Worf had never thought much of Data’s paintings, though he had never said so. One of his regrets about the destruction of the EnterpriseD was that the hideous painting Data had given him as a birthday present, The Battle of HarOs, had survived the ship’s crash landing intact, thus forcing Worf to keep the work. It was currently hanging in the Rozhenkos’ living room, where Worf had sent it prior to his posting to Deep Space 9. He briefly considered sending for it to keep as a tribute to his fallen comrade, before Klingon aesthetics triumphed over human sentimentalism.

  La Forge went over to the desk where Data kept his violin, then proceeded to where he kept the pipe and deerstalker hat that went with a literary holodeck program that the two of them indulged in fairly often.

  I should not be here, Worf thought as he set the container down on the floor. This was La Forge’s time to grieve. Data had started painting in part because La Forge encouraged him. The Sherlock Holmes program was something the two of them shared. The music Data played on his violin was human music that to Worf was just painful noise, but which La Forge genuinely appreciated. Worf had many fond memories of Data, but none of the items in this room prompted them.

  “Geordi—”

  “It’s weird. You know that they took his emotion chip out last year after Rashanar, right?”

  Worf nodded.

  “I was really worried there for a while. At first, he wasn’t interested in doing any of this.” La Forge gestured at the paintings on the walls and to the items on the desk. “I felt like I lost my friend. But after the Dokaalan mission, he started to act like himself again. Maybe not the same as he was with the chip, but he was definitely more than he was before he put it in. Now—” He shook his head. “Now I’ve lost him all over again.”

  La Forge’s voice was shaking, and Worf wondered if he was going to cry. Can he even cry with his optical implants? Realizing that his friend needed some kind of response, and not wanting to deal with the spectacle of human tears, Worf said, “When Kahless appeared on Boreth, Data questioned me about the nature of my faith. He was—curious.”

  Smiling, La Forge said, “That was Data all over.”

  “When Kahless was exposed as a clone, Data remarked on the Klingons who still believed in him despite his origins in a laboratory. They had made a leap of faith, trusting that the clone was the true reincarnation of Kahless. Data told me of his own leap of faith after he was discovered on Omicron Theta.”

  Looking at Worf quizzically, La Forge asked, “What do you mean?”

  “He said that he was told that he was an android—a machine—and that he could not accept that he would be nothing more than an automaton. So he made a leap of faith that he could grow as a sentient being.” Worf moved closer to La Forge, and spoke in a softer tone. “Everything he did after that was an attempt to become more than what he was programmed to be—including his sacrifice to save the captain. It was a very Klingon gesture—and a very human one.”

  La Forge took a long breath. “Yeah, you’re right.” Then he smiled. “Being an ambassador definitely had an effect on you, Worf—you never used to be this eloquent.”

  Worf straightened. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I merely did not have anything eloquent to say.”

  Chuckling, La Forge said, “Right. C’mon, let’s get this stuff—”

  A meow interrupted La Forge’s sentence.

  Oh no.

  Spot ambled in from the bedroom. The cat, who was now well over ten years old, leapt onto the table, right next to the deerstalker.

  The last thing Worf wanted to deal with was Data’s pet, so he reached to move the creature out of the way. Before he could do so, however, Spot leapt into the Klingon’s arms. Instinctively, Worf caught the animal.

  The cat then seemed to almost burrow into Worf’s chest, making a noise like the one a tribble made when it was near humans. Worf found it nauseating—yet also oddly soothing.

  “I think she likes you,” La Forge said with a grin.

  “I am not a—cat person.” Even as Worf spoke, Spot started to close her eyes and fall asleep. This is a nightmare.

  La Forge was still grinning. “Looks like you are now. Hey, look, she never liked me—remember what happened when I tried to take care of her? And as I recall, when Data was having those problems with his dream program, you were the one who took her in and did just fine.”

  Worf sighed. La Forge’s words were true, but he was not sure he would be able to tame the animal a second time. Absently, he started to stroke the cat’s fur as La Forge continued gathering Data’s personal items, from the volume of William Shakespeare’s works that Picard had given him to the handkerchief with the “D” monogram Riker had given him shortly after getting his emotion chip (“for the next time you start crying,” Riker had said).

  Perhaps once again attempting to tame Spot will be a proper tribute to Data’s memory. It is certainly preferable to putting that painting back on my wall.

  Bending over, Worf gently let the animal onto the floor. Spot woke up and ambulated toward her bowl of water, pausing for a moment to turn her head back toward Worf and meow at him.

  Suppressing the urge to growl at the cat, Worf picked up the container and placed it on the desk.

  Worf exchanged a nod with La Forge, and the two of them began gathering their friend’s possessions.

  “You know, if you’d told me when we started this whole shebang that the Romulan government was gonna fall five minutes after I took office, I would’ve stayed on Cestus III where it’s safe.”

  Esperanza Piñiero sat in the guest chair of the presidential office in Paris, saying, “Yes, ma’am,” in reply to President Nan Bacco’s diatribe. Piñiero knew that, as long as she served as Bacco’s chief of staff, she would have to listen to these diatribes. Why stop now? she thought. She had, after all, been listening to such diatribes all her life.

  Piñiero looked around the office, and found it a bit too minimalist for her tastes. White carpet, a Federation flag on a pole, and a large metal desk. Piñiero suspected that Bacco would put at least some personal touches into the office—a picture of her daughter and her family, if nothing else.

  Then again, there was always the spectacular view. Although not quite as exquisite as Venezia, Paris still had an unparalleled majesty to it.

  Bacco was still carrying on. “I haven’t even had a chance to figure out what height to put this chair at, and one of the major superpowers in the quadrant has its government literally fall apart. See, this is why I like baseball: It’s predictable. There’s an order to it.”

  Piñiero tried to hold back a smile and didn’t entirely succeed. “Aren’t you the one who’s always telling me that what makes baseball a great game is that it’s completely unpredictable?”

  Bacco pointed at Piñiero and said, “Listen, you, I’m president now, and that means there are six security guards outside those doors who will kill you on my say-so, so kindly watch your mouth.” She picked up the mug of coffee on her desk, started to sip, then stopped. “Dammit, they make these mugs too small.”

  The president started to get up, but Piñiero said, “Ma’am, the replicator’s right there on the desk, remember?”

  Sitting back down, Bacco said, “Of course I don’t remember. I’m old and feeble, I haven’t had enough coffee, and you’re giving me nonsense about the Romulans.” Looking at the desk, she asked, “So where is it?”

  “Just tell the computer what you—”

  “Computer, coffee, black, unsweetened.”

  A mug of coffee materialized in the center of the desk, right next to the com unit.

  Taking the steaming mug in hand and smelling its contents, Bacco said, “I think I can get used to this.” She took a quick sip, set the mug down, then said, “All right, what’re we doing about the Romulans?”

  Consulting the padd on her lap, Piñiero said, “You’re meeting with their ambassador, as well as Ambassador Spock, at 1300.”

  Bacco frowned. “Spock? Does he know anything about Romulans?”

  Panic gripped Piñiero. Oh no, please, no, don’t let this happen, not now. “Uh, ma’am, Ambassador Spock has lived on Romulus, and—”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, Esperanza, that was a joke.”

  Piñiero tried to regulate her breathing. “Ma’am, you really can’t do that as often as you used to.”

  “When it’s just you and me in the room? Like hell, I can’t. Don’t forget, I changed your diapers.”

  “I couldn’t possibly forget with you reminding me every five minutes, ma’am. In any case, there’s another situation.”

  “Naturally.”

  “The Deltans’ water reclamation system is horribly out of date and falling apart. They like the system on Gault and wish to utilize it.”

  “So let ’em.”

  Piñiero winced. “The problem is that the one on Gault is actually a Carreon design, and the Carreon refuse to allow the Deltans to use it.”

  Bacco rolled her eyes. “Of course they do. How can we talk the Carreon into it?”

  “That’s what I’m going to ask the Carreon ambassador when I meet with him this morning.”

  “Good. What’s next?”

  Piñiero went through the day’s meetings and events and happenings. Most of the staff was in place now. Fred MacDougan had taken over as communications director, with Ashanté Phiri serving as Esperanza’s deputy chief of staff. Jas Abrik had accepted the position as security advisor, a move that turned many heads. Kant Jorel, the Federation Council’s press liaison, also worked for the president, so Bacco and Piñiero had both strongly recommended M’Tesint to now-Governor Gari on Cestus III to replace the woefully inadequate Piers Renault. Helga Fontaine had moved on, currently running the campaign of a minister on Kharzh’ulla.

  When she was finished, Bacco said, “Good. I’ve got my security briefing, where I’m sure I’ll get an earful from Abrik about the Romulans. We really had to take him on?”

  Nodding, Piñiero said, “Yes. And you know why.”

  “Know, yes. Like, no. Go on, get out of here and talk to the Carreon ambassador before they decide to go to war with the Deltans again.”

  Rising from the guest chair, tucking her padd under her arm, Piñiero said, “Thank you, Madam President.”

  She turned to leave the office, her feet not making a sound as they pressed against the soft white carpet.

  “Oh, Esperanza?”

  Stopping and turning around just as the security guard opened the door for her, Piñiero said, “Ma’am?”

  Bacco gave Piñiero a warm smile. Not the smile she used when she was giving people a hard time or when she was talking about baseball. This was a heartfelt smile that she usually saved only for family. “Thank you for talking me into doing this.”

  Piñiero gave her an equally warm smile in return—and for that moment, they weren’t president and chief of staff, or even governor and campaign manager, but two old friends sharing a happy moment. “No need to thank me—just do the job right.”

  The red-hued river flowed down from the distant mountain, its current splashing regularly against the black rocks.

  Kahless ran a brush over his canvas, transferring the black paint from the bristles onto its target. For this painting, he had decided to begin with the rocks. The fortra flowers were no longer in bloom—his “rescue” by the Enterprise meant that re-creating that particular vista was lost to him for at least a year—so he contented himself with simply painting the river. No trees, no bushes, very little of the sky, no mountain. He would simply convey the liquid-ruby nature of the water as it flowed downstream.

  He had spoken briefly with the android on the Enterprise about his painting, and he had provided some good advice. Kahless intended to take it at some point, but for now he simply wished to paint the river. If it was not the best work available, it would at least be a learning experience.

  For many turns, he had been what he was programmed to be. He had done his duty, like any good Klingon, and he had made the world a better place than it was when he arrived in it. What warrior could ask for more?

  As he put the finishing touches on the rock, the sun broke out through the clouds overhead, brightening the vista in front of him. It was just noontime, so he had the best light at the best time to have light. Any flaws in the work would be the result of his own shortcomings, not a lack of visibility.

  Today, he thought with a smile, is a good day to paint.

  He mixed in the bright red with the black paint he already had handy. It was time to start the river.

  Jean-Luc Picard entered the bridge of the Enterprise.

  He had not had this feeling in fifteen years, when he brought the EnterpriseD out of Farpoint Station. Then he was surrounded by a command crew he barely knew. Some he’d just met, some he knew primarily from their service record, some he knew only in passing—in truth, at the time only one person on the ship, Beverly Crusher, could be considered a friend of any standing. In the decade and a half since, on two different ships, the core had remained together. It was the second time he’d been so fortunate; the senior staff of the Stargazer had also stayed more or less intact for most of the two decades he’d commanded that vessel.

  Now, he was once again entering a bridge that had more strangers than familiar faces. The first and second officers, counselor, and chief medical officer on whom he’d relied for so long that they were almost extensions of his very person, and who had been there from that beginning at Farpoint Station, were gone. Old faces had returned, new faces had come on board, but in truth the only constant was Picard himself.

  Each station reported ready, all systems were functioning, and the crew awaited their captain’s orders.

  Picard sat in his command chair and looked forward at the new viewscreen, replacing the one that had been destroyed in the battle with Shinzon. Earth rotated beneath them, the blue gem of a planet visible through the structure of McKinley Station. He looked at ops, half-expecting the familiar black hair and opalescent skin of Data, and Picard experienced a pang of sadness in the knowledge that he was gone forever.

  But we have had our time to mourn—now it is our time to dance. “Helm, set course for the Denab system, full impulse until we are clear of the solar system, then engage at warp seven.”

  The conn officer replied crisply. “Aye, sir.”

  Picard leaned forward in his chair, his hands gripping the armrests, and a smile playing across his lips.

  “Let’s see what’s out there.”

  To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven;

  A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to sow, and a time to harvest;

  A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

  A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

  A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

  A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to throw away;

  A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to be quiet, and a time to speak;

  A time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace.

  —The Book of Ecclesiastes

  Chapter 3, verses 1–8

  Acknowledgments

  Primary thanks go to my fellow A Time… authors (who are also good friends), Kevin “Bubba” Dilmore, Robert “Bob” Greenberger, David “Dave” Mack, John “John” Vornholt, and The Chosen One himself, Dayton “Ol’ Jar-head” Ward, who were a joy to work with, and great fun to bounce ideas off of. We were all in constant contact during the writing process, and I think our communication made this series much stronger as a result. (Special kudos to Dave for all those instant-messenger conversations, which I think served to make each of the final three books in this series much stronger.)

  Secondary thanks go to Pocket Books editor Ed Schlesinger, who kept the balls in the air regardless of the number of banana peels thrown under his feet. Thanks also to past and present Pocket Books folk John J. Ordover, Scott Shannon, Marco Palmieri, Margaret Clark, Jennifer Heddle, Jessica McGivney, John Perrella, and especially Elisa Kassin, as well as Paula M. Block and John Van Citters at Paramount Licensing, all of whom were tremendous, fantastic, and other superlatives.

  Tertiary thanks go to my wonderful agent, Lucienne Diver, the acquisition of whose services has proven to be one of the smarter career moves I’ve made.

  Additional thanks to:

  Michael Jan Friedman, J.M. Dillard, and the writing team of Michael A. Martin & Andy Mangels. They’ve all got novels coming out in the next year or so—two post–Nemesis TNG hardcovers and the first U.S.S. Titan book, respectively—that you’ll all want to read after perusing this volume, and they were good enough to let me help set them up.

  Several writers (some of whom I’ve mentioned already) whose novels, eBooks, stories, and/or comic books provided useful background material: Kevin J. Anderson & Rebecca Moesta (The Gorn Crisis), Peter David (Imzadi, Triangle: Imzadi II, Double Time, Stone and Anvil), Charlotte Douglas & Susan Kearney (The Battle of Betazed), Christie Golden (Homecoming, The Farther Shore, and the forthcoming Old Wounds and Enemy of My Enemy), Robert Greenberger (Doors Into Chaos, Past Life), J.G. Hertzler & Jeffrey Lang (The Left Hand of Destiny Books 1–2), David Mack (“Twilight’s Wrath” in Tales of the Dominion War), Michael A. Martin & Andy Mangels (the forthcoming Worlds of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: Trill), Vonda N. McIntyre (the Star Trek III: The Search for Spock novelization), Terri Osborne (the forthcoming Malefictorum), S.D. Perry (Unity), Josepha Sherman & Susan Shwartz (the Vulcan’s Soul trilogy), Dean Wesley Smith (The Belly of the Beast), John Vornholt (The Genesis Wave Books 1–3, Genesis Force), Dayton Ward & Kevin Dilmore (Inter-phase), and Howard Weinstein (“Safe Harbors” in Tales of the Dominion War).

  Amusingly enough, my own name probably belongs in the above two paragraphs. I’ve got a forthcoming novel that will also spin out of this book (focusing on the Federation government in the first year of the Bacco presidency), and I built on material from my previous novels Diplomatic Implausibility, Demons of Air and Darkness, The Brave and the Bold Books 1–2, The Art of the Impossible, A Good Day to Die, and Honor Bound; my upcoming novel Enemy Territory; my comic book miniseries Perchance to Dream; and my Tales of the Dominion War short story “The Ceremony of Innocence Is Drowned.” But it’s silly to acknowledge oneself, and I endeavor never to be silly. And if you believe that…