Chapter One

CAPTAIN JEAN-LUC PICARD entered the transporter room, tossing a brief backward glance toward his first officer, who had paused a moment in the corridor with a look of curious confusion. “Number One? Have you forgotten the way?”

“Of course not, sir.” Riker grinned slightly, an ineffectual attempt to hide from the astute captain the touch of nervousness that now clouded his brow. Picard had been in a strange, almost mischievous, mood earlier that morning. He had asked Riker to accompany him to the transporter room to greet their guests. “I believe you know one member of the team,” he had said, smiling enigmatically. And that was the only information the captain would provide about Riker’s alleged acquaintance. The conversation took a more serious turn as the two men left the bridge and made their way to the transporter room. Picard’s tension was obvious as he checked, for the third time that day, that all was prepared for the Tarn delegate about to beam onto the Enterprise. And for the third time that day, Riker reassured his captain. Now if only he could calm himself down.

“Good morning, Counselor,” Picard said in his smooth rich voice. Riker almost did a double take. He was so distracted he hadn’t even registered Deanna’s presence.

“Captain.” She nodded in the direction of Picard. “Good morning, Will. . . . Is everything all right?”

“Of course,” Riker responded absently, without listening.

“Will?” Deanna questioned with a note of slight concern edging her voice. “Something troubling you?”

He tried to turn on his most charming smile. “No, nothing.”

Lying to Deanna was definitely a no-win situation; he could see that she had already figured something out.

“Excuse me, Captain,” the engineering ensign interrupted apologetically. Riker looked over at him with almost a feeling of gratitude. “The team is ready upon your orders.”

“Very well, Mr. Eddies. Beam them aboard.”

A few moments elapsed, yielding no sign of the boarding party.

“Mr. Eddies? At your convenience, please?”

“I’m sorry, Captain. There seems to be some kind of disturbance. Sensors read that the team did not transport across.”

“That is apparent, Ensign. The question is, where are they?”

“Well, sir, they’re still on the Tsushima. It’s that problem we’ve been having with one of the targeting scanners.”

“Mr. Eddies, you reported that as repaired earlier today,” Picard replied with the slightest tone of admonishment in his voice.

“I’m sorry, sir. We ran the tests, recalibrated the unit, and it looked like it was fine.” As the nervous ensign spoke he quickly scanned the system board, waiting for the diagnostic software to evaluate the situation.

“Same unit failed again,” he finally replied. “It’ll only take a minute, sir.”

The ensign made the necessary adjustments.

“She’s on-line now, sir. It’s safe to transport.”

“How many more replacement units do we have for that system?” Will asked while the ensign ran a final safety check.

“Just one, sir.”

Riker looked over at Picard.

“Just one? We’ll have to keep our fingers crossed,” Picard announced. “And Mr. Eddies . . .” he continued.

“Yes, sir?” Riker noticed that the poor kid had turned beet red.

“I’m making it your personal responsibility to ensure that we don’t run short again.”

“Yes, sir,” whispered the ensign.

A wave of sympathy washed over Riker. However remiss Eddies might have been in his duties, it was plain bad luck to mess up in front of the captain on the day they were receiving a Tarn delegate.

The ensign attempted the transport a second time. A moment passed before the vague forms of three individuals appeared on the platform and then materialized.

“Very good, Mr. Eddies. Run a full check on why those systems were giving us trouble earlier.”

Then, turning to the party, Picard smiled. “Welcome to the Enterprise. I apologize for the inconvenience. Lieutenant Garrett, we’re certainly glad to see you, and Dr. Eardman, it is a pleasure to have you on board. I’ve read some of your works.”

Picard stepped to one side, making it a point not to speak to the third individual; this was now a question of military protocol. Riker stepped up to his captain’s side, faced the Tarn, and came to attention, ignoring the doctor though all his personal desires screamed at him to look over at her.

The Tarn stood several inches taller than Will’s six-foot-two frame, his reptilian gaze absolutely devoid of any show of warmth or emotion. The lizardlike Tarn triggered in Riker the instinctive fear of a creature that looked like a cold-blooded hunter from a primordial age. He forced his fear aside, letting his training take over. Stepping up close to the Tarn, he exhaled noisily. The Tarn, surprised by the gesture, exhaled back at Riker. For the Tarn, the gesture was the human equivalent of shaking hands, a greeting gesture that was used at one time to reveal that the one who stood before you had the same scent as others of your hunting circle.

“Commander Harna Karish, I greet you into our circle as if you are of our blood,” Will said, struggling with the guttural pronunciation of the Tarn words.

“I accept the greeting as if I am returning to those of my blood,” Karish replied.

Picard, who had been silently observing the scene, was surprised that Karish had spoken in Federation Standard. It was, for a Tarn, a major concession to diplomatic protocol.

The Tarn stood before the group, his cold eyes shifting back and forth. His bearing was stiff, accentuating his height. Clothed in the dress uniform of a Tarn warrior, a scarlet coat ribbed with silver and a navy blue sash extending from one shoulder down the length of his back and attached to the opposite hip, he made an impressive and rather intimidating show of restrained strength. Etched into his reptilian forehead was a pewter-colored tattoo of five small stars in a circle.

Riker made a gesture to Harna’s forehead, and to the tattoo, which revealed his clan.

“Of the Kala circle, the royal line. We are honored. I am of the circle Riker, of old America, of Earth, and my circle is unblemished.”

Riker now turned and introduced Captain Picard. The diplomatic protocol of it was all rather interesting. If Karish had arrived as an actual representative of the Tarn government, it would have been Picard who greeted him first. Though Karish was of a noble circle on his homeworld, his actual role aboard the Enterprise was merely as an exchange officer, “for the purpose of observation,” as the memo from Starfleet had explained. Karish held a rank that could be considered equal to Riker’s in his own fleet; therefore, it was appropriate that Riker make the first greeting. For Picard to do so would have resulted in a loss of face.

A flicker of a gaze from Picard showed that the captain was impressed by Riker’s skillful handling. Picard, following Riker’s lead, went through the breathing ritual, this time with Harna breathing first, but with head lowered, a subtle but significant signal that he acknowledged Picard’s superior position aboard ship.

“Welcome aboard,” Picard announced, but refraining from the ritual of shaking hands, since such an act was seen as an aggressive move by a Tarn too close to a foe.

“Thank you, Captain. As a representative of the Tarn, I wish to express my thanks for your invitation. Admiral Jord sends his regards. He is more gracious in his praise of the Federation than most. We shall see if his opinion deserves the merit it receives in our First Circle.”

“As we will endeavor to validate the praises that accompany you, Mr. Karish. I think you will find your time aboard the Enterprise to be a profitable experience,” Picard said, motioning for the Tarn to follow him out of the transporter room.

He turned and looked back at Will and Dr. Janice Eardman, the ship’s new historian.

“Dr. Eardman, I’m glad you’ve joined us. I hope you can accompany me for dinner tonight.”

Eardman smiled.

“Thank you, sir.”

“I take it you know our first officer?”

The woman Picard addressed looked straight at Riker. She nodded an acknowledgment in his direction, yet said nothing.

“Fine. Commander, would you mind escorting Dr. Eardman to her quarters and providing a tour of the ship while I offer Commander Karish escort to his quarters?”

Riker could not help but let a flash of discomfort show. Picard had guessed correctly; this was certainly a familiar face. Deanna, meanwhile, was looking straight at Riker, as if sensing something as well.

“Certainly, Captain.” The door slid shut as Deanna, accompanied by Lieutenant Garrett, as well as the captain and the Tarn, stepped out into the main corridor.

Riker’s gaze followed them from the room before finally turning to look at Eardman.

“Hello, Janice. It’s been some time since the Academy. It’s nice to see you again.”

He addressed a woman in her early thirties, slender and rather tall. She wore a regulation, one-piece uniform fitted with a low-cut neckline and flattering lines. Her hair, a mass of tawny curls, was pulled neatly away from her face and caught in a silver pin at the base of her neck. Her honey-colored eyes flashed as she smiled slightly, an awkward blend of embarrassment and excitement.

“It’s good to see you as well, Will.”

“Your goal has been accomplished, I assume?” Even as he said the words Will inwardly kicked himself for being so blunt.

“Depending on the goals, yes, they’ve been accomplished, the same as yours. I assume you’ve accomplished yours also, haven’t you, Will?”

The two stared at each other, memories creeping up on the conversation like an afternoon shadow. There had once been a moment between them, a wonderful summer assignment together in their third year at the Academy. It could have been far more, but that possibility had disappeared as it became clear that each assumed that the other would willingly follow wherever the other’s career path led. Both of them had been drawn, and both of them had almost succumbed. Both of them had left angry, though who had left whom was still, after all these years, an inner topic of debate for the two.

She was given the chance to spend a three-year assignment on Tarett IV, a distant colony that offered intensive archeological excavation and historical archives as yet undocumented. Will remembered the excitement in her face when she had told him of her opportunity. She had then casually mentioned that there was an open slot for an ensign aboard the orbital base above Tarett IV. Orbital base indeed, he thought bitterly, just one step above a shoreside assignment. It was starships that called to him. He didn’t want to get stuck pushing padds in some backwater and he had told her bluntly of his views regarding that idea. And that had ended it.

Nine years had given Will plenty of time to reflect on the incident. He had felt bitterness toward her for a little while. Yet he no longer nursed a grudge. His initial sight of Janice had momentarily brought a bit of the anger near the surface, triggering his pointed comment a moment before; however, he had realized long before that it wasn’t really anger that he felt toward this woman, simply the sadness of being left.

There was an awkward moment, and then she smiled, the smile that could so easily melt him, a smile he had wished he had seen one more time before she had walked out the door.

“I like your ship, Will,” she said softly.

“Your ship too now, Doctor.”

“Lieutenant,” she reminded him. “On ship professorial titles don’t apply.”

He knew that; still, it was a way of paying a compliment. To rank as a professor of history at the Academy before she was thirty had indeed been a major accomplishment.

“Yes, my ship for the moment,” she replied. “Starfleet likes their instructors to have a stint of shipboard duty every once in a while, sort of a sabbatical.”

He wanted to ask if she had deliberately selected the Enterprise knowing he was on board, but knew better than to try and fish for praise.

“Come on, Janice, let me show you around.”

Calling her by her first name, especially delivered with his most winning smile, finally broke the ice a bit more and she smiled in return.

Janice handed him a bag and followed him out of the transporter room. The two chatted along the way of superficial nonessentials: the location of the holodeck, the ship’s historical records, an overview of the Enterprise’s last mission. Each spoke casually to camouflage the unanswered questions, the potential clashing of wills, the long-forgotten hurt.

Riker, nearing the entrance to Janice’s assigned quarters, suddenly grinned. “Are you still as crazy about strawberries and chocolate mixed with Venduvian sauce?”

Janice couldn’t help a smirk, a lovely blend of embarrassed delight. “I’m afraid so.”

“Well, I’ll have to fix you some. Maybe tomorrow?”

“You’re going to fix me some?”

“Sure.”

“And will this be fit for consumption?”

“Of course. I’ve had plenty of time since . . . well, I’ve perfected my culinary arts, let us say. We even have a few real strawberries stashed away in the galley, nothing synthetic.”

Turning a corner he slowed, nodded toward a door. “Ah, here are your quarters. Spartan but efficient.”

He struggled not to say more, depositing her bag by the door, not opening it or helping her in. The situation was awkward enough as it was. She touched the side panel and the door slid open. Hoisting her bag, she stood silent for a moment, obviously nervous, a reaction he could detect by the way she brushed back an errant lock of hair from her brow.

He stared into the face of Janice, finding it nearly unchanged after nine years. The same wayward curls, the same fiercely independent chin, the same eyes, though slightly more resilient now than they had been. He hesitated on a thought, unsure of the timing. Just leave it be, Riker, he told himself, and yet questioned anyway.

“After all these years, Janice, I still wonder at times.”

She blinked, eyes dropping for a moment, cheeks flushing. Yes, he could see it: the thought had haunted her as well. It had not just been a summer romance; it might have been far more, and it still troubled her.

“Wondering doesn’t change the past, Will,” she said softly. “We both have to live with the consequences of our choices.”

“Yes, of course,” he replied stiffly, vowing now not to let his feelings show. “After all, you are a historian, you know those things.”

She looked up at him, features set. Riker cursed himself. It was going so well, he thought. Why did I have to open my big mouth and take a dig at her? “Janice, I’m sorry I said that, can’t we just . . .”

With a calmness that appeared strangely out of place amid the tension of the earlier conversation, she interrupted him. “Just remember, Will, you never asked me to stay.”

With that, she disappeared into her room.

 

Harna Karish settled down in the chair, noting that it had been designed with room for his prehensile tail. Yet another sign of the lengths those of the Federation would go to in order to make him comfortable. Again, a sign of their willingness to accommodate, and a sign of their weakness.

The one who was the second, Riker, his pronunciation was atrocious, the attempt of a fumbling underling to appease one of greater stature. Yet he was considered almost as powerful as the commander of this ship. One could see the interplay between the two; there was no abject lowering of Riker’s head to acknowledge Picard’s superior position. Odd . . .

He stood up and went to the computer-input board for the ship. His inquiry in Tarn gave no response, so he was forced to access through Federation Standard, a loathsome tongue that he had studied for years in preparation for this assignment. He began to scan through the logs, the information about the ship, randomly searching back and forth.

Surprisingly, the information was open: design systems, maps, histories. Eventually, it could be subtly altered, filtered to appear real but actually laden with misinformation. But first he would have to download the data; it might prove useful.

Out of curiosity he accessed the computer’s information on the Tarn. Their version, at least, was extensive: first contact, the undeclared war, the settlement and establishment of a neutral zone for both . . . interesting that they left such information available. It was one-sided to be certain, yet readily accessible if he so desired. Why was that? Was this all a façade, the computer controlled and programmed so that he alone would think they were being open, and thus he would report favorably? Or perhaps it was a part of their elaborate preparation to convince the Karuuki, the First Circle, that the intentions of the Federation in seeking a permanent treaty were honest.

Harna smirked without pleasure. The Karuuki circle would soon fall from power, and when his own circle, also of the royal line, the Kala, took control, then the Federation would see once again the power that the Tarn could extend, for was it not their destiny to rule? There were other races who bore no love for the Federation yet still sought alliances. The Kala would be more than happy to make similar alliances, playing one against the other, weakening each so that their own rightful destiny to expand could be fulfilled. The question was, how did he expand his own position in the meantime?

 

“Captain to the bridge.”

Picard stirred, drawn from a peaceful dream. Quickly focusing his attention, he stood up, trying to stifle a yawn.

“On my way.”

He pulled on his uniform and shoes.

Stepping out of his quarters, he advanced into the upper area of the bridge. Data, in command of the watch, approached the captain as he entered.

“Sir, sorry to disturb you, but I think you had better look at this.”

“What is it, Data?”

“We were passing within point zero three parsecs of the Torgu-Va system and did a standard sweep of the area.”

It took Picard a moment to orient himself. They were into their second day of passage through the Tarn Neutral Zone, the first Federation ship in this position in over two hundred years. With the initial protocol reached between the Federation and the Tarn, the No-Entry Zone was now open to both sides, and Starfleet wanted one of their best ships in there as a show of force. Standard scans of any nearby systems were part of normal procedure, but in this case the scans were essential. After all, this was all unexplored territory.

He looked at the plot board. Only a single planet showed on the screen, the data scrolling by indicating that it was nothing more than a scorched rock. No sentient life-forms.

Data pointed to a small blip orbiting Torgu-Va’s sun, almost directly opposite the position of the planet.

“What is that?”

“It appears to be wreckage, sir, a derelict ship.”

Picard looked crossly at Data. There were thousands of wrecks in space, the flotsam and jetsam of hundreds of years of exploration, colonization, and wars. Why had he been awakened for this trivia?

“I believe there is something significant about this wreck,” Data said as he pointed at a high-gain magnification of the scan.

Picard leaned over to look at the screen, his curiosity suddenly aroused.

“Order helm to bring us about. I want a closer look at this.”

Picard stepped back from the screen and watched as the starfield display on the forward scan shifted. The pinpoint of light that was the harsh blue-white sun of Torgu-Va appeared in the lower corner. It’d take them an hour off course, but still . . .

The minutes passed slowly, the way they always seemed to idle by monotonously when one was standing watch at three in the morning. This was probably just a phantom, a bit of minor wreckage. Still, there was something about the configuration. He was tempted to call for their new historian, but decided against it. Let the woman sleep. She had been aboard now for four days and he wondered about the wisdom of the transfer, the personal tension that was so evident between her and Riker. An assignment that Picard first thought would please his Number One was in fact distracting and troubling him, and the captain wasn’t pleased with that effect.

Funny that he even remembered Will mentioning her. It must have been more than a year or so back, when he had called his first officer’s attention to one of Eardman’s articles in the journal Starfleet Historical Review. Riker had looked uncomfortable at the mention of her name, and said little more than that they knew each other at the Academy. When her name had come up for field assignment, Picard had been delighted on a personal level; history had always been one of his passions. He had expected a similar reaction from Riker, judging from how well Riker got along with Counselor Troi. He wondered now if he should have steered Dr. Eardman to another ship.

An updated scan appeared on part of the screen and Picard looked over at Data. This was starting to get interesting. At the very least, it was a break from their usual routine.

Here could be found dragons and unknown lands, Picard thought with a smile. It was good to have an anomaly presented, even if it was 3:25 in the morning.

The wreckage was dead ahead, the range closing down to the tens of millions of kilometers, the sun of Torgu-Va off their port side, the undistinguished planet, typical of the vast majority of uninhabitable worlds, nearly eclipsed on the far side several hundred million kilometers away.

“Bring us to impulse power, Mr. Data.”

“Shifting to impulse, sir. . . . Captain, we are closing in on the core of the wreckage. I think you had better look at this.”

Picard left his chair and walked over to Data’s display panel at the back of the bridge.

“We have two distinct wrecks here, three point nine thousand kilometers apart. We have scattered wreckage spread across several tens of millions of kilometers.”

“Focus in on that central mass,” Picard said quietly.

Data pushed the magnification up to maximum. Computer analysis took over, a flood of information coming back, and then there was a flash on the screen as a computerized outline was superimposed over the wreck.

Startled, Picard looked over at Data.

“It can’t be,” Picard whispered.

“Sir. I think it is. The hull configuration matches with the computer outline.”

“The other wreck?”

Data manipulated the computer screen’s information again.

“Far less distinct, sir, heavily damaged. Our information on Tarn ships is sketchy, but it looks like the Tarn ship Rashasa, reported lost two hundred and four years ago.”

“Shift us back to the other one.”

Picard stared intently at the image, which was now coming into sharp detail as they closed to less than a hundred kilometers and slowed to a stop. The entire aft section was blown off, the warp nacelles were gone, the main deck area was flame-scorched, and the ship was hulled in several places . . . it was the ghost of a distant past.

“Data, have Commander Karish report here to the bridge. Then wake Riker and Eardman to serve on the away team. Brief them and go along. I think they’re going to find this interesting.”

 

“Transporter room.” Janice gave the command within the turbolift and waited impatiently as the machine slipped into action. She caught a wayward curl that inevitably strayed from its pin and shoved it absently behind her right ear. The wake-up call had pulled her from a deep sleep with an order to report to the transporter room within thirty minutes with her historical recording gear. There had only been time for a quick sonic shower, leaving her feeling rushed and slightly disheveled. The rush of shipboard life was unsettling, but then again, the order for her to report had stated that it was a high-priority mission and that she was to don an environmental suit, which would be found in her closet. When she had inquired about details, Captain Picard had merely replied that she would be briefed before transport. She had sensed a note of excitement in his voice, as if there was a pleasant surprise in store.

The turbolift came to a smooth stop at the transporter-room deck. Janice took a long draught of air in an attempt to settle her stomach before entering the room. She slowed at the sight of Will, who was deep in conversation with Data. He had canceled their date for strawberries, claiming ship’s duties came first, and had pointedly avoided contact with her since. She caught his gaze following her as she came in, and she made a point of greeting him with a polite nod and then immediately breaking eye contact.

He looked up at her and nodded. “We’re in luck. The scan indicates that there’s airtight integrity on the main bridge of the wreck. We won’t need suits but we’ll keep them on just in case. You can keep your helmet visor up, but if there is a decompression you’ll need to lock it in place.”

“Yes, Commander.”

He approached her, casually checking the helmet clips and air supply.

“Fine.” He stepped away, turning his back to her.

“Data, are you prepared?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, with the doctor here, we will be ready to leave soon. Doctor?”

“Yes, sir.” Janice assumed that, amid company, it would be wise to address Will as the superior officer that he was.

“Data is already informed of our mission so I will fill you in briefly. It seems we have come upon the wreckage of the U.S.S. Verdun and a Tarn ship which apparently fought them, the Rashasa.”

“Captain Murat’s Verdun?” Janet asked incredulously.

“His is the only one I know of.”

“But the Verdun was reported missing and as sumed lost with all hands. . . .” Her words trailed off into stunned silence.

“Janice? Are you all right?”

“The Verdun?”

“That’s what we’ve found. Why?”

“My God, Will. It was reported lost two hundred years ago.”

“Actually, it was two hundred and four years ago, according to our historical records,” Data supplied generously.

Her heart was pounding as she struggled to maintain an outward display of professionalism. The Verdun! Not a single ship of that design had survived. All were either destroyed, reported lost, or scrapped.

“But it was reported lost . . . destroyed,” she finally whispered, realizing that everyone in the transporter room was looking at her after her exclamation of disbelief.

“It was not destroyed, entirely,” Data replied. “Many of the lower decks remain . . . as well as the main bridge.”

Janice’s eyes widened. The main bridge. That would mean records, data storehouses, access to personal logs. The historical significance of such a find would be phenomenal.

For a second her eyes met Will’s and she could see that he was genuinely pleased for her sake, that he understood just how excited she would be and was happy about her pleasure.

“It’s ours, or should I say yours for the exploring,” he said with a smile. “You’re the historian. We’ll take our cues from you once aboard.”

“Ready for transporting, sir,” the ensign at the console offered.

“Are we ready?”

Data replied in the affirmative; Janice could muster only a nod.

Will brushed his insignia slightly. “Captain, the away team awaits your orders.”

“Very well, Number One. Beam aboard.”

Will looked over at Eddies.

“You’re certain the diagnostic checked out all right, Eddies? I’d hate to find myself floating outside that ship rather than inside.”

“It’s running fine sir,” Eddies replied nervously.

Riker gave the final command. “Whenever you’re ready, then, Ensign.”

Transporting was still something she found slightly unsettling. The flash of light, the momentary sense of disorientation, and the instant shift from one reality to another as if one simply blinked one’s eyes and the entire world changed. She had been looking at Eddies as he activated the beam and now, in a flash, two hundred years had been transcended.

A dimly lit bridge was the first thing she noticed, followed by a sense of surprise that somehow a power system was still operating. Artificial gravity was still active but weak, maybe one-half Earth standard. And the air: stale, reminding her, of all things, of opening a refrigerator at her family’s summer home after it had sat empty for months. A flood of sensations started to wash over her . . . the swirl of dust motes in the light, a flicker from a display panel, the tomblike silence . . . and she wanted to seize and embrace each detail, knowing that somehow she was walking into the past, that this moment must be remembered and held as if it were a precious gift.

The historian’s job was to rummage through the dusty pages of the past, to uncover, to explore ancient truth. Janice had always found the investigative aspect of her job to be fulfilling. Yet even that had its moments of clinical detachment. Computer records, after hours of poring over information, became tedious; logs could only be deciphered after weeks of breaking codes; even personal memoirs could become odious, detailing dietary supplements and exercise schedules far more often than poignant details of an individual’s life. But to walk the corridors of the ship that housed so many lives was exhilarating. She was reminded of her student years, when she spent hours at a time wandering the open rooms of ruined abbeys or crumbling shrines. She found a sweet thrill in occupying the same space as someone hundreds of years before her, attempting to capture the intensely personal air of physically placing herself in the haunts and hideaways that other people thrived in. Records were vital, of course, imperative for documentation; but they couldn’t give one the same sensation as watching fuzzy light streak through the window of an ancient turret, or the ache of cold concrete against bare toes. In a field of data accumulation and accuracy, Janice reveled in moments in which she felt she could share nearly the same breath as those she studied.

So now, standing on board the bridge of Captain Lucian Murat, Janice trembled with the responsibility she bore. No one had stood where she stood for nearly two centuries.

“Lieutenant Eardman?”

“Hmm?” Shaken out of her reverie, she realized that Will and Data had been standing patiently, waiting for her directions. Will was grinning.

“Your orders, Lieutenant?”

The professional finally snapped back into place.

“Nothing’s to be touched,” she said softly, “nothing. I want to keep this site in situ. Hold on just for a moment.”

She pulled out her recorder unit and held it up. The system recorded details of the bridge along with data analysis. She saw that Data was doing the same thing. Good, a backup was always nice to have.

She tentatively stepped forward and started to circle around the bridge while motioning for her two companions to remain stationary. She paused for a moment and looked down. Skeletal remains, still clothed in the uniforms of two hundred years ago, were scattered in clumps. She steeled herself, thinking that it was no different than opening an ancient tomb, that one could be detached, that the skeleton was merely an object of curiosity, but this was different somehow. The remains of what had once been a woman were draped over a flame-scorched position. It was the ship’s navigator’s post. Her uniform was burned, her blond hair curled and scorched from the fire, her skeletal arms and legs curled up in the position the dying assume when burned alive.

Tears came to her eyes. It was obvious that the dead on this bridge had died in agony. Though the air was now breathable, her imagination took hold. She could almost feel the flames, hear the screams and gasps for breath as the room was flooded with smoke and poisonous fumes. With a trembling hand she pointed her scanner at the body and then at what was left of the navigator’s position, then moved on.

Her eyes took in everything. The flame-blackened overhead paneling was blown out, revealing the upper bridge section . . . most likely the concussion from a blow to the hull had reverberated throughout the ship, cracking the supports. She pointed up.

“I don’t know if that’s stable or not. Data, could you scan it?”

“Support beams are eighty-five percent destroyed, but it is safe to walk under, Lieutenant.”

She continued her circuit, amazed at just how small and cramped the bridge was compared to the Enterprise’s. And yet, there were positions for nearly three times as many personnel, who had occupied their posts sitting almost shoulder to shoulder. Every cubic meter on the old ships had to be purely functional.

She finished her walk around and then nodded to her companions.

“Fine. I think I got a good scan. Data, see what you can do with downloading the computer files. If memory serves me right these ships ran on a Gotherin Eight computer system.”

“Gotherin Eight-B,” Data replied.

She felt a bit of professional jealously as she looked over at Data. Of course he would have perfect recall on the information, but still . . .

“Will, could you run a scan on the other decks, but don’t set foot off the bridge yet. This is an incredible find, but I want to go slow with it. Disturb as little as possible.”

“Aye, aye, Lieutenant.”

She finally approached the center of the room . . . the captain’s chair.

She stood silent before it, filled with an almost reverent sense of awe. It was here that Captain Murat had once sat. It was here that he had so boldly commanded his legendary journeys. She wanted to touch the arms of the captain’s chair, to feel the smooth indentation near the end where he was reputed to have pounded so often in fury. And the series of engineering consoles in the back of the bridge. They had belonged to Commander Pready. He was rumored to have been quite the philanderer, yet he devotedly wrote adoring letters home to his wife and four daughters living on Terga VII. These men had felt what she felt now, had gazed upon the same surroundings. Perhaps their last sight of the bridge was similar to what she now saw. But their attitude had not been the same. Had they envisioned their deaths moments before they occurred? Had beads of perspiration coursed across their foreheads, while their fingers clutched smooth panels in terror? Or had they stood firmly, feet solidly planted on the polished floor beneath her, and defied death to come their way?

So many memories clouding the thin air of the room; so many lives inexorably wound within the fabric, the materials found on board.

“Why don’t you try the chair out for size?”

She turned and saw Will standing beside her.

“This is a historical site, Will,” she gasped, scandalized at the mere thought of what he was suggesting. “I couldn’t possibly.”

He gave her a knowing smile.

He winked at her. “Data and I will never tell.”

She looked back at the chair. It wasn’t professional, it simply wasn’t done. It would be like grabbing hold of a precious document with dripping, muddy hands. And yet . . .

She turned and nervously sat down. She took a deep breath and settled back in the chair. The darkened viewsereen was before her.

“ ‘Bring me a map and let me see, how much is left to conquer all the universe,’ ” she whispered.

“What was that?” Will asked.

“It’s Marlowe, from his play Tamburlaine the Great, though the actual word was ‘world,’ not ‘universe.’ It was one of Murat’s favorite quotes. I can imagine him saying it, as he sat here, right here, as they leapt forward into the unknown. It was here, right here, that he did it all. . . . “Embarrassed, she looked away; the emotion was simply too much. She was ashamed that Will would see that, or for that matter, any emotion, be it professional or personal.

She was startled when he reached out and lightly touched her on the shoulder.

“Enjoy your moment, savor it.”

He stepped back and away. He’s doing it again, she thought. Though history was not his field, he nevertheless understood just how deep the emotional impact of it all truly struck the core of her soul. It was one of the reasons that now, after all these years . . . she pushed the thought aside.

“Lieutenant?”

Data interrupted Janice’s thoughts, catapulting her into the present.

“It will take time to gain a solid interface with Verdun’s computers. Apparently, there is a security lock on them. Any attempt to tamper or gain access will cause a core dump of all information.”

“Right, I should have thought of that. It was standard security procedure when one of these ships went to battle stations. If they lost and were boarded, no one could gain access to information.”

“I would like to run a double check on the unlock code before trying it, Lieutenant.”

“Fine, Data, proceed as you see fit.”

“There is something else, Lieutenant. We have received a scan update from the Enterprise. Initial information is showing the remains of two hundred and eighteen bodies on board. That leaves over seven hundred missing.”

“Seven hundred?” Riker asked.

“Yes, sir. Even with decomposition, and the possibility of bodies being lost outside of the wreckage, the number of bodies missing is unusually high. Probability statistics would indicate that, including these factors, some four hundred and seventeen bodies should still remain somewhere on board this surviving section of the ship.”

“So where are they?” asked Riker.

“We have scanned the planet for life-forms, haven’t we?” Janice inquired. She quickly regretted the question. Of course they had.

“We did an initial sweep of the system as we came through. That is when the wreckage was picked up. The first scan of the planet showed a rotational axis inclination of less than two percent, a low magnetic field, high surface radiation as a result, and extreme temperature, reaching nearly eighty degrees Celsius. No human or Tarn lifeforms. The wreckage of the Tarn ship is far more extensive. There is little evidence of physical remains.”

In her preoccupation with the Verdun, Janice had not given much thought to the wreckage of the Tarn ship. She would love to explore what little was left, but that would require diplomatic approval first as, according to Federation rules, a derelict ship, or wreckage, was the property of the race that had owned it, and could not be touched without their permission. In any case, she had quite enough on her hands with the Verdun.

“It is very odd that Captain Murat’s remains are not here,” Data said.

“This command center took a lot of damage,” Janice replied. “He may have moved to the secondary bridge area.”

“Which is missing,” Riker replied. “They either died there or on the way to the shuttlecraft to escape. Unfortunately, that entire bay area was blown apart.”

She looked back at the blank viewscreen, trying to imagine what Murat felt in those last moments. Did he order the shuttlecraft away in the vain hope that somehow they might be found? For his sake, she hoped that he and his comrades had died in the destroyed part of the ship rather than drifting for days or weeks until supplies had at last given out.

She looked back at the curled-up body at the navigator’s post. Though the woman had been dead for two hundred and four years, Janice could not help but mourn. She wondered how old the woman had been. Ship’s records would show. Yet she could almost guess already . . . there was a scorched piece of a pale blue bow in the hair, something someone who was young would wear. A gold band of an engagement ring dangled from the skeletal third finger of her left hand . . . was her fiancé on this ship, or did he mourn her for a lifetime, wondering what had happened to the focus of all his dreams?

She turned away. Murat had sat where she now sat, time had spun out its course across two centuries, and nothing could be changed. She looked over at Will and saw that he was patiently waiting. For a moment all the old barriers were down between them.

“Come on, Janice, let’s explore the rest of this ship.”