June, 2366

"Tonight, you're going to meet my future wife and her kids," Professor Tom announced.

"Well, that was fast," Clare laughed. "Didn't you just meet her a few weeks ago?"

Tom grinned. "Hey, I just couldn't wait to make you a grandmother," he said. "No, wait, that's not right, is it? What would they call you, Clare?"

"Step-grandmother, many generations removed. Or stepmother-in-law, ditto the generations. Although it's strange to think of myself as a mother-in-law. But then I suppose I'm already one, many times over."

"She'll like you," Tom said, "I'm sure of it. I told her I'm counting on you to help me make full professor."

"That's out of my hands," Clare replied, "but one thing I can do is make dinner tonight to welcome them all to the family."

Tom shrugged. "Sure, why not? One non-replicated meal won't hurt them." It was the kind of remark Professor Tom made all too often. Clare was never sure whether the barbs were intentional or not. Today she decided not to dwell on it. After all, she thought, why spoil the good mood? It's not every day you meet your tenth-generation-grandson's future wife.

Tom's guests arrived earlier than expected, so Clare was still in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. As she was removing her apron to come out and greet them, a stylish, dark-haired woman walked into the kitchen and held out her hand. "I'm Giovanna," she said, glancing around the kitchen with a curious, almost wary, look. "You must be Clare."

Clare reached for a towel to wipe off the flour before taking Clare's hand. "Welcome to my kitchen, and sorry for the clutter. I've heard so many nice things about you. I wanted to make you something special for your first visit here."

Giovanna gave a small, tight smile that didn't match the cool expression in her eyes. "How very... kind of you." She surveyed the ingredients spread out over the counter and wrinkled her nose at the chunks of raw stew meat. "But isn't the whole process a bit... messy?"

Sometimes you just know instinctively that you're not going to be friends, Clare thought.

Two young girls crowded into the kitchen behind Giovanna. The first was a youthful version of her mother, brunette and aloof. "This is my daughter, Emilia," Giovanna said, drawing the girl forward. "She's twelve, and she's planning to major in art history when she goes off to college, aren't you, Emmie?" Giovanna favored Emilia with a smile, a real one, this time. "Oh, and that's Lizzie," she added, nodding toward the younger. Lizzie looked to be about nine. She had the same deep blue eyes as her mother and sister, though there wasn't much resemblance otherwise. "Well, it looks like you have a lot of work to do, Clare, so we'll stay out of your way."

Don't offer to help, or anything, Clare thought, but didn't say. I've got it all under control.

"So that was her?" Clare heard Emilia ask as they filed out of the kitchen. "Tom's dead grandmother?"

That night after the guests left, Clare cornered Tom. "So what did I do wrong?" she asked. "Why doesn't Giovanna like me?"

"Well, maybe she's just a little bit jealous. You know, you are rather famous in local circles. And you and I spend a lot of time together on research."

"But that's silly," Clare exclaimed, irritated. "I'm your grandmother, more or less. I'm not exactly a rival for your affections."

"Well, she's not used to your ways. Not to be unkind, Clare, but you take some getting used to, with all that sewing and cooking and busywork. Things would go more smoothly if you'd just learn to rely on the replicators."

Before becoming Tom's housemate, Clare had assumed that replicators were strictly a ship-board convenience. That turned out not to be the case, at least not in Professor Tom's social circle. Clare had once told Deanna, "If it was new and foolish, Donald would pop for it." In this, Tom resembled his ancestor. He had thought Clare's fondness for cooking was quaint at first. It was a pleasant novelty, like making dinner over a campfire. As time passed, he decided she was amusingly stubborn. Eventually, goaded by Giovanna, he concluded that she was annoyingly stuck in her outdated ways.

In spite of that, Clare was happy whenever Giovanna's children were at the house, especially Lizzie. Emilia, poised to begin her teen-aged years, was often too wrapped up in school and social events to care about "ancient history," which meant anything to do with Clare. Lizzie, however, became like a second shadow to Clare whenever she came to visit.

"Do you like living in this century?" Lizzie asked her one day.

"Mostly I do," Clare said. "But I miss my kids."

Lizzie nodded. "Me, too," she said with a sigh. "I miss my dad. Sometimes I even miss my mom. She's always busy with Tom or her job or Emilia."

Lizzie and Clare both agreed that the most interesting item in Professor Tom's home was the curio cabinet that held his collection of offworld trinkets. Among the odd and exotic goblets, figurines, daggers, and game pieces were several small, gracefully shaped vases made of jewel-toned glass. Two or three were edged with gold, and one was incised with a beautiful swirling script. "These are exquisite," Clare remarked. "Hand blown?"

"Yes, from Vulcan," Tom replied. "Gifts from a couple of colleagues. Vulcans have been expert glassmakers since prehistoric times. It comes from having a planet full of sand."

"I wish I could go to Vulcan," Lizzie chimed in. "Or any place. I never get to go anywhere. When I grow up, I'm joining Starfleet. How come you don't join Starfleet, Clare?"

"I belong here on earth," Clare said.

"Besides, Clare's afraid of aliens," Tom added, with a hint of a smirk.

Tom's amusement at her expense was a sore spot with Clare. "I'd like to see how brave you'd be, Tom, if you woke up some day not even knowing aliens existed, and found some huge, hulking Klingon looming over your bed." Aboard the Enterprise, Clare had promptly fainted on her first sight of Lt. Worf. In her defense, that encounter had happened only minutes after she was revived from 370 years of being asleep, or dead, or in suspended animation, or whatever it was Donald had arranged for her. Even so, the memory of it still made her cheeks go red with embarrassment.

Nor was it reassuring that, shortly after her awakening, the Enterprise had come under threat by yet another group of aliens, a belligerent race known as the Romulans. Ralph Offenhouse had seen these Romulans for himself. "Fierce" and "devilish-looking" were the words he'd used to describe them.

Aliens were best left alone, that much was clear. Besides, who needed aliens, when humans were enough of a challenge?