by Generations
"All systems are off-line, sir," the android said. "I do not know how the rest of the ship has fared. But there are no casualties on the bridge. Only minor injuries." "Good," Riker said. He reached for the back of the overturned command chair and, ignoring Data and Troi's offers of assistance, pulled himself up. "Evacuate the bridge and organize all able-bodied personnel into search-and-rescue parties." "Aye, sir." Data turned and headed for the emergency exit; Worf and Troi followed... and paused as the sun- light faded, and the bridge began to grow ominously dark.
Sunset, she thought swiftly; perhaps it was only the approach of night. But the darkness descended too suddenly, unnaturally, and as she hesitated, the ground began to rumble beneath her feet.
"Soran," Will whispered, with such defeat, such bit- terness that it stole Troi's breath.
The shock wave, she realized. Soran had succeeded in launching the probe. They had endured the crash and survived, only to be killed in the shock wave.
"So," Worf said quietly beside her. "The captain was right; the future is changed." He paused. "It is not a dis- honorable way to die." He turned to Troi and said, even more softly, "If you are to die, I am glad to die with you." "Same here." Riker forced a smile, but his eyes were hollow. "I wonder if the captain..." He let his thought trail, unfinished.
She tried to return his smile, to look into the eyes of her friends one last time, and could not; the darkness grew, shrouding his face and Worf's until she could see them no more, until the bridge was veiled in blackness.
The rumbling grew until it felt like a mighty earth- quake. She staggered, reached out and clutched Worf's arm to steady herself. He put it around her and held her tightly.
"But this isn't right," she said suddenly, with inexpli- cable conviction--the same conviction she had felt when Picard had told her his experience of the future: her death, and the years of enmity between Worf and Will. She had known in her heart that that future would not, could not come to pass.
Just as certainly now, she knew that this future was simply wrong, that she and the Enterprise crew had never been meant to die together like this.
"It's not right." Her words were swallowed up in the shock wave's deafening roar. The earth swelled like a wave, pitching her and Worf to the deck.
"It's not right," she repeated, even as the ship around them began to vibrate and the ground beneath grew hot.
It was her last thought, even as the bulkheads around her began to glow and her uniform burst into flame.
It's not right It's not right It's not right....
THIRTEEN
Darkness. Picard drew in a breath and gathered himself; for a moment of dizzying disorientation, he could not remember who he was, where he had come from. Soran, Veridian III, the energy ribbon--the memories seemed as distant to him as an ill-remembered dream.
Most disorienting of all, he did not know where he was. He was not blind; his vision was obscured by what felt to be a simple cloth blindfold, which he could not remove because someonemwith a warm, gentle touch-- held his arms.
Smaller hands tugged at his uniform at the waist, at the knees, leading him slowly across thick carpet. He knew at once by the smell, by the feel of the floor beneath his boots that this was not the Enterprise.
Yet he felt as comfortable here as there; perhaps more so. Despite his confusion, he felt no fear.
A heavy door creaked open, releasing with it a waft of scented air. Picard filled his lungs with it, savoring, identifying: Pine. Nutmeg. Apples. Cinnamon. And a smell he had not experienced since his childhood: A roasting goose....
He was guided forward a few more steps; then, abruptly, the hands released him. He paused, wavering.
"What's going on? Where am IT' There was no indignation in his question, only curiosity.
A tug at the back of his head. The blindfold dropped.
Picard blinked at the kaleidoscopic blur of color and light as his surroundings came into focus.
It was a large, high-ceilinged family room, twenty- fourth-century French from the looks of it, and in its center was a huge Christmas tree asparkle with light.
Picard gaped in pleasure. Clustered beneath the tree-- which towered at least a meter above him--lay presents of every conceivable size and shape, wrapped in gleam- ing gold and red and green foil. Branches of fresh holly garlanded the wooden staircase banisters and the stone mantel above the hearth, where a decorated Yule log blazed.
And in the midst of this holiday splendor, five children stood, smiling and expectant, their bright gazes all focused on him.
Picard looked at each of them with wonder. These children were strangers; he had never seen them before, and yet... he knew them. Two girls and three boys, each of them staring lovingly back with his eyes, his chin, his smile.
Here was Olivia, the eldest at thirteen, grown sudden- ly tall and willowy this past year; and here was Matthew, just seven, still chubby-cheeked, with his mother's bril- liant mind for mathematics. And here was Madison, aged ten, with his father's dark hair and love of military history, and Thomas, his twin--and Mimi, the baby at five, the much-adored apple of her father's eye.
He stared at them in awe and realized that this was his
home, these were his children, and that he loved each of them with an intensity and tenderness he had never before known.
"Go on.... " A soft voice at his elbow took him aback. He whirled, and saw his gentle captor--golden-haired, straight, slender--smiling at him with the same indulgent love in her green eyes.
He had never met her; yet he knew that this beautiful creature was Elise, his wife of the past sixteen years. And she had spoken to him in French.
"Say something," Elise urged, with fond impatience, and rested a hand lightly upon his shoulder. "They're waiting." He released a breath, overwhelmed, and then a soft, uncertain laugh. "I... I don't know what to say.... " Olivia--known, for good reason, Picard knew, to her brothers as "Bossy"--spoke up. "Say Merry Christmas, Papa!" "Merry..." He faltered as his gaze swept around the room." Christmas " The youngest, Mimi, let out a cry of pleasure and began to applaud. The other children followed suit; Elise leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek. Dazed, he let her lead him to a large, overstuffed chair--a respectable copy of Robert's chair at the family estate, the one he never permitted anyone else to sit in, not even Ren~... and certainly not his brother, Jean-Luc. Picard had privately sworn to himself that, when he retired, he would have a similar chair made, and put in his living room.
And here it was.
He settled into it with a satisfied sigh--it was every bit as comfortable as he had imagined--and watched as the children dashed over to the tree and began noisily distributing presents.
This one's for you.
Where's mine?
I hope this is the book I asked for.......
Take this one to Papa.
Contentment covered him like a blanket. He shared a blissful look with Elise, then gazed back at the bustling, laughing children with a sense of such complete joy that a smile spread, unbidden, across his lips.
Little Mimi bounded over to him, her round face flushed, her long golden curls bouncing, and put a dimpled hand upon the arm of his chair. "Isn't the tree beautiful, Papa?" Picard reached out and stroked her impossibly soft hair. "Oh yes," he answered, surprised at how easily-- how naturally--the words came to him, at how utterly natural it all seemed, as though he had spent every moment of the last sixteen years in this house with this woman, as though he had loved this child from the day she was born. "Yes, it's astonishingly beautiful. All of it." As he spoke, the other children gathered round; Mat- thew, standing with almost military stiffness, produced a beribboned package from behind his back and handed it to his father. "This is from all of us." "Thank you," Picard said, with genuine sincerity. "I can't imagine what it is.... " He pulled off the ribbon, tore away the paper wrap- ping, and opened the box. Inside, cradled in tissue, was a curved instrument of gleaming polished brass. Picard lifted it carefully and held
it to the light. It was a beautiful piece, one that had been used by some nineteenth-century sailor to navigate by the stars; no question of it. A grin of pure delight spread slowly over his lips.
"It's a sack-tent!" Thomas cried excitedly.
Picard chuckled. "You mean a sextant. And it's a handsome one at that... from about eighteen-twenty, I'd say. Wherever did you find it?" Mimi tilted her head coyly. "It's a secret." "Oh, a secret." Picard's smile grew conspiratorial.
"Well, that makes it a doubly special gift." He shared a look with each child. "Thank you. Thank you all.... " Impulsively, Mimi crawled into the chair and hugged his neck. The others swarmed in to bestow what hugs and kisses they could manage.
Merry Christmas, Papa.
I love you, Father.
Merry Christmas.
Joy enveloped him, saturated him, so completely that it seemed tangible, something he could reach out and grasp hold of.
It was like being inside joy. As if joy were a real thing that I couM wrap around myself.
Guinan's image flashed in his mind. They had been talking long ago, in some other universe, about someone, about... Soran.
He pushed the thought away immediately, forced himself to return to the present, to the love and happi- ness that surrounded him.
Mimi scrambled from his lap and hurried with the others back toward the sorted piles of presents. Smiling at the scene, Elise stepped beside the arm of his chair.
'Tll go get dinner ready. They'll be starving in a minute." She turned, then swiveled her head to speak over her shoulder. "Besides, Robert and the others are due any second." Picard glanced up sharply. "Robert... ?" She gave him a mildly curious look. "Of course. It wouldn't be Christmas without one of your brother's famous buche de Noels." Sudden tears stung his eyes; he blinked them back, swallowed hard, found his voice. His heartbeat quick- ened with abrupt anticipation. "And Ren~. Will he and..." He paused, marveling at the memories that came from some mysterious place outside his own recollection. "... Katya be coming?" Yes, Katya. That was her name; a tall, red-haired young woman with striking Asian features. He had attended their wedding two years before; Mimi had been flower girl.
"Of course. Marie says they have a surprise they'll be sharing with us." Mimi glanced up from the mound of shredded Christ- mas wrapping at her feet. "A surprise? More presents?" Elise directed a grin at her daughter. "Oh, they'll bring presents, young lady, don't you worry. But the surprise... I'm afraid you'll have another eight months or so before you get to play with that one." She shot Picard a knowing smile and wink before leaving.
He settled back into his chair and watched the chil- dren playing with their new toys. The pleasure was intoxicating; he wanted nothing more than to sit and
revel in this scene for the rest of eternity. Everything his gaze rested on brought delight; there was Mimi enjoying the interactive handheld encyclopedia he had chosen for her, and wrapped with care. There, too, beneath the tree was the tiny gold-foil box Elise had not yet discovered, the one he would present to her tonight after the children were asleep, the one that contained his grandmother's heirloom diamond pendant.
And the sparkling treemeach ornament hanging there had a history of its own. There were many priceless antique decorations from his parents' tree; Robert had finally been coaxed into parting with a few, he could see.
He smiled at the reminders of his boyhood. There was the old-fashioned silvered-glass Papa Noel, with the same small chunk that had been missing from his nose ever since nine-year-old Robert had, in his excitement to get to his presents, inadvertently toppled the tree. And there were Maman's white doves, made from real feath- ers, with holly sprigs in their beaks. And there.
He blinked and leaned forward to better see an ornament near the top of the tree, one he did not recognize. It was a hollow glass ball, lit internally by what appeared to be a tiny star in its center. As he watched, the tiny star flickered, dimmed, then darkened altogether, radiating a wave of shimmering light out- ward.
Picard stiflened in his chair.
The shock wave. He was safe now, but somewhere, the Veridian star had been destroyed, and hundreds of millions had died in the resulting shock wave.
Perhaps even those aboard the Enterprise.
The thought so disrupted the tranquil joy of his surroundings that it seemed unbearable. To escape, he rose and walked over to a nearby window. Outside, snow fell steadily, quietly, from a leaden sky, blanketing the French countryside in white. He let the sight soothe him for a time.
And then his eye caught sight of it again, reflected in the windowpane: the dying star inside the glass sphere.
He could not escape it. As much as he wanted to merge again with the sense of utter belonging, utter happiness, he could not ignore the fact that it had been purchased with blood.
Two hundred thirty million lives--because he had failed to stop Soran.
"No," he said, to the seductive tug that pulled him back toward the children, toward joy. "This isn't right.
This can't be real.... " "It's as real as you want it to be." He started at the sound of a voice--a truly familiar voice, one he had known from another reality. He wheeled and saw Guinan, looking much as she had the day he had questioned her about Soran.
"Guinan... what's going on? Where am I?" It had occurred to him that this was a strange mental state induced by dying... but he was not dead. His flesh seemed to him perfectly solid.
Her answer was the one he expected. "You're in the nexus." "This..." He swept his gaze over the family room.
"... is the nexus?" "For you," she said. "This is where you wanted to be." He shook his head. "But I never had a wife, children, a home like this.... "
A knowing smile spread across her lips. "Enjoy them, Jean-Luc." "Guinan..." He frowned at a sudden realization as the memory of his former life came flooding back.
"What are you doing here? I thought you were on the Enterprise." "I am on the Enterprise. I am also here." At his puzzled look, her smile widened. "Think of me as... an echo of the person you know. A part of her she left behind." "Left behind... ?" "When the Enterprise-B beamed us off the Lakul, we were partially in the nexus. The transporters locked on to us... but somehow everyone left a part of them- selves behind." "Soran... ?" Picard asked.
"All of us," she said softly.
"Where is he now?" "Wherever he wanted to be...." "Papa!" Picard turned at the sound of Thomas's voice. The boy was constructing a building out of small interlocking blocks--a toy his father had played with for many happy hours as a child. "Papa, help me build my castle." He sighed, tempted to return to the fantasy's warm embrace, but gathered himself. "In a few minutes," he said, smiling at his son.
He turned back to Guinan and said, awed, "These are my children. My children..." She eyed them fondly. "Yeah. They're great, aren't they? You can go back and see them born... go forward and see your grandchildren. Time has no meaning here." Elise poked her head in the room, then disappeared just as quickly. "Dinner's ready! Let's go! Your aunt and uncle and cousins are here, and they're hungry!" Happy shouts came from around the tree; toys were dropped, crumpled paper kicked carelessly aside as the children scrambled toward the dining room.
Picard glanced toward the adjacent room and caught a glimpse of shadowy figures moving toward a long table.
One of them laughed--an abrupt, deep, throaty sound.
Robert. He closed his eyes, struggled to compose himself.
He was in the nexus; which meant that two hundred thirty million innocents had died. And for what? None of this was real. Robert and Ren~ were not really here, really alive. In reality, he would be assumed dead, destroyed in the shock wave. And Lursa and B'Etor might very well possess the ability to cause such massive destruction again.
The youngest boy, Matthew, lingered, and took his father's hand in his small warm one. "Papa... are you coming?" Picard gazed down into his child's earnest, delicate face. A rush of tenderness overwhelmed him, filled him with a contentment, a peace beyond t
hat induced by any drug. He turned his back to Guinan and let Matthew lead him one step, another, toward the laughter and happy voices emanating from the dining room.
On the way, they passed the tree. Once more, the flickering light inside the glass globe caught his eye.
He stopped in midstride. Matthew looked up at him, quizzical.
"Is something wrong, Papa?" "No." Picard bent down toward the boy and rested a hand briefly, lightly on his cheek. "I'm fine, Matthew. I
just have to... hide Maman's present so I can give it to her after dinner. Go on. Go on without me.... " Matthew's hazel eyes, so like his father's, held such innocence, such loving concern that for an instant, Picard faltered, tempted.
And then he straightened, and took his hand away.
Matthew bounded off into the other room.