The Starfleet Academy chapel was one of the quiet unsung wonders of Terran architecture. Even today, packed with mourners arrayed around the flag-draped coffin that took pride of place before the altar, it managed to be bright and airy. Neo-gothic arches soared upwards towards the stars interspersed with tall picture windows that filled the sanctuary with light, somehow managing to suggest spiritual freedom without the vulgarity of invoking any particular religion. It was a place where sentient beings from any of a dozen races might pause to examine their souls, because for the Federation's guardians nothing less would serve.
Centuries old hymns had been sung by a dozen races without objection, for they had always been sung since Starfleet's infancy whenever one of their own passed on. A tall, dark-haired human had spoken the main eulogy, then retreated to the front pew to cling unashamedly to his wife. She was also weeping, from her own sorrow and the reflected grief of every being in the hall. Now, the program said, was a time when others who had known the deceased might come forward and speak. Yet no one moved.
Until a tall, handsome man in the uniform of a Starfleet captain stood from a pew in the front row. At first the looks directed his way were merely puzzled, for no one could remember seeing him come in- and a number of people were quite sure they had seen only empty space where his pew now sat as though it had always been there.
Then he turned, and there was a stir through the whole congregation. The dark-haired man's face went almost purple with rage and he made to stand, until his wife squeezed his arm and shook her head. He settled back, unwilling, and turned to restrain the Klingon on his other side with a few muttered words.
The man at the podium let the murmurs die down on their own. He did not silence them with a wave of his hand, as he once would have. Only when the assembled beings had quieted and tacitly given him the floor did he begin to speak.
"I," he said, "have seen the birth and death of galaxies. The passing of entire civilizations, from their first discovery of stone tools to their final, hopeless extinction, seems less than the span of a day to me. The laws of the universe are mine to bend if I so wish, and anything I wish to know about the cosmos takes only a thought to learn. The very idea that a mortal, a human of all things, could teach anything to one such as I? It's not only impossible, it's laughable."
The murmuring started up again, and he held up a hand. It did not silence the congregation, only asked for their patience. And when they gave it, grudgingly, he began again.
"That, at least, is what I would have said, in my arrogance, before I met the man we mourn here today." He shook his head ruefully. "I was so proud of my immortality! The man we're gathered here to remember showed me, through his every word and action, that it is not the length of a life that matters. What matters is how we live it. How strong we can be in our convictions, how much we can strive to expand our horizons and challenge our own ideas- how great, in other words, our souls are. And that, my fellow beings, has nothing to do with the power we possess or the scale we wield it on. For all my vaunted immortality and omnipotence, I couldn't hold a candle to him. As I said another time, a long way from here, I only hope I can be a worthy student."
The speaker looked down for a moment, then back up. "I visited him on the night he died. I told him that I could cure his disease, make his body young again, have him join me in the Continuum to learn and teach for the next billion years. I may," he quirked a slight smile, "have been in some small amount of trouble had I followed through, but I was quite prepared.
"But he said no. He said he had reached the ending of his story, and that to elude death now would rob all the times he'd cheated it in the past of their meaning. I told him he was being stupid, of course." There was a sudden wave of soft laughter at that, one that surprised the speaker almost as much as it surprised his audience. "To be honest, I still think he was. But the only way I could begin to walk the path he showed me was to respect his decision. To show him I meant what I finally told him in his last minutes, that of the two of us he was always the wiser."
The speaker fell silent, and after a moment began to descend from the podium, head bowed. After a moment he stopped and looked up, his eyes swimming.
"I will tell you one thing more. Your people have a saying, that a man is not truly dead as long as his memory lasts. Once I would have called that foolish sentiment. Now I say that by that standard, Jean-Luc Picard shall never die, even to the final picoseconds of the heat death of this universe. For I will never forget him."
The speaker turned and smoothly detached the rank pips from the tabs of his collar, leaving them on the coffin.
"Au revoir, mon capitaine."