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bedroom door, leaving the younger captain to look a~~er him.

Picard took in a determined breath and followed, hesitating only an instant at the closed bedroom door before grasping the knob and yanking it open.

He froze in the doorway. Beyond lay not a bedroom containing the mysterious Antonia, but an old barn, sunlight streaming through its wooden slats, pitchfork and shovel hanging against the opposite wall. Picard stepped forward onto the dirt floor, scattered with straw, and drew in the scent of farm animals.

In front of him stood Kirk, sans breakfast tray, looking every bit as amazed as Picard felt.

“This doesn’t look like your bedroom,” Picard said dryly.

“No,” Kirk replied. A slow smile dawned over his face. “No, it’s not. It’s better.” “Better?”

“This is my uncle’s barn in Iowa.” Kirk moved to the far end, to a group of stalls containing horses. One of them, already saddled, with a coat the color of gleaming coal, snorted in recognition as the human reached up to stroke its neck. “I took this horse out for a ride nine years ago… on a spring day.” Inspired, he hurried to the barn door and swung it open, revealing a green, sunny landscape outside. “Just like this. If I’m right, this is the day I met Antonia.”

He turned toward Picard. “This nexus of yours is very clever. I can start all over again, do things right from day one.”

Kirk hurried back to the horse, swung up into the saddle, and galloped out of the barn. Picard watched the receding figures of horse and rider for only an instant—

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then took a saddle from the wall and found a mount of his own.

This time he followed on an intelligent, cooperative steed, over rolling green countryside, riding hard to keep within sight of Kirk: across a clear-running stream, through a copse of ancient oaks, out onto a grassy plain. From a distance he watched as Kirk spurred the American saddlebreed toward a wide ravine, never once slow-ing pace. At the last possible instant, the horse made a beautiful, arcing leap and landed on the other side, its hind hooves barely clearing the edge.

Kirk slowed at once; then came to a complete stop and paused to gaze at the ravine behind him. He frowned, then wheeled his horse around and galloped back for a second try.

Kirk made the jump a second time; yet this time, the older captain reined his animal to an immediate stop and sat, frowning, as Picard rode up beside him.

Kirk looked once again at the ravine, his expression saddened, confused—for the first time, free of any trace of the euphoria induced by the nexus. Picard felt a stirring of hope, but remained silent as the other man sorted through his feelings.

“I must have made this jump fifty times,” Kirk finally said softly. “And every time, it scared the hell out of me. But not this time. Because…” He paused, clearly pained by the words that followed. “… it’s not real.”

He lifted his hand to shade his eyes, and stared at something moving down a distant hill. Picard followed his gaze and saw a small, slender woman leading a horse. “Antonia?”

Kirk nodded, wistful. “She’s not real either, is she? Nothing here is… nothing here matters …. “He

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looked around at his surroundings with sorrow. “It’s kind of like… orbital skydiving. Exciting for a few minutes, but in the end, you haven’t really done anything. You haven’t made a difference.” And then his gaze fell upon Picard—and for the first time, he seemed to really see the man in front of him.

“Captain of the Enterprise, huh?” He shot the other man a look of pure camaraderie and did not quite grin, but the corners of his eyes crinkled.

“That’s right.” Picard smiled with relief, surprised that Kirk had even registered the information.

“Close to retirement?”

“I hadn’t planned on it.”

“Well, let me tell you something,” Kirk said, with a sudden passion that told Picard he was at least seeing the real man. “Don’t. Don’t let them promote you, don’t let them transfer you, don’t let anything take you off the bridge of that ship. Because while you’re there, you can make a difference.”

“You don’t need to be on the bridge of a starship,” Picard countered firmly, grateful that at last his words were being heard. “Come with me. Help me stop Soran. Make a difference again.” He paused, his own tone rising with a fervor that matched Kirk’s. “You’re right; nothing here is real, nothing matters. But the two hundred thirty million who died when the Veridian sun was destroyed —they were real. So was my crew—”

Kirk leaned forward, his expression intense. “The crew of the EnterpriseD?”

Picard dropped his gaze, nodded somberly. “All killed when the ship was caught in the resulting shock wave.”

Kirk turned his face away, toward the woman walking down the distant hill, and was silent a long moment.

And then he looked back at Picard, and a smile spread slowly over his features. “How can I argue with the captain of the Enterprise?” He paused, and an amused glimmer very like the one Picard associated with Will Riker shone in his eyes. “What was the name of that planet? Veridian Three?”

“That’s right,” Picard said, with utter relief at the realization that he had at last succeeded.

“I take it the odds are against us, and the situation is grim?” “You could say that,” Picard allowed.

Kirk gave a small, resigned sigh. “Of course, if Spock were here, he’d say I was being an irrational, illogical human for wanting to go on a mission like that ….”He grinned suddenly, brilliantly. “Sounds like fun.”

And he turned and went with Picard without a backward glance at the approaching woman.