BEVERLY CRUSHER STARED at herself in the mirror of the anteroom. The small room was one of several set aside in the large pavilion that Riker had set up in the Denali Mountains for his and Troi’s wedding.

God, I hate these dress uniforms.

Crusher had never had a problem with Starfleet’s day-to-day uniforms, which had changed several times over the course of her career. That was in inverse proportion to the fiery passion with which she loathed all their choices in dress uniforms, whether the long tarpaulin-like skirt thing they had fifteen years ago to this white monstrosity that managed to add two kilos to the apparent weight of whoever wore it.

I should’ve insisted to Jean-Luc that we wear dressy civilian clothes. If nothing else, it would put Will in a suit or a tuxedo, which would be a big improvement on this thing.

She let out a long sigh. The clothes are not what you’re cranky about, Beverly, and you know it.

Straightening the folds of the hated uniform, Crusher stared at her reflection. She saw a fifty-five-year-old woman with lovely red hair, more lines on her face than she wanted to see, in excellent shape for someone half her age (an opinion she could back up with medical data), and with the galaxy at her fingertips. She single-handedly raised a son who grew up to be a higher being—and what mother wouldn’t be proud of that? She had just passed a medical inspection conducted by a woman for whom she had no professional respect, she had the opportunity to run Starfleet Medical, and only a few weeks earlier she had a wonderful short-term relationship with a young man who thought she was worth pursuing.

Crusher saw all that—and also saw a woman who was still doing the same job she was doing fifteen years ago under a man for whom she had had strong feelings for more than thirty years, and with whom she was no closer to having a real relationship than she was back when she signed on at Farpoint Station.

This is ridiculous. I need to get on with my life.

Just then, the door opened behind her to reveal Picard.

Until this moment, Crusher had never believed in fate.

“Jean-Luc,” she said, turning around.

Picard was yanking at his collar. “I swear, they make these dress uniforms more uncomfortable with each version.”

“I’m sure they do it just to annoy you.”

“Well, obviously.” Picard stopped pulling at his neck and smiled at Crusher. “You look divine, Beverly.”

“I look like a meringue.” She hesitated. “Jean-Luc, there’s something I need to say to you.”

The smile fell from Picard’s face. It looked like he knew what was coming.

Good. That’ll make it easier.

“I’ve decided to take Yerbi’s offer. It’s just too good an opportunity.” She put both hands on his chest. Owing to his rank, the middle of his uniform shirt was the same white as the sleeves and sides, as opposed to the gray everyone else had. “Seeing Will finally taking his own command, Worf leaving his ambassadorship—even seeing Wesley decide to stick with being a Traveler—it’s made me realize that I need a change. Honestly, Jean-Luc, I’m tired of the front lines. Helping the Dokaalan, curing the Bader and the Dorset—with something that wasn’t even a proper cure—and all those bodies on Tezwa. I’ve had enough.” And I’m tired of waiting for you to notice what’s right under your face. She couldn’t bring herself to say those words.

But the question was whether or not he would say the words she wanted to hear, the words that would make her turn down Yerbi’s offer and stay on the Enterprise for as long as he commanded it.

In all the years she’d known Jean-Luc Picard, she’d gotten fairly good at reading his facial expressions. She’d been with him through so much, from his brutal mind-meld with Sarek of Vulcan to his assimilation by the Borg to his torture by Gul Madred.

Therefore, she recognized his I’m-suffering-for-the-
greater-good look. And was fairly peeved that that was the look she saw.

“In that case, Beverly, I wish you the best of luck. We’ll miss you—but I can’t think of a better person to succeed Dr. Fandau.”

You couldn’t do it, could you? Damn you, Jean-Luc. “Good. Honestly, this is a big weight off my mind,” she lied. “I’ve been thinking about this since Rashanar.” She smiled. “Yerbi will be relieved, too—now he can have his retirement party.”

“Beverly, I—”

Before Picard could continue, Crusher felt a cold wind in the room. Wrapping her arms around herself, she wondered if the pavilion’s environmental system was breaking down and letting the cool Alaskan air in.

Then the wind died down, and the room started to warm again.

“Hi, Mom—Captain Picard.”

Whirling around, Crusher cried, “Wesley!”

“Hey, I wasn’t gonna miss this for the world.”

Crusher ran to her son and embraced him with all her enthusiasm. Suddenly, nothing mattered, except for the fact that she was going to share this union of her two good friends with her son.

Picard frowned. “Er, Wesley—”

“Hey, why’re you guys in dress uniforms? Isn’t this a Betazoid wedding?”

Breaking the embrace, Crusher looked at her son. “Uh, Wes—this isn’t the Betazoid wedding. We’re having that on Betazed.”

“However, since we’re on Earth…” Picard said slowly.

Wesley winced. “I guess walking out that door naked probably wouldn’t be such a hot idea.”

Crusher smiled. “Well, some of the women on the guest list might not object too much.”

“Mom!”

Picard tapped his combadge. “Picard to Enterprise.”

“Wriede here, sir.”

“Lieutenant, have the quartermaster beam down a dress uniform.”

“Er, okay, sir. Ah, what size?”

“I believe the measurements of Wesley Crusher are on file.”

“Yes, sir.”

To Crusher’s embarrassment, she hadn’t even noticed Wesley’s unclad state, so happy was she to see him. She noticed now that he was completely unself-conscious about it. I guess Travelers aren’t big on modesty. After a moment’s thought: And why should they be?

“I’m sorry, sir,” Wesley said. “I was—well, elsewhere. I’ve been checking back up on you guys as much as I can, but I’ve been busy helping train Korgan and—well, traveling. I didn’t want to miss the wedding, though. I mean, let’s face it, those two should’ve gotten together years ago.”

Crusher glanced at Picard. “Well, Wes, sometimes it takes people a while to realize how they actually feel.”

Wriede came back on the line. “Uh, sir, quartermaster says he only has a lieutenant’s uniform in that size. The replicators are under maintenance right now, but he can make a new one for Mr. Crusher within the hour.”

“I’m afraid the need is immediate, Mr. Wriede. Have the lieutenant’s uniform beamed down.”

“Aye, sir.”

Grinning sheepishly, Wesley said, “Thank you, sir. For the uniform and the promotion.”

“Don’t let it go to your head, young man.” Picard wagged his finger in mock rebuke. “This is a temporary promotion for the express purpose of saving all of us some embarrassment.”

“I’m not really embarrassed, sir,” Wesley said matter-of-factly. Then, at Picard’s aghast expression, he added, “But I don’t want to embarrass Commander Riker or Counselor Troi, either, sir. Sorry, it’s just that—well, I’ve come to look at the galaxy a lot differently.”

Picard recovered. Crusher almost sprained her lips holding in a giggle.

“Understandable,” the captain said. “I don’t think I ever thanked you properly for what you did for us at Rashanar.”

“Happy to do it, sir. It was good to have one last chance to save the Enterprise.”

Riker pulled the curtain that separated the hallway from the main pavilion aside and looked out at the guests who were milling about, most of them holding drinks and some finger food. The latter smelled wonderful, and Riker’s stomach rumbled a reminder that he hadn’t eaten all day. Only a little bit longer, he thought.

He saw plenty of familiar faces, some old friends, some relatives of Troi’s he didn’t recognize—relations on her father’s side—and even a few members of Starfleet brass, including Admiral Vance Haden. The serious-minded old admiral had been Ian Troi’s commanding officer on the U.S.S. Carthage when Troi’s father died, thirty-six years earlier.

A familiar voice from behind him said, “Don’t worry, I’ve done this twenty-three times—it’s a piece of cake.”

Turning, Riker saw two old friends. One was a short woman wearing a lovely gold knit vest over a loose-fitting silvery-green shirt, long golden earrings, and a green hat that looked like a plate with a pituitary problem balanced on her head.

“Guinan! Glad you could make it.” He turned to the woman standing next to the Enterprise-D’s erstwhile bartender. “You too, Katherine.”

Clad in a Starfleet dress uniform, Katherine Pulaski’s eyes twinkled. “I wouldn’t miss it.” Her face soured a bit. “Especially after I heard about Kyle. I couldn’t make the funeral, so I thought I should be here for this, at least.”

Pulling each woman into an embrace, he said, “Thank you,” to each of them.

“Nervous?” Pulaski asked.

“Surprisingly—no. Then again, there really isn’t anything to be nervous about. Honestly, this is the first thing that’s gone right since Rashanar.” Again, thoughts of Tezwa returned, the remembered stench of the pit Kinchawn had thrown him in overpowering the existing smell of the finger food. Shaking the thoughts out of his head, he said, “I’m glad you two could make it. We’ve almost got all the D guys back.”

“ ‘D guys’?” Pulaski parroted with a snort.

Guinan asked, “Almost?”

“The O’Briens couldn’t make it, unfortunately.” Riker shook his head. “Do you know that Molly’s eleven now?”

“She’s only eleven?” Guinan frowned. “I would’ve sworn she was older.” At Riker’s shocked look, Guinan said, “When you think of your own age in terms of centuries, eleven years really doesn’t mean much.”

“I guess not.”

“Well, I sympathize with the chief and Keiko,” Pulaski said. “It wasn’t easy for me to get away, either. The work we’re doing at the Phlox Institute is at a critical stage—I’m afraid I won’t be able to make the ceremony on Betazed.”

“Speaking of which,” Guinan said, “where is the mother of the bride, anyhow?”

With a knowing smirk, Riker said, “Back on Betazed, leaving no part of the ceremony unmicromanaged. There was no chance she would leave off planning the biggest social event on Betazed since the war just to attend some silly ceremony in the mountains.”

Pulaski shook her head. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

“I see you talked Worf into coming back into the fold,” Guinan said.

“I didn’t talk him into anything—it was his own choice. I have to admit, I’m still surprised. Despite appearances, he made a damn fine ambassador.”

Nodding, Guinan said, “He also looked like he was hitting the prune juice a little hard.”

Pulaski shot Guinan a look. “What?”

“Long story,” Riker said quickly. From what Riker understood, Guinan’s introducing Worf to prune juice had eventually led to the beverage becoming a major export to the empire. “We were having a bit of a celebration last night, and Worf—well, let’s just say he didn’t stick with synthehol the way the rest of us did.”

“Katherine!”

Riker turned at the voice of his captain, who was exiting the anteroom along with Crusher—

—and Wesley, wearing a Starfleet dress uniform.

“Wes! You made it!” Riker walked up to the young Traveler and hugged him as well. Then he looked down at the collar on the uniform he was wearing. “Lieutenant Crusher? Let me guess, the Travelers kicked you out, and you’ve been finishing your time at the Academy for the last year in secret, and they made you a lieutenant because you already had a commission before you were a cadet.”

Wesley blinked. “Hey, that’s not a bad story. I oughtta try that one. But, no, I just—well, let’s just say I was inappropriately dressed when I arrived.”

The next several moments were filled with reunions, as Wesley, Pulaski, and Guinan talked about what they’d been doing in the years since their respectives times on the Enterprise-D. Without Riker realizing it, La Forge, Data, Vale, and Worf had joined them. Worf still looked fairly unsteady from his guzzling of Romulan ale the night before.

At one point, Pulaski said, “I hear you’re going back to Starfleet Medical, Beverly.”

“Yes,” Crusher said. “I’m sorry Yerbi’s retiring, but I’m thrilled at the opportunity.”

Taking on a philosophical air, Picard said, “You know, the last time Beverly took over Starfleet Medical, I was given a stubborn, acerbic, cantankerous replacement who I firmly believed was sent specifically to drive me mad.” He then looked at Pulaski. “And I’d love to have her back, if she’s interested.”

Pulaski, who looked like she had swallowed live gagh when Picard started talking, then broke into a laugh. “I’ll pass, thanks, Captain. My days of starship medicine are long behind me.”

A voice from beyond the curtain said, “Where is everyone?” The curtain parted to reveal Troi in her pink dress.

Riker first met Troi at a wedding on Betazed, so his first look at her was quite complete. Back then, he thought she was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. He thought that again now as she entered the hallway, and he was at once thrilled to be marrying this woman and annoyed that it took him this long to get up off his ass and do this.

“What are you all doing in here?” Troi asked.

Crusher smiled. “Just catching up on old times, Deanna.”

“Without me? I’m hurt.” She pouted, but her black eyes were dancing. Riker grabbed her and kissed her.

Then he looked around at his friends, who were starting to move toward the curtain. He held up a hand, “Wait, one second—I need to say something.”

They all stopped and looked at him expectantly. Beverly, who looked content and happy for the first time in months, though whether from her son’s arrival, her decision to take the Starfleet Medical job, or both, Riker couldn’t say. Katherine, looking older and softer yet still as tough and hard as she was fourteen years earlier on the Enterprise-D. Geordi and Data, still best friends, still the most rock-steady reliable officers Riker had ever served with. Wes, with the same baby face he had as a teenager, yet who now carried a wisdom beyond all of them. Worf and Christine, like the good security chiefs they were, making everyone feel comforted by their very presence. Guinan, centuries of placid, philosophical wisdom in the galaxy’s most garish outfits.

Deanna, his Imzadi, looking as radiant and beautiful as ever.

And at the center of it all, as he had been for fifteen years, Captain Jean-Luc Picard.

“This,” he finally said, “may be the last time all of us are together. We’ve been through a lot.” He looked at Picard. “Q. Borg invasions. The Romulans coming out of their shell.” To Worf: “A Klingon civil war. The return of Kahless.” To La Forge: “The Phoenix flight. First contact with the Vulcans.” Back to Picard: “And a terrible, terrible war. We’ve seen friends die; we’ve seen legends die.” To Vale and Pulaski: “We’ve let friends go and seen new friends arrive.” To the two Crushers: “We’ve welcomed children into the world and we’ve let them go.” Finally, he looked at his Imzadi. “And now we’re all together one last time. A month from now, Worf, Deanna, and I will be on the Titan, Beverly will be frightening interns at Starfleet Medical, Wes will be traveling again. We’ll be moving on.”

He looked at each of them now in turn. “But for fifteen years on two starships, we got to make history. And I just want to tell you all here and now that it has been the pleasure of my life to make that history with all of you.” Looking at the woman he loved more than anything in the galaxy, he said, “Now we get to make one last bit of history together.”

Everyone clapped and cheered, except for Worf—who looked like someone had driven a spike into his head—and Picard, who stepped forward and put one hand on Riker’s arm, and the other on Troi’s.

“You know,” he said, “one of the hallmarks of a good captain is the ability to make pretentious speeches at the drop of a hat. I always knew you’d make a good captain, Will, and you just proved it.”

Everyone laughed at that—again, except Worf, who winced.

Picard looked at all of them. “Now come, friends, colleagues—family. Let’s get these two married.”