29 
U.S.S. Enterprise NCC-1701-E
2387
The tears would not stop coming.
Lying on the bed in her quarters, T’Ryssa Chen gave up attempting to dry her eyes. The blue sleeve of her uniform tunic was damp from her repeated attempts to wipe her eyes and nose. For the first time in she could not remember how long, she wished for the capacity to employ the mental exercises she had tried to learn in her youth but never mastered. If ever there was a time to possess the renowned Vulcan discipline and emotional control, this was it. That training failed her now.
Dina. Taurik. Rennan.
Over and over, their names and faces filled her mind. Colleagues, friends, and so much more. How could Dina be gone? A science officer, whose world involved laboratories and computer simulations and research. She had participated in away missions, even dangerous ones, but… Dina. She was supposed to be here. They should be able to talk to each other at any time of the day or night, about work or anything else demanding the sort of immediate attention only friends can give.
And when Dina could not help, there was Taurik. Chen knew she could always count on him to be there for her, and she liked to think he knew the same was true for her. When it became obvious her role aboard the Enterprise would leave her with a great deal of time between those occasions when her expertise as a contact specialist was called into service, Taurik was among those most receptive to her undertaking training across multiple shipboard disciplines. He encouraged her to employ her already formidable science and technical skills wherever they might be useful, which resulted in her spending a great many hours in engineering. That program of study and self-improvement had paid off in numerous ways. On a personal level, Taurik more than any other Vulcan she had known accepted her with no reservations or judgment. He had influenced her in so many ways, helping her to be at ease with herself and her dual birthright. Despite electing not to pursue their romantic relationship, they had remained steadfast friends. She treasured him more than he likely ever knew, and now would never know.
Rennan.
Chen absently laid a hand on the side of the bed where she might find him. They had not committed to each other, though both admitted theirs was more than a casual relationship. Discussions about the future were informal, both secure in the knowledge that each wanted the other in their life. There had been no talks about “next steps” or anything “serious” so far as long-term plans. For her, it was a simple matter of not being ready to make that leap. There would be time for such pursuits later, she had rationalized. Now, there was her career and the lure of exploration, and it was her good fortune that Rennan had been here with her.
For Rennan Konya, it was a practical matter. His duties as a member of the ship’s security detachment, and the risks he undertook far more often than most of his shipmates, had given him an outlook on life that some might consider cold, even callous. Every away mission carried elements of uncertainty and even danger; for Konya and those like him, theirs was a different attitude. Finding a mental place where they could undertake with great frequency missions that might result in their death was a learned discipline. It was a skill that Chen often struggled with, but duty aboard the Enterprise had given her ample opportunity to develop such objectivity. In his own way, Konya’s approach to compartmentalizing such feelings was more effective than even the inherent mental and emotional discipline of Vulcan behavior. It was just one of the many things she loved about him, and a future without him seemed impossible to imagine.
“A future.”
Chen sat up in her bed, blinking away tears as the thought emerged from the emotional chaos gripping her. Something, lurking at the edges of her subconscious. A long-buried memory resurfacing? No, she decided. This was something else.
“The future,” she repeated, pushing herself from her bed. She felt the warmth of the carpet beneath her bare feet as she began pacing. Moving from her bedroom to the main sitting area of her quarters, she turned the word over in her mind. She was only vaguely aware she was conducting a circuit of the room—weaving around furniture, circling behind her desk, changing direction only when she threatened to walk into a bulkhead. Only the quiet hiss of her door jolted her out of her musing, but not until she found herself standing in the corridor outside her quarters. Chen looked down at herself, realizing she still wore rumpled sleepwear. Reaching up to touch her hair, she confirmed that was similarly disheveled.
“Okay, then,” she said, to no one in the thankfully empty passageway, before returning to her quarters. Even given her current situation, it would not do for word to get around the ship that a Vulcan, even a half-Vulcan, was walking about in her underwear. Somewhere, she was sure she could hear Rennan Konya laughing. She would give anything for a last chance to punch him in the arm. And what about Taurik? If he were here, he might even be compelled to…
“Taurik.”
That had to be it, Chen decided. An image of her friend formed in her mind, and for a brief moment she registered the sensation of standing with him. Standing with Taurik in the corridor outside the crew lounge. He had left and she had run after him, only to learn he was on his way to his quarters for a subspace conversation with agents from the Department of Temporal Investigations. The knowledge of future events to which he was privy thanks to the Raqilan weapon ship might well be connected to everything that had transpired since Wesley Crusher’s arrival, but she could not be sure. She harbored no doubt Taurik had considered the possibility on his own, even before his conversation with DTI. Had he even had a chance to speak with Captain Picard prior to that?
“Picard. Damn it, of course.” Annoyed with herself, Chen blew out her breath. “I’m such an idiot. Think, T’Ryssa. Think.”
Closing her eyes, she focused on that image of Taurik in the corridor, outside his quarters. He had been as circumspect as possible given her pestering him about the meeting, offering no clues even though she had correctly deduced the topic of discussion. Chen knew it had to have been foremost on his mind at that moment, because…
“Because I touched him.”
It had not been a full meld. Their minds had not merged in that much more immersive and intimate manner, but even that brief flash—her hand on his arm as a simple gesture of support, friendship, and even love—had given her a passing insight into his thoughts. In that instant, she saw images Taurik had immediately attempted to guard from her: Wesley Crusher, and Captain Picard.
What did they mean? Had his conversation with DTI brought new information and clarity? She would never know, as she never had the chance to speak with him prior to the Enterprise’s visit to Devidia II. Whatever Taurik knew died with him.
Or had it?
“Computer,” she said. “Access personal logs and messages. Has Lieutenant Commander Taurik recently transmitted any correspondence or record files for me?”
“Negative. I find no record of such a communication.”
“Check Taurik’s personal logs and records. Is there any mention of anything he wished to have transmitted to me in the event of… in the event of his death?”
“Negative. No such record is present in any of Lieutenant Commander Taurik’s logs or records.”
Feeling the first tinges of frustration, Chen asked, “What about protected or encrypted files. Did he leave behind anything like that?”
“Negative. No encrypted or protected records are present in any data bank.”
“Which means anything he may have recorded for transmission to DTI was wiped.” Chen began pacing again. “Computer, are there mentions in any file of the Raqilan weapon ship?”
It took the computer a moment to process the query before replying, “One entry: Captain Picard’s official report to Starfleet Command, stardate 63—”
“Never mind.”
She had not really expected her impromptu questions to yield tangible results. Taurik would never violate the pledge he had taken to keep to himself the knowledge he possessed. Not because doing so might endanger future events, but simply because that was what duty required of him. He had even kept that information from Captain Picard, and Chen believed his mandate had troubled Taurik prior to his conversation with the DTI agents. Something about what he knew, coupled with Wesley Crusher’s presence and the experiences that brought him here, had weighed on Taurik. The image of Picard that Chen had gleaned from his mind had not been isolated or ephemeral. It was at the forefront of his consciousness, but why? Did Picard somehow play a role in the future events Taurik had seen? She had no context, nothing to support her suspicion, but somehow the idea felt right. Chen wished he had left behind some clue, some final message with instructions to be carried out in the event of his death. Even his katra, the very essence of a Vulcan’s consciousness, was gone. He had not been given a chance to deliver his katra to a willing recipient so that it might be taken back to his homeworld for proper interment. If there was anything to be done on his behalf with respect to the foreknowledge he carried, Chen would have to figure it out on her own.
“What were you thinking, Taurik?” she asked the question of her empty quarters before resuming her pacing. “What were you going to do?”
She was certain his need to keep the truth from Picard had troubled him, at least inasmuch as a Vulcan could be troubled. What she also believed—what she felt with unfailing conviction—was that Taurik would act in whatever manner he deemed necessary to protect the Enterprise and its crew even if he could not reveal his reasons. What she did not know is how he might have acted with the integrity of future history at stake. Would simple, straightforward logic have guided him, or would loyalty to his shipmates have prevailed? Taurik could not have known, and if she were being honest, Chen knew she likewise had no answer. As for Taurik, she reasoned that even from within the parameters set for him by DTI, if he believed Picard was somehow central to their current situation, then he would have endeavored to remain close to the captain. Perhaps with the intention of serving as an information source, but also in the event he felt compelled to act in defense of whatever future events lay ahead. He could not do that now.
“But I can.”
The statement sounded odd, spoken aloud in the privacy of her quarters. There was no one to hear her declaration, but that made it no less heartfelt. Even without specific knowledge to guide her, there could be no denying her feelings. Strengthened by what Taurik had inadvertently shared with her, Chen felt certain this was the right path.
Moving to her lavatory, she stared at herself in the mirror above the sink. She realized she already felt a bit better than just a few minutes ago. Carrying on in Taurik’s stead despite not knowing exactly how to proceed had given her renewed purpose. Even with the pain she still felt, she could grieve Taurik’s loss, along with those of Dina and even Rennan, while not letting it consume her. She would persevere in their absence, and maybe come out the other side stronger thanks to their friendship. There was no better way to honor their memories.
Still studying herself in the mirror, Chen nodded with new resolve.
I won’t let you down, my friends.
“We hear from our first classes at the Academy that service in Starfleet carries a risk. Exploring the unknown, encountering new life-forms, pledging ourselves to the security of the Federation implies a potential cost not only to ourselves but also those we love. And yet, it is those very people and civilizations we hold dear that drive us to accept that risk.”
Picard, standing behind a polished black podium atop a dais in the Enterprise’s main shuttlebay, looked out at the rows of assembled crewmembers. Behind him, a blue backdrop displayed the Federation seal. The memorial service was open to anyone, but there was an implicit understanding that duty came first. Stations and systems required their usual attention and oversight, and could not pause even for a moment’s observance or reflection. Even so, he estimated nearly two-thirds of the crew complement was in attendance, requiring his remarks to be piped over the internal comm system to be heard here as well as throughout the ship. They stood silent, listening to him speak as he had for the past ten minutes, beginning with reading the names of those lost and continuing with his testimonial to the fallen.
“Those whom we lost today gave their lives in service to an ideal. They accepted risk to protect the rest of us: their shipmates, their friends. They did so without hesitation or reservation, they knew their actions were not needless or without purpose. Our responsibility to them—our purpose—from this time forward is to honor them by being worthy of their sacrifice. We must rededicate ourselves to exemplifying the principles they swore to uphold and protect. Those of you standing here with me, along with your crewmates listening across the Enterprise, are the finest representatives of those values. Our friends can rest easy knowing you will carry on in their stead. Dismissed.”
Picard stepped away from the podium and down from the dais to an area behind the backdrop and cordoned off from the rest of the shuttlebay. He was alone only for a moment before he heard footsteps, recognizing the steps as Beverly’s. His wife appeared from around the curtain, offering him a comforting smile.
“Very nice, Jean-Luc.”
“I never know what to say.” Though Picard long ago conquered his fear of speaking before an audience, doing so for situations such as this had always made him uneasy. As with so many other things, he learned to put aside personal feelings as required by his rank and station. The role of a starship captain was many things, and that included being an inspiration to those seeking guidance or simple poise in the face of tragedy. Six decades in the center seat had given him far too many opportunities to eulogize fallen crew, and he hoped never to be comfortable with it.
“Bridge to Captain Picard,” called Worf over the ship’s intercom. “Sensors are tracking a quantum distortion beyond the limits of the Devidia system. We believe it is a vessel traveling via slipstream drive, on an intercept course with us, sir.”
“Starfleet?” asked Picard.
“The quantum distortions are consistent with a Vesta-class starship, sir, but we won’t be able to make a final determination until it drops out of slipstream.”
A quick turbolift ride from the shuttlebay returned Picard to the bridge. Picard emerged from the car, directing his gaze to the sleek, arrow-shaped vessel displayed on the main viewscreen. Narrow, streamlined, and compact, with its warp nacelles slung low and fully behind the ship’s angular primary hull section, the entire design conveyed speed, in this case velocities far beyond even the Enterprise’s formidable capabilities.
“It’s the Aventine, sir,” reported Worf as he rose from the center seat. “Captain Dax is hailing us and requesting to speak to you.”
The viewscreen shifted from the approaching ship to an image of Ezri Dax, sitting in her command chair on the bridge of her ship. She was in her early thirties, Picard recalled, but he could see in her still-youthful face the burdens of commanding one of Starfleet’s most powerful vessels and the demands that placed upon her. Thin, almost imperceptible streaks of silver accented her short, dark hair, but the vitality behind her bright blue eyes also communicated centuries of wisdom thanks to the Trill symbiont, Dax, she carried within her.
Moving to stand at the center of the bridge, just behind the operations and flight controller stations, Picard nodded toward the screen. “Captain Dax, this is quite the surprise.”
“I only wish it were a pleasant one, Captain.” Her expression softened. “It seems you’re no longer the only ship dealing with temporal anomalies. We’re here to join the party.”
Behind her, two figures stepped into view. Instead of Starfleet uniforms, they wore nondescript businesslike attire Picard would know all too well even if he did not recognize the people wearing the clothing. He could not help the feeling of foreboding that welled up within him at the sight of Meyo Ranjea and Teresa Garcia, agents from the Department of Temporal Investigations.
“Captain Picard,” said Ranjea, “like Captain Dax, I wish I could say we’re here under happier circumstances. We have a lot to talk about, and I suspect not much time to do it.”