THE RICH AROMA OF COFFEE wafting out of main engineering was La Forge’s first clue that no real work was getting done in there.

“Repair teams, I need you on deck five,” he said as he rounded the corner into the main compartment. “The shield grid isn’t going to fix itself.”

No one responded. They were all clustered in front of a low console monitor, with their backs to him.

He pushed through the group to see what they were all looking at. They all stood transfixed by a live subspace newsfeed of President Zife’s resignation. Two days after leaving the Tezel-Oroko system, one-third of La Forge’s staff was still on medical leave, leaving every shift shorthanded. This was exactly the kind of distraction they didn’t need right now.

La Forge shooed everyone away from the center console, which was littered with discarded, half-empty mugs of coffee. Reaching past the monitor to shut it off, he caught a few moments of Zife’s unscheduled address to the Federation. Despite himself, and even though he was joining it in medias res, he was riveted by it.

“—because I feel that this resignation is perhaps the greatest of those services that I can now give to the Federation,” Zife said in a stately tone. “While my chief of staff and I were able to serve our nation well in war, we were, it seems, less suited for peace. As the war grows more distant in our past, it has become increasingly obvious that Koll and I need to step down for the good of the Federation. The model by which we survived during the war, and even during the first few months afterward, is no longer tenable as we and our allies attempt—”

La Forge clicked off the newsfeed. The screen switched to the blue and white emblem of the Federation. Resting his palms on the console, he took a deep breath. Most of the Federation would probably believe Zife’s rationales for leaving office. It sounded reasonable enough.

But La Forge would always know the truth, and so would dozens of other officers on the Enterprise, many of whom had pieced together countless secondhand accounts into a narrative of death and betrayal. Few, if any, personnel outside the senior staff knew the most damning details, but whispers of scandals and high crimes susurrated through the lower decks of the ship.

Beyond the microcosm of the flagship, however, life seemed to go on as normal. Councillor Ra’ch B’ullhy, the former governor of Damiano, had been elected by the Federation Council to serve as president pro tem until the new elections could be organized. Meanwhile, the Federation Council argued endlessly about one bill or another, and the newsfeeds treated the thousands of dead Starfleet personnel on Tezwa like either a petty statistic or a political travesty, depending upon which reporter was interpreting the “facts.”

He wished he could make them all see what a disaster the mission to Tezwa had been from start to finish, and how much more important it was than any pointless debate about which planet’s transporter network was more antiquated. But he knew that was a lesson he would never be allowed to share. If the truth were unleashed, the dogs of war would be close behind.

There was nothing left to do but bury his anger and bear the ugly truth like a secret scar for the rest of his life.

With a resigned sigh, he picked up a toolkit and set off in search of something that he could fix with his hands.

Picard strode through the corridors of the Enterprise, a bottle of champagne in his hand. He had somewhere to be.

Beverly had invited him to breakfast this morning.

She had said in her message that she had “something important” that she needed to talk over with him. It must be the offer from Starfleet Medical, Picard decided. He was relieved that the awkward silence that had reigned between himself and Dr. Crusher for the past several weeks appeared to have passed. It would be nice to be able to sit and talk again. To put the dark cloud of wounded feelings behind them.

He still had no idea what he planned to say to her.

On the one hand, he felt like he ought to be supportive and congratulatory. Wish her well. Offer some sage advice.

The honest part of him wanted to plead with her to refuse the job offer, even though he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—admit one reason why she should.

Asking her to stay would be the epitome of selfishness, he chastened himself. How often does such an opportunity present itself? I can’t ask her to turn it down. I won’t.

Looking at the bottle of champagne in his hand, he wondered if he had chosen too rare a vintage. After all, we’re most likely going to make mimosas with it, he reasoned. With a mental shrug he decided it would be fine. Nothing wrong with a little indulgence from time to time.

He was still several meters away from Crusher’s door when it opened. A thirtyish human man stepped out of the doctor’s quarters. His civilian clothing was conspicuously untucked; his short, chestnut hair was mildly disheveled. As he walked past Picard, the captain noticed that the younger man wore a wan smile on his stubbled face; in fact, he seemed aglow with quiet satisfaction. He boarded a turbolift and was gone.

Picard had stopped walking. He stood in the corridor and stared with a slack expression at the turbolift. When he turned back toward Crusher’s quarters, it required an enormous act of will to set his feet back in motion. Several dread-freighted steps later, he stood at Crusher’s door and pressed the chime.

From the other side of the door, Crusher called out in a lilting, singsong voice, “Come in!”

The door opened. Picard stepped warily inside. He was met by the savory aroma of bacon and eggs and the sweet scent of French roast. The dining table was elegantly set, with sterling service, bone china, and a colorful assortment of fruit and pastries in the center. Delicately cut crystal flutes awaited the mixing of champagne and orange juice.

What Picard noticed was a bouquet of flowers—visible through the doorway, in a vase inside her bedroom.

Crusher looked fresh as the morning itself. Her pastel-hued clothes were crisp and flattering to her trim figure. She greeted Picard with a warm, if oddly reserved, smile. “Good morning, Jean-Luc. I’m glad you could make it.”

“As am I,” he said. Any other man would have given the radiant red-haired doctor his full attention.

All the captain could see was that the sheets of Crusher’s bed were uniformly rumpled on both sides, and that it was unmade. It was a trivial detail, but it obsessed him.

She had company last night was his first assumption.

He countered it instantly. Or perhaps she had an early visitor, and simply didn’t have time to make the bed.

Before his mind could volley additional scenarios, he cut himself off. Beverly’s private affairs are none of my business. Looking at her now, however, he pondered whether there might still be time to change that—and came face-to-face with the root of his selfish desire to have her remain on the Enterprise.

Then he thought of the young man who had just left her quarters, and he realized that the time for voicing his romantic inclinations had long since passed.

Clearly, Beverly had moved on.

Confronted with that coldly obvious truth, Picard decided that no matter how deeply it would wound him, the time had come for him to do the same.

William Riker felt reborn. Resurrected.

Lying in bed next to Troi, he reveled in all the minor comforts of home, so long forgotten. The satiny texture of their sheets…the springy recoil of their mattress. Even the air was a luxurious pleasure, so clean that it smelled sweet to his long-offended nose. To feel whole again, and free of pain, was like the end of a nightmare.

The intricate yet warm jazz constructions of Junior Mance filled their softly lit quarters. Gentle circumlocutions of a musical nature eased Riker’s troubled thoughts. He had memorized these beautiful phrases, these eloquent turns in the weeks before the mission to Tezwa. The memory of them had sustained him during his darkest hours in that tiny corner of Hell.

He smiled at the warm touch of his Imzadi. She pressed up against him and draped her arm over his torso. His stomach gurgled loudly, apparently quite busy digesting the enormous meal he and Troi had devoured upon his discharge from sickbay. Their living room was strewn with the dirty dishes. He could still smell the garlic in the pasta from here.

Above them, the stars burned with cold fire against the eternal night. Taking in their austere beauty, he remembered the last time he had been able to lie here like this. It had been more than a month ago, shortly after his father’s funeral. Everything in his life had seemed so tenuous then.

Now everything was merely in a state of flux.

Looking down, he realized Troi was awake and looking at him. “You’re really back,” she said in a wistful near-whisper.

“You better believe it,” he said, though he was having a bit of difficulty believing it himself. He kissed her forehead.

They lay intertwined, listening to the hum of the Enterprise’s engines and their own breathing.

“What’re you thinking about?” Troi said.

He sighed. “Change.”

She shifted her weight and propped herself up beside him, on her elbow. “About your father? About our engagement?”

“Among other things,” he said. “It’s funny. When I was younger, I was always looking to try something new. Go someplace I’d never been before. Face some new challenge.” He rolled over onto his own bent arm and faced her. “Being the first officer of the Enterprise has been the greatest experience of my life.”

“You’ve never made any secret of that,” she said with a half-grin. “No other ship was ever good enough to tempt you.”

“That was part of it,” he said. “But not all of it. I won’t deny I liked the prestige of being on the flagship. But the truth is, on some level, I just got too comfortable.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being comfortable, Will.”

“Not in general, no.” He shook his head. “But I think that after a certain point I was just being selfish. It was easier to stay here than it was to take a chance on making my own destiny. And I—” He stopped abruptly and reconsidered what he was about to say.

Troi, her empathy keenly attuned to his emotional state, zeroed in on his discomfort. “What?” He shook his head. “You were going to say something,” she said. “What was it?”

There would be no deflecting her inquiry, he knew.

The simplest solution would be to simply come clean.

“I think,” he began, his delivery slowed with exaggerated caution, “that a key reason I never accepted my own command was because I knew that I couldn’t leave you again.”

She didn’t say anything. Without a word, she rested her hand on his chest, over his heart.

“I never forgot the look you gave me when I left Betazed,” he said. “And I never wanted to see that look again.”

“And you never will,” she said. “Wherever you go, I’ll follow. If you want to stay here, then I’ll stay, too.”

“I do want to stay here. That’s what I meant about being too comfortable.” He sat up and leaned back against the headboard. He wiped his palms over his face, then let them fall back at his sides on the bed. “I look at the influence one starship captain can have, and I think to myself, ‘Who wouldn’t want that?’ Do I really want to be the second-in-command all my life? Even if I stay here until Picard steps down—and between you and me, I don’t think that day’s coming any time soon—there’s no guarantee Starfleet would let me command the Enterprise.”

Troi nodded sympathetically. “There’s also the fact that Captain Picard has been subjected to a great deal of criticism since the Rashanar incident,” she said. “I know you were worried that leaving him now could embarrass him and the crew.”

“I’m not really worried about that anymore,” Riker said. “The captain can take care of himself. The one I’m really concerned about is Data.”

“Data?” She seemed thoroughly confused.

Riker shook his head. “He’s been an exemplary first officer, Deanna. I read some of his reports today. I talked to Peart, and Vale, and the captain. That suicide attack Kinchawn’s men tried with the cargo hauler in the shuttlebay? Data saw that coming a month ago. He drilled the crew day after day for that, and for a dozen other things I never would’ve thought of.”

He pulled his knees up and leaned forward against them. “I don’t know if I would’ve pushed the crew that hard. I might’ve felt sorry for them, let my emotions get the better of me. Not Data. He saved the ship. It’s that simple.” He pulled a deep breath into his lungs, held it a moment, then let it ebb. “But the same lack of emotions that helped him do that is also holding him back. He doesn’t really have ambition. What that meant to me was I never had to worry about someone gunning for my job…. So I got comfortable.”

Riker turned away from Troi in a futile effort to hide his shame. He knew that she could still read his emotions; he just didn’t want her to see his face right now. “I took advantage of him, Deanna. I knew he’d never push me out, so I just let the years roll by. I indulged my desire for comfort at the expense of his career. If I’d accepted my own command when one was offered to me, or even applied for one after five or ten years on the Enterprise, Data would be first officer by now.”

He stood up and resolved to do the right thing at last.

Turning to face his Imzadi, he said, “It’s time I stopped being comfortable, and it’s time I stopped standing in Data’s way…. I’m taking command of the Titan.”