Chapter 29

Jean-Luc Picard took a final look around the room – then closed his personal carryall with a decisive snap.

It had been four years since he had last left this room – but this time, it was nothing more than a room; this time, there was not a life of memories, triumphs and tragedies, joys and sorrows that needed to be packed and shipped away.

This time, it was just a room, and an empty one at that. There was nothing left here that he needed to pack, he reminded himself; he had emptied the drawers of clothes and sent them back to the replicator from whence they had come, disposed of his breakfast dishes - even stripped the bed of its linens and sent them through the replicator, leaving the room bare, showing no trace that he – or anyone – had been here.

Habit, he thought; four years of working in the Admiralty had accustomed him to traveling lightly, utilizing the replicators on the various starships and host planets to provide for his basic needs of clothing and personal care – and subsequently reducing all the 'borrowed' items back to their constituent atoms – carrying with him only those things that a replicator could not produce.

Not that there were many 'things' a replicator couldn't produce – but sometimes there was more to an inanimate item than its mere physical existence. He smiled as the thought crossed his mind, hefting the carryall, lifting the strap to his shoulder, feeling the satisfying weight of his own archaeological tools in the bag.

The tools might not be state of the art, he admitted, having found himself more than a little impressed with the variety and excellence of the equipment that Professor Femishar had brought with him – but these tools were his, worn to the shape of his hands by years of use, polished to a fine sheen by decades of sweat and grit – and he would no more consider going on a dig without them than he would consider going on the bridge naked.

He managed a smile at that thought, ruefully remembering his first few months as a ship's captain and the number of times that very nightmare had wakened him from a troubled sleep; he had been so concerned with his image before his new crew, with his need to always appear ready and able to shepherd his ship through any and every situation, regardless of hour of the day or night that he had found himself sleeping in his duty uniform, lest anyone catch him unprepared – and found those dreams tainted by the fear of the exact opposite – of being called to the bridge, hurrying to his duty post – only to find himself stark naked when he arrived.

After a few months, the need to impress his crew had eased as he become more comfortable with his post – and with himself – and the nightmares had faded – though he still took pains, even now, not to appear at any assignment in anything less than regulation uniform.

Which is probably why I feel so damned uncomfortable, he thought to himself; I'm out of uniform. He glanced down at himself, used to the form fitting black trousers and grey tunic of his usual uniform – and finding instead a pair of legs clad in khaki shorts, thick white socks and heavy boots, and a torso covered by a tan, utilitarian work shirt.

Of course, it was a uniform – of a sort; this was what he had worn on a half a dozen digs in the past, and what he would be wearing for the next six weeks – then grinned. Femishar had objected – strenuously – to his attire, trying to demand instead that the Starfleet admiral follow the clothing guidelines of the Kvesterians.

There had been no logical or sensible reason for the demand, of course; it had simply been another of Femishar's cultural imperatives, another attempt to demonstrate his political and societal position by trying to browbeat Picard into submission.

In theory, Picard could have dismissed the demand without comment – but to do so would have damaged Professor Femishar's position in front of his team; instead the two had debated the point for hours, until Femishar grandly conceded the issue, loudly pointing out the frailties of the human body, and their need for such inappropriate attire at the dig site.

Picard had sighed tiredly at the declaration, silently considering asking Worf to amend Femishar's own manifest to include only clothing that matched his own – then dismissed the idea. He had won this battle, he knew; to rub Femishar's face in it would only be to damage their working relationship further. It was going to be hard enough working for the man even for the brief time they were scheduled to do so; there was no reason to make the situation intolerable.

Still, he had reminded Worf to double check his personal manifest before he transported the containers to the planet's surface early this morning; it wasn't beyond Femishar to alter the contents of a fellow explorer's gear – and Picard would not have been entirely surprised to have found his clothing – and his tools – and perhaps even his food stuffs - changed to meet Femishar's personal preferences.

Not that _that_ would have been so dreadful, Picard thought; the numerous dinners he had had with Femishar – and on Kvesteria itself – had shown the cuisine to be excellent – even if the flavors had been unfamiliar on the tongue. So when the professor of archaeology had declared that only Kvesterian food would be tolerated at the main dig site, Picard had protested only enough to satisfy form, then conceded the point.

Nonetheless, there was a limit to how many weeks of exotic fare he was prepared to face; for the balance of his time on Samarrassia IV, the cuisine would be far more prosaic: ration bars for the trek itself, basic self-heating meals transported in advance to the second site – along with all the other gear they would need when they arrived.

Well, almost all the gear, he amended, mentally reviewing the route that he had mapped out for the two humans to take, silently double checking the list of essentials they would have to carry.

Double check the tent; make sure Worf had it replaced with one large enough for two people, he reminded himself as he left the room, his thoughts fading from those of nostalgia about his former residence and days past, focusing on the details of the trip ahead; don't forget the second harness... Are there enough padds to record the data at both sites...

Lost in silent contemplation of the final details, he automatically made his way to the transporter room, stepped into the room – and stopped as a wall of sound and action assaulted him.

Worf and Femishar were discussing – loudly – some issue while Andile, Alyssa, and S'bey stood in one corner of the room, urgently talking over another matter – the children, he decided – B-4 standing silently behind her, while Geordi and Data looked some readout at the transporter control.

Ah, Data, he sighed to himself, knowing there was no reason for the android to be in the room: he was no longer in Starfleet, no longer the technical expert in transporter systems that he had been before his death – though with his positronic net he could have easily learned every change and improvement to the transporter systems since his reawakening, Picard conceded - but nothing in this prosaic transport would require any level of that expertise, he knew equally well.

No, the android had only one reason for being here this morning – to see Andile off.

He still loves her, Picard thought; whether the being who stood at the console was, indeed, the Data they once knew, or whether he was but a recreation of that person, there was no question in Picard's mind that he – whoever, whatever he was - loved Andile.

But looking at her, seeing her look at everyone around her – except the man who loved her, blatantly ignoring his attention, Picard knew her heart had moved on.

Or, more likely, he added, ceased to move at all. Too many hurts, too many years of loneliness and grief... He shook his head, knowing there were limits to the number of abuses any heart could take.

Beverly had reached hers, he knew... and I have reached mine.

I'm sorry, he told her silently; I should have done more, sooner – but I always put it off, thinking there would be a time, a place for us... You were the only one I ever truly loved – the grand passion of my life, my soul mate, the one person who always made my heart race, made my soul sing ... and I frittered it away.

And now... Now, I don't want to be bothered with love or passion; anything, anyone else would be something less. It wouldn't be fair to them... or to me.

Understanding, commiserating fully with the diminutive woman who was arguing on the other side of the room, he started to move toward her – but a voice reached out to stop him.

"Admiral Picard, this is completely unacceptable!"

Turning to address the speaker, Picard saw the small man hurrying away from where he had been confronting Worf – probably harassing him over the same issue he was about to spout to Picard – and racing toward him, his face suffused with frustration and anger. Behind him, his troupe stood silently, though whether their silence was meant in support of their leader or in embarrassment of his actions, Picard didn't know.

For a moment, Picard was tempted to chuckle at the troupe: dressed in utilitarian shorts with multiple pockets, close cut sleeveless shirts covered by thin, long-sleeved overshirts, heavy socks and work boots, they were dressed almost exactly as he was. So much for Femishar's protestations about the inappropriateness of his attire, he mused, wondering if this had been their intended apparel all along – or if Femishar had opted to follow his lead after their debate.

It was, however, a question that would remain unanswered; Picard had no intention of opening that sore subject again – but even so, he had to wonder as he looked at the students behind Femishar.

Whatever the cause, the younger Kvesterians were clearly uncomfortable at something – though whether it was Femishar's behavior or the tense atmosphere in the room, he didn't know. Whichever it was, however, their discomfiture was not an auspicious sign for the beginning of what was unquestionably going to be a turbulent and tempestuous dig.

At least we only have to deal with him for a week, Picard thought, glancing at Andile – but seeing her equally unpleasant expression, added, but it would be a very, very long week.

Turning to the academician, he replied, as evenly as he could, "What is unacceptable, Professor?"

"This!" Femishar hissed angrily, his hands waiving at the chaos that filled the small room. "All of this! This chaos! This disorganization! Can't Starfleet handle a simple expedition?"

"Professor, this _expedition_ is anything but simple," he countered, trying not to sound too patronizing. "Starfleet and the Federation Archaeological Council want this dig to go as smoothly as possible – not just because of the potential impact of the findings, but also as prelude to future collaborations between our peoples," he added graciously.

Collaborations in which, God willing, I will not be a part, he added silently.

"With so many last minute changes, however, I'm sure that Cmdr. Worf and his people are simply doing what must be done to ensure that nothing is left behind," he continued smoothly.

"Last minute changes which were of your doing!" Femishar sneered. "Insisting on bringing a guest – an untrained guest! – on _my_ dig..."

From the corner of his eye, Picard could see Andile's eyes rise to look at the speaker – and even from across the room, he could see the anger in them.

_Dee_, he began silently – but as quickly as she had raised her eyes, she lowered them again, her attention firmly focused on Alyssa Ogawa.

"Professor," Picard interrupted, "as I previously informed you, the commander is a fully qualified archaeologist – and you had already agreed to my request to being a guest – one who was _not_ a qualified archaeologist at that," he reminded the man sternly.

"I did not agree," Femishar countered. "That was a decision forced upon me by Starfleet..."

"On the contrary," a new voice interrupted. "Starfleet did not force you to accept either Admiral Picard or his guest – either of them. We were pleased to be able to render some assistance to you in transporting your group and supplies to the dig site – and, if I remember correctly, you graciously indicated that you would be more than happy to return that favor by allowing the admiral and a guest to accompany you."

Amused by the smooth rebuttal to Femishar's protests, Picard turned to face his former first officer and his wife – and greeted them both with a smile.

"Captain," he said in quiet greeting. "Counselor," he added.

"Good morning, Admiral," Deanna said smiling brightly at him in return.

"Good morning, Admiral," Will echoed – then turned to Femishar once more. "Professor," he added, bowing his head slightly to the man. "If I might have a word with you, sir?" he said – the led the smaller man toward a corner of the room, and began to speak in a low voice.

Picard watched for a moment, saw open his mouth to begin an objection – then slowly closed it as Will continued to speak.

Whatever the man was saying, it was having an effect, Picard thought, wondering whether Will was cajoling, bribing, or outright threatening the man – in order to get the man to behave himself.

Problem some of each, Picard decided after a moment; a good captain finds his own path to success – hopefully without stepping on too many toes in the process.

Whatever the technique, it must have worked, for a moment later Femishar left Will's side, strode to his group, then looked to Worf. "If your transporters are ready, we would like to beam down now," he said, then gestured his group to the platform without waiting for Worf's permission – then glared at Picard.

"You and your... guest... will, of course, transport separately from us," he informed the human. "We do not approve of transporting simultaneously with people of other races; the idea of intermixing of our essences with that of yours is quite repellent to us," he informed the admiral, then snapped imperiously at Worf, "We are ready."

Despite the order, Worf looked to Will before moving – but the captain had apparently had as much of the Kvesterian leader as Femishar had had of the humans around him. He nodded his consent then watched as the team disappeared.

"We're rid of him at last," Will murmured, relieved.

"Indeed," Picard replied. "I was preparing myself for another one of his diatribes about the deficiencies of Starfleet – and his probable insistence on delaying the beam down while we debated whether my guest would be permitted to join us," he said – then looked at Will. "I'm surprised he didn't," he added. "What did you say to him?"

"Only that we've been ordered to rendezvous with a colony freighter, and that he had the option of departing the ship now – with you and Beej – or debating the issue over the next four weeks as we assist in the colonization of a new planet - and eighteen hundred new colonists," he added with a grin.

Picard raised a brow. "Oh? And when did you get _those_ orders?"

"Last week," Will replied. "It was in your briefing when you came on board, sir," he reminded the older man innocently.

"Those orders were to meet with the freighter captain to discuss the logistics for the colonization," Picard countered knowingly. "The transfer of the colonists themselves won't occur for at least eighteen months."

Will grinned. "I didn't say anything to the contrary," he countered. "However, if the Professor misunderstood me..."

Picard smiled. "I doubt he did, Will; he's obnoxious – but he's not stupid. Nonetheless, it gave him a gracious way out, even if only in his own mind," he said.

"Obnoxious – and offensive," Deanna offered. "I'd rather take a week in a Denobian rainforest rather than put up with that for the next six weeks," she said to Picard. "Are you sure we can't talk you into staying aboard instead?" she added. "You'd be more than welcome."

The man shook his head, knowing as well as Deanna that six weeks onboard a starship – a starship in which he was a guest rather than a captain – would be a sorry holiday indeed.

"Thank you, but no. I've been looking forward to this for some time. And it's only a week with the Kvesterians," Picard reminded her. "Then we're off to the second site."

"Which entails a hundred kilometer trek through a jungle, if I remember correctly," she replied. "You do know how to pick fun holidays, sir," she said.

"And to think we went to Pacifica," Will added, remembering their last holiday.

Geordi chuckled, interrupting the three, and Picard turned to look at him. "We've got the readout of your supplies and the drop points, Admiral. Data and I optimized the drop locations so you won't have to carry all your gear the entire way, but it's going to change your route a bit," he added, then stepped back so Picard could review the new itinerary.

"Will, if you'll excuse me," Deanna said to her husband then moved toward Andile, Alyssa, S'bey and B-4, surreptitiously studying her friend and former patient – and deciding her husband was delusional.

Or at least overly enthusiastic, she amended. While Andile had unquestioningly gained some weight since her final days aboard the Enterprise four years before, it didn't appear to be all that much, and while some had gone to her hips and bust, it certainly wasn't enough that she would have deemed the woman 'built', as Will had insisted.

Pleasant, yes; softly rounded, no question – but 'built'?

Then again, the loose fitting shirt and baggy work shorts did little to accentuate what figure she might have had beneath it – and nothing in her drab-colored clothing, shapeless figure or sullen demeanor suggested that this journey was anything more than a forced holiday – and a working holiday at that. Even her jet black hair, usually luxurious in its thick, silken tresses, looked tired and careless as strands escaped the elastic that tried to secure them together.

At least her appearance is going to give Data no reason for jealousy, she thought, relieved; that's one less problem for the two of us to work through in the next few weeks.

"Everything all right here?" she asked the two women as she drew closer.

"Aside from being forced to leave my children with strangers?" Andile replied angrily.

"Beej, we're not strangers," Alyssa protested.

"You are to them!" she answered.

"Kuze'ma,' S'bey chuffed.

"All right, _you're_ not a stranger to them," Andile conceded to the young man.

"What is a stranger?" B-4 asked flatly.

Andile looked at him. There was no trace of curiosity in his voice – but the question had come from some place within him, she knew. Inquisitiveness, she thought, but without the emotional context. Is that how Data had once been, she wondered: driven to know, needing to learn the whys and the wherefores, but without understanding that need for so long.

And then learning the emotion, she added, discovering the joys of learning, of seeking out new knowledge, new information – the thrill of discovering in books, in life, in love, in their bed...

She glanced at the replica of her former lover – and felt a shiver of something unexpected – something she had thought she had long ago stopped feeling - run through her as she met his eyes.

Hastily she turned away, and heard Alyssa say, "A stranger is someone unfamiliar to another person or people; in this case, someone unfamiliar to the children," Alyssa answered.

The android considered. "I am not unfamiliar to the children," he said, his voice neutral, free of any touch of hurt at Andile's comment. "They know my name. I know their names," he continued innocently. "There is Plat'ra, Machile, Armat..."

Despite herself, Andile smiled then touched the man's arm. "You are correct, B-4; you are not a stranger to them."

He gave her a confused look, not understanding the apology – or for that matter, not understanding why she was correcting herself. "But you said we are strangers..."

She squeezed his arm. "I was wrong," she said.

"Wrong?"

She smiled gently, understanding; his was a world of absolutes, of no corrections, because there were no errors. He spoke from his basis of facts, not understanding supposition or guesses, not understanding mistakes or errors.

So simple, she thought; so innocent. Would that I could be that way.

She shook her head. "What I said, B-4, I said because I was angry, and I wanted to hurt everyone," she explained. "I was being mean to all of you."

He considered that as well, not understanding her meaning – but understanding the cause. "You are not being mean," he said. "You do not want to leave them."

"No," she agreed. "But I have to," she told him, her eyes lighting with resentment.

"But you do not want to," he countered, bewildered.

"I know. But sometimes... sometimes, B-4, we have to do what is best for us – or for others. I need to go away for a little time because it is what is best for them. I... They need me to be better, to be stronger for them," she explained.

He considered this for a time, not fully understanding the rationale – but understanding what he knew.

And what he knew was that he loved her. He did not understand that either, but he knew it – as he knew that he must help her in every way he could. "Then I will take care of them for you," B-4 replied at last. "I am not a stranger," he added.

"No, you are not," she agreed. "Thank you," she added softly.

"We need to be going, Dee," Picard interrupted quietly.

Startled, not having seen or heard the man approach, Andile turned to him – then turned to Alyssa one last time. "You'll make sure they're taken care of? And S'bey?" she asked, looking to the young man. "You'll watch over the girls? Make sure they don't have their babies before I get back?" she added desperately.

He smiled, knowing as well as she that, once the time came, there was nothing he could do to stop the births.

"Huji, eh comayo yey," he answered.

She hugged him to her, saying, "I'll try," then looked to B-4. "Take care of them," she said softly. "Take care of my children."

"I will watch the children," he agreed – then looked at Data, who had come to his brother's side, amending, "We will watch the children."

Andile stared at the man for a long moment – then reached out, hugged the man tightly.

Then, to Picard's surprise, she turned and repeated the gesture with Data.

Or almost repeated it, Picard thought, noting the added hint of desperation and need in her contact with the reincarnation of her former lover.

"I don't know who you are," she whispered to him, "but the man I knew, the man I loved... I trusted him. I'm trusting you to take care of my children," she said.

"I will guard them with my life... Ginger," he answered softly.

He wrapped his arms around her, but the hug was gentle and soft, showing none of the urgency and need that filled his heart.

And then she broke from him, broke from them all, grabbed her own carryall and, disdaining Picard's proffered hand, stepped onto the platform.

"Come on," she told him sharply. "If we're going to do this, let's do it - before I change my mind."

He followed, stepping onto the platform slowly, his former enthusiasm colored by Femishar's antics – and by Andile's resentment – then nodded to Will.

"Six weeks," he reminded the man, almost warningly, as though cautioning the man not to be a minute longer.

"Six weeks," Riker agreed, then looked to Worf. "Beam them down," he ordered, then glanced back his friends, neither looking especially as though they were enjoying themselves.

"Have fun!" he added, a glint of mischievous humor in his eyes.

Before either could reply, Worf ran his hands over the control panel, and the dematerialization sequence began.

A moment later, and the two were gone.

Will watched the empty platform for a moment – then turned to the others. "I'm glad that's over," he admitted. "Now all we have to do is get Beej's children to the rendezvous."

"And I need to get them well and healthy before we get there," Alyssa said – but rather than leave the room, she turned to Deanna. "And speaking of well and healthy, I'd like you to stop by Sickbay when you have a moment."

Instantly worried, Will hurried to his wife's side. "What is it? Is something wrong?"

Alyssa raised a hand to still the worried man – and to quiet Deanna's rising concern.

"Not that I know of," she said quietly. "But when you were allowing me to examine you the other day – so that Biji's girls wouldn't be scared of the equipment – I noted that the lining of your uterus is being to thin slightly – which is typical of human-Betazoid pregnancies at this stage," she added hastily at Will's worried expression, "and I want to establish a baseline reading. It'll help me to determine when we're getting close to delivery," she explained.

Relieved, the two parents let out a sigh then turned to each other. "I'll be on the bridge. Let me know if you need anything," he informed her.

"Just you," she answered softly, raised herself up, and placed a kiss on his cheek.

He answered the kiss with a gentle – but awkward – hug, then released her, stepped toward the doors, and left the room.

A moment later, Alyssa, Deanna, S'bey, Data and B-4 followed him out.

As the last one passed through the door, Worf let out a sigh of relief.

Geordi looked at him curiously. "Something wrong, Worf?" he asked.

"_She_ is dangerous," he growled.

"Who? Deanna?" Geordi asked incredulously.

"No. The commander," Worf countered.

"Biji?" Geordi clarified.

The Klingon nodded. "_She_ is trouble."

Geordi chuckled. "Yeah, that's Beej for you," he agreed.

Worf stared at the man. "It is not a matter for joking, Commander. She is a suspected traitor..."

"You know as well as I do that she was framed," Geordi countered instantly. "Biji had nothing to do with what happened on the ship four years ago!"

"Perhaps not – but where she goes, there is always trouble," he insisted. "I am relieved that she is off the ship... but I would rather that she not be with the Admiral. I worry that he will come to harm with her."

Geordi gave a snort of dismissal. "You worry too much. About the worst that can happen to them is a sprained ankle or a cut finger. Worf, they're going to be on a deserted planet, digging up old pottery, with no one else except a bunch of academics. There's nothing that can go wrong."

Worf nodded, knowing the man spoke the truth – but still a faint worry flickered at the back of his mind.

"Nothing can go wrong," he agreed, "and yet..."

"Worf?" Geordi coaxed. "What is it?"

The Klingon looked to his friend and shook his head, declining to answer, knowing there were no words that could explain what he felt: that disaster loomed ahead for them all.

Disaster... and death.