
his antique Shakespearean folio to his model of the
Stargazer... from his Naikous statue, acquired on the
Federation planet Kurlan, to his majestic Terran
lionfish.
    It was very heartening... and very much an illusion,
in that regard. There was no guarantee that he'd be here
an hour from now, or even a minute. Anyway, what
significance could those terms have when one was weav-
ing in and out of Time?
    But enough of such mind-bending concerns. Right
here, right now, Picard sat down behind his desk and
applied himself to the ship's affairs. After all, life on the
Enterprise had a way of going on, no matter what
dangers might emerge in its path.
    Yet he had barely begun when he heard the sound of
chimes, notifying him that there was someone outside
his door. Turning in that direction, he said, "Come."
    As the door slid away, it showed him his chief medical
officer. He thought he saw a look of concern on her face,
but she was moving across the room too quickly for him
to be sure.
    Stopping by the replicator, she made her request.
"Milk... warm. A dash of nutmeg."
    The replicator hummed for a moment, then produced
the required beverage. Taking it away, Beverly brought it
to the captain.
  He looked up at her. "What's this?"
    She smiled. "A prescription. A glass of warm milk and
eight hours' uninterrupted sleep."
 Picard sat back in his chair. "Beverly..."
 "Doctor's orders," she insisted. "You're exhausted. I
 don't know if you've slept in the past or the future, but I
 know you haven't slept in the present. Now, get some
 rest, or I'll have you relieved and sedated."
The captain chuckled, resigned to his fate. "Yes, sir."
For a second or so, they just looked at each other,
sharing the humor of the moment. Then Beverly leaned
forward and put her hand on his.
    It began as a friendly gesture, or so Picard thought.
But the doctor left it there a beat longer than necessary,
giving it a little squeeze before she lifted it again.
    And as she straightened, he saw what he was now
certain was a look of concern. The captain gazed into her
eyes, trying to divine her thoughts. "What's wrong?" he asked.
    She seemed on the verge of telling him. Then, appar-
ently thinking better of the idea, she turned and headed
for the door. Picard stood, refusing to let the matter
lie--whatever it was. "Beverly!"
    She stopped at the sound of her name, took a breath,
and finally turned again to look at him. It took her a
moment to gather herself before she could speak.
    "As a physician," she said softly, "it's often my job to
give people unpleasant news... to tell them that they
need surgery or that they can't have children... or that
they might be facing a very difficult illness..."
    Before the doctor could finish, something seemed to
catch in her throat. She looked away from him, her eyes
bright. The captain moved to her, touched by her
concern.
    "You said yourself it's only a possibility," he re-
minded her. "Only one among many."
    "But you've been to the future," she countered. "You
know it's going to happen."
 He smiled as best he could. "I prefer to think of the
future as something that is not written in stone. Beverly,
a lot of things can happen in twenty,five years."
    He wasn't sure how she would respond to that. The
last thing he expected was that she would lean forward
and kiss him on the lips. And yet, that is the very thing
she did.
    What's more, he kissed her back. And it was not like
another kiss they had shared, several months earlier,
after they had been linked mind-to-mind on the planet
Kesprit. This time, it lingered.
    And when it was over, Beverly looked into his eyes
meaningfully. He could smell her perfume, subtle
though it was. He had never realized how... provoc-
ative it could be.
"You're right," she said. "A lot of things can happen."
Before Picard could ask for an explanation, she turned
and leftmand this time he made no effort to stop her. As
his ready-room door closed behind her, he contemplated
what had just happened.
    Was this the beginning of a new stage in their relation-
ship? Or just a fleeting emotion, born of Beverly's
concern for him?
  Only Time would tell.
    Remembering the glass of milk she'd brought him, he
went back to his desk, picked it up, and took a sip. It was
just as soothing, just as calming as the doctor had
suggested.
    Then, replacing the glass on his desk, he moved to the
couch and stretched out. He could hear his joints creak
with gratitude.
    Beverly was right. He was exhausted. Closing his eyes,
the captain assured himself that it would be only a short
nap,.. in which he would no doubt revisit the kiss he
had just shared, searching for its meaning. But then,
there were less pleasant things to dream about, weren't
there?
    As he began to drift off, he thought he heard a voice.
But that was ridiculous. He was alone in here ....
  "Sir? Wake up, sir."
    There was no denying the summons now. Opening his
eyes, Picard looked for the source of it--and saw that La
Forge was standing over him. There was some sort of
light source behind him, making it difficult to get a good
look at the man.
    "Yes," he murmured. "Yes... what is it? Have we
reached the Neutral Zone yet?"
    La Forge scrutinized him with his artificial eyes.
"The... Neutral Zone, Captain?"
    That's when Picard sat up and looked around--and
realized that he was back in Data's library. Back in the
future.
    And the light source behind La Forge was just a
window through which they were receiving the late-
afternoon light. Picard rubbed his eyes.
    "Sorry," he said. "I was... in the past again." Sitting
up, he gathered his senses. "What's going on?"
    The younger man smiled sympathetically. "Data's
arranged for us to run some tests on you in the biomet-
rics lab. We're ready to go if you are."
    Picard shook his head, remembering what he'd
learned. "No... no, we don't have time for that. We
have to get to the Neutral Zone."
La Forge's forehead wrinkled. "Why's that, sir?"
The older man tried to concentrate. "In the other two
time periods, Starfleet reported a... urn, some kind
of... spatial anomaly in the... in the Devron sys-
tem!" Exultant, he smacked his fist into the palm of his
other hand. "That's it. The Devron system in the
Neutral Zone."
 La Forge sighed. "Sir..."
    But Picard wouldn't let him go on. He was going
strong now, and he didn't dare pause or he might lose his
train of thought.
    "If the anomaly was in the past... it might be here,
too. We need to go find out if..."
    The other man looked at him askance. "Just because
you've seen it in two other time frames doesn't mean it's
going to be here."
    Picard felt the blood rush to his face. "Dammit,
Geordi--I know what we have to do!"
    La Forge smiled again. In a way, the older man
thought, that was almost worse than the other look he'd
given him. He could put up with doubts, with skepti-
cism. But he couldn't stand being patronized.
    "Okay, Captain. Whatever you say. But first of all,
there is no Neutral Zone... remember?"
    No Neutral Zone? Picard pondered the matter,
plumbing his memory... and was surprised to realize
that his friend was right.
    "Klingons," he muttered. "In this time period, the
Klingons have taken over the Romulan Empire .... "
    I2 Forge nodded. "That's right. And relations be-
tween us and the Klingons aren't real cozy right now."
  Getting irritated at his companion's tone, the older
man struggled to his feet. "I know that," he barked,
pulling down on his tunic as he'd once pulled down on
the front of his uniform. "I haven't completely lost my
mind, you know."
    Abruptly, it occurred to him how cantankerous he
sounded. Again, he was running roughshod over those
who were trying to help him. Hoping to take the edge off
his remark, he put his hand on La Forge's shoulder.
    "Sorry, Geordi. When I'm here, it's hard for me to
concentrate... and remember things. I don't mean to
take out that frustration on you."
    The younger man nodded. "It's okay." A beat. "Well,
if we're going to the Devron system, we're going to need
a ship."
    Picard scratched his chin. "We will, at that." Then it
struck him how they might get one. "I think it's time to
call in some old favors."
 La Forge raised an eyebrow. "Favors?" he repeated.
    "Yes," confirmed Picard. "Contact Admiral Riker at
Starbase Two-Four-Seven."
    Geordi gazed approvingly at the monitor that Data
had brought into the library. Except for the Starfleet
insignia, the image on the screen was an unbroken field
of violet-blue.
    "Nice resolution," he said appraisingly. "To tell you
the truth, I've never seen one like this in a private
home."
    Data nodded. "As I indicated earlier, holding the
Lucasian Chair does have its perquisites."
    It appeared there was a whole slew of perquisites,
because it hadn't taken the android long to contact
Starfleet Command--or, having contacted them, to
arrange for an audience with Admiral Riker.
    A moment later, only minutes after Data had made
his request, Riker got in touch with them. The man was
a lot grayer than Geordi remembered--but then, who
among his old comrades wasn't? And as an admiral,
the man had a whole lot more responsibility than
before--a whole lot more reasons for his hair to have
gone gray.
    But that wasn't the only difference in him. Even before
Riker opened his mouth to speak, he seemed brittle,
somehow... less easygoing than the man Geordi had
known on the Enterprise. And there was no trace at all of
that trademark Will Riker smile.
    "Jean-Luc," said the admiral, acknowledging his for-
mer captain. "Data... Geordi." He was clearly pleased
to see thems but he didn't show ali the enthusiasm that
Picard had probably been hoping for. Riker almost
seemed... well, leery of what this might be about.
    "Will," replied Picard. "You look every inch the
admiral. I knew we'd move you up in the ranks eventu-
ally."
    Riker shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Of course
you did," he agreed, but in a way that said he didn't have
time for this. "Now, what can I do for you, sir?"
    As Picard outlined his needs and the reasons for them,
the admiral's demeanor became frostier by degrees.
Finally, he sat back in his chair and frowned.
 "Jean-Luc," he said, "you know I'd like to help...
 but frankly, what you're asking for is impossible. The
 Klingons have closed their borders to all Federation
 starships."
    Obviously trying to remain patient, the captain shook
his head. "I don't think you appreciate the... the
gravity of the situation. Will, if this... this spatial
anomaly really is in the Devron system..."
    Riker didn't let him finish. "I saw a report from
Starfleet Intelligence on that sector this morning.
There's no unusual activity in the Devron system...
nothing out of the ordinary in terms of celestial phenom-
ena."
    "I don't believe that!" snapped the older man. "May-
be their long-range scanners are flawed. We have to go
there, see for ourselves!"
    The admiral looked reluctant to turn Picard down
flat. He eyed Data. "Professor, what do you make of all
this?"
    The android seemed to hesitate for a moment, consid-
ering his answer carefully. Data had come a long way, it
seemed to Geordi. He no longer made decisions based
purely on logic; now, he appeared to take people's
feelings into account.
    "I am not certain," the android said at last. "However,
I cannot disprove what the captain is saying. And he
seems to be convinced he is traveling back and forth
through time."
    Riker frowned. "Right." Clearly, Data was siding with
Picard--and that made it harder for him to dismiss the
matter. "Look," he said, "I've got the Yorktown out near
the border. I'll have Captain Shelby run some long-range
scans of the Devron system. If she finds anything, I'll let
you know."
    The captain shook his head. "No. That's not good
enough."
    "It'll have to be," responded the admiral. "I'm sorry,
Jean-Luc. That's all I can do. Riker out."

CHAPTER

1111

As his monitor went dark, Riker sat back in his chair
and sighed. He hated to be so brusque with a man who
had done for him what Jean-Luc Picard had done.
    Still, what choice did he have? The captain might as
well have asked for a pet mugato as request permission
to enter Klingon territory. Neither one was likely to
ensure him a long life.
    Though, judging by the looks of him, Picard wasn't
going to enjoy a very long life anyway. And what was left
to him was going to be full of misery and humiliation,
thanks to his disease.
    Was that it? the admiral wondered. Was this the
captain's way of going out in a blaze of glory--instead of
slowly and painfully deteriorating over time?
    Riker thought about it--and ultimately rejected the
idea. It would be one thing for Picard to sacrifice his own
life. But Data and Geordi had been willing to go with
him, and the captain would never have sacrificed their
lives as well.
    Speaking of Data... what was it with his hair? It
looked like he'd used his head to erase one of those
blackboards still in use at Cambridge.
    The monitor beeped. "Riker here," he responded
mechanically.
    An instant later, he saw the clean-cut visage of Captain
Sam Lavelie. The man smiled, genuinely glad to see the
officer who had been so hard on him when he'd joined
the Enterprise.
    "Admiral Riker. You're looking well, sir. But then, we
Canadians are an enduring breed."
    It was a joke, of course. Lavelle had once made the
mistake of thinking Riker was from Canada. Actually,
he was born and bred in Alaska.
    "So we are," said the admiral, acknowledging the
attempt at humor. Unfortunately, he didn't much feel
like laughing right now.
    Lavelle's demeanor became more serious as he no-
ticed his superior's lack of enthusiasm. "Something
wrong, sir?"
    Riker shrugged. "Make me a promise, Sam. If I come
to you when I'm ninety years old and ask you to ferry me
somewhere in the Enterprise... somewhere crazy,
where I'm likely to get myself and the rest of the crew
killed... let me down easy, all right?"
    Lavelie looked at him, obviously unable to divine the
reason for the request. However, he must have sensed it
wasn't really a topic the admiral wanted to discuss.
  "First off," he replied, "I don't think you'd ask for
something like that... not at any age. And second, it'll
be someone else's problem--or have you forgotten what
day this is?"
    Abruptly, Riker remembered. "That's right. You're
retiring today, aren't you?"
    "You sound so glum," the younger man observed,
deriving pleasure from the fact. "Does that mean you're
having second thoughts?"
    Another old joke. The admiral reacted as Lavelle
would have expected.
    "No, Sam. I still think you make lousy o~cer material.
It's just that I've gotten used to you. You know what they
say about old dogs and new tricks."
    Lavelle smiled. "Then you're not sorry you listened
to--" He stopped himself, realizing he'd made a mis-
take by starting down that path. "Sorry," he said. "I
didn't mean to bring her up."
    Riker nodded, trying to ignore the pain of remem-
brance. "It's all right," he lied. Then, changing the
subject: "So you really think you're going to be happy
running a research colony?"
    Now it was Sam's turn to shrug. "! promised Korina
that we'd try something different for a while--and this
is what she chose. After keeping her penned up on the
Enterprise for fifteen years, I don't really get much of a
say in the matter." He smiled. "And then again, maybe
I've had enough of the shipboard life myself. I guess I'm
more of a landlubber than ! ever cared to admit."
 Riker eyed him affectionately. "I'm going to miss you,
                           ' 7"
Lavelle. You're sure I can't talk you out ot this.
 The younger man shook his head. "Too late. My bags
are already packed." He gazed at the admiral. "And
what about you? How long are you going to stay in that
dusty old office of yours?"
"Until they kick me out of it," the older man quipped.
"And not before?" Sam pressed, a little mischievous-
ly. "Are you saying you don't get the urge anymore to
hop on a starship and see faraway places? To go where no
one has gone before?"
    It was a good question, even if it was posed half in jest.
Riker took a breath, let it out.
    "Faraway places," he said, surprising himself with the
note of bitterness in his voice, "don't mean quite as
much as they used to, somehow. Maybe I'm getting old."
    For what might have been the first time since their
conversation began, Lavelle spoke in earnest. "Maybe
you're letting yourself get old," he suggested.
    Yet another subject the admiral wasn't eager to delve
into. "Tell your people I'll have a replacement in a day or
two, Sam. And keep in touch, dammit. From what I
hear, Beta Retimnion is as accessible by subspace as
anywhere else in the galaxy."
    The younger man smiled, though a bit wistfully. "That
works both ways, sir. I'll see you around. And thanks
again... for everything. Lavelle out."
    Again, the screen went dark, and Riker leaned back
into his seat. It was a sobering moment when a man
ten years his junior had the temerity to retire from the
center seat.
    Where had the years gone? And how had he gotten so
far away from the thing he loved best... the search for
adventure that had propelled him into space in the first
place?
    He wished he could turn back the clock a quarter-
century, when things were different... when he had
everything he wanted and nothing to feel guilty about.
What he wouldn't do to have those days back again ....
    As the communication with Admiral Riker came to an
end, Geordi sighed. This wasn't going to sit well with the
captain. But on the other hand, it was clearly for the
best.
    After all, they had no business trying to make their
way through Klingon territory. They weren't the confi-
dent young officers they used to be--and even if they
had been, they would have been risking a lot to satisfy an
old man's fantasy.
    As he watched, Picard turned his back on the monitor.
It wasn't difficult to divine his emotions. He was frus-
trated and he was angry--and worse than that, he felt
betrayed by a man he'd once thought of as a son.
    But he would get over it. Geordi would take him home
and see to that. A couple of days from now, he would
forget he had ever attached any importance at all to the
Devron system.
    "Damn him, anyway," growled Picard. "Ungrateful
young pup. He's been sitting behind that desk too long.
Do you know how many times I pulled his chestnuts out
of the fire? Do you?"
    "Well," said Geordi, trying hard to mask his relief, "I
guess all we can do now is wait... and see if the
Yorktown finds anything."
    Data turned to him and replied, "There is another
option."
    Geordi sighed. Another option was the last thing he
wanted right now.
 "And that is?" he inquired.
    "We could arrange passage aboard a medical ship,"
explained the android.
"A medical ship?" echoed Picard, his eyes narrowing.
Data nodded. "There was an outbreak of Terellian
plague on Romulus. The Klingon High Council has been
allowing Federation medical ships to cross the border."
  The captain grinned. "Yes... yes, of course..."
    Geordi eyed Data. It looked like this was going to go
on, after all.
"So I guess all we need now is a medical ship," he said.
The older man grabbed the android by the arm. "I
think I can arrange that, Mr. Data. Find the U.S.S.
Pasteur. I have some... some pull with her command-
ing officer."
    For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, his eyes
glazed over with memories. Then he came out of it.
  "At least," he amended, "I used to .... "
    The former Beverly Crusher, captain of the medical
vessel known as the U.S.S. Pasteur, considered all three
of the visitors standing there in her ready room. Howev-
er, she focused most of her attention on the man she had
once called her husband.
    "I never could say no to you," she told Jean-Luc,
leaning back in her chair.
    He smiled. "You should have said it when I asked you
to marry me."
  Beverly looked at him with mock annoyance. "Don't

bring that up," she said, "or I'll change my mind about
all this."
    For a moment, a scene flashed before her eyes. She saw
herself on her wedding day, before the Howard family
house on Caldos. She and Jean-Luc were standing before
Governor Maturin, taking their vows as their friends
and fellow officers looked on... and the wind brought
the scent of heather.
    Wesley was there, showing no outward signs of the
strange and wonderful being he had become. He was
smiling, happy for her.
    Jean-Luc's brother, Robert, was happy as well--glad
to see that their marriage would start off in a place
blessed with tradition. Or so he had told them, in a
private moment before the ceremony.
    No doubt, he would have liked it better if the ground
had been French, and the house that of his own family
... and the scent on the wind that of sun-ripened
grapes. But then, he'd been expecting something cold
and artificial--so an homage to any tradition was a
pleasant surprise.
    And Beverly herself was happymtruly happy, for the
first time in many years. She felt as if, with her marriage
to this fine and noble man, some cosmic balance had
been restored. And this time, she vowed on that special
day, it would last.
    So much for her powers of prognostication, she
thought sourly, as her thoughts returned to the bridge of
the Pasteur. It was a good thing she was a doctor, and not
a fortune-teller.
    Jean-Luc elbowed Data in his synthetic ribs. "You
see?" he said. "I knew I could still count on her... not
like Riker." His expression turned bitter as he recalled
his discussion with the admiral. "Did I tell you what he
said to me, Beverly? To me?"
 She nodded. "You told me, Jean-Luc."
    It hurt her to see him like this--a man whose intellect
was once so engaging--reduced now to near-senility.
She took in Geordi and then Data with a glance.
    "Well, then. The first order of business is to obtain
clearance to cross the Klingon border. And believe me,
that won't be easy."
    "What about WorJ7." asked the former chief engineer.
"Isn't he still on the Klingon High Council?"
    "I'm not sure," responded Data. "Information on the
Klingon political structure is hard to come by these days.
However, at last report, Worf was living on H'atoria--a
small Klingon colony near the border."
    Jean-Luc snapped his fingers. "Worf... yes, that's
it... that's the answer." He nodded. "Worf He'll help
us. Let's make it so."
     Abruptly, her conn officer's voice cut in over the
intercom. "Chilton to Captain Picard."  "Picard here," replied Beverly.
      "Go ahead," said the man she'd been married to,
responding to the same summons.  They exchanged looks.
    "Captain," said Chilton, apparently unperturbed by
the confused answer from the ready room, "McKinley
Station is signaling. They want to know when we'll be
docking."
    Beverly stood. "Tell McKinley that we've been called
away on a priority mission. We won't be docking any
time soon."
 "Aye, sir," came Chilton's acknowledgment.
    As the captain of the Pasteur headed for the door,
her former mate smiled at her. "Kept the name?" he
asked.
    Ignoring the question, which wasn't really a question
at all, Beverly led Jean-Luc and his companions out onto
the bridge. If she needed any reminders of what the
Pasteur's purpose was, she found it in the caduceus motif
liberally displayed around her center seat.
    For now, she reflected, the ship would have a slightly
different purpose. But then, if Jean-Luc's judgment
could be trusted, they would still be saving lives.
    "Nell," she said, addressing Ensign Chilton, "lay in a
course for H'atoria. Best speed."
    Chilton glanced back over her shoulder, but didn't
display any surprise at the order. "Aye, Captain."
    Turning to Jean-Luc, Beverly gestured to the turbolift.
"I've prepared quarters for you on deck five if you'd like
some rest."
    He shot a sour look at her. "There you go again,
always telling me to get some rest. I wanted a wife, not a
personal physician."
    Smiling cordially, she reminded him of where he
was--and who was in charge here. "I could have you
escorted there," she told him.
    For a moment, she thought he would make this harder
than it had to be. Then, making a sound of disgust,
Jean-Luc turned his back on her. "I can find my way
around a starship, Beverly. I'm not that old .... "
    And, grumbling all the way, he entered the turbo-
lift.
  "Everyone treats me like an invalid," he muttered,
looking about the lift compartment, as if there were
someone there to listen to him. "But I've still got a few
years left... don't need to be led around... shown
everything..."
    A moment later, the doors closed behind him. As soon
as he was out of sight, Beverly turned to Geordi and
Data. She was hard-pressed to keep the sadness out of
her voice.
    "How long since he's had a neurological scan?" she
inquired.
    Geordi shrugged; his artificial eyes glittered back at
her. "I'm not sure, but don't waste your time suggesting
it. He says he's not taking 'any more damn tests.'"
    Beverly grunted. That sounded just like him. "Do you
believe he's doing what he says he's doing? That he's
moving through time?"
    At that, Geordi looked away. It was clear he didn't put
much faith in Jean-Luc's story.
    "I don't know if I do, either," she confided. "But
he's still Jean-Luc Picard. And if he wants to go on one
more mission, that's what we're damned well going to
do."
    Inside the turbolift, Picard grumbled to himself, fixing
his objective in his mind. "Got to find that anomaly...
show them all I'm not crazyú They'll see .... "
    They would, too. And then they would be embar-
rassed at having doubted him.
    Not that he cared all that much about being proven
right. That would just be the icing on the cake. What he
really wanted was to find out why he was shifting
through time ... and what it had to do with the phe-
nomenon in the Devron system.
    Abruptly, the lift stopped and the doors opened. He
stepped out...
    ... onto the bridge. For a moment, Picard had that
feeling of dizziness again--of disorientation. Then he
realized what had happened. Once again, he'd been
transported in time somehow.
    Looking around, he saw Tasha at tactical... Worf at
an aft station... O'Brien at conn and Data at ops. Troi
was sitting in her customary seat beside the captain's
chair.
    Pulling down on the front of his tunic, Picard intoned,
"Report."
    "We're on course for Farpoint," Troi repliedú "We
should arrive in approximately fourteen hours, thirty
minutes."
    He nodded. Moving to O'Brien's side, he gazed over
the man's shoulder at the helm console monitors.
    The chief looked up at him uncomfortablyú "Is there
something I can do for you, sir?"
    "There is," the captain confirmed crisplyú "How far
are we from the Chavez system?"
    O'Brien peered at him through narrowed eyes. "The
Chavez system? We just passed it, sir."
    Picard found himself staring. "Passed it... and noth-
ing happened?"
 The chief looked quizzical. "Nothing, sir."
    The captain cursed inwardly. "Drop out of warp," he
ordered. "Reverse course. Take us back to the Chavez
system."
    He could see the reactions to his directire out of the
corner of his eye. Tasha, Troi, and several others were
having a hard time figuring him out. O'Brien, however,
simply did as he was told.
    It took several minutes for them to come about and
return to the coordinates Picard had in mind. Of course,
considering the circumstances, it seemed like much
longer.
    Finally, the chief spoke up again. "We've entered the
Chavez system, sir."
    The captain turned to Data. "Commander... is
there anything unusual in the vicinity?"
    The android looked back at him. "How would you
define unusual, sir? Every region of space has unique
properties that cannot be found anywhere else."
    Picard thought about it--trying to piece it together
the way it happened the first time. Finally, he came up
with something.
    "There should be a barrier of some sort," he recalled.
"A large plasma field... highly disruptive."
    Tasha worked at her tactical board. After a while, she
shook her head. "Nothing, sir."
    Frustrated, the captain looked down again at
O'Brien's console. "It's the right time... the right
place. He should be here."
 O'Brien's brow puckered. "Who, sir?"
    Straightening, Picard looked around the bridgewand
called out. "Q.t We're here, dammit!"
 There was no answer.
     Again, he addressed his nemesis. "This has gone on
long enough! What sort of game are you playing?"
 Still no response--at least, not from Q.
    The bridge crew was responding, however. They were
exchanging glances from one to the other--no doubt
starting to wonder about their captain's sanity.
    Frowning, he turned to Troi. "Counselor, do you sense
an alien presence of the sort I described earlier? A
superior intelligence?"
 She looked worried. "No, sir."
    In the aft section, though they didn't think Picard
noticed, Worf and Tasha were whispering back and
forth.
 "What is a... Q?" he asked.
    She shrugged. "As far as I know, it's a letter of the
alphabet."
    Blast it, thought the captain, where was he? Where was
his alien tormentor?
    "This is not the way it's supposed to happen..." he
muttered. Then he spoke in a louder, more authoritative
voice. "Maintain position here," he told them. "I'll be in
my ready room."
    En route, he endured his officers' stares without a
word. What could he say, after all? That the super-
intelligent being he'd been expecting hadn't shown up?
That he'd diverged from Starfleet orders to lead them
on some kind of wild-goose chase?
 Disgusted, he entered his ready room...
... and found himself in a different place entirely.
It was a courtroom of sorts, made of glass and steel,
without a single surface that wasn't hard and unyielding.
A crowd was packed into the place--a gallery of leering,
hollow-eyed scarecrows, men and women who pointed
at him and shrieked his name.
    Among them, were the same haggard souls he had seen
in the vineyards of his "future" and in the shuttlebay of
his "past"--except that their numbers had vastly multi-
plied. The air was rank with their scent, with their
hatred and desperation.
    Suddenly, he knew where he was--and when. He had
been here before, after all. The time was the twenty-first
century, the era of mankind's post-atomic horror.
    That explained the hunger and the poverty that char-
acterized the spectators... the bitterness in their
voices, the hopelessness in their eyes.
    And this venue was the one in which he had been
placed on trial several years earlier. Not just him alone,
either, but all of humanity.
    As if to confirm his suspicions, everyone looked in one
direction at once--at an entrance to the room, ap-
proachable only through a long, dark hallway. There was
someone making his way down that hallway now--
someone sitting cross-legged on a floating chair. Q, thought the captain. Who else?
    A moment later he was proven right. With impeccable
timing, the entity emerged from the shadows, playing
the crowd like a virtuoso~ The haggard ones roared their
approval as Q wafted out to the center of the room,
wearing an elaborate set of judge's robes.
    Holding his hand up, he quieted the cheering
throng. Finally, there was silence--utter and complete.
With a supercilious smile on his face, Q turned to
Picard.
    "Mon capitaine," he said, his eyes twinkling with
irony. "I thought you'd never get here."

CHAPTER 12

mmQ,, said the captain. "I thought so."
The entity shrugged. "Actually, you were only about
ninety-six percent certain of it... but why quibble?"
    Picard had no patience for Q's antics. "What's going
on?" he demanded.
    "Isn't it obvious, Jean-Luc?" Q made an expansive
gesture, indicating the entire courtroom and its cadre of
foul-smelling occupants. "Can't you see for yourself, old
bean? Or is a little simple cognition beyond you?"
    The captain frowned. He would have to play the game,
apparently, like it or not. "The last time I stood in this
courtroom was seven years ago .... "
    "Seven years ago," Q repeated mockingly. "How little
you mortals understand time. Must you be so linear,
Jean-Luc?"
    Doggedly, Picard went on. "You accused me of being
the representative of a barbarous species .... "
    "I believe the exact words were 'a dangerous, savage
child-race,' were they not?"
    "But we demonstrated that mankind has become
peaceful and benevolent," the captain insisted. "You
agreed~ and let us go on our way." He looked around at
the crowd of silent, glaring onlookers. "Why do I find
myself back in this courtroom now, when our business
here is finished?"
    Q sighed. "You need me to connect the dots for you, I
see. Lead you from A to B, B to C, and so on... so your
puny mind can comprehend." He shook his head weari-
ly, vexed by man's limitations. "How boring..."
  "For you, perhaps. But--"
    "It would be so much more entertaining," Q mused,
"if you tried to figure this out." He snapped his fingers,
his eyes widening as if seized all of a sudden by an idea.
"In fact," he said, "I'll help you out."
    Reaching under his robes, he pulled out a small
flipboard containing white cards. The first one had a
large numeral 10 on it.
    "Here's the deal, mon ami. I'll answer any question
that calls for a yes or a no. Put it together in ten
questions or less... and you, Jean-Luc Picard, could be
our big winner. What do you say?"
    The captain didn't seem to have much of a choice.
"All right, Q." He tried to establish as much as possible
right from the beginning. "Are you putting mankind on
trial again?"
    Q smiled. "No," he said genially, flipping a card over
to reveal the numeral 9.
  "Is there any connection at all," inquired Picard,
"between the trial seven years ago and whatever's going
on now?"
    Q pretended to think about that one. "Now, let's see.
Hmmmmm...I would have to say... yes." He
flipped to the card that showed 8.
  "Yet you say we're not on trial again .... "
    "That's correct," said Q. "The trial is long over.
That's three questions for the contestant from Earth."
    The captain protested. "That was a statement, not a
question!"
    Unmoved, Q flipped another card over. "Seven to go.
And not a very good job so far, if I may say so. A chimp
could probably have done better--and been more witty
in the process."
    Frustrated, Picard concentrated on his next question.
"The spatial anomaly in the Neutral Zone... is it
related to what's happening?"
    "Oh," said Q, "most definitely yes." He flipped yet
another card.
"Is it part of a Romulan plot? A ploy to start a war?"
"You've been spending too much time with the
Klingon," Q observed. "No... and no again. Six down
and only four to go."
    "Wait a minute," argued the captain. "That's only
five."
    Q ticked off the questions on his fingers. "'Is it a
Romulan plot'? Is it a ploy to start a war?' Those are
separate questions."
    Picard held his anger in check. This was an opportuni-
ty to get to the bottom of this. He dared not waste it.
 "Did you create the anomaly, Q?"
    The entity laughed merrily. "No, no, no, my incredi-
ble dullard of' a starship captain. You're going to be so
surprised when you realize where it came from. That is,
if you ever manage to figure it out. And you have only
three questions left."
    The captain decided to try another tack. "Are you
responsible for my shifting through time?"
    Q looked around, as if he was about to do something
illegal and was concerned that someone might be watch-
ing. He leaned down from his perch atop the floating
cushion.
    "I'll answer that if you promise you won't tell any-
one," he breathed.
 "I promise," the human told him.
 "In that case," Q whispered, '~ves."
 Picard shook his head. "But why?"
    "I'm sorry," said Q. "That's not a yes-or-no question.
You forfeit the rest of the game." Giddily, he tossed away
the flipboard. "I expected as much, you know. And, as I
might point out, that's a perfect example of why we've
made our decision."
    The captain shot him a questioning look. "Your
decision?" he echoed.
    Q nodded. "The verdict has been decided, Captain.
You're guilty."
    Picard took a half-step toward his adversary. "Guilty
of what?"
    "Of being inferior, of course." Q looked at him with
unconcealed contempt. "Seven years ago, I said we'd be
watching you. And we have been. We've been watching
and hoping that your apelike race would demonstrate
some modicum of growth... give us some indication
that your minds have the capacity for further expan-
sion."
    Q's floating cushion lowered so that his eyes were on a
level with the captain's. There was a hard-edged disdain
in them that Picard had never seen there before.
    "And what have we seen instead?" the entity went on.
"You spent your time worrying about Commander
Riker's career... listening to Counselor Troi's pedantic
psychobabble... helping Worf determine if he's a man
or a mouse... and indulging Data in his witless explo-
ration of humanity."
    "We have journeyed to countless new worlds," Picard
maintained. "We have made contact with new species
... expanded the Federation's understanding of the
universe..."
    "In your own paltry, limited way," Q conceded. "But
you have no idea how far you still have to go. And
instead of using the past seven years to change and
grow--you have squandered them." "I beg to differ..." he began.
    Q dismissed his comment with a wave of his hand.
"Time in the universe may be eternal, Captain. Howev-
er, the patience of our Continuum is not--and you and
your kind have exhausted it."
    It sounded to Picard as if this was a battle he couldn't
hope to win. It seemed that Q had already made his
decision.
    "And having rendered a verdict," he asked, "have you
decided upon a sentence?"
 "Indeed," replied Q. "You see, it's time to end your
trek through the stars, Jean-Luc. It's time for you to
make room for other, more worthy species."
    The captain didn't quite understand. "You mean
we're to be denied travel through space?"
    Q's eyes flashed fire. "No, you obtuse piece of flotsam.
You're to be denied existence. Humanity's fate has been
sealed. You will be completely and irrevocably de-
stroyed."
    No, thought Picard. How could that be? Even a
spiteful entity like Q was not capable of such an act.
    "IT' responded Q, having intruded in the human's
mind. "There you go again, blaming me for everything.
Well, this time I'm not your enemy--even though I
could easily have become one, after listening to that
insipid balalaika music all evening." "Balalaika music? I don't--"
    "Never mind." He leaned in close to the captain, so
close their noses were almost touching. "I'm not the one
who causes the annihilation of mankind," said Q. "You
are."
 Picard shook his head. "Me... ?"
    "That's right. You're doing it right now... you've
already done it... and you will do it yet again in the
future."
    The captain felt his teeth grate together. "What sort of
meaningless double-talk is that?"
    Q took a long, melodramatic draft of air and slowly let
it out. "Oh, my. He doesn't understand. I have only
myself to blame, I suppose. I believed in him...
thought he had some tiny spark of potential. But appar-
ently, I was wrong about him. C'est la vie."
    "No," said Picard, sensing that the entity was about to
make his exit. "You can't just leave it at that. You've got
tom"
    Q didn't even seem to hear him. "Good luck, Jean-
Luc. Maybe you can still avoid killing every humanoid
in the galaxy... but I doubt it."  "No!" cried the captain.
      "May whatever god you believe in have mercy on your
soul. This court stands adjourned." Again, louder this time: "No!"
    But Q was already raising his hand, signaling an end to
his audience. There was the crash of a gong...
    ... and Picard sat up, fully awake. It wasn't until the
sound had faded away to nothing that he realized he was
in his ready room. And it took a moment longer than
that for him to remember that he was in the "present."
    Bolting to his feet, he made his way to the door and
emerged onto the bridge. Seeing that Riker wasn't there,
he looked up to the intercom grid.
  "Commander Riker," he said.
  "Riker here," came the reply.
    "Assemble the senior staff," the captain told him,
shivering at what he had just learned. "And go to red
alert. We have a bigger problem on our hands than we
thought."

'Dr. Pulaski?"

    Kate Pulaski looked up from her solitary table, where
she'd been playing the Andorian game of choctoq--and
losingú She wasn't sure whom she expected to see...
but it wasn't the Daughter of the Fifth House of Betazed,
Holder of the Sacred Chalice of Riix.
    "Ambassador Troi?" she responded, unable to keep
the surprise out of her voice. A few of her fellow officers
looked up from the surrounding tables and then went
back to their own conversations.
    Lwaxana Troi hadn't changed much in the five years
since the doctor had seen her last. Her hair was a dusky
red instead of brunette, but she still had that friskiness
about her that sent strong captains sprinting wildly for
the escape pods.
    Then again, Pulaski thought, who am I to talk about
other people being frisky? Those who're been to the
trough as often as I have shouldn't throw stones... to
mix a metaphor.
    "I see you remember me," commented the Betazoid.
"And yes, I have changed the color of my hair. How
sweet of you to notice."
    Pulaski reddened. Telepathy was a damned inconve-
nient trait, when you came right down to it. Gesturing to
the chair on the other side of the table, she said, "Please,
sit down."
    The ambassador sat. Picking up one of the choctoq
tiles, she inspected the dragonlike symbol on its smooth,
white face. "I know," she began. "You're wondering
what I'm doing here on the Repulse. Well, Ambassador
Zul of Triannis took ill just a few days ago..."
    "And you took his place on the Alpha Tiberia negoti-
ating team," the chief medical officer finished. "I've got
it. But Ambassador Zul was one of our foremost experts
on Ferengi barter techniques .... "
    "So he was," Lwaxana agreed, replacing the tile in its
starburst configuration. "Which is why they asked me to
take his place. You see, I've had some dealings of my
own with the Ferengi. And let me assure you, Doctor,
they were a lot more colorful than Ambassador Zul's."
    Pulaski smiled. "I have no doubt of it. So, tell me...
how's Deanna? And the rest of the Enterprise crew?"
    The Betazoid frowned. "You may not believe it, but
Deanna's still not married. And she's got the prettiest
face on that entire ship, if I say so myself." She sighed.
"As for the others... they're about the same, I sup-
pose." She thought for a moment. "Did Will Riker have
a beard when you were with them?"
 The doctor nodded. "He'd just grown it."
 "And... did you meet Alexander?"
    Pulaski shook her head. "The name doesn't ring a bell.
Who's he?"
    Lwaxana smiled. "Just the most precious little
Klingon child you ever saw. It's hard to believe his father
is someone as grim as Mr. Woof."
The doctor looked at her, amused. "You mean Worf"
"Woof, Worf..." She shrugged, as if the difference
were insignificant. "In any case, Alexander came aboard
after his poor mother died. Did you know K'Ehleyr?"
    Pulaski put cha' and cha' together. "K'Ehleyr was the
boy's mother?"
    The Betazoid nodded. "Poor dear. She was killed by
some horrid High Council member, when her research
threatened to expose his family's treachery."
    The doctor shivered. "How awful. But the boy is all
right?"
    "He is now," Lwaxana told her. "Thanks to the
attention my daughter showers on him."
    Pulaski had liked Worf--but she couldn't picture him
raising a youngster all on his own. It had to be hard on
someone like him.
 "It is," the ambassador replied.
    Again, Pulaski had reason to regret the development
of telepathy in Betazoids. "And Data?" she asked.
"How's he doing?"
    Lwaxana looked at her. "The android?" She consid-
ered the question. "Actually, he doesn't seem to change
much, does--" She stopped herself. "No, I take that
back. He doesn't change physically. But now that I think
about it, his personality has developed quite a bit. He's
become more socially adept. More... human, I'd say,
for lack of a better word."
    The doctor sighed and looked down at the primary-
colored choctoq pieces on her side of the table. "I was so
wrong."
  "About what?" asked the ambassador.
    "About Data," she answered. "When I was on the
Enterprise, I really believed he was just a fancy bucket of
bolts. After all, he wasn't a biological entity, and I didn't
think there was any other kind. But I've been accessing
his Starfleet personnel file from time to time, and I see
now that I was off the mark." She grunted philosophical-
ly. "Way off."
    Lwaxana regarded her. "You ought to tell him so. I bet
he'd like to hear it from someone like you. Someone he
respects."
    Pulaski nodded. "Maybe I will. I don't know about
him, but it'd sure as Shadrak make rn'e feel better." She
paused. "In fact, maybe I'll pay a little visit to the
Enterprise. I've got some time coming, and--"
    The Betazoid leaned forward and shook her head.
"Not right now, dear," she said in a hushed tone.
    Lwaxana looked around to make sure no one else in
the rec room was looking. Then, satisfied that they had
some privacy, she went on.
    "The Enterprise is on a secret mission," she explained.
"At the Romulan Neutral Zone. There's some sort of
anomaly there--whatever that is."
    The doctor eyed her. "But if it's secret, how do
you... ?" And then she answered her own question.
Telepathy.
    The ambassador smiled. "It pays to hang around with
an admiral now and then. You never know what you
might find out." Suddenly, the smile disappeared. "Of
course, I wouldn't want any of this to become common
knowledge. Deanna would kill me--and Riix knows,
the poor girl has enough problems. Did I tell you she's
still unmarried?"
 Pulaski grinned. "Yes, ma'am. I believe you did."
    Lieutenant Reginald Barclay heaved a long, tremulous
sigh as he remembered the details of his recent transfor-
mation.
    "Actually," he said, "it wasn't so bad being a spider. I
mean, I wasn't really aware of what was going on. I just
had this general... I don't know, perception, I guess
you'd call it... that things had changed. That they'd
slowed down, somehow. Or that my reactions had
speeded up. And... oh, yes. Then there was that other
thing."
    He turned to look at Counselor Troi. As ever, she was
gazing at him sympathetically from her chair on the
other side of the room.
    "You mean the appetite for flies?" she suggested
nonjudgmentally.
    He nodded. Even now, it was hard for him to think of
one without salivating just a little. "Yes. That."
    The counselor smiled. "As I've told you before, Reg,
what you're feeling isn't at all abnormal. Everyone on
the ship was affected by that protomorphosis disease.
And everyone--myself included--has some unsettling
memories of what happened to them while they were
devolving."
    He grunted. "Yes, but not everyone on the ship had
the disease named after him."
    Troi looked at him. "Dr. Crusher did that as a matter
of scientific tradition. If you want her to change it..."
    He pondered the possibility for a moment, then shook
his head. Now that he thought about it, he sort of liked
the idea, even if it did imply that he was to blame for the
whole epidemic.
    After all, it guaranteed him a certain immortality. For
hundreds, maybe thousands of years, Federation doctors
and scientists would be speaking of Barclay's proto-
morphosis syndrome in reverential tones.
    That is, if the Federation was still around. The way
things were going, he wasn't so sure that would be the
case.
    "I guess the spider thing isn't what's really bothering
me," he confessed. "Or even the fact that I've had a
disease named after me."
    The counselor had known that all along, of course,
though she hadn't said so. That's how she worked, he
mused.
    Now, for instance, she was waiting patiently for him to
tell her what the real problem was. Finally, he spoke up.
    "It's this mission," he explained. "The anomaly that's
been discovered in the Devron system... all those
Warbirds that the Romulans have sent to the Neutral
Zone." He tried to swallow back the trepidation he felt
rising in his throat. "We had to flit out a combat-
readiness report in engineering. You know what that
means, don't you?"
 Troi just returned his gaze. "No, Reg. What does it
 mean?"
    He said it as calmly as he could. "That we're going to
war with them. The Romulans, I mean." He looked
down at his hands, which were shivering ever so slightly.
"No one's come out and made an announcement, but I
can see the handwriting on the wall."
    The counselor leaned forward and took her time
responding. For once, his anxiety had some solid basis in
reality, and they both knew it.
    "I think you're jumping to conclusions, Reg. I can't
tell you for certain that there won't be a war. However,
that's only one possible result."
    Barclay frowned. "What about the combat-readiness
reports? You don't ask for those unless you expect
something to happen."
    "Or expect that something might happen," she cor-
rected. "As of right now, we don't know very much
about the situation. We haven't figured out where the
anomaly came from or why the Romulans have such an
interest in it. So we're being cautious... until we do
know."
    That made him feel a little better--but not much.
"But what if the Romulans react to our reaction? What if
they see us coming and decide we've... urn, misinter-
preted what they've done?"
    Troi's expression remained a tolerant one. "There's
always that risk," she conceded. "But I wouldn't charac-
terize the Romulans as an impulsive people... would
you? It seems to me they'd think twice before initiating
any hostile actions."
 Barclay looked at her. "They sent thirty Warbirds to
the Neutral Zone. If they're not planning a hostile
action, then why... ?" His fear rising to choke him, he
found he couldn't finish the sentence.
    "Reg," replied the counselor, "I don't know how this
will turn out. I'm just saying that, until we have more
information, there's no point in getting worried about
it." She smiled reassuringly. "Besides, you know that
Captain Picard will do everything in his power to avoid
an armed conflict."
    That much was true. But it seemed to the engineer
that Picard might not have all that much control over the
situation. Hell, he might not have any control at all.
    He was about to point that outwbut a voice on the
intercom system filled the room before he had the
chance.
    "Riker to Counselor Troi. The captain's asked me to
convene the senior staff in the observation lounge...
immediately."
    The counselor seldom looked perturbed, Barclay told
himselfi But she looked perturbed now.
 "On my way," she assured her fellow officer.
    The engineer felt as if somebody had cut the deck out
from beneath his feet. "But... what about my ses-
sion... ?" he asked her.
    Troi took him in tow as she headed for the door.
"We'll continue as soon as we can." she said. "I prom-
ise."
    Inwardly, he panicked. "But... I never got to tell you
about my..."
    The counselor stopped at the threshold. The doors to
her quarters were already opening to let them out.
 "Reg," she said, "I know that this isn't easy for you,
but try to relax. Getting yourself all keyed up isn't going
to make things better."
    "Try to relax," he echoed, focusing on the advice as
she guided him out into the corridor. "That's a good
idea." But deep down, he had a feeling it wouldn't work.
Relaxing wasn't one of his strong points.
    And a moment later, it was too late to remind her of
the fact--because Troi was on her way into the turbolift
opposite her quarters. As the lift doors closed, he was left
standing in the middle of the hallway, watching as other
crewmen went about their business.
    Easy for them to face what was ahead, he thought.
They weren't so petrified they could hardly breathe. Or
stand up straight. Or see.
    And it wasn't just that he was scared of dying. He
suffered from another, more insidious fear... the
nightmarish idea that he would freeze at a crucial
moment and be responsible for others losing their lives.
He was afraid that if the pressure got too great, he might
make a gibbering, useless spectacle of himself.
    In other words, he was frightened of being frightened.
Terrified of being terrified. Paralyzed by the prospect of
paralysis.
    But maybe the counselor was right. Maybe all he had
to do was relax. A holodeck program would...
     He stopped himself. No, not the holodeck. He'd had
his share of problems there. Then the gym...
    Again, he stopped short. He wasn't very physical.
Going to the gym would only make him feel inadequate.
    There was always that other place. Come to think of it,
he was in the mood for one of Guinan's lime rickeys.
And she was always willing to listen to him, no matter
how silly his concerns were.
    His course set, he turned to the turbolift. After a wait
of only a few seconds, the doors opened to admit him.
But as he stepped inside, feeling he was taking the
proper steps to solve his problem, he felt a flush crawl up
his cheeks.
 Wait a minute...
    Why had the counselor been called away so abruptly?
Could it be that something had happened... something
related to the massing of Romulan ships along the
Neutral Zone? Something really bad?
Had there been an attack? Were they at war already?
Before he could come to grips with the notion, the
calm of the lift compartment was shattered by the urgent
sound of a klaxon.
    "Red alert," announced the ship's computer in a
feminine voice. "This is not a drill. Red alert. This is not
a drill..."

CHAPTER

'114,

Picard sat at the head of the table that dominated the
observation lounge and surveyed his officers' faces.
Their expressions ranged from concern to disbelief to
resentment--all emotions he himself had experienced
in Q's twenty-first-century courtroom.
    Only Data remained nonplussed. But then, he was
always like that--at least in this time frame.
"So?" the captain prodded. "What do you think?"
Geordi shook his head. "I don't believe him. This has
to be another one of his games. He's probably listening
to us right now, getting a big laugh out of watching us
jump through his hoops."
    "Nonetheless," commented Picard, "I think this time
we have no choice but to take him at his word... which
means that in some fashion, I will cause the destruction
of humanity."
    Beverly leaned forward. "But didn't Q say you already
had caused it?"
    Deanna nodded. "Yes... and that you were causing
it even now?"
Riker sighed. "This is starting to give me a headache."
Data's brow creased ever so slightly. "Given the fact
that there is an apparent discontinuity between the three
time periods the captain is visiting, Q's statement may
be accurate, if confusing. The actions that the captain
has taken in the past have already occurred, while his
actions here in the present are still transpiring..."
      "And in the future," said Picard, completing the
thought, "there are actions I have yet to undertake."
  The android looked at him. "Exactly, sir."
  Worf scowled. "Now I am getting a headache."
  "So," asked the captain, "what should I do? Just
  lock myself in a room in all three time periods? Is that
  the only way I can avoid causing this... cata-
  clysm?"
    "It could also be your inaction that causes the destruc-
tion of mankind," Riker pointed out. "What if you were
needed on the bridge at a key moment, and you weren't
there?"
    "We can't start second-guessing ourselves," advised
Deanna. "There's no way to rationally predict what's
going to happen. I think we have to proceed normally
... deal with each situation as it occurs. Otherwise,
we'll become paralyzed with indecision."
    Picard nodded. "Agreed." He paused, pursuing anoth-
er line of thought. "It would seem that there is some
connection between my jumping through time... Q's
threat... and the appearance of a spatial anomaly in
the Neutral Zone. Speculation?"
    "There are many possibilities," replied Data. "Your
time shifts could be causing the spatial anomaly. Or it
could be that the anomaly is causing your time shifts."
    "But why the captain?" asked Worf. "Why does it
seem to be only affecting him?"
    That made them all stop and think. It was Picard
himself who responded first--and with a conclusion
that surprised even himself.
    "There is another possibility. What if Q himself were
endowing me with this time-shifting ability... in order
to give me a chance to save humanity?"
    There were astonished looks all around. "What makes
you say that?" asked the first officer.
    "Q has always shown a certain... fascination with
humanity," the captain explained. "And more specifi-
cally, with me. I think he has more than a casual interest
in what happens to me."
    "That is true," agreed Data. "Q's interest in you is
very similar to that of a master in a beloved pet. In a
way, he may relate to you the way I relate to Spot."
    Picard was less than thrilled with that comparison. He
communicated that with a look.
    The android tilted his head slightly. "It was only an
analogy, Captain."
    "Yes," remarked Picard. "And unfortunately, it's
rather close to the truth. Let's assume for the moment
that Q does regard me as a sort of... prized possession.
He may not want to see that possession destroyed. And
yet, he may be prohibited from acting directly to prevent
it."
 "You mean by the other Q?" asked Geordi.
    "Yes. Or perhaps even by his own code of behavior,"
the captain suggestedú "That is, if he has one we're not
aware of."
    "Maybe," said Riker, "he gave you this ability to shift
through time so you could see a problem developing...
at three different points."
    The captain pondered that possibilityú "A problem
that can only be solved by marshaling the resources of
three different time periods..."
      His cogitation was cut short by a message over the
intercom. "Ensign Calan to Captain Picard."
  Picard looked up. "Go ahead, Ensign."
  "We're approaching the Neutral Zone, sir."
  The captain saw his officers exchange glances.
  "On our way," he replied.
    As they filed out onto the bridge, each of them moved
to his or her customary place. Sitting down in his seat,
Picard considered the starfield he saw on the viewscreen.
  "All stop," he commandedú "Long-range scan."
    It took a moment for his people to make the adjust-
ment to the sensor arrayú And another for the results to
come in.
    "There are four Romulan Warbirds on the other side
of the Neutral Zone," Data informed him from his
position at ops. "They are holding position, sir. And on
our side of the border, the Federation starships Concord
and Bozeman are holding position as well."
    "A standoff," remarked Riker. "The question is,
who's going to move first?"
    "We are," responded the captain. "Mr. Worf, hail the
Romulan flagship. We have nothing to gain by maintain-
ing an uneasy silence."
    "Aye, sir," said the Klingon. And a moment later:
"Her commander is responding."
 "On screen," Picard told him...
... and the image of an aged Klingon supplanted the
star field.
    Startled, Picard looked around for an explanation--
and realized that he was no longer on the Enterprise. He
was on the Pasteur, in what he had conhe to think of as
the "future."
    Beverly was seated beside him. He gripped the armrest
of her chair as he adjusted to the sudden shift.
    It took him another second or two to recognize the
K!ingon on the viewscreen as Worf. The former security
officer was sitting at a desk in what looked like a small,
crowded office. The furniture behind him was stacked
high with books and documents.
    "Captain Picard," said the governor, inclining his
head as a peculiarly Klingon sign of respect.
Beverly noddedú "Hello, Worf. It's been a long time."
"That it has," the Klingon agreed. "I have read your
request."
    He paused, as if steeling himself for his next state-
ment. That alone suggested to Picard that the news
would not be good.
    "The first thing you should know," he continued, "is
that I am no longer a member of the High Council."
    It was true. The news was not good. If Worf had fallen
from favor, their job would be that much harderú
    "After I opposed our withdrawal from the Federation
Alliance," the Klingon explained, "the House of Mogh
was forced from power. Exiled--albeit unofficially--
from the homeworld."
    "I see," said Beverly. She was obviously trying to be
sympathetic.
    But Picard didn't see. He didn't see at all. "Worf," he
pleaded, "you must still have some influence. We need
your help."
    The Klingon scowled in self-derision. "I am only the
governor of this colony." He spoke the words as if they
constituted a curse. "My powers are... mostly ceremo-
nial." Abruptly, a strain of anger crept into his voice. "If
Admiral Riker had given you a starship with a cloak, you
would have been safe. I cannot believe he refused to help
you."
    Picard held his hands out. "I don't care what kind of
ship we're in--cloaked or otherwise. The important
thing is to get to the Devron system." His hands balled
into fists as he pleaded his case. "Surely... even with
what's happened to you... it's within your power to
grant us permission to cross the border. If nothing else,
at least that."
    Worf looked down, then shook his shaggy head. "I am
sorry, but my first duty is to the Empire. I must adhere to
regulations."
    The captain eyed him. He had to try a different
approach.
    "Maybe I'm an old man who just doesn't under-
stand," he said. "But the Worf I knew cared more about
things like loyalty and honor than he did about rules and
regulations."
    As he paused for effect, he saw the Klingon's head
come up, so that he gazed at Picard from beneath his
protruding brow. It seemed he had gotten Worf's atten-
tion.
    "But then," he concluded, driving in the final stake,
"that was a long time ago. Maybe you're not the Worf I
knew."
    He had expected to spur an emotional reaction--but
he wasn't prepared for the actual violence of the gover-
nor's outburst. In a fit of untrammeled rage, Worf swept
everything from his desk. Computer disks flew through
the air like deadly weapons while official reports erupted
in a ston-n of loose papers.
    "Dor-sHo GHA!" the Klingon bellowed, trembling
with fury. He brought his fist down on the desk like a
sledgehammer, making it jump.
  Indeed, thought Picard, holding his ground.
    His eyes flashing with anger, Worf pointed an accusa-
tory finger at his former captain. "You have always used
your knowledge of Klingon honor and tradition to get
what you want from me."
    "That's right," Picard shot back, measure for mea-
sure. "Because it always works. Your problem, my
friend, is that you really do have a sense of honor. You
really care about things like loyalty and trust." He
snorted. "Don't blame me because I know you too well,
Worf. Blame yourself for embodying the virtues to
which others only pretend."
    The Klingon glared at him. His rage was cooling, by
degrees.
    "Very well," he snarled at last. "You may cross the
border. But only if I come with you. No one is more
familiar with the Neutral Zone than I am--and you will
need a guide." He frowned. "There are those in the
Empire who long for battle with the Federation... who
believe that we were taken advantage of during the years
of the alliance. They will not hesitate to fire on an
unauthorized vessel."
    Picard smiled in his beard. This was more than he
could have hoped for. "Terms accepted," he said.
    A moment later, Worf's visage was replaced by a
motionless starfield. The transmission was at an end.
    And Picard had gotten what he wanted. They were on
their way to the Devron system.
    Beverly turned to Chilton. "Ensign," she said, "in-
form transporter room two that the governor is to be
beamed aboard."
 "Aye, sir," replied the conn officer.
    As Worf came around his desk and waited for the
transport, he reflected on what this decision would mean
to his career. A Klingon didn't abandon his post--even
if it was a purely bureaucratic one. No doubt, he'd be
taken to task... perhaps even stripped of his title.
    He grinned recklessly, for the first time in many years.
Worse things could happen than losing a position he had
never wanted in the first place. It was a good day to be
dismissed, he mused.
    Just then, one of his assistants entered the room with a
padd in his hand. "Governor," he said, "I have the
supply report for your--"
  "K'dho moqak!" bellowed Worf.
    His assistant took a couple of steps back, astonished at
his superior's outburst. It was a second or two before he
could bring himself to speak.
 "But, Governor..."
    "Cancel all of my appointments for the next few
days," Worf instructed--then thought better of it.
"No," he amended with some satisfaction. "Cancel all
my appointments... period."
    His assistant shook his head. "I do not understand,"
he groaned. "The delegation from Krios..."
    "Can solve its own, small-minded problems," Worf
replied.
    And before he had to put up with any further protests,
he found himself somewhere else entirely. It took him a
heartbeat to realize that he had materialized on one of
the Pasteur's transporter platforms.
    "Welcome aboard," said the transporter operator--a
slender Malcorian female with long red hair twisted into
a braid.
    He nodded. He was here. Whatever happened from
this point on, he would acquit himself honorably.

CHAPTE R !S

Picard saw Chilton swivel to address Beverly. "Gover-
nor Worf is aboard," the woman reported.
    Beverly nodded by way of acknowledgment. No doubt
she was as glad to have Worfalong as Picard himself was.
On a jaunt like the one they were contemplating, he
reflected, they could use all the help they could get.
    Turning to him, Beverly waxed serious. "I just want to
make one thing clear, Jean-Luc. If we run into any
serious opposition, I'm taking us back to Federation
territory. This isn't a Galaxy-class starship and we
wouldn't last very long in a fight."
    She was right, of course. There were reasonable limits
to what they could accomplishmand were their situa-
tions reversed, he would have established that fact as she
had.
    But this was not any ordinary mission--and extraor-
dinary missions sometimes called for extraordinary
measures. Fortunately, that was something he could
address later on. There was no reason to invite a
confrontation with his ex-wife at this point.
 He nodded, for the sake of peace. "I understand."
    "All right," said Beverly, apparently satisfied. "En-
sign, set course for the Devron system. Warp 13."
    As Picard watched, she raised her hand to give the
order to engagemthen stopped and looked to him
instead. Slowly, a wistful smile came to her. "Once
more?" she suggested. "For old time's sake, Jean-Luc?"
    He grinned, knowing exactly what she meant. As he
had a thousand times on the Enterprise, he held up his
hand in that old, familiar way.
 "Engage," he said.
    "Engage to where, sir?" O'Brien cast a querulous look
at him.
    But O'Brien wasn't on the Pasteur. And as the captain
looked around, he saw that he wasn't, either.
    He was back on the Enterprise, in the past. Taking a
deep breath to steady himself, Picard studied the
viewscreen. It showed him the sun and several planets
that constituted the Chavez system.
    But that was no longer his objective. Now that he'd
learned a few things, he had another destination in
mind.
    "Set course for the Devron system," he instructed
O'Brien, "and engage at warp nine."
    Troi looked at him, concern evident in her dark eyes.
"Sir, the Devron system is inside the Neutral Zone."
    Tasha chimed in as well from her position at tactical.
"We've received no orders to enter the Zone, sir."
      The captain cast a withering glance at her. "I'm aware
of that, Lieutenant. Carry out my orders, Chief."
  O'Brien nodded. "Aye, sir."
    Picard could tell that worried looks were being ex-
changed behind his back. He did his best to ignore them.
    A moment later, Troi was at his side. "Captain," she
said, in a voice too low for anyone else to hear it, "may I
have a word with you in private?"
    "Of course," replied Picard. Addressing Tasha again,
he said, "Lieutenant, contact Farpoint Station. I want to
speak with Commander Riker."
    "Aye, sir," she responded. But she was obviously
distracted by the impending conference between the
captain and his ship's counselor.
    Picard was pleased to note that, even at this early stage
in their relationship, Troi was impeccably discreet. She
waited until the ready-room doors had closed behind
them before launching into a conversation.
    "Captain," she said, "I just want to voice my concerns
about the way the crew is responding to your...
unexpected orders."
    "They don't trust me," he acknowledged. "I know
that. They think I'm behaving erratically."
    Troi nodded. "Some do. Others are simply confused.
It takes some time for a new crew to get to know their
captain, and for him to know them."
    "I understand that," he told her. "But I know what
this crew is capable of, even if they don't. And I believe
that they have the ability to become one of the finest
crews in the fleet."
    She smiled. "I'm happy to hear you say that. It may do
them good to hear it, as well." A pause. "It would also
help if they knew what was going on. In fact, it would
help a lot."
    Picard took a moment to consider his response. "I
know it's difficult operating in the dark," he said finally.
"But for now, I believe it's the only way."
    Troi looked unconvinced. "Perhaps if you could at
least indicate why you feel that--"
    She was interrupted by Tasha's intercom voice. "Lieu-
tenant Yar to Captain Picard. I have Commander Riker
for you, sir."
    Picard noticed the counselor's reaction to the mention
of Riker's name. It told him that this was a woman who
had not resolved her feelings about her former lover.
    He looked up at the intercom grid in the ceiling.
"Thank you, Lieutenant. Put Commander Riker
through in here." "Aye, sir."
    The captain sat down at his desk and activated the
desktop monitor. Instantly, the image of a young, beard-
less Will Riker sprang into view. Picard didn't look to
see the expression on Troi's face, but he had a pretty
good idea what it might be.
    "Commander," he said. "I just wanted to let you
know we won't be picking you up at Farpoint Station, as
scheduled."
    Riker seemed mildly disturbed. "I see. May I ask
why?"
 "Not at this time," the captain advised him.
    His exec showed a little surprise, but he didn't act on
it. "And how long do you expect to be delayed, sir?"
    Picard shook his head. "I'm not sure at the moment.
However, I'll keep you updated. Please inform Dr.
Crusher and Lieutenant La Forge of our delay as well."
  "Understood, sir."
    And with that, the captain brought the transmission to
an end.
    At Farpoint Station, Beverly Crusher was just finish-
ing breakfast when her door whistled. On a starship,
visitors were announced with the sound of chimes, but
the Bandi had naturally designed the place with their
own preferences in mind.  "Come in," she said.
      A moment later, the doors parted to reveal the rangy
figure of Will Riker. He smiled in that easy way he had.
  "Sorry to bother you," he said.
    "That's quite all right," Crusher told him. She was, of
course, already acquainted with the first officer from her
passage here on the Hood. He had been an exec there
too, under Captain DeSoto.
 "Mom? Is that Commander Riker?"
    Before she could answer, her son Wesley rushed in
from his bedroom. His dark eyes were wide with delight
mand no wonder. The commander had been good
enough to take Wesley under his wing on the Hood,
patiently answering the boy's multitudinous questions
about starship operating systems.
    "Yes," she replied, just for the record. "It's Com-
mander Riker, all right."
 The man's smile widened. "How goes it, Wes?"
 Her son shrugged his narrow shoulders. "Not bad. I
 was just reading up on the new plasma conduits they've
 been installing on all the newer vessels." He paused, so
 beset with curiosity that he was almost in pain. "If I ask
 nicely, do you think the captain will let me see them?"
     It was Riker's turn to shrug. "I can't say for sure, Wes.
 I've never met him, so I don't know what he's like. But
 I'll put in a good word for you."
     Wesley's pain seemed to dissipate. "Great," he said
 hopefully. Then he turned to Crusher herself. "Morn,
 could you put in a good word for me too?"
     Riker looked at her, a question on his face. The doctor
 could feel the rush of blood to her cheeks.
    "Captain Picard and my late husband were friends,"
she explained concisely. "I guess I never mentioned that,
did IT'
    The first officer shook his head. "No, ma'am, you
didn't. But under the circumstances, maybe you could
put in a good word for both of us."
    Coming from someone else, it might have sounded
sarcastic, even resentful. When Riker said it, it made her
laugh. Whatever embarrassment she had felt was in-
stantly gone.
    She wished she could feel that good about joining the
crew of the Enterprise. Truth to tell, she hadn't selected
this assignment with the express purpose of serving with
her husband's old friend. Quite the contrary; she had
had to think twice about it before signing on.
    After all, Jack had died a decade agorawhile under
Picard's command. The last time she had seen the
captain was at her husband's funeral.
    Their working together now, on the same ship, would
be awkward, to say the least. She would be an uncomfort-
able reminder of a colleague's death--for which he
couldn't help but blame himself, however unfairly. And
he would be a symbol of what Jack might have become,
if he hadn't perished in that awful accident.
    Still, she had wanted this position. After all her
training, all she'd accomplished in the medical corps, it
was the only real challenge left to her. And Beverly
Crusher had never been one to back down from a
challenge.
"I'll do what I can," she told Commander Riker.
"Unfortunately," the first officer said, his smile fading
a little, "I think we're going to have to wait a little longer
before we can put in those good words of ours. I've just
spoken with Captain Picard, and he tells me our rendez-
vous has been postponed... indefinitely."
    The doctor saw the disappointment on her son's face.
"Why?" he asked. It was a logical question.
    "I wish I could say," Riker responded. "However, the
captain didn't see fit to tell me."
    Now Crusher did hear a note of resentment in the
man's voice. Apparently, Will Riker didn't like to be left
out of things. At least, not when they pertained to his
ship and his commanding officer.
    Wesley plunked himself down on a nearby couch. "I
knew this was too good to be true," he sighed.
    The first officer placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Whatever called the captain away," he advised, "it'll
probably only mean another day or two. You can hold
out that long, can't you?"
    Looking up, Wesley nodded. "I guess so," he an-
swered.
 Riker nodded. '~Good." He turned to the doctor. "In
that case, I'll be heading over to Lieutenant La Forge's
quarters. I could tell him over station intercom," he
noted, "but I think I'll do it in person. Lord knows, I've
got all the time in the world."
 Crusher chuckled. Wasn't that the truth.
    On the Enterprise, the captain turned again to Troi.
"Is there anything else, Counselor?"
    She didn't answer right away. Clearly, something was
troubling her.
    "Actually," she said, "there is, sir. I've been debating
whether or not to mention it, but perhaps..." She
became more resolute. "It's about Commander Riker."
    Picard, of course, knew all about their relationship
back on Betazed. He even knew how it would run its
course in the future. But, unable to reveal anything of
events to come, he played it as if this was the first he had
heard of it.
 "What about him?" he asked.
    "Well," Troi began, "I think you should know that
we... have had a prior relationship."
    The captain looked at her, feigning surprise. "I see.
And do you anticipate this interfering with your du-
ties?"
    She shook her head fervently. "No, sir. It was many
years ago--and I'm sure it's well behind us both. I just
thought you should know."
    Picard pretended to ponder the information--and
then to come to a decision. "I appreciate your telling me,
Counselor. However, I'm sure the two of you will find a
way to... deal with the situation."
    Troi nodded... though she didn't seem as certain as
he was. Moving to the replicator in the room, the captain
requested his beverage of choice.  "Tea. Earl Grey. Hot."
    The computer's response was instantaneous--and a
little unnerving. "That beverage has not been pro-
grammed into this station. Please enter chemical com-
position."
    Picard smiled. As he turned to Troi, intending to cover
his surprise with a clever remark...
    ... he found himself standing in front of the ship's
viewscreen--and the image of the Romulan command-
er that filled it.
    It took him a second or two to get his bearings... to
establish that he was back in the "present." And another
second to realize that he recognized the Romulan.
  "Tomalak," he whispered.
    He had run into the Romulan before--first at
Galorndon Core, then when Picard had granted asylum
to Admiral Jarok. Tomalak looked every bit as formida-
ble as on those previous occasionsú
    "So, Captain," said the craggy-faced Romulan. "How
long shall we stare at each other across the Neutral
Zone?"
    Gathering himself, Picard returned the scrutiny. How
long indeed? Then he got an idea.
 "There is an alternative, you know."
 "And what is that?" asked Tomalak.
 The captain shrugged. "It's obvious that we're both
here for the same reason--to find out more about the
anomaly in the Devron system."
    "All right," the Romulan concurred. "What do you
propose?"
    "Simply this," said Picard. "We could each send one
ship into the Neutral Zone--with the sole purpose of
investigating the anomaly."
    Tomalak considered the plan. "Has Starfleet Com-
mand approved this arrangement?"
    It hadn't, of course. "No," the captain replied hon-
estly.
  The Romulan smiled. "I like it already."
    His eyes narrowed as he weighed the proposition in
greater detail, inspecting it from all angles. At last, he
nodded.
    "It is agreed. One ship from each side. But I warn
you--if another Federation starship tries to enter the
gone . . ."
    "You needn't make threats," said Picard. "I think
we're all aware of the consequences."
    "Very well," replied Tomalak, almost amiably. "See
you in the Devron system, Captain."
    A moment later, the Romulan was gone, replaced by a
static starfield full of Neutral Zone constellations.
    Picard turned to the officer who was sitting at conn.
"Set course for the Devron system, Ensign. Warp five
... engage."
Guinan had expected that the captain would come
calling on her at any moment. She wasn't disappointed.
    Even as he entered Ten-Forward, he was scanning the
place. Scanning it for her. Of course, she wasn't at her
usual spot behind the bar, so it took him a moment to
find her.
    "Excuse me," she told Reg Barclay, as she got up from
their table. "I've got a prior engagement."
 The engineer turned pale. "But... I mean..."
    "I know," Guinan told him, placing a reassuring hand
on his shoulder. "You need to talk to someone. You're
scared about what's going on. But so is everyone else."
She looked into his eyes. "It's all right to be scared, Mr.
Barclay. It doesn't mean there's something wrong with
you. It means there's something right."
 His forehead wrinkled. "You... you really think so?"
 "I know so. And I also know that you've always come
 through in a pinch--no matter how much you worried
 about it beforehand."
    Barclay thought about it. "I guess... you're right,"
he told her.
    She grinned. "So what else is new?" Then, giving him
a last pat, she beckoned her top waiter. As Ben ap-
proached, she said, "Another lime tickey for our Mr.
Barclay. And don't hold back on the grenadine."
    Ben nodded. "Gotcha," he said, and headed back to
the bar.
    By then, Picard was standing in the center of the
room, waiting for her. As Guinan approached him, she
smiled.
  "Come here often?" she asked.
      He almost smiled back. "Not as often as I'd prefer,"
he admitted. "Of course, this isn't just a friendly visit."
 Guinan nodded. "Care to step into my office?"
 "In fact," he said, "I would like that."
    Taking his arm, she guided him to a secluded spot near
one of the observation ports. From there, they could see
the stars rushing by.
    As they sat, a waiter started hi their direction. Howev-
er, Guinan waved him away before he got very far.
Acknowledging her signal, the man veered off in a
different direction.
    "I'm assuming," she said, as she turnexl back to the
captain, "that you're not very thirsty."
    "Your assumption is correct," he told her. Then he
paused, as he gathered his thoughts. "Guinan, I have a
problem. A rather large problem. And I was hoping you
could help me with it."
    "It has to do with this time-skipping business," she
commented. It wasn't a question.
    Picard regarded her with narrowed eyes. "Then
you've heard... ?"
  She nodded. "You're not surprised, are you?"
    After a moment, the captain shook his head. "No, I
suppose not. Or at least, I shouldn't be." He leaned
forward, his features softened by the 1ounge's strategic
lighting. "Guinan, I have had a conversation with a
mutual friend of ours..."
    "Q," she clarified. The very sound was distasteful to
her.
    "Yes. He has informed me that I will cause the
destruction of all humanity. What's more, this will take
place in three distinct time periods--but in each one, I
will be at the root of it."  "I see," she replied.
    "Now," he went on, "we have discovered a spatlat
anomaly in the Devron system, for which we are headed
even as we speak. I believe this anomaly may be the
cause of the destruction that Q spoke of..."
    "But you can't be certain," she clarified. "For all you
know, the anomaly has nothing to do with it whatso-
ever."
    "That's correct," he confirmed. "Likewise, it appears
to me that Q may be the one responsible for my
time-shifting... though again, I have no proof. And if
he is responsible, I cannot say if his intentions are benign
or malevolent. After all, my travel through time may be
what creates the problent--or what enables me to solve
it. I have no way of knowing."
    Guinan shook her head in sympathy. "You've got a lot
of gaps to fill, haven't you?"
    "I have," Picard agreed. "Which is where I hope you
will come in. After all, you were the only one who
retained some sense of perspective when the Enterprise
fell victim to that temporal rift .... "
    "I remember," she replied. "The one in which we
switched timelines... and found ourselves at war with
the Klingons. The one in which Tasha Yar was still
alive."
    He nodded. "Yes. And what's more, you know Q
better than any of us. You make him uncomfortable...
even fearful, I think. Now, I'm just guessing, but I
believe you are capable of straightening out this mess. If
not directly, then at least indirectly--by giving me the
insight I need to set matters right on my own."
     Guinan looked at him. She would have liked nothing
better than to fulfill her friend's request. However...
  "I'm afraid that's not possible," she said.
    The captain couldn't conceal his disappointment.
"Are you saying that you can't help? Or you won't?"
    "What I'm saying," she explained, choosing her words
carefully, "is that you're on your own this time, Jean-
Luc. And that's all I can say."
     He leaned back in his chair. "You understand how
much is at stake here? How much we stand to lose?"
 "I have a pretty good idea," she responded.
 "And that doesn't change anything?" he pressed.
    "I wish it did," said Guinan. "And I wish I could
make it clear why it doesn't. But..." She shrugged.
 Picard tried to accept her answer. "Then there's
nothing you can tell me that could be of help to me?
Nothing at all?"
    She thought for a moment. "Only," she responded at
last, "that the solution is within your grasp. And that
only you can do the grasping."
     The captain took a breath and let it out. Obviously, it
wasn't what he had hoped for. But it was something.
  "Thank you," he said sincerely, "if only for that."
  Guinan smiled ironically. "That's what I'm here for."
    "It almost doesn't matter why we're here," remarked
Ensign Sonya Gomez, checking the warp drive's power-
transfer ratios on her monitor down in engineering.
    "Doesn't matter?" echoed Ensign Robin Lefler, who
was standing next to her. It was Lefler's job to examine
the dilithium crystal for tiny plasma chinks--a routine
job made just a little less routine by the ship's current
location and heading. "You're not just a little concerned
about what's going on here at the Neutral Zone?" she
asked.
    "Sure I am," responded Gomez. "But think of it...
we're in the Neutral Zone. We're looking at star systems
that haven't been seen since the Treaty of Algeron--at
least, not with the naked eye."
    Lefler smiled at her. "Or rather, we would be... if
there were any observation ports here in engineering.
Maybe they're seeing those places up in Ten-Forward--
but down here, all we've got are our sensor reports."
    Gomez frowned. "Okay, so we're not actually seeing
them. But still, it's exciting knowing that they're out
there. And that we're among them." She paused. "Some
of the greatest captains that ever lived haven't been
inside the Neutral Zone."
 Lefler shrugged. "I suppose."
 Gomez turned to her. "But you're still not excited?"
    Her colleague sighed. "Sure I am. But I can't help
thinking about rule number twenty-nine."
    "Rule number twenty-nine?" repeated Gomez.
"What's that?"
    "The sightseeing's just as good on the way home,"
replied Lefler. Her brow creased as she scrutinized her
monitor a little more closely.
Gomez regarded her. "What does that mean?"
Without looking up, Lefler patted her on the shoulder.
"It means pay attention to those power-transfer ratios--
or we might not get home."
    "Oh," said Gomez. And, reflecting on the wisdom of
rule number twenty-nine, she put her thoughts of undis-
covered star systems aside.
  At least, for the time being.
    It hadn't taken long to reach the Devron system,
Picard reflected, as he considered the viewscreen from
his captain's chair. Or, for that matter, to discover that
there was something there well worth the trip.
    Data swiveled in his chair. "According to our sensors,
we have located the anomaly."
     Geordi whistled from his engineering station. "I've
never seen anything like that," he commented. "Nor have I," agreed Worf.
 "It's beautiful," observed Deanna.
 "So's a Venus's-flytrap," Riker reminded them.
    It was just as the long-range scan reports had de-
scribed it--a riotous blaze of color, pierced through
with shafts of silver light. On the screen, the phenome-
non had an ethereal quality to it, rendering it both
spectacular and frightening all at once.
    Getting up from his chair, Picard took a few steps
toward it. He could almost feel it staring back at him,
challenging him to unravel its secrets before it was too
late.
    He turned to Data, who was sitting at ops. "Full scan,"
he said.
 "Aye, sir," the android replied, and set to work.
    As the captain watched Data's fingers fly over his
controls...
    ... he had the strangest feeling that he had made
another time shift. A quick look around confirmed it. If
Tasha was at tactical, he was back in the past.
    Data turned to glance back over his shoulder at
Picard. "We are approaching the Devron system, Cap-
tain. Sensors are picking up a large subspace anomaly
directly ahead."
    Picard grunted softly. Where had he heard that be-
fore?
 "All stop. Put it on screen," he commanded.
    As before, the viewscreen showed him the conflagra-
tion of temporal energies that composed the spatial
anomaly. This time, however, it took up a good deal
more of the screen.
    Without meaning to, the captain said, "It's bigger,
isn't it?"
 Troi looked at him. "Sir?"
    Picard shook his head. "Nothing. Full scan, Mr.
Data."
 "Aye, sir."
    Taking a couple of steps forward, the captain peered at
the screen, where the anomaly...
 ... was gone!
    Picard blinked, but he couldn't make the thing come
back. Instead, the viewscreen displayed a single yellow
sun and three lifeless, nondescript planets.
    Even before he surveyed his surroundings, he knew
that he was in the future again. It was the only one of the
three time frames in which his thoughts were so mud-
dled, his brain so unresponsive.
    "I've made a complete scan of the Devron system,"
said Data. "Sensors show nothing out of the ordinary."
    Picard turned and saw that the android was at an aft
console, working with La Forge as Worf looked on. The
Klingon was shaking his shaggy head.
 "No," said the captain. "That can't be."
    He walked aft to join them; his heart was thudding
against his ribs. Surely, they had made some mistake.
    "I've already seen it in the other two... the other two
time periods," he protested. "There should be a... a
huge spatial anomaly here."
    Geordi looked up. 'Tm sorry, sir, but we've checked
everything. There's just nothing here."
    That wasn't right. It had to be here, thought Picard. It
had to be.

CHAPTE R 117

It wasn't the result Beverly had hoped for. As she stood
there with the othhers at the science station, her heart
went out to Jean-Luc.
    He had been so sure that they would find something
out here. She had even begun to wonder if he might not
be right--if all this business about time travel and
mankind's destruction might not have had some tenu-
ous basis in fact.
    However, the evidence was undeniable. There was
nothing to be seen here, nothing at all. She could only
imagine his disappointment.
 "Check again," Jean-Luc insisted.
Data did as he was asked. It didn't change a thing.
"Still nothing, Captain. I've conducted a full sensor
sweep out to one light-year from the Pasteur. No tempo-
ral anomalies... or anything even resembling one."
    "Have you scanned the subspace bandwidth?" asked
Jean-Luc, stubbornly resisting reality.
     "Yes, sir," replied Geordi. "The subspace barrier is a
little thin in this region of space..." "Ah-hah!" the older man cried.
    Geordi frowned. "But, as I was about to say, sir, that's
not unusual. In other words, we still haven't got anything
to hang our hat on."
    Jean-Luc's celebration died aborning. He shook his
head.
    "I don't understand. I've already seen it in the other
two... the other two time periods. Why isn't it here?"
    Worf, who had been working at a neighboring console,
suddenly looked up with concern. "Captain," he said,
his eyes fixing on Beverly. "I have been monitoring
Klingon communication channels--and several war-
ships have been dispatched to this sector. They are
searching for a... renegade Federation vessel."
    Damn, thought Beverly. The jig was up. It was time to
get out of here--assuming there was still time.
    Her ex-husband tugged on her sleeve. "You're not
thinking about leaving, are you?"
    She sighed, not wanting to hurt his feelings any more
than they'd already been hurt. But there was no other
way.
"Jean-Luc," she said, "there's nothing here .... "
"There should be!" he roared. "There has to be!"
Turning to Data, he leaned over and grabbed him by
the shoulders. He'd relied on the android so many times
in the past, he obviously didn't know how to stop.
    "There must be some other way to scan for temporal
disturbances," Jean-Luc cajoled. "Something that's not
covered in a normal sensor sweep..."
  Data considered the suggestion. "There are several
 methods of detecting temporal disturbances," he noted,
 "but we are limited by the range of equipment on the
 Pasteur. This ship is designed primarily for medical
 emergencies, not scientific research."
     Beverly interposed herself between the two of them.
 "Jean-Luc," she explained, "we've done all we can. We
 have to head back to Federation territory."
     "However," Data went on, unperturbed, "it may be
 possible to modify the warp deflector to emit an inverse
 tachyon pulse, which could scan beyond the subspace
 barrier."
      That changed Jean-Luc's demeanor again. All of a
 sudden, he was shaking his fists in the air in front of him.
   "Very good!" he exclaimed. "Make it so!"
    "Wait a minute," Beverly interjected. Turning to the
android, she asked, "How long would this take?"
    He shrugged. "To make the modifications and search
the entire Devron system will take approximately four-
teen hours."
    She grunted. "Worf, how long until those Klingon
warships get here?"
    The Klingon sighed. "I am uncertain--but I believe
they are coming from the Memp'ha Outpost. That
would put them anywhere from eight to eleven hours
away."
    Time wasn't on their side, was it? Under the circum-
stances, she'd have to be crazy to pursue this thing any
further--even if Data did give Jean-Luc's theory some
credence.
 But then, she'd done crazy things before.
    "All right, Data. Begin modifying the tachyon pulse.
Ensign Chilton, lay in a course back to the Federation. If
we haven't found anything in six hours, we're heading
back at maximum warp."
 Chilton nodded. "Aye, sir."
    "Six hours aren't enough," Jean-Luc protested. "We
have to stay here until we find it--no matter how long it
takes!"
    Beverly felt something boil up inside her. It was all she
could do to contain it.
    "Carry out my orders," she told the ensign. And then,
to Jean-Luc, she said tautly, "May I see you for a
moment?"
    His eyes were steely, full of righteous anger. "I should
say' so," he told her.
    Without another word, she led him into her ready
room.
    As the doors closed behind them, Picard was still
bristling with indignation. "Beverly," he said, "I can't
believe you're not willing to stay here until--"
    Abruptly, she whirled on him, her face flushed with
anger. "Don't you ever question my orders on the bridge
of my ship again!" she rasped.
    He was caught completely off his guard. But in the
next moment, he blustered back at her.
    "I'm just trying to... There are larger concerns here
than... Dammir, don't you understand that--"
    "I understand," said Beverly, "that you would never
have tolerated that kind of behavior back on the Enter-
prise. And I won't here."
    Frustrated as he was, he had to concede that she had a
point there. He would not have tolerated the kind of
 outburst he'd made on the bridge. He'd have sent the
 offender to his quarters to cool off. No--to the brig.
     "You're right," he told her, chastened. "I was out of
 line. It won't happen again. But you have to understand
 ú.. the stakes here are enormous. Q has assured me that
 all of humanity will be destroyed .... "
     "I know," she answered. "And that's why I'm willing
 to stay here a while longer and keep looking." Her
 features softened, the fury dimming in her eyes. "But I
 also want you to consider the possibility that none of
 what you're saying is real."
  It was like a slap in the face. He took a step backward.
  "What are you saying... ?" he stammered.
     Beverly moved toward him. She took his hands in
 hers.
    "Jean-Luc, I care for you too much not to tell you the
truth, You have advanced Irumodic syndrome. I have to
weigh the possibility that all of this... the anomaly, the
threat to mankind, everything... is in your mind." She
paused. "I'll stay here for another six hours... and
that's it. Then we're heading home."
    He started to say something, but she gave him a look
that told him she wouldn't argue the matter. And this
time, he accepted it.
    "I want you to remember something," Beverly said.
"If it were anyone but you... anyone at all... I
wouldn't have come here in the first place. I wouldn't
even have considered it."
    He believed her. Releasing his hands, she left him in
the room to simmer down and returned to her bridge.
    Alone, Picard mulled the whole thing over--and
knew that his ex-wife had spoken the truth. He had
pushed her... pushed all of his old friends... about as
far as he could. And out of friendship, out of loyalty,
they had acceded to his demands. 'But he could push
them no further.
    Suddenly, he got the sense that he was no longer by
himself. There was someone in back of him.
    Whirling, he saw what looked like a parody of an
elderly man--someone with bags under his eyes, a mop
of scraggly gray hair, and baggy, ill-fitting clothes. The
grizzled old fellow was leaning on a cane and holding a
hearing trumpet to one ear.
    And, of course, it wasn't just any old buzzard who had
materialized uninvited on the Pasteur. It was Q.
    "Eh?" he croaked, in an exaggeration of the captain's
voice. "What was that she said, sonny? I couldn't quite
hear her .... "
    Picard scowled. "What's going on here, Q? What have
you done with the blasted anomaly?"
    The old crow leaned closer to him, as if to hear better.
"What's that? Where's your mommy? I don't know,
sonny... where did you leave her?"
    The captain's anger rose hot and red. "Stop this
foolishness and answer me!" he bellowed, his voice
cracking almost as badly as his adversary's.
    Q wagged a spindly, arthritic finger at him. "You
young whippersnappers are so impatient... always
wanting answersú Why don't you just slow downú.ú
smell the roses... learn to appreciate the finer things in
life..."
    Picard took an angry step toward his nemesisawho,
with a quickness that belied his elderly condition, raised
his cane and planted the tip of it in the center of the
human's chest. In that moment, Q's manner became
markedly less playful.
    "Now," he said, "don't get carried away, my ancient
friend. You'll give yourself a heart attack. And I
wouldn't want you to shuffle off before your time...
which should be very soon, in any case."
  "Not if I have any say in it!" the captain raged.
    The entity peered into Picard's left eye. "Is that a
blood clot in there, or are you just glad to see me?"
    The captain fought down his fury. "Just tell me one
thing, all right? This anomaly we're looking for... is
this what destroys humanity?"
      Q smiled a hideously wrinkled smile. "You're forget-
ting, Jean-Luc. I said you destroyed humanity."  "By doing what?" pressed Picard.
    "That's for me to know," said the entity, "and you to
find out. I thought I made that clear already."
    The human swore. "When will this take place? How
are you--"
    Suddenly, he was no longer on the Pasteur, no longer
in the future. He was back in the present, on the bridge
of the Enterprise. The anomaly was on the viewscreen.
And Q was nowhere to be seen.
    On the other hand, the onmipotent trickster had left
him a going-away present--the cane he'd been leaning
on in Beverly's ready room. Tossing it aside, Picard
walked forward to ops. "Report, Mr. Data."
 The android consulted the monitors on his console.
"The anomaly is two hundred million kilometers in
diameter, sir. It is a highly focused temporal energy
source which is emitting approximately the same energy
output as ten G-type stars."
    The captain considered the information. "And what is
the source of that energy?"
    "I am uncertain," replied Data. "Sensors have been
unable to penetrate the anomaly."
    Picard thought for a moment. In the future frame, the
android had suggested that they...
    "Data... what if we modified the warp deflector to
emit an... inverse tachyon pulse? That might scan
beyond the subspace barrier... and give us an idea
what the interior of this thing looks like."
    The android seemed a little surpri~d, but he consid-
ered it. "That is a most intriguing idea," he concluded.
"I do not believe a tachyon beam has ever been put to
such use." He paused. "What is more, I had no idea you
were so versed in the intricacies of temporal theory."
    The captain smiled at the irony. "I am not--but I
have some friends who are. Make it so, Mr. Data."
    "Aye, sir." He stood up from his place at ops. "I
believe we can make the necessary modifications in
main engineering."
    Picard nodded. As Data headed for the turbolift, the
captain turned back to the viewscreen. The anomaly
roiled on, a symbol of annihilation that he didn't yet
understand. However, he was determined that he would.
    "A gift from a friend?" asked Riker. He was standing
beside the captain with the discarded cane in his hands.
Picard glared at it. "Yes," he said. "A very old friend."
     As Ensign Calan sat at her conn station, with little to
 do except watch the anomaly shimmer and burn on the
 viewscreen, her thoughts drifted back to an earlier time.
 She couldn't help it. When one had been through what
 she'd been through, it was difficult to leave it behind.
     Like Ensigns Ro and Sito before her, Calan was a
 Bajoran. And like all Bajorans, she had been through
 hell at the hands of the Cardassians who had held her
 homeworld in thrall.
     One memory in particular separated itself from the
 rest. It harkened back to the initial phase of the
 Cardassian occupation, when the worst atrocities were
 visited on her captive people.
    Back then, Calan had labored in the kitchen of the
Marjono prison camp--one of the larger facilities of its
kind. Of course, the conqueror race had had no com-
punctions about putting children to work. In fact, they
seemed to take satisfaction in it, as a sign of how
thoroughly they had subjugated the Bajorans.
    Little did they know how grateful she was for the
job--because after the Cardassians had eaten their
meal, it was her assignment to gather the dishes and
bring them in for cleaning. And if she was quick about it,
she could slip a crust of bread or a jenka root into her
shirt, and share it with her fellow prisoners later on.
    It wasn't as if Calan wasn't scared of retribution in
those days; she was as scared as anyone else. But
sometimes, hunger outweighed fear. What's more, it
made her feel good to know she was striking back against
the Cardassians in her own, small way.
    If she had been older, she would have known that it
was only a matter of time before she was caught. She
would have predicted it as a certainty. But being a child,
she didn't see it coming--and, perhaps reluctant to cut
off their clandestine food supply, none of the others
warned her about it.
    But one day, when she was clearing the remains of a
Cardassian's meal into her clothing, one of the guards
saw what she was doing. Without a word, he grabbed her
by her long blond hair and took her to the commandant
of the prison camp.
    Like so many Cardassians in high positions, Gul
Makur was not an especially bad-tempered individual.
However, he wasn't about to let Calan's audacity go
unpunished. If his prisoners began to think they could
get away with small things, he explained, they would try
bigger things. And that would lead to the sort of trouble
he'd prefer to avoid.
    So to prevent small things from leading to bigger ones,
the commandant took his dinner knife and dug it into
the tender flesh of Calan's shoulder. He did this three
times, until her shoulder bled in three spots. Then he
connected the spots with the edge of his blade, creating a
triangular scar that would remain with her the rest of her
days.
    Her only satisfaction came years later, when she heard
that the Resistance had dispatched Gul Makur in a
particularly slow and painful way. Then, in her mind,
her scar became a badge of honor.
    Even after she joined Starfleet and was given the
option of having it surgically removed, she opted to keep
it. It had become a part of her, and not the worst part by
far.
  As she often did when she remembered these events,
Calan reached beneath her uniform and felt for the
raised triangle of the scar. Funny... for some reason, it
was difficult to find. She felt around some more, but still
came up empty-handed.
    Ice water tricked down into the small of her back. It
wasn't possible that the scar had disappeared. By the
prophets, she had seen it this morning in the mirror ....
    But after another moment or two, she came to a
conclusion as inescapable as the Marjono prison camp.
Her scar was gone, as if Gul Makur had never inflicted it
on her in the first place.
    Yet it hadn't been a dream; the damned thing had
happened. Even now, she could feel the Cardassian's
knife piercing her skin. She could feel the pain, the
shame of her tears as they made hot little trails down her
cheeks ....
    No, the scar had been real. And now it was gone. The
only question now was... how?
I'm surprised," said Geordi. "I had no idea that
Captain Picard had such a handle on temporal theory."
    "I was surprised as well," Data admitted, his voice
only slightly masked by the hum of the engines.
    They were working alongide each other in engineer-
ing, making the adjustments the captain had called for.
Once the android had described what he was up to,
Geordi couldn't resist pitching in. After all, he'd never
even seen an inverse tachyon pulse, much less created
one.
    "And using the beam to scan past the subspace
barrier..." The engineer shook his head. "That's pretty
innovative... if it works."
 "I thought so too," agreed Data.
    "But," Geordi added, "I guess this isn't the first time
Captain Picard has caught me off guard. It's amazing
some of the things he comes up with."
 The android nodded. "I suppose it is."
     The engineer pointed to one of the monitors they were
 working with--and, more specifically, to a key juncture
 in the deflector schematic. "We can get more power if we
 reroute this circuit to the deflector array."
     It seemed to make sense to Data also. "Initiating
 tachyon pulse..."
     On another monitor, the engineer could see a thin,
 oscillating beam emerge from the deflector dish and
 begin scanning the anomaly.
     After a moment, the android turned to him. "I am
 curious, Geordi. Where do you think you will be twenty-
 five years from now?"
  The human smiled. "What?"
    "Captain Picard has been to the future," Data ex-
plained. "All our futures. He might even be interacting
with one or more of us in that time period. I find it
interesting to speculate where our lives will take us by
that time."
    Geordi shrugged. "I don't know. Assuming I'm still
around, I'll probably still be in starfleet."
    His friend looked at him. "Then you do not anticipate
any significant changes in your future?"
    The engineer shook his head. "Not really. I'm a pretty
lucky guy. I'm doing exactly what I want in exactly the
way I want to do it. I'll probably be wearing this uniform
until the day I die." He paused. "What about you?"
    Data thought for a moment. "I have often considered
leaving Starfleet for academic study."
  "So you'd like to teach?" Geordi asked.
    "Possibly," Data answered. "My first choice would be
to do so at Cambridge University. In an ideal situation, I
would hold the Lucasian Chair, which was also held by
Sir Isaac Newton, Dr. Stephen Hawking, and Torar
Olaffok." He seemed to hesitate. "But that is only a
possibility. Perhaps I will remain in Starfleet as well."
    It was time to check their instruments. "Okay," said
Geordi. "The pulse is holding steady. We're starting to
receive data from the scan .... "
    "It will take the computer some time to give us a
complete picture of the anomaly's interior," the android
pointed out. "I suggest we--"
    Before Data could finish his thought, Geordi felt a
sudden stab of pain in both his eyes. "Damn!" he
groaned, dropping his face into his hands. "What is wrong?" asked Data.
    "I'm not sure..." answered the engineer. He just
knew it hurt like hell--and he'd never felt this kind of
pain before. "It's like somebody put an ice pick through
my temples... and my VISOR... it's picking up all
kinds of electromagnetic distortions .... "
    He staggered, lost his balance... and felt the android
catch him before he could fall. The next thing he knew,
his friend was speaking to the intercom system.
    "Data to sickbay. Medical emergency in main
engineering..."
    Picard shook his head. He'd had his hands full wres-
tling with Q, his time shifts, and humanity's survival.
Now something else seemed to be rearing its ugly head.
    As he looked on, Beverly pointed to Geordi's eyes.
The engineer was sitting on a biobed with his VISOR off.
    "Look at them," said the doctor. "You can see the
difference yourself."
     It was true. Whereas Geordi's eyes had previously
 been perfectly colorless, they now showed signs of
having irises. The signs were faint, but they were there.
  "Yes," Picard responded. "I see."
    Picking up a scanning device, Beverly used it to
perform a quick examination. As she looked at the
results, her forehead wrinkled.
  "What is it?" the captain asked.
    "Nothing short of amazing," she told him, still staring
at the device. "The DNA in his optic nerves is being
regenerated. I'm starting to see the formation of a
retina. "She turned to Picard. "It's as if he were growing
brand-new eyes."
    Geordi swore beneath his breath. "I guess that's why I
started to feel pain. My optical cortex was falling out of
alignment with my VISOR."
    Picard didn't understand. "How is this possible?" he
asked.
    "It shouldn't be possible at all," returned the chief
medical officer. "There's no medical explanation for a
spontaneous regeneration of dead tissue."
    As they pondered her remark, Nurse Ogawa ap-
proached them. She held out a padd to Beverly.
    "Doctor," said Ogawa, "we've just gotten reports
from two crew members... Ensign Calan, and Lieuten-
ant McBurney in astrophysics... who say they have old
injuries that are healing themselves. I'm not sure what to
make of it."
    The captain looked at her. "Healing... themselves?"
he echoed.
    Before they could go any further, Data approached
them. He had been working at a terminal off to the
side--and in his fascination with Geordi's condition,
Picard had all but forgotten that the android was there.
    "I believe," said Data, "that I may have a partial
explanation for what is happening to Commander La
Forge... and to the others as well, sir. If you would care
to join me, I can show you what I mean."
    The captain and Beverly followed the android back to
his terminal. Looking over Data's shoulder at the moni-
tor, Picard could see a rather complex diagram of the
anomaly with various pieces of sensor information
incorporated into it. He waited for an explanation--nor
was it long in coming.
    "I have completed my analysis of the anomaly," said
the android. "It appears to be a multiphasic temporal
convergence in the space-time continuum."
 The doctor frowned. "In English, please."
    "It is, in essence," amended Data, "an eruption of
anti-time."
 The captain looked at him. "Anti-time?"
    "Yes, sir," confirmed the android. "It is a relatively
new concept ill temporal mechanics. The relationship of
anti-time to normal time is analogous to the relationship
of antimatter to normal matter."
Picard mulled that over. "All right," he said. "Go on."
"Anti-time," Data explained, "would possess the ex-
act opposite characteristics of normal time--operating
in some kind of temporal reversion we do not fully
understand."
    The captain was beginning to catch on. "You're saying
that the anomaly is the result of time and anti-time
coming together in the same place."
  "That is correct, sir. Something has ruptured the
barrier between time and anti-time in the Devron sys-
tem. I believe this rupture is sending out waves of
temporal energy which are disrupting the normal flow of
time."
    The android turned to gaze at Geordi. "It is possible
that the DNA molecules in Geordi's optic nerves are not
regenerating themselves... but simply reverting to
their original state."
  If Data was right...
    "You mean his eyes are getting younger?" asked Pi-
card.
    The android nodded. "For all intents and purposes,
yes."
    The captain considered the implications. "So the
temporal anomaly has certain rejuvenating effects. It
certainly doesn't sound like the destruction of human-
ity."
 "No," Beverly confirmed. "It doesn't."
    Picard scowled. "Mr. Data... any idea what could
have caused this rupture between time and anti-time?"
  Data looked confused. "Anti-time, sir?"
    Abruptly, Picard realized that the android was sitting
at ops, not at a terminal in sickbay. He gathered that he
had returned to the past.
    This was an opportunity, then. Moving quickly to
Data's console, he began entering information as quick-
ly as he could. The othersmTasha, Worf, O'Brien, and
Troi--were no doubt watching from their stations,
wondering what in blazes the captain was up to.
 "I believe," he explained to the android, "that if we
modify the deflector to send out an inverse tachyon
pulse, you'll find that the anomaly is a rupture between
time and anti-time."
    Data regarded him. "That is a fascinating hypothesis,
sir. Where did you encounterre"
    "It would take too long to explain," Picard told him.
"Begin the modifications and send out the pulse. And
once you've done that, start working on a theory as to
what could have caused this rupture."
The android didn't question his motives. "Aye, sir."
As Data began to comply with his orders, the captain
took in the image of the anomaly on the viewscreen. In
case he had forgotten, he was reminded of how much
larger it was here in the past than in the present.
"Mr. O'Brien," he said. "How big is the anomaly?"
It took only a moment or two for O'Brien to come up
with the answer. "Approximately four hundred million
kilometers in diameter, sir."
    Picard shook his head, wishing he had a better grasp of
what was going on. "I still don't understand why it's
larger here .... "
    O'Brien shot him a puzzled look. Obviously, he didn't
have any idea what his commanding officer was talking
about. Still, he gave no sign of wanting to pursue the
matter.
 "Captain..."
    Picard whirled at the sound of Worf's voice. The
Klingon was reacting to something he saw on his aft
console.
    "There are five Terellian transport ships holding posi-
tion in the Devron system, sir."
    "We're being hailed by the lead ship," added Tasha.
"Their pitot's name is Androna."
  "On screen," instructed the captain.
    In the next instant, the viewscreen filled with the
image of a Terellian. "Enterprise, "he said, smiling. "You
are a welcome sight. We've been receiving threats from
the Romulan Empire ever since we entered the Neutral
Zone. I'm glad to see you're here to protect us."
  Picard frowned. "Why have you come here?"
  Androna's expression became even brighter. "Once
  we heard about the Light... about the power it has to
  heal illness, to rejuvenate the elderly... we hadto come
  here."
    The captain sighed. Judging by the looks on his
officers' faces, they were rather confused. None of them,
it seemed, had heard anything about this.
    Of course, they hadn't just leaped through time. They
hadn't been sitting there in Beverly Crusher's sickbay,
where a man's eyes were growing younger, listening to
reports of injuries that had healed themselves.
    "We can't really be certain that the... Light... has
this power," Picard replied. "And there may be dangers,
side effects we're not aware of...."
    The Terellian wasn't moved. "I have five ships full of
sick and dying people, Captain. If there's even a chance
it's true, I can't turn back now."
    However, the captain could be persistent too. "It
would be safer for all concerned if you left the Neutral
Zone... and let us investigate the phenomenon more
fully."
    Androna shook his head. "No, my friend. I've come
too far. I choose to remain here."
    Picard was frustrated with this response. Unfortu-
nately, he didn't have the authority to order them away.
    "I warn you," he said, "that if the Romulans should
decide to intervene, I may not be able to protect you."
    "I understand," answered the Terellian. "We'll take
that risk. Good luck, Captain--to both of us."
    A moment later, Androna's image was gone. Picard
mulled the situation over for a moment, then headed for
his ready room. As he passed Tasha, he said, "You have
the bridge, Lieutenant."
 She nodded. "Aye, sir."
    The doors parted for him, giving him access to a place
where he could stop and think for a moment. Where...
    ... nothing looked familiar. But then, why should it?
He wasn't on the Enterprise any longer. He was in
Beverly's ready room on the Pasteur.
 Damn, thought Picard. I've shifted again.
    As he moved toward the door, the deck suddenly
bucked beneath his feet, nearly throwing him to the
ground. Hearing the red-alert klaxon, he made use of
whatever handholds presented themselves and ventured
out uncertainly onto the bridge.
    Beverly was sitting in the center seat, giving orders.
But there was nothing on the viewscreen to explain why.
    "What's going on?" he asked, loud enough to be
heard.
    Beverly turned in her seat. "We're under attack,
Jean-Luc."
    Just then, the ship was rocked again. But still, Picard
couldn't pinpoint the cause of it.
    "Shield strength down to fifty-two percent," called out
Chilton. "Minor damage to the port nacelle."
    Worf looked up from the console he'd commandeered.
"Three Klingon attack cruisers have decloaked to port
and starboard." His expression was not a joyous one.
"We are surrounded!"

CHAPTER  19

A third time, the ship was walloped by Klingon fire.
Holding tight to her armrests, Beverly gritted her teeth.
    It had been a long time since she'd been in a battlem
and she wasn't about to engage in one now, if she could
help it. Especially not with the deck stacked so thorough-
ly against her.
    She looked to Chilton and kept her tone as even as
possible. "Warp speed, Ensign. Get us out of here!"
    Chilton worked at her conn board. "I can't comply.
Warp power off-line, sir."
    Another jolt. This time, Beverly was nearly torn from
her chair.
    "Bring us about," she commanded. "Course one-four-
eight mark two-one-five. Full impulse."
    The ship came about, but it didn't do them much
good. The Klingon attack cruisers were right on their
tail. Yet again, they were raked by enemy fire. On the
bridge, they felt the impact as a series of vicious jerks.
    "Warp power fluctuating," Chilton announced.
"Shields down to thirty percent."
      Beverly bit her lip. Behind her, she heard a familiar
voice make itself heard over the melee.  "Weapons status, Mr. Worf7."
    For that one moment, Picard almost looked and
sounded like his old self. It was as if he'd temporarily
shrugged off the debilitating effects of his disease and
become the master strategist again.
    What's more, the answer he'd demanded wasn't long
in coming. "These phasers are no match for their
shields, sir. Our only hope is to escape."
    Consumed with anger, Beverly whirled. "I thought
you said I had eight hours, Worf. What the hell are they
doing here now?"
    "These must be ships from some other sector," the
Klingon shot back. He frowned at his monitor, no doubt
wondering why he hadn't foreseen this possibility.
 Beverly turned to Geordi. "We need warp power--
?'lOW."
    The former chief engineer worked at his console--but
it didn't look good. Finally he raised his head.
    "Sorry, Captain. They're just too much for us. I can't
keep the phase inducers on-line any--"
    He was interrupted by another bone-rattling blow to
the ship.
    "Shields down to nine percent," reported Chilton.
"One more hit and they'll collapse entirely."
    Beverly cursed under her breath. There was only one
option left to her--and though she didn't like it, she'd
have to exercise it.
"Worf," she said, "open a channel. Signal our surren-
der."
    Thirty years ago, the Klingon would have protested,
desperate to avoid even the appearance of cowardice.
Older and wiser now, he simply complied.
    They waited. A moment later, he looked up. But he
didn't seem happy with the results.
    "They will not accept our surrender," he informed
them. "They intend to complete what they began."
    Before she could assimilate the information, the ship
lurched again under the Klingons' barrage, throwing her
clear of the captain's chair. Before she hit the deck, she
saw Chilton's console explode in a geyser of sparks,
catching the ensign full in the face.
    Jean-Luc, who was nearer to Chilton than anyone else,
came to the woman's aid as quickly as he could. But
Beverly could see that it was too late. Her ensign was
dead.
    Jean-Luc looked up and met Beverly's gaze. His
expression reminded her that he'd lost people in much
the same way.
    In the meantime, Worfhad taken over Chilton's duties
from his aft console. "Our shields have collapsed," he
remarked soberly. "We are defenseless against them."
    Returning to her captain's chair, Beverly ignored her
bruises and fixed her attention on the viewscreen. It
showed only one of their pursuers, who had now taken
up positions surrounding them.
    She sighed raggedly. it was only a matter of time now.
Seeing that their prey had nothing left, the Klingons
would apply the death stroke. And, knowing them, they
would be quick about it.
    "Captain," said Data, "there's another ship de-
cloaking--bearing two-one-five mark three-one-oh."
Beverly turned to look at him, wondering why their
adversaries needed reinforcements against a medical
vessel.
    The android looked surprised. "Captain... it's the
Enterprise!"
    Beverly's heart leapt at the mere mention of their old
ship. Returning her attention to the viewscreen, she
watched as the Galaxy-class vessel decloaked behind and
above the unsuspecting Klingon cruiser.
    Suddenly, the Enterprise let loose with a furious volley
of phasers and photon torpedoes. Hammered beyond its
capacity to defend itself, the attack cruiser shot apart in
a cloud of blue plasma.
    Before anyone on the Pasteur could celebrate, the
medical ship pitched again. "Direct hit to the warp
core," shouted Geordi. "Heavy damage..."
    Jean-Luc's face went white with dread. "The warp
core... we can't let that happen! We have to stabilize
it!" he cried--and moved to help Geordi at the console.
  "The Klingon ships are disengaging," Data declared.
  However, the Pasteur was rocked yet again.
    "But not without a few parting shots," the android
added.
    "Captain," Geordi bellowed, "I can't stabilize the
core. It's going critical!"
    Abruptly, a voice came through over their intercom
grid--a voice that Beverly had heard before. "Enterprise
to Pasteur. Our sensors show your ship has a warp-core
breach in progress."
  "Damned right it does!" she responded.
    "Prepare for emergency beam-out," the voice ad-
vised.
    Jean-Luc looked up in wonder. Then he turned to her,
his eyes posing the question even before he could say the
word.
  "Riker?" he breathed.
"Riker," Beverly repeated, confirming it for him.
Jean-Luc seemed perplexed--and no wonder. Just a
little while ago, his former exec had refused to help him.
And now...
    Before she could take her speculation any further,
Beverly found herself standing on the bridge of the
Enterprise. Will Riker was sitting in the center seat, as he
had in the past when Jean-Luc was absent or off-duty.
Except now, he looked a bit more comfortable there.
    Of course, that came as no surprise. Will had com-
manded the Enterprise for several years after Jean-Luc
joined the diplomatic corps--and before Riker himself
became an admiral.
    Beverly didn't recognize his crew, but she hadn't
expected to. Hell, she hadn't expected anything except to
be blasted to atoms.
    Looking behind her, she saw that Jean-Luc, Worf,
Data, Geordi, and her bridge officers--with the excep-
tion of poor Chilton--had materialized on the bridge as
well. But what about the rest of her people?
    She was answered by the officer at tactical. "The
Pasteur crew is safely aboard, Admiral."
    "Raise shields," responded Riker. "Where are the
Klingons?"
    The tactical o~cer consulted his board. "They're still
moving off, sir--half a light-year distant."
    The admiral nodded. "They'll be back," he said
confidently.
    But for now, Beverly assured herself, they were safe.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she looked around apprais-
ingly.
    Apparently, the Enterprise had seen a few technologi-
cal updates over the years. The captain's chair was
slightly higher than it used to be, and there were other
changes in evidence. But it was still basically the same
place she had once called home.
    Satisfied that the battle was over, Riker turned to the
new arrivals and favored them with a smile. "Well?" he
asked, only half-seriously. "Isn't somebody going to say
thank you?"
    Worf took a step toward the admiral. His face was
racked with barely restrained fury.
    "There is nothing to thank you for." he snarled, his
mouth twisting around the words. "If you had not
turned the captain down when he came to you for help,
none of this would have happened."
    Riker's smile disappeared. "What about you, Worf?. I
can't believe you let a defenseless ship cross into hostile
territory without an escort."
    "I did what was right," the Klingon insisted. His lips
pulled back from his teeth. "Unlike some people," he
grated, '7 still have a sense of loyalty. Of honor."
     "It wasn't a question of honor," said the admiral. "It
was a question of common sense." "Or of cowardice," spat Worf.
    Riker's eyes flashed. "Remember who you're talking
to, Governor."
 Jean-Luc stepped between them before the confronta-
tion could escalate any further. "We don't have time for
this," he insisted. "Will, you have to shut down the
warp-core breach on the Pasteur."
 The admiral looked at him. "What?"
    The older man nodded vigorously. "The subspace
barrier in this region... it's very thin. If that ship
explodes, it could rupture the barrier... flood this
whole area with anti-time.t Don't you see--this could be
the very thing that destroys humanity!"
 Oh, no, thought Beverly. Not that again.
    Riker looked at Jean-Luc as if he had gone completely
mad. Then he turned to Data, to Geordi, and, finally, to
Beverly.
 "What the hews he talking about?"
 She shook her head. "Frankly, I'm not sure anymore."
 Jean-Luc grew wild. He grasped the android by the
arm.
 "Data, tell them! Tell them!"
    The android met Riker's gaze. "The subspace barrier
in this area is quite thin... though not unusually so."
    "You see, you see?" Jean-Luc pointed to the
viewscreen, where the Pasteur hung crippled in space, its
hull charred by disruptor fire. "If that ship explodes, it
could destroy everything!"
    The admiral shot a ~ance at his tactical officer. "Mr.
Gaines, is there any way to repair the warp-core breach
on the Pasteur?"
    The man didn't look optimistic. "I don't think so, sir.
The plasma injector is already..."
    Abruptly, something caught his eye. His fingers flew
over his controls.
 "Wait a minute, sir. I think it's about to breach .... "
    Beverly focused on the viewscreen. For a moment,
there was no change in the Pasteur's status. Then, with
shocking finality, the ship vanished in a burst of blue-
white energy.
    She felt a pang in her throat. The Pasteur was her first
vessel... her first command. It was as if she had just
seen a part of herself destroyed.
    But Jean-Luc... his horror was much worse than
hers, she observed. For, by his lights, the destruction of
the Pasteur might well mean the end of all humanity.

CHAPTER

20

Picard stared at the screen in horror. Was this it? Was
this the doom Q had foretold--the one he had failed to
avoid, despite his advance knowledge of it?
    Riker turned to his tactical officer. "Full scan, Mr.
Gaines. Any sign of a subspace rupture?"
    The man worked for a moment. Picard dreaded what
he would hear.
    But when Gaines looked up, he was hardly perturbed.
"No, sir," he reported. "The subspace barrier is intact."
    Everyone seemed to relax. Everyone, that is, except
Picard himself. He didn't understand it, and he said so.
    But Riker didn't seem to feel compelled to give him an
explanation. "All right," said the big man. "Let's get out
of here. Engage cloak."
    "Cloak is not functioning," Gaines informed him.
"We took a direct hit to the starboard plasma coil.
Engineering reports seven hours until we can cloak
again."
  Riker frowned. "Then we'll do this the old-fashioned
way. Lay in a course back to the Federation. Warp 13."
  Picard shook his head. "No. We can't leave!"
  The admiral gazed at him sympathetically. "We have
  to," he explained. "This is Klingon territory. We're not
  supposed to be here."
    Picard felt himself growing desperate. Couldn't they
see? This was more important than a s,:11y political
boundary. This was about extinction.
    "No," he insisted, taking hold of Riker's tunic. "We
have to stay here... to find the cause of the temporal
anomaly. I caused it, dammit ... though I don't know
how..."
    "Captain," the admiral said, pulling Picard's hand
away from him, "there could be other attack cruisers on
the way. We're getting out of here while we still can."
    Picard was becoming frantic. He knew how hysterical
he sounded, but he had to get through to them--to show
them how important it was.
    "We can't! We can't! Will, please... everything de-
pends on this! Please listen to me!"
    Too late, he caught sight of the hypospray in Beverly's
handú He started to turn, to fend it off, but he was too
slow. He heard a hiss as the doctor released the spray's
contents into his bloodstream.
    Fighting the instantaneous effects, he lurched for-
ward...
    ... and nearly bumped into a crewman as he came
around a bend in the corridor.
The man, an engineering officer, apologized as he
stepped to the side. "Sorry, sir."
    "That's quite all right," Picard assured him. Judging
by the man's uniform--and his own--he was back in
the present. Without another word, he proceeded along
the corridor.
    But where was he going? Slowing down, he thought for
a moment.
    Sickbay. Of course. Beverly had asked him to come
down there. She'd said that she wanted to speak with
him.
    Speeding up his pace, he negotiated another bend and
saw the sickbay doors up ahead on his right. Narrowing
the gap, he wondered what the doctor wanted to see him
about.
    Was it Geordi? Had something changed with regard to
his condition?
    The doors parted as he came near. Making his way
through them, he saw that Beverly wasn't at the engi-
neer's bed at all.
    She was at another one--tending to Alissa Ogawa.
The nurse was lying down, wearing a patient's gown.
And--unless the captain's eyes were going bad--she no
longer appeared to be pregnant.
    Picard watched as Ogawa's husband went to her side.
He took her hand, tried to comfort her--but the nurse
was too distraught. She didn't want to be comforted.
    Obviously, there was something wrong here. Some-
thing very wrong.
    Slowly, not wishing to be any more obtrusive than
necessary in the face of Ogawa's suffering, the captain
moved to Beverly's side. She noticed him standing there
right away.
 He asked, "You wanted to see me, Doctor?"
    "Yes," she replied. And then, to Ogawa: "I'11 be right
back, Alissa."
    The nurse acknowledged her with a nod. Satisfied that
Ogawa would be all right for the moment, Beverly took
the captain aside and spoke to him in hushed tones.
  "What is it?" he breathed. "What's wrong?"
    "Alissa lost the baby," she told him, a shiver in her
voice showing how much she shared in her assistant's
sorrowú
 Picard scowled. "What happened?" he askedú
    The doctor looked at him. "I think it's the same thing
that happened to Geordi. Somehow, the temporal ener-
gy from the anomaly caused the fetal tissue to revert to
an earlier stage of development. It was as if the unborn
child began to grow youngerú.. and younger still ...
until finally, the DNA itself began to break downú"
    The captain tilted his head to indicate the nurse.
"How is she?"
    Beverly shruggedú "Physically, she's fine--at least, for
now. But if this temporal reversion continues, I don't
think any of us are going to be fine for much longerú" A
pause. "I scanned most of the crewú The temporal energy
is beginning to affect everyone, Jean-Luc."
    He didn't like the direction in which this conversation
was headedú "How?" he inquired.
    The doctor sighedú "Our cellular structures are chang-
ing. instead of dividing, our cells are coming together
ú.. reverting to earlier cellular structures. In some cases,
this has caused old injuries to be healed... but that's
only the tip of the icebergú Eventually, this could kill us
all, as it did Nurse Ogawa's baby."
    It was a horrible prospect. Picard's lips pressed togeth-
er as he contemplated it.
    "How widespread is the effect?" he wondered. "Is it
localized to this area, or could it affect other areas of
space?"
 Beverly shook her head. "I don't know."
    The captain couldn't take any chances. "Send a report
to Starbase Twenty-Three," he said. "They're the nearest
outpost. Have them begin checking their personnel for
these effects."
    "Will do," she assured him. As he watched, she moved
across sickbay to put the order into effect.
    Picard took another look at Ogawa. Could this be the
catastrophe Q had warned him of'?. Was humanity going
to devolve into the singte-celled creatures that had been
its primeval forebears?
 He set his teeth. Not if he could help it.
 Looking up, he said, "Mr. Dataú"
    The android's reply over the intercom system was
crisp and immediateú "Aye, sir?"
    "Meet me in the observation lounge," the captain told
him.
 "On my way," said Data.
    A few minutes later, Picard found himself studying a
padd in the ship's observation lounge as Data looked on.
It contained an outline of the android's initial findings
regarding the spatial anomaly.
 Finished, the captain looked up and eyed Data across
the polished expanse of the 1ounge's table. "Fascinat-
ing," he commented.
 "Indeed," said the android.
    "And how long until we've completed the tachyon
scan?" Picard inquired.
    Data hardly found it necessary to think about it.
"Approximately one hour, forty-five minutes, sir."
    The captain nodded. "Good. Once that's done, I want
you to analyze the information and find a way to shut the
anomaly down. But I don't want to do anything that will
exacerbate the problem."
    "I could prepare a risk analysis on whatever solution I
devise," the android suggested.
 "Good idea," Picard confirmed.
    "Thank you, sir," replied Data. And without any
further ado, he made his exit, intent on the task ahead of
him.
    The captain watched him go, then picked up the padd
and walked over to the observation portal. He was just
starting to feel that they might have a fighting chance
against the anomaly...
... when someone cried out in a strident voice,
"Seven! A winner?'
    Turning, the captain was shocked to see that the
observation-lounge table was gone. In its place was an
old-fashioned craps table, straight out of some archaic
Earth casino--a table covered with green felt and host
to several small piles of plastic chips.
    A pair of dice sat on the end closest to Picard. One
showed a set of three dots, the other a set of four. The
total? Seven.
    Looking up, he saw that Q was standing at the
opposite end of the table, dressed as a twentieth-century
croupier. Tossing some chips to the human, the entity
used his croupier's stick to rake in the dice.
    "Place your bets," he called out, "place your bets.
New shooter, new shooter comin' up."
    The captain glared at him. "What do you want this
time, Q?"
    Q shrugged. "I'm just here as an observer, Jean-Luc. I
want to see what kind of bet you're going to make on this
anomaly."
    Picard stiffened. What was this about? "I'm not
betting anything," he declared.
    "Oh, yes you are," Q argued. "And the stakes on this
table are pretty high. The highest, in fact."
 With his stick, he indicated a small sign on the table. It
read: TABLE MINIMUM--HUMANITY OR THE RACE OF YOUR
CHOICE. The captain was not amused in the least.
    "You sure you want Data to shut down that temporal
anomaly?" Q pressed. He picked up the dice and rolled
them around in his hand.
    Picard looked at him. "Are you suggesting that by
shutting the anomaly down, I will cause the destruction
of mankind?"
    Q shook his head. "I'm not suggesting anything, my
friend. I just run the table." Picking up some chips, he
began to place a bet. "Let's see... you've bet on the
temporal anomaly at four to one. Shall we see what
comes up?"
 As Q threw the dice...
... the captain found himself on a craggy ledge.
Looking down, he saw that he was perched high above
a vast, chaotic soup--a miasma of steaming lava and
bubbling gases. It was hot here, so oppressively hot that
he already found himself perspiring, and the air was full
of fine, black flecks.
    "Welcome home," said Q, who was standing beside
him, still dressed in his croupier's outfit.
    "Home?" echoed Picard, wiping the sweat from his
forehead. He honestly didn't know what his companion
was talking about.
    "Don't you recognize your old stomping grounds?"
asked Q. "This is Earth--France, in fact. About... oh
ú.. three and a half billion years ago, give or take an eon
or so." He wrinkled his nose. "Smells awful, doesn't
it... all that sulfur and volcanic ash... I really must
speak to the maid."
    The captain turned to him, his eyes stinging from the
debris in the atmosphere. "Is there a point to all this, or
are we just on another of your merry traveloguesT'
    The entity looked at him. "Travelogues? You wound
me, Jean-Luc. All I'm doing is trying to further your
miserable education."
    "Indeed," Picard commented. "And exactly what am
I to learn in this place? How to asphyxiate myself?"
    Q smiled knowingly and pointed to the sky. "Look!"
he exclaimed. "Pretty impressive, wouldn't you say?"
    As Picard followed the gesture, his mouth went even
drier. All he could see, from horizon to horizon, filling
the heavens with its ominous brilliance, was the spatial
anomaly that they'd located in the Devron system.
  But here, it was even bigger.
    "The anomaly is here?" wondered the captain. "At
Earth ... ?"
    "At this point in history," Q explained, "the anomaly
is everywhere. It has filled this entire quadrant of your
galaxy."
    Picard's eyes were watering from the ashes in the air.
He dabbed at them, to no avail.
    "The further back in time I go... the larger the
anomaly." He tried to make sense of that. "Butw"
    Abruptly, Q took off along the length of the ledge, as if
he'd caught a glimpse of something he couldn't resist.
"Jean-Luc, quickly--there's something over here I want
you to see!"
    Beckoning enthusiastically, Q knelt by a small muddy
pond at one end of their ledge. The captain went over to
see what Q was looking at.
    Together, they peered down into the waterú It was
murky, almost impenetrable to the naked eye... but
free of the algae one might normally see in such a place.
 "What am I looking at?" asked Picard finally.
    "Looking at?" repeated Q. "Why, mon capitaine, this
is you. And may I say you've never looked betterú"
     The captain found himself becoming annoyedú Q was
toying with him. He hated that, with a passionú "Me, Q?"
    "I'm serious, Jean-Luc. Well, in a manner of speaking.
You see," he said, pointing, "right here, life is about to
form on this planet for the very first time. Two proteins
are about to combine and form the first amino acid--
one of the building blocks of what you laughingly call
life."
 Despite himself Picard was intrigued. Impossible as it
was to see anything, he couldn't help but lean closer to
the surface of the pond.
    Q turned to him and spoke in his most mysterious,
conspiratorial whisper. "Strange, isn't it? Everything
you know... your entire civilization... it all begins
right here in this little pond of goo. Disgustingly appro-
priate somehow, isn't it?" He grunted. "Too bad you
didn't bring a microscope. This is quite fascinating,
don't you think?"
    Pointing into the depths of the pond--at something
no human could hope to discern, ofcourse--Q provided
a blow-by-blow description of the action. "Here they
go... the two proteins are moving closer... closer
... closer..."
    Suddenly, he recoiled, disappointment etched into his
features. "Oh, no! Why... nothing happened! Nothing
at all!"
    Picard stared at him through eyes rubbed raw by
primordial pollution. "What do you mean, nothing
happened? Don't tell me you stopped it!"
    Q looked at him and wagged his finger. "Now, Jean-
Luc, we've talked at length about your incessant need to
blame me for all your problems. You did this all by your
lonesome, I assure you."
 The captain frowned. "I did nothing, Q."
    Q stood. "Au contraire." He pointed to the sky. "You
did that. And that disrupted the beginning of life."
    Removing the pair of dice from his pocket, he showed
them to Picard. "You see? Snake eyes. You lose."
    The captain glanced at the dice. They had turned up
snake eyes, all right. But the dice weren't the ultimate
arbiter of his fate; they couldn't be.
    Despite the omens Q had presented to him, there was
still a chance that he would find a way out of this... a
way to preserve humanity. He looked up, intending to
question Q further...
     ... and realized he was looking at Deanna Troi in-
 stead. By her uniform and her hairstyle, he could tell
 that he was back in the past.
     It was funny how well he was adjusting to his transits
 through time. The feelings of disorientation were now at
 a minimum.
     Looking around, he saw that he was on the bridge.
 O'Brien, Data, Tasha, and Worf were at their usual
 stations.
     Troi spoke as if she were answering a question he had
 just posed to her. "Dr. Selar has reported that twenty-
three children on board have contracted some kind of
 illness. She said their tissues appear to be... reverting
 to some earlier state of development."  Oh, no, he thought. Not here, too.
     She paused, well aware that he wouldn't like what she
 had to tell him--not knowing he appreciated the nature
 of the problem better than she did. "She thinks it's being
 caused by the anomaly, sir."
     Picard nodded, then turned to Tasha. "Lieutenant,
 inform Starfleet Command that we believe the anomaly
 has toxic effects."
     "I already have," she said. A beat. "They've ordered
 us to withdraw from the Neutral Zone and to escort the
 pilgrim ships back to Federation territory."
  The captain considered the order grimly. "Tell
Starfleet we're remaining here," he replied. "However,
we'll tell the pilgrim ships to withdraw." He turned to
the android. "Mr. Data, as soon as the tachyon scan is
complete, I want you to--"
    Tasha interrupted. "I'm afraid I can't let you do that,
sir."
  Picard was surprised. He faced her. "What?"
    The security chief straightened, her resolve evident in
her every feature. "We've received direct orders to leave
the Neutral Zone, sir. There are children dying--
children we may be able to save if we act now. And our
presence here is in direct violation of the Treaty of
Algeron."
    The captain remained calm, despite the stakes they
were playing for. "Are you questioning my orders,
Lieutenant?"
    Tasha took a breath. "Yes, sir... I am. And unless
you take this ship back to Federation territory... I'm
prepared to relieve you and take command of this
vessel."
    Picard hadn't been prepared for that. He looked
around and saw that the rest of the bridge crew was
watching the confrontation.
    Obviously, he told himself, this was going to be a lot
more difficult than he'd anticipated.
Picard eyed Tasha. He wanted to tell her that they
would grow to know and trust each other. He wanted to
say that, one day, she would be willing to lay down her
life for him.
    But he couldn't. He had to tread a thin line here, and
apprising his o~cers of what was in store for them was
outside that line.
    For now, all he could do was appeal to his officers'
pride and integrity... their sense of justice and disci-
pline. And then hope that that would be enough.
    "Lieutenant, you are coming close to mutiny," he
warned her. "Dangerously close."
    Worf stepped forward. He was younger and more
hotheaded than the Worf the captain was now used to.
    "It would not be mutiny," the Klingon reminded
them, "if the ship's counselor certified you unfit to
command."
All eyes fell on Troi. But she didn't react--at least, not
yet.
    Abruptly, O'Brien stood. "Here, now," he said.
"There's no cause for all this. it's not our place to
question the captain's orders."
    Obviously, Tasha felt otherwise. She looked at the
counselor. "Deanna?"
    Troi frowned as she felt the burden of her task. It was
all up to her now.
    She looked at Picard--seeking information not only
with her eyes, but with her Beiazoid talents. "Captain,"
she asked, "do you intend to obey the order from
Star fleet?"
    There were a number of ways he could have handled
the situation, a number of ways he could have answered
her. But the counselor would detect any attempt at
subterfuge.
    In the end, he opted for the simple truth. "No," he
replied. "I do not."
    There were gasps and murmurs all around the bridge.
Apparently, his officers hadn't expected to hear him say
that.
    "I'm sure," he went on, "that makes me sound quite
irrational to you all."
    "Irrational may not be the correct word," observed
Data. "Your course of action so far does not imply a lack
of reason, but a lack of explanation. You seem to have a
hidden agenda that you are unwilling to share with the
rest of us." A beat. "IfI were to describe you, I would say
you are being... surreptitious, secretive, reticent, clan-
destine--"
Picard cut him off. "Thank you, Commander. I get the
point."
    Nonetheless, he knew that the android had spoken for
his crewmates. From their point of view, he was being
secretive and surreptitious. It was time to clear the air.
    As the captain spoke, he moved around the bridge,
addressing every member of the crew with a glance.
After all, if he was going to get them on his side, he had
to make them feel like he was one of them.
    "So," he said, "you all want an explanation... and I
could give you one. I could tell you that an omnipotent
being from another space-time continuum has been
shifting me through three time periods... that he has
threatened the destruction of mankind... and that it is
up to me to save humanity. But you would probably call
me insane."
    "Insane may not be the appropriate term..." Data
began.
    Troi stilled him with a sharp look. "Please," she told
him. "Not now."
    The android stopped, unoffended. How naive he had
been during those earliest days, Picard reflected. How
artless.
    "However," he continued, "since I can't give you a
logical, rational explanation for what I'm doing..." He
turned to Troi. "It all falls on your shoulders, Deanna.
Have I really demonstrated a lack of mental competence
... or evil intent? Or am I simply following my own
conscience... trying to do what I believe is best for the
ship, and for the Federation?"
 He waited while she probed and reprobed his con-
sciousness, scanning for signs of malice or duplicity. She
wouldn't find any, of course.
    Still, there were things he was holding back. The
counselor would discover that, if she hadn't already.
And having discovered it, she might interpret it as a
reason not to trust him.
    A moment later, she announced her verdict. "You're
right," she told the captain. "I don't sense any mental
instability or malicious intent. Therefore, I can see no
grounds to find you unfit for command." She paused.
"But I am extremely worried about the actions you are
taking... and I would strongly urge you to reconsider."
    Picard nodded. "Your concerns are noted." Then,
turning to Tasha, he said, "You can still attempt to
relieve me, if you wish."
    The security chief shook her head. "No, sir," she
responded. "I may be many things, but I'm not a
mutineer. If Troi says youare fit for command, then I'll
do my duty."
    It was clear that she still had misgivings about him.
However, for Tasha, her duty to her captain came first.
Picard was grateful for that.
    "Very well, then, Lieutenant. Contact the lead
Terellian ship. Tell them we'll be evacuating all civilians
and nonessential personnel from the Enterprise to their
vessels. Once we've completed the evacuation, they are
to leave the Neutral Zone."
    The security officer was already at work, even before
the captain could complete his instructions. "Aye, sir,"
she answered.
 "And, Lieutenant..." he continued.
 She looked up at him.
 "Don't take no for an answer," he told her.
 Tasha nodded. "I won't, sir."
    Turning to his conn and ops officers, Picard said,
"Data... O'Brien... you're with me." As they fol-
lowed his order, other personnel took their places.
    Waiting just a moment for them to fall in behind him,
he led the way to the turbolift.
    Several minutes later, down in engineering, Picard
was peering at Data and O'Brien across the master
systems display console.
    The android seemed just the slightest bit frustrated.
"Captain, I do not see any way to dissipate the anoma-
ly," he said.
    O'Brien swore softly. Being human, his emotions ran a
good deal higher.
    "Sir," he said, "the anomaly's output is greater than
the combined energy of our entire fleet. It's just too big
for us to handle."
    Picard thought for a moment. "Let's concentrate on
how this anomaly was initially formed. Speculation?"
    Data was the first to respond. "Temporal ruptures in
the space-time continuum are rarely a naturally occur-
ring phenomenon. It is therefore most likely that this
anomaly was caused by an outside catalyst."
 "Like a warp-core explosion," O'Brien suggested.
    "I think I can rule out a warp-core explosion," said the
captain.
 The android thought some more. "Our tachyon pulse
has been unable to completely penetrate the anomaly. If
we had information about the center of the phenome-
non, we might have a basis for speculation."
  "Can you find a way to scan the interior?"
    "I've tried everything I know of," O'Brien said quick-
ly. "There's just too much interference. There's nothing
on board that'll do the job."
Picard thought quickly. "Do you know what would?"
There was a tense moment, then Data answered. "In
theory, a tomographic imaging scanner capable of multi-
phasic resolution would be able to penetrate this much
interference." He paused. "Sir, the Daystrom Institute
has been working on such a device, although it is still
only theoretical."
    Information, Picard thought, we need to know what's
going on inside that thing. The question is--
    --how to get that information. Abruptly, he realized
that he'd shifted again. He was no longer in the past, in
engineering. Now he was back in the present, at the aft
science station on the Enterprise's bridge.
    Data was still with him. But instead of O'Brien, he
now had Geordi.
    More important, there was an opportunity here, if
he could only seize it. In the past, they'd determined a
way to get more information about the anomaly's in-
ternal workings--but they'd lacked the technology to
do so.
    "Mr. Data," he said. "Do we have a tomographic
imaging scanner on board?"
 "Yes, sir," the android replied.
"Can you use it to scan the center of the anomaly?"
The android turned to him. "Possibly." He moved to
do so. "Sir, there is a great deal of interference... but I
am getting some readings." Picard waited impatiently
while Data pushed buttons on his console. "This is very
unusual," Data said, with just a hint of the inflection
Picard remembered from Data's future selfi
    "What is it?" Picard asked. At last he felt they were
closing in on the core of the problem.
    "It appears that our tachyon pulse is converging with
two other tachyon pulses at the center of the anomaly.
The other two pulses have the exact same amplitude
modulation as our own pulse. It is as if all three
originated from the Enterprise."
    Picard considered that. "Three pulses... from three
time periods... all converging at one point in
space .... "It had to be more than a coincidence.
 "Captain:." Data asked, "what are you suggesting?"
 Picard massaged his jaw. "Just that..."
 "... that..."
    Damn. He'd shifted again, hadn't he? Picard was lying
on a bed in some sort of guest quarters. He was wearing a
set of loose-fitting blue nightclothes. And he was old
again, so this had to be the future.
    How had he gotten here? He scratched at his bearded
chin. The last thing he remembered in this era was.,.
    Oh, yes. Back on the bridge. Beverly had used a
hypospray on him. And he was only now waking up.
 Sitting up, he swiveled his legs over and got out of bed.
Noting a familiar-looking control on a nearby table, he
tapped it.
  "Computer," he said, "where's Admiral Riker?"
    "Admiral Riker is in Ten-Forward," came the re-
sponse.
    Picard harrumphed and headed for the door. In the
other two time periods, he was moving toward a solution
to the problem posed by the anomaly. He was deter-
mined that, no matter what it took, this time period
would be no different.

CHAPTER

Z2

Admiral Will Riker glanced over his shoulder at a
table on the other end of Ten-Forward, where Geordi
and Worf were sitting together. Then, he looked back to
Beverly and Data, with whom he was sharing this table.
     He had tried to make his glance as casual as possible.
Unfortunately, Beverly knew him too well to believe it.
 "Spying on the enemy?" she asked sarcastically.
 Riker grunted. "In a manner of speaking."
    "Will," said the doctor, "how long is this thing
between you and Worf going to go on?"
    He shrugged. "It's been going on for twenty years now.
And it doesn't look like it's going to end any time soon."
    "I suspect the last thing Counselor Troi would have
wanted is for the two of you to be alienated from one
another," Data remarked.
    "I agree," Dr. Crusher put in. "It's time to put this
behind you."
"I tried, at Deanna's funeral," Riker replied sadly. He
recalled that tragic day. "He wouldn't talk to me."
    "Might have been tough for him then," Geordi sug-
gested. "He took her death pretty hard."
    "Year?" Riker said, his voice sharper than he would
have liked. "Well, he wasn't the only one." He saw Dr.
Crusher's deep-set eyes lock straight onto his.
    "I know," the doctor said, "but in his mind... you
were the reason he and Deanna never got together."
    "I didn't do anything to stand in their way," Riker
answered, his natural defensiveness coming forward.
    The doctor's bright eyes still held him. "Didn't you,
Will?" she asked softly.
    "Did I?" he answered, as if asking himself a question.
"I just... never could admit it was over. I kept thinking
one day we'd get together again... and then she was
gone." Riker stopped, took a deep, sad, breath. "You
think you've got all the time in the world, until..." His
voice and his thoughts drifted off.
    He recalled the last time he had seen Worf. It was on
Betazed, at a place called Lake Cataria... where the
sky was such a deep violet-blue it hurt one's eyes to look
at it, and the breeze from the mountains carried the
scent of something strangely like chocolate.
    It was a perfect day--the kind that made one wish
there would never be an end to it. The breeze was warm
there, but not too warm. And the water of the lake
sparkled like liquid gold in the burnished sunshineú
    They had all gathered by the sandy western shore--
Riker and the Klingon, the captain and Beverly, Geordi
and Data. It was where they would say their farewells to
 the woman who had been their friend and confidante
 ú.. their comrade and advisor.
     Lwaxana, on whom age and sorrow and loss were at
 last taking their toll, had made her apologies through her
 giant of a servant. She would not come to the public
 ceremony. Unable to bear the sorrow of seeing them all
 again, she would do her mourning in private.
     Betazoid custom called for a wooden funeral plat-
 form, on which the deceased could be viewed in a
 transparent case. In this instance, the platform was
 empty, since there was nothing left of the deceased to
 inter.
     A friend of the family led them in the traditional
 funeral chants, much of which was snatched away by the
 wind. And when the time came to speak of her, he did so
, out loud, because they were offworlders and not
 telepaths.
     Mostly, he spoke of Deanna's courage--and how,
 though the bounty of her heart brought great joy to those
 around her, it also made her vulnerable to those whose
 hearts were full of bitterness. In the end, he said, that
 vulnerability was her undoing.
     Then he called upon the one who had been closest to
 her to plant the first seeds in the soil before the platform.
 Riker and Worf glared at each other across the patch
 of freshly turned earth. Riker saw in Worf's eyes the
 pain that was a reflection of his own. Then he
 gave way, letting Worf have the honor of planting the
 seeds.
     He hoped that somehow this would help make things
 right between him and Worf, but he doubted it. Klingons
 were good at holding grudges.
With a start, he remembered he was in Ten-Forward.
"You can't go back," the doctor was saying. "But
maybe you can still salvage the present."
    Focusing his eyes, Riker looked at her. "Sure," he said.
"And maybe latinurn will start growing on trees."
    She leaned forward, undaunted. "Talk to him, Will.
Let him know you regret what happened." A wistful
smile crossed her face. "Deanna would've wanted it that
way."
    He knew in his heart that she was right. That was the
way Deanna would've wanted it. But that didn't mean it
was something he could do.
Dammit, thought Picard. Dammit to hell. When had
they reconfigured all the corridors on this ship?
    Of course, he knew that they hadn't done any such
thing. But it certainly seemed as if they had. Though he
had once known these streamlined hallways like those in
his family's house, he now felt utterly lost.
    Pausing at an intersection, he looked first one way and
then the other. Which way to go? He wasn't at all sure.
And the fact that he was drawing curious looks from
passing crew members didn't make it any easier to figure
things out.
    Finally, Picard chose a direction and proceeded down
the corridor. After a moment or two, it looked promis-
ing. And then, at long last, he saw the set of doors that
he'd been looking for.
    As he approached triumphantly, they opened and he
prepared to confront Riker... but found himself star-
ing into one of the transporter rooms instead of Ten-
Forward. Swearing beneath his breath, he turned away
and resumed his ever more frustrating search.
    Continuing down the corridor, he decided that this
time he was going in the right direction. But when he
came to another intersection, he found himself flustered
again. It was no use. Everything looked too much like
everything else. How ridiculous, he thought... he
couldn't find his way in a ship he had once commanded.
    Finally, he stopped a passing ensign. "How do I...
how do I get to Ten-Forward?" he asked.
    The young man couldn't help but stare at Picard's
garb. Still, he was helpful enough to point at the ceiling.
"Two decks up, sir. You want section zero-zero-five."
    "Thank you," the captain told him. Pulling his night-
clothes more closely about him, as if trying to gather up
the last, remaining shreds of his dignity, he headed back
ifi the direction of the nearest turbolift.
    Sitting there in Ten-Forward, considering the rueful
expression on Admiral Riker's face, Data couldn't help
but reflect that there were areas of human nature he
might never fully understand.
 "Oh, my god," said Beverly.
    It was her tone of voice, as much as the actual words,
that caused Data to turn and follow her gesture. When
he had done so, he clearly saw the reason for her
exclamation.
    Captain Picard had entered Ten-Forward in his night-
clothes. It was a remarkably inappropriate act; even
Data could see that. By comparison, the gray streak in
his hair was a thing of great subtlety.
  The captain moved directly to the table occupied by
 Worf and Admiral Riker. His eyes were wide with
 excitement.
     "Will!" he cried. "I know what's happening... I
 know what causes the anomaly. We have to go back!"
     The admiral just stared at him, openmouthed. Before
 he knew it, Data found himself approaching the table.
 Geordi and Dr. Crusher were not far behind him,
 motivated by concern for their former leader.
     By the time they got there, Riker was shaking his head
 in disbelief. "Listen, Jean-Luc. The only place you're
 going is back to bed."
 The captain was frantic. He shook his fists at the air.
 "Dammit, Will, I know what's going on. We're causing
 the anomaly... with a... with the tachyon pulse. It
 happened in all three... in all three... We did it in all
 three time periods/"
     Dr. Crusher placed her hand on Picard's shoulder.
 "Jean-Luc, you'd better come with me."
    But the captain jerked away from her. "Leave me
alone!" he croaked. "I'm not crazy."
    Data had his doubts about that. It seemed that Picard
was farther gone than he had thought.
    "The tachyon pulses," the older man ranted. "They
were used in the same spot. The same location in all
three time periods... don't you see?"
    The doctor tried again to calm him down.
"Jean-Luc... please..."
    But Picard persisted. "When the tachyon pulse used
the... I mean, when the Pasteur used the tachyon
pulse, we set the... you know, we... we started every-
thing. We set it in motion."
    The android felt badly for him. He knew what it was
like to lose one's faculties. There had been several times
during his stint on the Enterprise when he'd been
partially or completely incapacitated.
    However, those had been temporary conditions. He
had never had to endure a slow and painful deteriora-
tion, as in the captain's case--or to face the certainty
that, one day, he would lose his faculties entirely.
    "It's like... the chicken and the egg!" rambled Pi-
card. "You think it started back then... but it didn't. It
started here, in the future. That's why... why it gets
larger in the past..."
 Larger in the past... ?
    The android tilted his head slightly as he considered
that. How strange. Though it seemed to be merely a
component of a sick man's ravings, there was a certain
logic to the statement as well.
    Was it possible that the captain knew what he was
talking about after all7 Data thought for a moment--
and only a moment. He was, after all, an artificial
intelligence.
    Admiral Riker hit his corem badge. "Riker to security.
We have a problem in Ten-Forward. Send a team to--"
    Data spoke up. "Just a moment, sir. I believe I
understand what the captain is saying."
 The admiral looked at him. "You do?"
  "Yes. If I'm not mistaken, he is describing aparadox."
    Picard held his trembling fists out to the android.
"Yes! Yes, exactly!"
    Data began to pace. He had become accustomed to
doing his best thinking that way. And besides, it seemed
like a very professorial thing to do.
  "Let us assume for the moment," he said, "that the
 captain has indeed been traveling through time. Let us
 also assume he has initiated an inverse tachyon pulse at
 the same location in space in all three time periods."
     "Go on," instructed Geordi. Obviously, he was in-
 trigued, now that Data had gotten into the act.
     "In that case," the android continued, "it is possible
 that the tachyon beams could're transited through the
 subspace barrier and caused an anti-time ruptureú This
 rupture would manifest itself as a spatial anomalyú"
     "Right," said the former chief engineer. "I see where
 you're going. The anomaly is an eruption of anti-time
 ú.. and because it operates in the opposite way normal
 time does, the effects would run backward through the
 space-time continuum."
    "Yes!" rasped Picard. "That's why the anomaly was
larger in the past... than in the futureú It was growing
as it traveled backward through time."
    The doctor shook her head. "Wait a minute. We didn't
see any evidence of an anti-time reaction in the Devron
system."
    "Not yet/" insisted the captain. "Chicken and the egg!
You see?"
  "Indeed," agreed Data.
    It was remarkable how all Picard's seeming fantasies
were coming together. He wished that he had seen the
solution earlier.
    "In a true paradox," he explained, "effect sometimes
precedes cause. Therefore, the anomaly the captain saw
in the past existed before we came to the Devron system
and initiated the tachyon pulse."
 They all looked at one another. "All right," said Riker.
"Let's say, for the moment, you're on the money. How
do we prove any of this?"
    "Go back," the captain advised. "Go back to the
Devron system. It'll be there this time--I know it."
    Data looked at the othersú "He may be right. If our
tachyon pulse contributed to a rapture in the fabric of
anti-time, it may not have developed immediatelyú A
return to the Devron system might show us the initial
formation of the anomaly."
    It was up to the admiral. Knowing that, everyone
looked at him, waiting to see what he would do. After a
long beat, he hit his comm badge.
    "Riker to bridge. Set course for the Devron systemú
Maximum warpú"
    "Aye, sir," came the voice that Data now recognized
as that of Lieutenant Gaines.
    In the next moment, the admiral was on his feet,
leading them to the exit. Everyone except Worf followed
--causing Riker to stop and look backú
  "Worf, we could use a hand," he said simplyú
  Worf considered for a moment, then followed.

CHAPTER 23

It felt good to be back in his clothes again, thought
Picard. it was bad enough to be a little crazy. Looking
the part only made matters that much worse.
    As he stood on the bridge with Riker, Beverly, Data,
Worf, and Geordi, he could almost imagine it was
twenty-five years ago, and he was once again in his
prime. Then, he had been the man on whom the fates of
more than a thousand people depended. Now, he was
lucky to have established some control over his own,
meager existence.
    "Entering the Devron system," announced the man at
tactical. What was his name again?
"Thank you, Mr. Gaines," said Riker. "All stop."
That's right, Picard told himself. It was Gaines. He
would do his best not to forget again--though he knew
better than to make any promises in this time period.
    Data, who had taken up a position next to La Forge at
one of the aft consoles, looked up from his monitor.
"Sensors are picking up a small temporal anomaly off
the port bow," he reported.
    A... temporal anomaly? Then there was one in this
time period. Picard felt that he was on the verge of being
vindicated.
    "On screen," ordered the admiral. His tone indicated
that he wasn't quite ready to believe it.
    But a moment later, the proof was handed to him on a
latinum platter. Or, to be more accurate about it, on the
viewscreen--where they could now make out a very
small version of the anomaly.
    Picard nodded. He had been right. But he didn't feel
victorious--just vastly relieved.
    "It's an anti-time eruption, all right," called Geordi,
who'd scanned it. "It seems to have formed in the last six
hours." He paused, calling for more information from
the sensors. "And it's getting bigger."
    "We can't let that happen," said Picard. "We've got to
stop it here in the future... so it won't be able to travel
back through time .... "
    Riker looked at him. He knew better now than to
believe the captain was just raving.
    He turned to the android. "All right, Data. We need a
solution and we need it fast."
    The professor looked up from his monitor. As always,
he seemed to have a response on the tip of his tongue.
    "Since this anomaly has been formed by a conver-
gence of tachyon pulses from three different time peri-
ods," he reasoned, "my first suggestion would be to shut
down the pulses in the other two time periods."
    A good idea, thought Picard. "The next time I'm
there," he promised, "that's the first thing I'll do."
    "But in case that doesn't work," the admiral added,
"we're going to need a fallback solution."
  Data noddedú "Understood, sir. I'm on it."
    As the android went back to work, Beverly moved to
Picard's side. "Jean-Luc," she said, "you look tired.
Why don't you sit down?"
  "Beverly," he rasped, "don't nursemaid me."
    "It's not nursemaiding," she argued. "It's helping you
to apply your resources more efficiently."
    "Nursemaiding," Picard insisted volubly. Moving
away from her...
    ... he saw that he was back at the aft consoles with
Geordi and Data. Back in the present.
    "Data," he snapped, seeing his opportunity. "Disen-
gage the tachyon pulse. Quickly."
  The android looked up at him. "Sir?"
    "Just do it," demanded the captain. "The convergence
of tachyon pulses from the three time periods is what's
causing the anomaly."
    Data considered the implications at a speed even a
computer might have envied. "Aye, sir," he responded,
and got to work. "Tachyon pulse disengaged," he an-
nounced.
    "Is there any change in the anomaly?" Picard
asked...
    ... and found himself in his command chair, address-
ing the Data of the past--who was looking back over his
shoulder from his position at ops. "No, sir," the android
reported.
    "Disengage the tachyon pulse," commanded the cap-
tain.
    Data seemed about to ask a question, but refrained.
Turning to his console, he performed the necessary
manipulations.
After a moment, Picard asked, "Is it disengaged?"
The android swiveled again in his seat. "Aye, sir.
However, it appears not to have had any measurable
effect."
 Picard frowned...
    ... and realized he was back in the future--though he
was still sitting in the captain's chair. Immediately, he
turned to his former comrades.
    "I've shut off the tachyon pulses," he announced.
"The ones in the other time periods."
    This drew a few curious looks from the others, but no
one called him crazy--or even suggested it. Apparently,
they now accepted that he was traveling through time.
    Picard fixed his gaze on Data. In the past, the android
had informed him that their disengagement had had no
effect--at least, none that was immediately apparent.
    Perhaps in this time frame, it would be different:
"What's happening with... with regard to the anoma-
ly, Data?"
    The android shook his head. "It is still growing
larger," he reported with some reluctance.
    "But Captain Picard has shut off the pulses," re-
marked Worf.
     "True," said Data. "However, his actions do not seem
 to have created the desired effect."
     Picard cursed inwardly. He had been so certain that it
 would work...
  "What do we do?" asked Beverly.
    La Forge let out a sigh of exasperation. "The only way
to stop this thing is to repair the rupture at its focal
point... where time and anti-time are converging."
  "And how do we do that?" inquired Riker.
    "It would require taking the ship into the anomaly,"
replied the android. His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he
were lecturing one of his classes instead of facing a threat
to the very fabric of reality. "Once inside," he went on,
"we may be able to use our engines to create a static
warp shell."
    La Forge nodded. "Yes... and the shell would act
like a new subspace barrier--separating time and anti-
time."
    "Exactly," said Data. "Collapsing the anomaly and
ú.. restoring the normal flow of time." He turned to
Picard. "But this would have to be done in the other two
time periods, as well."
    The captain considered the prospect. "That could be a
problem," he decided. "The anomaly's so much larger in
the other two time periods..."
 "... it could be difficult to take the ship in."
    He'd already finished his sentence before he looked up
and saw that he was in the past again. Everyone on the
bridge was looking at him.
 "Take the ship in where, sir?" asked O'Brien.
     Picard took a moment to make his decision. "Into the
anomaly, Chief. Lay in a course to the exact center."
  His officers were shocked.
    "Captain," said Tasha, "you can't be serious. The
energies in that thing could--"
    The captain whirled. "I know that no one here under-
stands this--but it is vital that we take the ship to the
center of that phenomenon and create a static warp
shell."
    "A warp shell... ?" Troi repeated. She didn't look
confident that such a thing could even be done.
    "The endeavor you describe would place the ship at
great risk," Data pointed out, perhaps unnecessarily.
    "Yes," Picard admitted freely. "That's true. But you
must believe I am doing this for a greater purpose."
    He paused, wondering how to convey the importance
of what he was asking of them. It wouldn't be easy.
    "The stakes," he said, "are larger than any of you can
imagine. The very existence of humanity depends on
what we do here today."
    The captain scanned their faces, one after the other.
He had yet to sway them; he could see that. They were
confused, uncertain of what to do next.
    He knew that he had to make a connection with
them--with each of them. But surely, if anyone could do
that, he could.
     After all, he had served with them already, in the
 not-so-distant future. He had come to know what moti-
 vated them, what made them defy the odds in situation
 after situation.
    With that in mind, he now asked himself what sort of
words were most likely to assuage their uncertainty.
And, even more quickly than he might have hoped, the
answer came to him.
    He wouldn't try to win them over with abstract
concepts of duty and survival. He would appeal to their
pride in their abilities, to their sense of loyalty, to their
hearts--and then he would hope for the best.
    "You all have doubts about me," he acknowledged in
stentorian tones. "About one another... about this
ship. Unfortunately, I do not have the time to dispel
them. All I can say is that, even though we've only been
together for a short time, I know that you are the finest
crew in the fleet."
    At any rate, he had their attention. Each bridge officer
was gazing at him intently now, weighing his or her
assessment of him against the incredible and daring
nature of his request.
    "I would gladly trust any one of you with my life," the
captain told them. "I would do so in any circumstance,
at any place and time, without reservation." He looked
into their eyes, hoping he'd accomplished what he
needed tombut he couldn't be sure. "I can only hope,"
he entreated, "that you have that same trust in me...
that you are able to make the leap of faith I am asking of
you, regardless of the consequences."
    For a time, there was silence on the bridge. Glances
were exchanged, consensuses reached. Then, almost as
one, the entire bridge contingent started working at their
various tasks.
 That was their answer. Not a cheer of approval, not a
roaring vote of confidence, but a simple demonstration
of professionalism that spoke more loudly than voices
ever could.
    Picard was touched. He smiled with satisfaction. The
team had come together at last, hadn't it? And not a
moment too soon.

CHAPTER 24

Picard watched his bridge officers go into action like a
well-oiled machine.
"Shields up," Tasha told him. "Maximum strength."
"Boosting field integrity on the warp nacelles," ad-
vised Worf. "We may encounter unexpected stress once
we enter the anomaly."
    "I am preparing to initiate a static warp shell," said
Data.
  "Course laid in, sir," called O'Brien.
    Troi glanced at the monitor built into her armrest.
"All decks report ready, Captain."
    Picard surveyed his crew. He was proud of them.
Damned proud.
    "All right, Chief O'Brien." He sat down in his seat and
leaned back. "Take us into..."
 "... the anomaly."
    "Captain," said Data, swiveling in his seat. "I have an
idea."
    Picard wondered at the android's timing--until he
realized that he was in the present again. "Yes, Mr. Data.
What is it?"
    "Sir, if we take the ship to the center of the anomaly
and create a static warp shell..."
    The captain saw where he was headed. "It could repair
the barrier and collapse the anomaly."
 The android seemed surprised. "Yes, sir."
    Picard nodded. "I must tell you, Mr. Data--you're a
clever man in any time period."
    Data tilted his head slightly. "Thank you, sir. It is kind
of you to say so."
    Returning his attention to the viewscreen, the captain
said, "Lay in a course to the center of the anomaly.
Prepare to initiate a static warp shell."
    The temporal shifts were coming so fast and furious
now, he knew it would only be a matter of time before
he...
 ... shifted into one of the other time periods.
    Sure enough, in the blink of an eye, the image on the
viewscreen had changed. The anomaly had diminished
to almost nothing--alerting Picard to the fact that he
was new in the future.
    "The other two Enterprises," he announced to all and
sundry. "They're on their way."
    Riker nodded. "Very well." Turning to the officer at
conn, he said, "Ensign Genovese... take us in."
    The Enterprise began moving toward the anomaly.
Closer... and closer still... until the light dampers in
the viewscreen could barely handle the level of illumina-
tion.
    Picard swallowed. After all this, he hoped that he
hadn't miscalculated somehow. The Irumodic syndrome
wouldn't let him live all that much longer, but all those
around him had plenty of time left.
    La Forge had a family. Data had his students. Riker
was a key man in the Starfleet hierarchy.
    He didn't want to be the death of them mespecially if
it was all for...
  ... nothing.
    Without warning, he found himself back in the past.
This Enterprise, too, was headed into the anomaly.
    His bridge officers were tense, even afraid, as they
approached the unknown. But that didn't stop them
from following his orders.
    Closer... closer... into the Valley of Death? Or
Salvation? They would find out soon enough.
    O'Brien shifted in his chair. "We're entering the
leading edge of the anomaly, sir."
 "All hands brace for impact!" called the captain.
    The ship rocked violently. All around the bridge,
lights flickered. Deck plates shrieked with the strain.
    "The temporal energy's interfering with main power,"
reported Tasha. "Switching to auxiliary..."
 Another jolt, worse than the first...
    ... and before Picard could recover, he was in the
present again. In this time period, the anomaly had
already filled the viewscreen. "Report!" roared Riker.
    The ship was shuddering, a hint that the forces it
strove against might simply be too powerful for it. Lights
died and came alive again all over the bridge. They were
pushing the Enterprise to her limits.
    "I'm having trouble keeping the impulse engines
on-line!" yelled Geordi. "We've got power fluctuations
all across the board!"
    "Maintain course and speed!" shouted the captain. He
turned to his second officer. "Mr. Data, how long until
we reach the center?"
    The android hung on as the ship lurched again be-
neath them. "Another thirty seconds at least, sir."
 Picard turned back to the viewscreen...
    ... where the anomaly didn't quite fill the screen. But
then, why should it? In this future era, it was smaller,
and they hadn't quite entered it yet.
    As they got closer, Picard felt the deck tremble and
hugged one of his armrests. His foresight was rewarded
as the Enterprise bucked and heaved, throwing several
crewmen to the deck.
    This wasn't the place for an old man, he acknowledged
ruefully. This wasn't the place for anyone. And yet, what
choice did they have?
 "We've entered the anomaly," called Gaines.
    As if to underline the statement, Data looked over his
shoulder and said, "We are approaching the focal point,
sir."
    Of course, this wasn't the Data of the future. It was the
Data of the past, doggedly manning his ops station as
they fought their way to the heart of the sprawling,
seething anomaly.
    "Ten seconds," the android announced. "Nine.
Eight..."
    Gritting his teeth, the captain watched his officers
make adjustment after adjustment, utilizing every strat-
egy they knew to keep the Enterprise on course and her
engines on-line.
  "Seven. Six. Five..." continued Data.
    A little longer now. That was all he asked. A few
more seconds and they would at least have a fighting
chance.
    The android went on with his countdown. "Four.
Three. Two..."
    And then they'd done it. They'd reached the center of
the anomaly.
 "One," called Data.
    The onslaught of temporal energies was even fiercer
here; they could barely keep their feet, much less concen-
trate on their controls. Up on the viewscreen, there was a
pure, white light, as intense as the dawn of creation and
unblemished by the merest hint of color.
 Picard cried out, "Initiate warp shell!"
    An island of calm in a sea of confusion, the android
labored to comply with the captain's order...
 ... and called back, "Initiating static warp shell--
nOW."
    Suddenly, things had changedú Picard was back in the
present, where a tiny bead of perspiration was making its
way down Will Riker's face, and where Ensign Calan's
shoulders were bunched together so tightly it hurt just to
look at her.
    The present... where Data was single-mindedly ap-
plying himself to his lonely task, and where the captain
himself wished desperately to remain for a little while.
    Then again, he thought, for that very reason it
probably...
 ú.. wouldn't last.
    He looked around, aware that he'd shifted again. But
where this time? Or rather, when?
    The blinding brilliance put out by the viewscreen
didn't allow him to see much. But judging by the
cloudiness of his mind, it was the future.
    Another jolt, and Picard was half-torn out of his seat.
As he dragged himself back in, he heard Riker's voice. It
cut through the clamor like a klaxon.
 "Is it having any effect?" he asked.
    Another switch--this time, to the past. The captain
could tell by his uniform, even if he couldn't see much
else.
    As in the other two time frames, the ship was tossing
like a leaf in a hurricane. Beside him, Troi's eyes were
wide with barely contained fear.
    "Something is happening within the anomaly," Data
declared from his post at ops. "A new subspace barrier
appears to be forming .... "
    Tasha cried out, "Captain! Sensors are picking up two
other ships... !"
    Everyone's eyes were drawn to the viewscreen, where
they saw a spectacle that seemed to defy reality. In the
midst of the roiling display of temporal energies, Picard
could see the ghostly images of two other Enterprises.
    The ships were drifting in the anomaly, remarkably
close to each other. In fact, as the captain peered at them
from the command center, they actually appeared to be
moving through each other.
 His mouth went dry as he...
  ú.. joined the bridge contingent in the present.
  Like everyone else, he was peering at the viewscreen
--where two other Enterprises were being tossed about
in the anomaly's temporal maelstrom.
    As his mind reeled from the acceleration of his
time-shifting, Picard could scarcely...
    ú.. remember where he was--until he turned and saw
the gray-bearded Admiral Riker sitting next to him. Like
everyone else, he was fascinated by the sight of two other
Enterprises on the viewscreen.
    The past and the present had finally caught up with
them, at least here in the confines of the anomaly...
    ú.. where the present and the future seemed to have
met them head-on.
    "It appears to be working," shouted Tasha, intent on
her tactical monitorsú "The anomaly is beginning to
collapse. I think that..."
    She hesitated, and he turned. For a moment, their eyes
met, and he knew that the news wouldn't be good.
    "Sir," she cried, her brow creased with concern, "the
temporal energy is disrupting our warp containment
system!"
    Picard swore. That was the only problem they
couldn't take in stride, the only puzzle they couldn't find
a solution for.
 "We must eject the core!" thundered Worf.
    "No!" bellowed the captain. "We have to maintain the
static warp shell for as long as possible!"
    The ship staggered and quaked under the temporal
onslaught. Picard couldn't look directly at the view-
screen, lest it blind him.
    'Tin losing containment!" barked Tasha, her eyes
wide with expectation. "I can't stop it. It's going to--"
    Back in the present, Picard's eyes were fixed on the
viewscreen. Through the chaos of the anomaly, he saw
one of the two other Enterprises engulfed in a conflagra-
tion of ~]ames and debris. And having just been on board
the doomed vessel, he knew which one it was.
    Filled with a sense of immeasurable loss, he wished he
had time to mourn staunch, loyal Tasha and the young,
headstrong Worf... or Troi of that time frame, or
O'Brien. As it was, he could only do his best to make
sure they hadn't died for nothing.
    Quickly, he turned to Geordi, reluctant to make the
same mistake twice. "Transfer emergency power to the
antimatter containment system!"
    The chief engineer worked frantically at his console.
"I'm trying, sir... but there's a lot of interference .... "
    The ship lurched and swung, jerking them out of their
seats. As the captain got to his feet, he heard Data say,
"The warp shells are definitely having an effect, sir. The
anomaly is beginning to collapse."
    "Maintain position!" Picard bellowed. "At all costs,
maintain position! Mr. La Forge--"
    As he clung to his armrests with aged, blue-veined
hands, Picard could see the Enterprise of the present go
up in a ball of fiery energies. The significance of it hit
him square in the chest, with the impact of a phaser
beam set to stun.
    Will and Deanna, cut down in their prime. The same
with Worfand Data and Geordi, never to know what life
might have had in store for them. And Beverly... who
would never have to put up with a husband named
Picard.
    "Damn," he muttered, reeling at the thought of it.
Then, driven by curiosity and dread, he turned...
    And saw them all around him. All of them except
Deanna, of course. Beverly and Riker and Worf, La
Forge and Data... they were all very much alive, here
in the future.
    But how could that be? How could they still exist
when they had watched their younger selves perish?
Their continued presence here defied the laws of time
and space.
    Then he remembered something that someone had
said... in the observation lounge, perhaps. In the
present... or was it the past? Something about a lack of
causality among the three timelines.
    In other words, each Enterprise couM have existed
independently of the others, unrelated by conditions
and events. And judging by the way things had turned
out, that was exactly the way it had been.
    Abruptly, Picard caught sight of something in the
comer of his eye. Glancing to one side of the command
center, he felt himself blanch.
    There was a tall figure standing there in black robes,
with a scythe resting on his shoulder and an hourglass in
his hand. At first glance, he thought it was truly the Grim
Reaper.
    Then, as the foreboding figure turned to look at him,
he saw a familiar face in the depths of its cowl--and
realized that it was Q. Apparently, the entity had come
to torment them in their darkest hour.
    As Q smiled, Picard glared at him with overpowering
hatred. How could anyone derive so much pleasure from
a lesser being's misery? How could he be so callous, so
cruel?
    "Two down, Jean-Luc," remarked Q. "And one to
go..."
    Picard swallowed his anger. He couldn't afford the
distraction. "Not now, Q!"
    He turned to Data, who was still at his station.
Gathering his strength, he yelled over the rising din,
"Report!"
    "The anomaly is nearly collapsed..." said the an-
droid, the calmness of his voice belying the urgency of
his statement.
  "We're losing containment..." warned Geordi.
    "We have to hang on!" cried Picard, his voice crack-
ing. "We have to hang on as long as we can!"
    Q leaned closer to the captain. Apparently, no one else
on the bridge could see or hear him.
    "Good-bye, Jean-Luc," he said in earnest tones. 'Tll
miss you, you know. You did have a great deal of
potential... of entertainment value. But as you can see,
all good things must come to an end."
    Geordi shook his head, not liking what he saw on his
monitor. "Containment field at critical! Captain, I'm
losing it--"
    Picard had heard those words before. As he braced
himself for the ensuing explosion... for failure on a
cosmic scale, for the end of things, for the cloying
embrace of chaos... something different happened~
    The Enterprise didn't explode at all. It hung there,
frozen in a moment of time, with the bridge crew and his
comrades exchanging final glances. And as that moment
stretched out as no moment had a right to, the anomaly
collapsed inward on itself.
    The captain saw it on the viewscreen--or rather, an
aspect of it, because they were too close to get any real
perspective on the spectacle. It was as if the physical
representations of temporal disorder were folding in on
themselves like an accordion... completely and infi-
nitely, finally and irrevocably.
    Of course, for Picard and the others, the outcome was
the same: death... destruction... annihilation. But
maybe, just maybe, they had saved the race of human-
oids who had given birth to them... the hopeful,
hopeless beings who had climbed from their murky
pools one day in order to get a glimpse of the stars.
    In the end, all was white. And silent. And strangely,
wonderfully, hideously at rest.

Chapter 25
and Jean-Luc?-
    Picard looked up and found himself standing alone in
a courtroom. And not just any courtroom, but the
twenty-first-century chamber in which Q had tried him
seven years ago.
    Of course, some things had changed. He was dressed
in his "present-day" uniform. The gallery of leering,
hungry-eyed gawkers was gone ....
    And though the captain had distinctly heard Q's
voice, Q himself was nowhere to be seen.
    "Up here," said the voice. This time, it sounded more
than a little exasperated.
    He looked up--and saw Q descending, as if from the
ether, on his floating cushion. He was dressed in his
flowing judge's robes again.
    Q studied him. "The Continuum didn't think you had
it in you, Jean-Lue. But I knew you could."
    Picard felt his heart leap. "Are you saying it worked?
Did we shut down the anomaly?"
    Judge Q shook his head. "Is that all this meant to you?
Just another spatial anomaly... just another day at the
Ot~.ce?"
The captain took an angry step toward his nemesis.
"Q," he rumbled, "did it work or didn't it?"
    Q held his hands out, as if the answer had been in
front of him all along. "You're here, aren't you? You're
talking to me, aren't you? Albeit, I'll admit, without
making much sense."
    Picard considered the essence of the remark. He was
here. He was talking. Then... could it be they had
won? But...
    "What about my crew?" he asked. "In fact, what
about all three of my crews?"
    Again, Q took on that expression of derision. "Is that
all you can think about?" He spoke mockingly, imitating
the captain's questions. "'The anomaly... my crew
... my ship.' I suppose you're worried about your
damned fish, too."
    The entity snorted. "Well, if it puts your mind at ease,
you've saved humanity once again. Congratulations are
in order. Hip, hip, hooray." Slowly, scornfully, Q
clapped his hands in feigned celebration. "But I must
say," he continued, "I'm a little disappointed in you."
    Picard chuckled dryly. "Oh, no... not that. Heaven
forfend."
    Q's expression hardened. "You really don't know
what just happened, do you?" he asked, his voice taking
on a dangerous edge. "You're still the same primitive
little man I met seven years ago. Same limited vision,
same inflexible perceptions of the universe." He har-
rumphed. "I never should have been so generous."
    "Generous?" echoed the captain, tilting his head to
show his skepticism. "In what way?"
    Q was clearly angry now. "That's right, Picard. Gener-
ous. It was my generosity that enabled you to travel
through time. If I hadn't stepped in and given you that
chance--the opportunity to see what should have been
obvious to you all along--you and your pitiful race
would be deceased. Extinct. Kaput. Finito. Just another
dead end along the evolutionary-chain highway."
    The captain had no reason to disbelieve him. Though
Q often dealt in half-truths and exaggerations, bald-
faced lies just weren't his style.
    And if he had endowed Picard with the ability to
time-skip... if it was his intervention that had given
mankind a shot at survival... then the captain's duty
was clear.
    Putting his animosity aside, he smiled... looked Q
in his baleful eyes... and said, "Thank you."
    The Q entity looked back at him, uncharacteristicatly
off-balance. "What... did you say?" he stammered.
    "I won't tell you again," Picard replied. "But you're
right--you did give me a chance. And I do appreciate
it."
    Q smiled back. "I will say this for you, Jean-Luc...
you always have been full of surprises." He leaned
forward on his floating cushion. "So surprise me again.
Tell me you've taken something more away from this
experience. Say you've expanded your horizons just the
tiniest, little bit."
    The captain looked at the entity askance. What knowl-
edge had he taken away from this? And why was it so
important to Q that he'd learned something?
    After all, he had accomplished what he'd needed to
accomplish. He had done what was necessary to pre-
serve his own kind. Unless...
    Suddenly, Picard saw what it had all been about. And
he wasn't happy--not in the least. In fact, he felt more
humiliated than ever.
    "I saw my way out of a paradox," the captain re-
sponded. "And in the process, I broke free of my
preconceptions of time and space. That's what this was
all about, wasn't it?" He grunted, amazed at the Contin-
uum's audacity.
    Q's eyes narrowed. "Now you're catching on, mon
capitaine. For one split second, your mind was open to
possibilities and ideas you'd never dreamt of. But it was
only the beginning."
    Picard wanted to be angry--but somehow, he
couldn't be. As twisted as Q's methods were, his motives
seemed almost... altruistic.
    "You think of yourself as an explorer," Q expanded,
warming to his subject. "And yet, how little you under-
stand the universe you live in."
    He gestured ever so slightly, and the captain's head
was suddenly full of images and concepts he couldn't
begin to comprehend. It was staggering... over-
whelming.
    Q went on, his voice a distant drone. "The real voyage
of exploration has yet to begin, Jean-Luc... a voyage
vastly unlike any other in your experience. And it has
nothing to do with mapping star systems and charting
nebulae. It's a voyage of perceptions... of thoughts...
of moments and possibilities..."
    Just as Picard thought he was beginning to see, the
images vanished. It left him feeling empty... and terri-
bly alone, like someone who has been cut off from the
very thing that defined him.
    '"Well," Q told him, "maybe you're not quite ready
yet. But you seem to have demonstrated a certain
aptitude for higher learning. Perhaps someday, you'll get
the picture." He dusted off his judge's robes. "In any
case, I'll be here watching... and waiting. And if you're
very, very lucky, I'll drop by to say hello from time to
time."
    Q was becoming translucent, immaterial. Already, the
details of the courtroom were visible through him.
    "Until we meet again, mon capitaine. In the mean-
time, you really should get some clothes on. You'll catch
your death of cold."
    As the last of his adversary faded away, Picard reached
out...
    ... and found himself stepping out of a turbolift,
dressed in nothing but his bathrobe.
    Worf and Deanna were standing there in the corridor,
looking at him in surprise. It took the captain a moment
to realize what had happened.
    Q had deposited him back at the beginning of his
adventure... if one could call it that. This was the
point at which he had pleaded with the counselor for
help, and then--
 Yes. And then.
    This time, however, it would be different. After all, he
wasn't staggering around, claiming vague recollections
of his initial experiences in the past and the future.
    This time, his memories were clear and complete. He
remembered all that had happened, from his meeting
with Geordi in the vineyard at Labarre to his final'
assault on the anomaly in all three time periods. And Q
himself had told him that his gambit had ultimately
succeeded.
    Because of that, events could not help but pursue a
different course. Or could they?
    A specter of doubt raised its head. What if Q had
plunked him down at some other point in time... a
point that only superficially resembled the beginning of
his time trek?
    What if there was something about his test that was
still incomplete? What if, through some cruel turn of
events, there was still some aspect of the puzzle left to be
solved?
    Deanna stared at him with concern in her lovely dark
eyes. "Captain, are you all right?"
    His heart banging against his ribs, Picard turned to the
Klingon. "Lieutenant... what's the date?"
    Worf wasn't sure what was going on--but he an-
swered anyway. "Stardate four-seven-nine-eight-eight."
    Stardate four-seven-nine-eight-eight. The exact same
day and time on which his time-shifting escapade had
begun.
    The captain was overwhelmed with relief. He laughed
out loud, not caring about the wary look that went back
and forth between Deanna and Worfi For the moment,
not caring about anything... except the fact that he was
back where he belonged.
 "Is something wrong, sir?" asked the counselor.
    Picard shook his head. "Not at all. In fact, I think I'll
go back to bed. I could really do with some sleep."
    And with that, he stepped back inside the turbolift
compartment. As the doors closed, the last thing he saw
was the querulous expressions on the faces of his officers.

CHAPTER

2&

Captain's Log, Supplemental. All is once again right
with the galaxy. Starfleet Command reports no unusu-
al activity along the Neutral Zone, nor is there any sign
of the temporal anomaly. What's more, it would
appear I am the only member of the crew to retain any
knowledge of the events I experienced--though I've
seen fit to brief my senior staff on them.
Crusher looked at Riker. As always, his expression was
unreadable. He had the best poker face she'd ever seen.
"Well?" he asked.
    There was a note of confidence in his voice. Was it a
bluff, intended to scare her off7. Or was he trying to make
it seem like a bluff, so as to draw her in even further?
    The doctor took another look at her hand. She had a
straight to the ten. A damned good hand, by any
account. But she'd lost with better. And usually, it had
been to Riker.
    Still, she'd come this far. A high percentage of the
plastic chips in the center of the table were hers. And if
she didn't go in, the first officer would win without
showing what he held.
    Crusher couldn't let him do that. Win or lose, she had
to see what was in the cards.
"All right," the doctor said finally. "I'll see you."
She had only ten chips left, but she pushed them all
into the existing pot. Then she eyed the bearded man
and revealed her hand.
  "Can you beat a straight?"
    Still, Riker gave no indication of whether he'd won or
lost. One by one, he placed his cards down on the table.
A four. Another four. A deuce. A second deuce. And
finally... a third deuce.
    "Full boat," he announced, unable to keep from
cracking a smile. "My apologies, Doctor."
    "No need," Crusher advised him. "As usual, I've got
only myself to blame." Pushing her chair back, she got
up from the poker table.
  "That's it?" asked Worf.
  "For me it is," she confirmed.
    Geordi regarded her sympathetically. "There's always
next time," he suggested.
    The doctor scowled. "I suppose. It's a good thing I've
got my medical career to fall back on, because I certainly
couldn't make it as an interplanetary cardsharp."
    Riker grinned as he organized his chips, which easily
constituted the largest collection on the table. He was
obviously quite pleased with himself, and he wasn't
bothering to conceal it.
    Geordi turned to Worf. "That's four hands in a row,"
he observed. "How does he do it?"
    The Klingon swore under his breath. "I would like to
know myself, Commander."
    The first officer chuckled to himself. "Simple," he
said. "I cheat."
    Data had begun to collect the cards. Abruptly, his
head snapped up. There was a shocked expression on his
face.
 "I'm kidding," the exec assured him. "Really."
    As if he'd never heard the remark, the android went
back to shuffling the deck again.
    Crusher moved to an empty chair off to the side and
sank into it. It was just as comfortable as it looked.
    "You know," she said after a while, "I've been
thinking..."
 Geordi cast a glance at her. "About what?"
    She smiled to herself. "About all the things the captain
told us about the future. The things he said about
us ... about our relationships... the way we changed
and drifted apart." She paused. "Why would he tell us
what's going to happen?"
    The engineer shrugged. "It does go against everything
we've heard about not polluting the timeline .... "
    They pondered the question for a moment. As was
often the case, Data was the first to come to a conclu-
sion.
 "I believe," he said, "that this situation is unique."
 "How so?" asked Riker.
    The android turned to him. "Since the temporal
anomaly did not occur," he reasoned, "and will not
occur, there have already been changes in the way this
timeline is unfolding. The future we experience will
undoubtedly be different from the one the captain
encountered."
    The first officer nodded. "Maybe that's why he told us.
Knowing what that future could bring... gives us a
chance to change things now."
    "So those events don't have a chance to take place,"
Geordi elaborated.
    "Right," contimed Riker. He gave Worfa meaningful
look. "And in the case of some of those events, we should
take extra care to see that they don't happen."
    The Klingon nodded in appreciation. "Agreed," he
said.
    They heard the sound of chimes, announcing the
presence of someone at the door.
  "Come on in," replied the first officer:
    As the doors parted, Troi was revealed. She looked
around the table.
  "Am I too late?" she asked.
    "No," said Riker. "Not at all, Deanna. In fact, I was
just getting up. Take my seat."
    With that, he got up and offered her his chair--which
happened to be next to Worf's. Fully cognizant of the
significance of the gesture, the Betazoid sat down.
  "Thanks," she told the first officer.
  Riker smiled at her. "My pleasure."
    Crusher saw Worf glance at the counselor, then at the
first officer. There was no need to speak the words that
went with his sentiments. At least, not right now.
    "Four-handed poker?" asked Troi, breaking the si-
lence. She looked up again at Riker. "Can I convince you
to sit down again?"
    The first officer shook his head. "I think I've worn out
my welcome. Deal me out for a couple of hands and I
might reconsider.". . .
 She turned to Crusher. "Bey?"
    The doctor held up a hand. "Not me," she declined. "I
took enough of a beating before you got here."
 The chimes sounded again. "Come," said Riker.
    Crusher couldn't guess who else might want to join the
game. All the regulars were already here.
    As a result, she was quite surprised when she saw the
captain standing there in the corridor. Everyone sat up
at attention as he entered.
    The first o~cer looked concerned. "Sir--is there a
problem?"
    Picard shook his head. "No, no problem at all. I just
thought I might... join you this evening. That is, if
there's room..."
 Glances were exchanged. And smiles.
    "There's plenty of room," said Riker, speaking for all
of them. "In fact, it looks to me like there's a seat next to
Data... the one Dr. Crusher just abandoned."
    The captain looked at his chief medical officer. "A run
of bad luck?" he asked politely.
    She shrugged. "Maybe it'll change," she hoped out
loud.
    As Picard sat down, the android gave him the deck of
cards. "Would you care to deal, sir?"
    The captain seemed pleased. "Oh... thank you." He
started to shuffle the cards. "You know, I should have
done this a long time ago. I was quite a cardplayer in my
youth, you know."
    Troi leaned forward slightly. "You were always wel-
come here, sir."
  He nodded. "Yes," he said. "I know."
  Crusher could see that his experience had left him
with a new appreciation for life... and for people.
Especially these people, who were more like a family to
him than a collection of colleagues.
    "Sometimes," Picard went on, "you lose sight of the
things that are truly important. I hope I won't make that
mistake again."
    As he glanced at each of them in tarn, the doctor could
see the brightness in his eyes that betrayed his feelings
for them. And also, perhaps, for a certain blond security
officer who was no longer with them. Then, a little
embarrassed, he began dealing the cards.
    "So," he said, regaining command of himself. "Five-
card stud, nothing wild. The sky's the limit."
    Crusher looked at him... and still couldn't help but
wonder. Would she and the captain marry one day? And
if they did, would it end in divorce, as in the timeline he
had experienced?
    Would Picard fall victim to Irumodic syndrome--or
escape it? Would he remain in Starfleet, or go back to
Earth to become a vintner?
    Would Troi and Worf fall in love, as it appeared they
would? And if they did, what would come of it?
    Would the Romulan Empire fall? Would a rift
form between the Federation and the Kllngons? What
role would the manipulative Cardassians play? The
Tholians? The Ferengi?
    And so on. There were any number of questions, none
of which could accurately be answered without a crystal
ball. And it was just as well, wasn't it?
    Because none of them really wanted to know the
future. Each one of them wanted the chance to mold it,
for better or worse, in his or her own two hands.
 That was the way it had always been, since the birth of
man. And though she couldn't deny her curiosity, she
was glad that was the way it would continue to be...
 At least, for a while.
    Q had never been a one-eyed jack before. As it
happened, he rather liked it, particularly because it gave
him a jack's-eye view of his favorite human sparring
panner.
    Picard was frowning at hiramand not because he
knew that Q was posing as a card in his hand. The
problem was, the other four cards were all clubs, and Q
was the jack of hearts.
    No doubt the captain would be discarding him at his
earliest opportunity. Casting him off like a used dishrag.
Tossing him in the huge, echoing wastebasket of life.
    But that was all right. Q could always turn up else-
where. And unless the Continuum decided to curb him
again in some way, he most certainly would.
    After all, no one entertained him quite as much as
Picard did. No one did so much with so little. And no
one was so good at reminding the entity of what it was
like to be a human being.
    He was tempted to turn around and stick his tongue
out at the captain, butmfor once--he held himself in
check. After all, he didn't want Picard to take him for
granted. Having said good-bye to the man, it was much
too early to say hello again.
    Glancing over Picard's shoulder at the ever-annoying
Dr. Crusher, he could feel his stomach churning as he
considered her questions about the future--and that
was no easy feat for mere pasteboard. Marriage. Love.
Divorce. It was all so incredibly mundane.
    Or was that just because he knew how it was all going
to turn out? Might it not be a little more interesting if
one was limited to knowing the past and the present, and
restricted from peeking into the future?'
    He tried to imagine what that would be likeJand
found he couldn't. After all, his consciousness spanned
time and spacewand then some. It would be like asking
a human not to think.
    And what was all this rubbish about molding one's
own future? Free will was an amusing notion, but to
actually believe in it... was there no end to the gullibil-
ity of these creatures?
    Uh-oh. The captain was reaching for him. Plucking
him out from the company of the other cards. Tossing
him facedown on the table.
    Too bad, thought Q, with a sadness that he felt as
deeply as he was capable of feeling anything. He'd rather
enjoyed being part of the game,