Star Trek - [TNG] - All Good Things...

by Michael Jan Friedman

  "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?"

  Worf nodded. "He asked what stardate it was. As if he had no idea."

  "That does not sound like Captain Picard," the android noted. "Has it been determined what was wrong with him?"

  The security chief shook his head. "Not yet. Counselor 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 understand, 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 counselor, bowing his head. "I just can't remember."

  Deanna smiled compassionately. "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 equanimity. "How long did you stay in each of these time periods?" she inquired, apparently taking a different 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 memory."

  "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 enthusiasm 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 himself. 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 here--just as he did every morning. 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 garden--much 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 Institute, 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 confessed, "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 standards," 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. 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 to 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 companion 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 of his 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, Lieutenant Yar. My mind seems to have wandered for a moment. 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 holograms of its performance projections... but this will be 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 Enterprise soon enough.

  As it was, he found Lieutenant Yar's face much more interesting. There was something about it that seemed familiar, he thought, even though
he was only noticing it now for the first time.

  Perhaps it was just one of those faces. He was relatively 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 officer 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 above--were not only elegant, but highly efficient. Even in the midst of all the other half-ready vessels in the yard, she seemed to stand out--to 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 counselor herself was staring at him, her dark eyes fixed on his--as 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.