STAR TREK - TNG - Nemesis

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J M Dillard - Star Trek - Nemesis
Prologue
In the vast Senate chamber, Hiren, praetor and ultimate ruler of the entire Romulan Star Empire, sat in his
great chair, which some derisively called a throne. The society in which he lived had for millennia been
militarized, urban; even so, the tides of nature were tied strongly to the Romulan being. Beyond these
vast, ancient walls, Hiren knew, the red Romulan sun was slipping below the horizon, infusing the sky,
buildings, and glittering skimmers with an ethereal crimson glow.
A sudden urge overtook him-to desert the chamber, to leave the pontificating senators agape, to board
his own sleek skimmer and flee the city that was the crowning glory of the Empire. To return to the
comfort of home: and then he remembered that there was no comfort there, only silence and solitude. His
wife T'Shara, one of the highest-ranking commanders in the military, was to have returned home from the
Celesian campaign this day, and been waiting for him this night. T'Shara, the only one from whom he
feared no treachery, the only one against whom he need not scheme. She had been killed two days
before by one of her own centurions, who had mistaken her for the enemy.
The centurion, of course, had been quickly executed; but in this case revenge brought Hiren no relief. He
was not a young man-his hair had silvered many seasons ago-but neither was he old. Yet today he had
complained to his physician of aches and pains befitting one twice his age. T'Shara had taken with her
into the afterworld his life, his heart, his will. His passion for power and scheming had deserted him: all
that was left now was a hollow sense of duty.
His personal guards and those loyal to him in the Senate and military pled desperately with him to shake
off his listlessness, to remain alert: He would need every ounce of his shrewdness, his cunning, to save the
Empire from being torn apart by the creature known as Shinzon. The praetor's life was endangered now
more than at any other time during his rule: Did he not care? Grieve for T'Shara later, at a safer time. For
now, there was duty.
Duty.A dry, empty word that to Hiren's tongue tasted of dust. Yet, for the sake of the Empire-and
because T'Shara would have wanted him to-he gathered what was left of his concentration and resolve
and applied his attention to the task at hand.
The Senate chamber was filled to capacity: The very air seemed to vibrate, electric with the curiosity of a
hundred senators eager-even desperate-to hear the arguments for and against the Reman leader,
Shinzon, who had suggested an extremely radical approach to dealing with the Federation. But it would
require the Empire to provide military support to the Remans and treat them as equals, which they were
not.
A vote had already been taken: By a narrow margin-too narrow for Hiren's comfort-the Senate had
voted against Shinzon. But the praetor alone had the final say, and he had let no one know of his
decision.
The military, of course, was divided, which meant the resolution of the situation was critical to Hiren's
survival, both as praetor and a living being. Hiren had not attained the highest political position in the
Empire by being innocent or trusting. Before news of T'Shara's death arrived, he had already determined
which among the Senate and military supported him, and threatened or bribed those who did not. He
feared neither the Reman leader, nor the commanders who came to the podium and began their
arguments on Shinzon's behalf.
The younger commander-Talik, was it?-was filled with typical youthful impatience; there was anger in his
tone, which provoked Hiren to glare threateningly at him.
Talik gesticulated with his arms, muscles rippling beneath the sleeves of his uniform. "What you don't
seem to understand is that this is a chance to make ourselves stronger than ever before! I beg you not to
let prejudice or politics interfere with this alliance!"
Prejudice,Hiren thought bitterly, and for an instant, directed his gaze at the facing wall. Above the seated
senator, the great crest of the Empire hung, a stylized image of Romulus's most famous bird of prey,
grasping in each talon a planet-one light, one dark. Romulus and Remus-twins, but not equals, for while
Romulus enjoyed a regular night and day, Remus was placed too close to the sun. Half of the planet
baked constantly, a sere, unlivable desert; half remained in constant night, and on that half, the population
dwelled, and over time had evolved into hideous, light-blinded creatures. The Remans had already
proven themselves inferior by living for centuries as slaves under Romulan rule. Had they been worthy of
the rights and status accorded Romulans, they would have fought for them. Such was the Romulan way:
The strong conquered, and the weak were enslaved. Hiren would not see the great Empire plunged into
night.
Commander Bezor, an older and wiser Romulan whom Hiren had known-and up to this moment,
respected-for many years, made a gesture of supplication toward the praetor's throne, which also served
to silence the young Talik.
"Praetor," he said, his tone placating. "Senators.What my colleague is saying is that Shinzon represents an
opportunity for the Empire. If handled properly, he and his people can heighten our own glory."
Talik failed to restrain himself. "It's already too late to go back. We must move forward together ! And
when his forces join ours, not even the Federation will be able to stand in our way-!"
Hiren gripped the armrests of his chair, feigning indignation at Talik's impudence and Bezor's betrayal.
"Enough!" he snapped. " The decision has been made!"He paused, gathered himself, and in a cooler
voice said, "The military does not dictate policy on Romulus. The Senate has considered Shinzon's
proposal and rejected it. He and his followers will be met with all deliberate force and sent back to that
black rock they came from. Do I make myself clear?"
The young Commander Talik stood, silently defiant; Bezor was wise enough to bow his head and say
graciously, "Praetor."
"The subcommittee on military affairs will be meeting tomorrow to prepare our tactical response," Hiren
told him. "You will attend." For the praetor would be sure to give Bezor an assignment that would test his
loyalty; if he failed, Bezor would be swiftly executed. If he proved loyal, then he would be required to
surrender all knowledge of the foe. The young Talik's fate was already decided.
Bezor seemed sincerely grateful for the opportunity to redeem himself-but Hiren had met too many
excellent liars in his day to be overwhelmed with trust. "Yes, sir," the older commander said, with another
slight bow, then turned and left the chamber. Commander Talik followed, fuming.
With the departure of the two men, it was as though gravity itself eased slightly; Hiren waited for the
subtle whispering of bodies turning in their chairs and the murmurs of senators commenting to their
fellows to die down before he spoke again.
This time he addressed Trann, a Romulan male who had been in the Senate long before Hiren danced in
his mother's womb. "Now, Senator," Hiren said with near-courtesy, "you were speaking of a trade
affiliation with Celes Two?"
Old Trann rose and nodded, his dark eyes veiled by heavy white eyebrows. "Yes, Praetor. The trade
committee has concluded that an agreement is in the best interests of the Empire. We recommend
dispatching a diplomatic mission to open negotiations."
At the word negotiations , the senator beside Trann grunted. Hiren heard the skepticism that laced the
small sound, and turned his full attention to her: Senator Tal'Aura, quite young and handsome, in the most
classic Romulan way. Black hair with glints of blue, fierce, upward-arching brows above black eyes, and
an intangible aura of coiled passion. She had risen to the position of senator at an extraordinarily early
age out of determination and intelligence: someday she would no doubt be praetor. Before his heart died
two days before, Hiren had suggested a political and romantic alliance-but Tal'Aura had found a way to
refuse him without sparking his ire. Her politics, it seemed, were marked by the skepticism of youth. The
Celesian system was currently at the Empire's mercy, and was hardly in a position to truly bargain. She
was simply expressing the truth in a sigh, yet he could not let a discourtesy to Senator Trann pass so
easily.
"Senator Tal'Aura," Hiren said sternly. "You disagree with the motion?"
She faced him boldly. "No, sir. I would say `negotiation'is to be advised. I support all `diplomatic'
overtures. But if you will excuse me, Praetor, I have an appointment with the Tholian ambassador."
Hiren knew her latter statement to be true, so he nodded, dismissing her; she rose and quickly exited the
chamber. Before he glanced away, Hiren noted that she left behind a small silver box, intricately
engraved-a gift, no doubt, from another political admirer hoping for a liaison. He would have one of his
own guards retrieve it after the session, in order to learn with whom she might be allying herself these
days.
Then, for duty's sake, he forced himself to continue the session. "Then I will call for a vote," Praetor
Hiren said, "on the motion to open trade negotiations with Celes Two."
As he spoke, he became aware that the silver box was moving , its top panels folding out, opening like a
flower to the sun. From its center, a double-helix of pure, swirling energy grew slowly; and when it had
reached full height, a pulse of bright green light began to climb up the helix.
In the first instant, its beauty convinced Hiren that it was piece of artwork, inadvertently activated; in the
next, his politican's brain convinced him that Tal'Aura's loyalty to the Empire was shakier and her thirst
for power greater than he had allowed himself to imagine. She had not left this "gift" behind
unintentionally-it had been meant specifically for him, and it had come from Shinzon.
When the pulse of energy reached the top of the helix, a beam of green light shot straight up to the
high-domed ceiling, then cascaded down like a waterfall, like a glowing emerald mist, enshrouding the
entire chamber and its inhabitants. A few of the senators gasped in surprise, but all soon fell into an awed
silence.
It was really quite beautiful, Hiren decided; had death been this beautiful for his wife, T'Shara? Death by
disruptor was supposedly quite painful-but had there been an instant for her like this one, when her entire
being was absorbed by radiance, as each cell was lit up from within?
The glow evaporated suddenly. Just as suddenly, Hiren contemplated the great bird of prey on the wall,
and the dark planet, Remus, in its grip. Outside, sunset had just given way to night, and he realized the
irony Shinzon intended: The Empire, indeed, was being plunged into Reman darkness.
Yet even as Hiren's mind watched with an observer's detachment in his final moments, his body and brain
continued to react with the habit of duty. T'Shara would have done the same. "Would someone please
tell me what that was?" he asked, then turned to a guard. "Alert security."
But he knew it was already too late, for a glance behind him showed that the flowering plant behind him
was drooping, shriveling. Dying. Still, he continued giving orders: duty before death.
".and have them run a."
Hiren could say no more, for the flesh of his tongue began to melt away; and as he watched the
yellow-green flesh dissolve from the guard's face, giving way to muscle and blood beneath, he saw his
own countenance mirrored. The dissolution of cells was excruciating, beyond bearing, and he could not
have said whether the short-lived screams that sounded in his ears were his own or those of others
around him.
He only knew this: that T'Shara had experienced both, the beauty and the agony of dying; and the last bit
of light Hiren saw with his liquefying eyes was the shimmer of a transporter beam as the silver box, the
weapon, was removed from the chamber.
And then there was nothing but darkness. Darkness, and stillness, and the silence of eternal Reman night.
Chapter 1
Worlds away, on the planet Earth in the area known as Alaska, Captain Jean-Luc Picard rose from the
table at which he sat, and for a moment, gazed beyond the people gathered before him at his magnificent
surroundings: the Denali mountain range, snow-capped against a blue sky. The open-air pavilion was
heated to a comfortable temperature, but on occasion, Picard drew in a breath of cold, pristine oxygen
tinged with evergreen.
The natural beauty only added to the poignancy of the moment: to gather himself, Picard concentrated on
the discomfort generated by his white-dress jacket, the white tunic beneath fitted tightly at the neck, and
kept his expression resolute, even stern.
"Duty," he intoned, to the officers at the bride and groom's table with him. To his right sat Beverly; to his
left, Will Riker and Deanna Troi, flanked by Geordi, Data, and Worf. In front of the large, central table
were dozens of smaller ones, occupied by other crewmates and friends. "A starship captain's life is filled
with solemn duty. I have commanded men in battle. I have negotiated peace treaties between implacable
enemies. I have represented the Federation in first contact with twenty-seven alien species. But none of
this compares to my solemn duty as." He paused for effect. "Best man."
From their center seats at the table, Will and Deanna laughed along with the rest of the guests-all except
Data, who watched the ritual with avid curiosity. Deanna's skin seemed to radiate the precise color of her
gown-iridescent pale rose, gleaming like a newfound pearl. Quite a bit of skin there was, too, with the
low-cut, sleeveless bodice, but her legs were covered by the sweeping skirt. One shoulder bore a
corsage of cabbage roses; a cascade of roses swirled about the skirt from waist to hem.
A pink pearl, Picard thought, amidst a sea of white and gray uniforms; all officers other than the captain
wore gray tunics beneath their white dress jackets.
He continued to feign sternness, though his mood was a mixture of joy and melancholy. "Now, I know
that on an occasion such as this it is expected that I be gracious and fulsome with praise on the wonders
of this blessed union.But have you two considered what you're doing to me? Of course you're happy!
But what about my needs?! This is all a damned inconven-ience." He continued despite the crowd's
laughter. "While you're happily settling in on the Titan , I'll have to train my new first officer. You all know
him. He's a steely sort of fellow who knows every word of every paragraph of every regulation by heart;
a stern martinet who will never, ever, allow me to go on away missions."
He glanced at the golden-faced android, Data, who looked up at him with those peculiarly guileless eyes.
"That is the regulation, sir," Data said earnestly. "Starfleet Code section twelve, paragraph four-"
"Data," Picard countered, in a more casual tone.
"Sir?"
"Shut up."
More laughter came from the crowd, especially Deanna, whose dark hair was swept up into a graceful
chignon. Picard turned his sights on her and affected his best curmudgeonly tone.
"Then there's the matter of my new counselor," he said. "No doubt they'll assign me some soft-spoken,
willowy thing who'll probe into my darkest psyche as she nods her head and coos sympathetically. Isn't
that right, Deanna?"
The broad grin disappeared from Deanna's face; instead, she conjured a wide-eyed, strikingly concerned
expression and cooed-sympathetically, of course. Beverly, who had served as matron of honor, leaned
toward her laughingly and clapped.
"I notice Doctor Crusher laughing along with the rest of you," Picard continued. "As most of you know,
the doctor will also soon be leaving the Enterprise, to assume command of Starfleet Medical." He spread
his hands in mock supplication. "Again, I'm forced to ask, Beverly, have you considered what you're
doing to me? I'll probably get some old battle-axe of a doctor who'll tell me to eat my vegetables and put
me on report if I don't show up for my physical on time."
"It'll serve you right," Beverly called back spiritedly.
Picard sighed and regarded Will and Deanna again. "Really, it's not too late to reconsider." And when
they both, grinning, shook their heads, he added, "No? Very well then." At last, he surrendered his
sarcastic tone, raised his glass, and smiled affectionately at the two.
"Will Riker," he said. "You have been my trusted right arm for fifteen years, you have helped keep my
course true and steady." He paused to gaze at the bride. "Deanna Troi, you have been my conscience
and guide, you have helped me to recognize the best parts of myself." To both he said, "You are my
family. And in proper maritime tradition, I wish you clear horizons.My friends, make it so."
Picard and the rest of those gathered upended their glasses.
A band had begun to play, and the guests to mingle; Picard began to make his way toward Riker and
Crusher, but in midstride he paused once again to take in the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree sight of the
Denali range, framed at its base by stands of tall evergreens. The mountains, white set against glistening
white, formed a jagged horizon against the clear Earth-blue sky. They appeared permanent, eternal: but
in spring, Picard knew, their collective face would change; great patches of white would give way to dark
earth and dark greenery, giving a dappled light-and-shadow effect.
The more things change, the more they stay the same,his brother Robert had always said, but Picard saw
no validity in the statement-especially not on this day. Things were changing, quite radically in fact, and he
failed to see how his life would ever be the same.
Beverly Crusher appeared before him-much older than on the day they first met, something less of a
mystery, but certainly no less beautiful, with her red-gold hair that seemed a reflection of her warm
personality. His maudlin thought must have affected his expression, for she picked up on his feelings at
once and teased, "Sort of like losing a son and gaining an empath, isn't it?"
Picard grimaced sourly at her. "You're being a big help."
She put a hand lightly on the crook of his elbow and said playfully into his ear, "If you start tearing up I
promise to beam you out. Level one medical emergency."
He had to smile at that. As the two of them made their way through the crowd toward Will and Deanna,
young Wesley Crusher-surprisingly mature-looking in a Starfleet lieutenant's uniform-crossed their path.
Wesley grinned broadly. "Mom!" Then, with a more formal air as he straightened his shoulders, added:
"Captain."
"Hello, Wesley," Picard said easily. "It's good to see you back in uniform."
"Suits him, doesn't it?" Beverly said. She was suddenly incandescent with pride; Picard tried to imagine
what it would have been like to raise a child, then finally see him one day grown and in uniform, and felt
the stirrings of wistful jealousy. There were many paths he had chosen not to take in his life-children
included-and Beverly's proximity served to remind him of other lost opportunities.
Nevertheless, he returned Wesley's grin. "Are you looking forward to serving on the Titan?"
Lieutenant Crusher's words tumbled out with the enthusiasm of youth. "Very much. I have the night duty
shift in engineering, we have a double-refracting warp core matrix with twin inter-mix chambers that." He
stopped abruptly, his attention seized by the appearance of a young woman who waved in his direction.
"Oh, excuse me. See you later, Mom."
At once he was off, in pursuit of the girl. Picard could only smile and gently shake his head at the fleeting
attention span of youth; had he ever really been that young? Beverly's smile was a bit more rueful.
Once again, they headed for Troi and Riker.
Nearby, Engineer Geordi La Forge sat at the bar nursing a glass of synthehol while talking with
Guinan. Like most of his crewmates, he was in a state of near-shock: Troi and Riker had been an item
years before they worked together on the Enterprise, and for their several years as crewmates, they had
remained good friends, nothing more. (Although, of course, LaForge had always known Will Riker was
still carrying feelings for Deanna.) Then the courtship began anew-but the notion that the couple might
actually make their relationship more permanent-well, it just seemed like one of those things crew
members liked to speculate about, but which would never happen, rather like Captain Picard suddenly
professing love for Dr. Crusher.
La Forge shook his head, laughing. "I still can't believe he finally popped the question!"
Ever-serene and self-confident, Guinan leaned forward to prop her elbows against the bar. "What makes
you so sure he popped the question?"
"Counselor Troi?" Geordi set down his flute and raised his eyebrows. "You gotta be kidding." He had
always thought of Commander Riker being the one to pursue Troi, of Riker having to convince Troi to
love him-but perhaps he, Geordi, had always thought of things that way because he was male, and it
always seemed to him that he had to work to earn a female's affection. Or did the insecurity work both
ways?
"You have to keep an eye on us quiet, soulful types," Guinan said mysteriously, her lips curving upward in
the small smile-that-was-not-quite-a-smile.
Her answer gave Geordi a thought, and that thought made him grin. "You ever think about getting
married again?"
Guinan looked past him, at the Alaskan skyline, her voice trailing. "Maybe." And then her gaze and voice
promptly returned. "But like I always say, why buy the Denubian seacow when you can get the milk for
free?"
Geordi barely snickered, then picked up his glass; as he did, the Klingon Worf sat heavily, with a slight
groan, on the stool beside him. The normally bronze skin beneath Worf's eyes was ashen, his thick
eyebrows knit together beneath his bony forehead, which was furrowed even more deeply than usual.
The Klingon had continued to let his hair grow, and now wore it in a simple braid down his back.
"Romulan ale should be illegal," Worf rasped. He referred, of course, to Riker's bachelor party, held the
night before: the Klingon had been less than circumspect in his imbibing.
Geordi dared not smile, but he did allow himself the comment, "It is."
"Then it should be more illegal," Worf said with conviction. He groaned-loudly this time-and set his head
down on the table while Geordi and Guinan shared a knowing glance.
Meanwhile, Picard and Crusher had at last made their way to Will Riker and Deanna Troi.
Troi smiled warmly at Picard with her ebony eyes, and touched his forearm with her hand. "It was a
lovely toast."
"It was from the heart," Picard said honestly.
"And you needn't worry," Deanna added. "I'll brief your new counselor on everything she needs to
know."
"The hell you will," the captain replied with gruff humor. "You already know too much about me. Now
you promised there are no speeches during the ceremony on Betazed."
Will and Deanna shared a bemused look. Should I remind him? Will's expression asked, and Deanna's
said, Go ahead.
"No, no speeches," Riker said, failing entirely to hide the impishness in his eyes. "No clothes, either."
Picard gave him a sharp look-apparently he'd assumed that non-Betazoid guests were exempt from this
traditional marital ritual-but his former second-in-command wasn't joking, even though his new wife
laughed at Picard's reaction.
Before Picard could come up with a witty reply, the band stopped playing; at the sound of Data's voice,
all turned to face the bandstand.
"Ladies and gentlemen and invited transgendered species.In my study of Terran and Betazoid conjugal
rites I have discovered it is traditional to present the `happy couple' with a gift. Given Commander
Riker's affection for archaic musical forms I have elected to present the following as my gift in honor of
their conjugation."
Will shot Deanna an amused glance. Conjugation?
Data began to recite a verse; gradually, the band joined in.
"Never saw the sun
Shining so bright,
Never saw things
Going so right,
Noticing the days
Hurrying by-
When you're in love,
My how they fly!"
The band launched full voice into a style that Picard recognized as twentieth-century Earth swing. Data
began to sing:
"Blue skies
Smiling at me,
Nothing but blue skies
Do I see.
Bluebirds
Singing a song,
Nothing but bluebirds
All day long."
The rhythm was irresistible-to all except Worf, who raised his head from the table and groaned loudly
over the music, "Ugghhh.Irving Berlin." And with a great thump, his head struck the table again. Picard
turned away to hide his smile; he had left Will's bachelor party early, lest his presence inhibit any of the
celebrating, but by that time, Mr. Worf had already imbibed enough Romulan ale to account for his
current condition.
Beside the captain, Will was tapping his foot to the beat; the groom gave his bride an anxious little glance,
like a child asking permission to go join the fun.
Deanna smiled at him indulgently. "All right, go ahead."
Riker ran up onto the bandstand, where his trombone rested off to the side; he grabbed it and began
playing.
Picard turned to Deanna and proffered a white-sleeved arm. "May I have this dance?"
She grinned. "With pleasure, Captain."
They swirled out onto the dance floor.
Meantime, Beverly Crusher took pity on Worf's misery and decided to distract him from it. The Klingon
could very well have come to sickbay and asked for treatment which would have gotten rid of his
apparent hangover-but perhaps Worf would have considered such help a sign of weakness.
Besides, Crusher hadn't seen him in some time and would not see him again for-well, at the very least,
years, and quite possibly forever. She had teased Jean-Luc Picard about becoming emotional at this
wedding reception-but she may as well have been talking to herself. It had been hard enough when
Wesley left the Enterprise years ago, but now she was leaving; leaving Jean-Luc and Will and Deanna all
at once, and the sense of loss was staggering. There had been a time, when she had first been offered the
position of head of Starfleet Medical, that she had actually considered turning it down. Her life was on
the Enterprise, she had told herself; she had made deep ties with many people here-so deep that she
considered them as much her family as her own son.
But the more she considered the offer from Starfleet, the more she realized she could not turn it down.
She was a seasoned space traveler, but there had been times, especially in the past few years, when her
longing for home-for Earth-became overwhelming. Soon it became persistent-and then the current head
of Medical announced his retirement.
Beverly applied for the position, with Picard's recommendation to back her. The process of applying, of
the interviews, sparked a deep determination within her. She had spent the past fifteen years as a doctor
aboard a starship-indeed, as the chief medical officer of the Fleet's most prominent, prestigious starship.
But the good that she could do aboard the Enterprise was far different from the far-reaching type of good
she could do at Starfleet Medical.and she was ready for a difference, for a new challenge.
Yet now, walking across the dance floor toward Worf, Crusher suddenly asked herself, Can I really
leave these people?
She chided herself for being overly sentimental. She had a promotion, a new job and new friends to
make. Now was the time for celebrating, not grieving. It was beautiful here, with the glittery snowy
mountains and the deep blue sky, the good friends, and the music.
As Beverly walked toward Worf, she passed a smiling Geordi La Forge, who was leading a beautiful
African woman in a brilliant red dress to the dance floor. Apparently they knew each other more than
well- thatwas something she was going to have to Deanna about, to get the ship's latest buzz.
Beverly walked up behind the stool where the Klingon sat, slumped facedown on the table, and said in
the loudest, most determinedly cheerful voice she could muster, "Commander Worf. Do Klingons
swing?"
"I am unwell," he muttered into the table.
"Don't worry, I'm a doctor." With all her strength, she took hold of one of his massive arms and pulled
him off the table and onto his feet. He staggered slightly as she drew him onto the floor, among the gliding
bodies, and as he attempted to mimic her movements, it was clear he had little familiarity with the style of
dance known as swing. Even so, he managed admirably, taking her fine-boned pale hand in his great
dark one with a light touch.
"I'm so glad you made it back to the Enterprise before I left," she called over the din of the music. To her,
dance came naturally; her bones were long and fine, her muscles limber and blessed with that mystery
known as a sense of rhythm. She could scarcely have resisted dragging the Klingon onto the floor even if
he'd been unconscious.
Worf's pained expression eased slightly; it was the closest he would come to acknowledging mutual
affection. To those unfamiliar with Klingons, he would have seemed ferocious, with the great jutting
browbone above narrowed eyes and jagged teeth; to Beverly he looked precious. "I was not suited for
the life of a.diplomat."
An understatement if ever there was one. She managed not to laugh aloud at the thought, but instead
twisted her lips wryly and shrugged. "Who'd have guessed?"
At that instant, Picard and Deanna, talking and grinning, went dancing past them; Beverly looked at them
both, and at Worf, and thought: I must remember every little detail of this moment, of this time. I must
remember.
As she moved amidst the swirling bodies, with the backdrop of the Alaskan skyline, the moment seemed
to her at once timeless and fleeting, a celebration of the brevity of life against the eternal snow-clad
mountains. It seemed to her that she had been on the Enterprise, friend and fellow crew member to these
people, for all of her life-yet now that she was leaving them, it seemed the experience had been all too
short, that her moments with them had been too few.
Beverly let her gaze focus on those she loved around her: on Worf, on Data singing on the stage, at the
trombone-wielding Will Riker, like Deanna radiant with joy. If only this moment could last forever.
Yet in the midst of a longing that verged on grief, Beverly could not hold back a smile.
Later that night, in his quarters aboard the Enterprise, Picardgingerly withdrew a bottle from his
temperature- and humidity-controlled wine storage unit. He had to half-kneel to do so, and the gesture
seemed appropriate, in light of the value-not just monetarily, but historically and emotionally-of the liquid
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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：105 页 大小：285.41KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-20

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