Picard was stargazing in the family vineyard on his second week of retirement when the ease in his step startled him. He tested his leg, first putting a little weight on it, then all of it. One minute later he was jogging through the vines. It was the next day at the insistence of his sister-in-law Marie that he had his hip checked out with a medic. When the scans showed neither signs of injury nor operation—not even the normal wear and tear evident in a man of Picard's age—he had no doubts about what had happened.

But Q didn't stop there.

For the second incident, or intrusion as Picard liked to think of it, Commander Data was visiting. They were dining at a café in Vesoul when the waiter relayed a message from Marie saying they had better come home immediately. Dessert was abandoned, tea left to go cold. Marie met them outside the villa with a communiqué from Starfleet marked classified. Picard keyed in his command code and the insignia vanished. Under other circumstances he would have been amused his code still worked; he would have placed a bet on Starfleet changing it faster. What the PADD revealed drained his humor dry. It was a ship. A ship in Earth's space dock, slender and obsidian against the cloud-swirled oceans. And beneath the image of the ship, a block of text.

"It appeared three hours ago," he read aloud, "in a great flash of light. Other ships currently in dock were shifted aside to make room. The ship is listed in the registrar, Prospero, commissioned this year, today. Ownership under… Under my name."

Picard dropped the PADD onto a settee and smoothed his hand over his head. He could feel the dazed eyes of Marie and the steely, knowing eyes of Commander Data.

"Dammit, Q," he whispered.

"It would appear so," Data said.

"If I wanted a ship, I would have requested one."

"Unlikely, sir. Interstellar ships are rarely commissioned for civilians. Since the advent of the Dominion war, some private ships were even seized—"

"Yes, thank you, Data. I know."

It took them the better part of an hour brief Marie on Q, even with Data's crystalline recollection of the facts. She was understandably alarmed, so they had to convince her that, no, no one was going to disappear to Sherwood Forest, the Borg were not going to attack and they were all perfectly safe here otherwise. Data was wise enough not to mention how many species Q had tormented or how cavalier he was with humanoid life. Q had not visited Picard once in the last fifteen years, outside of the retirement ceremony, and so with some credibility Picard could reassure Marie that the next fifteen would prove just as uneventful.

When that was settled — when Picard was exhausted of hearing, speaking, even thinking the name Q — he retired to his flat separate from the main house. There the reality which confronted him was worse than the one he'd been tired of, so much so that he longed to return to the simplicity of merely describing Q.

What to do now? What should be said to Starfleet, first of all? A ship. He could hardly believe it but there it was, plain as day on the PADD. What in the hell was Q playing at?

Data knew about the incident at the retirement ceremony. Everyone in Starfleet knew. There was surveillance footage, though Q had blotted out the audio. He had blotted out Picard's punch too, disappointingly. And so while Data knew about the visitation from Q, knew that words had passed between Picard and Q culminating in the cancellation of the reception, he did not know the full extent.

How much worse it had gotten after Picard had asked Q to reconsider his offer. It was as if Q had appeared just to reject him. The entire conversation had felt a trap. Once Picard had come home and calmed himself to a few glasses of brandy, he had purposed to forget about Q for good. Close out the remainder of his life in peace.

And then these "gifts." Reminders of the power Picard might have taken advantage of had he played his cards better. Clearly that was Q's intent. To taunt Picard, flaunt what might have been.

A ship. More like a petty reminder of Q's reach.

Picard poured a glass of wine and collapsed into a chair in front of the fire. The glow of the flames soothed him, as did the tapping of Data's fingers on the corner console.

Data had been generous enough to pen the reply to Starfleet, whole paragraphs of well-worded, noncommittal nothing which might delay the need for a decision. Starfleet claimed to want use of their space dock again, but considering a new docking port had appeared and the old docks still serviced the same amount of ships, Picard wasn't sure what they were anxious about. Perhaps they missed the extra space. Perhaps they wanted to order someone around as a way to ease their nerves, a knee-jerk reaction to Q's whims Picard was intimately familiar with.

"It's like before," Picard said toward the fire. "Like the first time we encountered him. He has me under a microscope, wants to see me jump through hoops like some dancing toy. And what if he never tires of it? What so-called gift will I be given next? He healed a fracture in my hip against my express wishes, were you aware of that?"

Data replied that he was not.

"I suppose I hadn't told you yet. I told Marie, but I didn't tell her how. Now she's putting two-and-two together."

Data keyed off the console and seated himself in the opposite armchair, fingers woven together, expectant. He had not much changed since the Enterprise. He was wearing the informal Starfleet reds and three full pips instead of two and a half. Grey streaked along the right side of his hair just as Picard remembered from the future, or should he call it the present now? Back when Q had sent him spinning through time, "saving humanity."

"I should be angry," Picard said. "On the Enterprise I was angry. Now that it's only me..."

Picard's eyes focused on the flames. He continued, "What universe is there free of Q? I choose that one. Meeting him has been the single most unfortunate event of my life."

"Were it not for you, sir, Q might have committed xenocide," Data offered.

"If he was telling the truth about that."

"Q has exhibited questionable moral judgment on many an occasion, but I have no record of him ever directly speaking a lie."

"It would be impossible to catch him in one."

"Would not the burden of proof lie with us?"

"Commander, whose side are you on?"

"The side of the facts. And yet I apologize if I appear unsympathetic."

"No. No, your candor is appreciated. But if you could be a little less candid in Q's defense?" Picard smiled, hoping Data recognized the joke. Data gave no indication besides one quick nod, which could really go either way.

"I have one confusion, sir," Data said.

"What is it?"

"If you are upset your hip was healed, you may simply fracture it again. I would not suggest this, but there are doctors on Qo'noS who may prescribe it as a matter of honor."

"It isn't 'sir' anymore, Data. It's Jean-Luc."

"I do not mean it as a statement of rank."

Picard sighed. He didn't feel up to arguing. Nor did he feel up to explaining why a mended hip bothered him so. Too much of it was entangled in the past, too much about Q. He set the wine aside.

"I should probably get some sleep."

"Did you send the message?" Picard asked Data the next morning.

"I did not, sir. I was waiting on your clearance."

"Good. Wonderful. I appreciate you writing the reply, but I don't think we need it anymore. You may inform Starfleet I don't want the ship. I don't care what they do with it."

"It is registered under your name."

"And they can treat it as any other civilian ship which docks without permission."

"I do not think there is a precedent."

"I'm sure they'll figure something out. I accept the gift of my mobility because apart from some lunacy I can't help but accept it. But this ship, I will have nothing to do with. I will not dance for his leisure."

For a moment Data's eyes remained intent on Picard, thinking. Or was processing the correct word? Any other friend might have peppered Picard with questions, drowned him with concern instead of allowing him the space to think. Picard was grateful for Data's restraint.

Later, he felt a sink of guilt. They had planned this morning to see a presentation on a promising vaccine made from Juniper berries. It was more Data's field of interest than Picard's, but since Picard missed even the aura of scientific discussion he had readily agreed to accompany him. They were walking to breakfast, gravel crunching underfoot, when Picard halted.

"Good lord, it completely slipped my mind. I'm sorry, Data."

"Sir?"

"We were supposed to leave for Greenland. And I overslept."

Data showed no surprise. On the contrary, he seemed prepared with an answer. "I am not sorry. The concerns of a friend are as imperative as my own. You were obviously lacking the focus needed to attend. I have always found it more efficient to deal with the reality one is given rather than the reality one had planned for."

Another moment of clarity, compliments of Mr. Data. So many of those on the Enterprise. Picard smiled sadly. "I've missed your cool perspective. It's an attitude I could stand to adopt."

Starfleet didn't like Picard's answer. One might think they would be glad of the acquisition of a new, fully-functional and probably state-of-the-art ship, Picard grumbled to himself, and as if they had heard him thinking this from afar they sent down the ship's full specifications, or as much as could be determined.

The ship was simply impenetrable. Scans couldn't breach it, lasers couldn't bore into it, and neither could one of their officers so much as walk through the front door. It was secured with what looked to be, as far as they could tell, a DNA-encrypted lock. They had tried using a sample of Picard's DNA—he didn't ask what lengths they had gone to to get that—but to no avail. Their engineers concluded the DNA needed to be standing there, alive, in the flesh, and requested that Picard get himself to the space dock immediately.

Picard sent back a one-word answer. No. He might have added something about how they shouldn't be so sure it was his DNA they needed, but since he agreed they were probably correct about that, he didn't bother. He knew they wouldn't force him. The mere fact that Q had instigated this along with the worrisome notion that he might still be hovering around was enough to wither their annoyance into polite, pithy observances.

The ship might be dangerous, they said. He told them they should move it then. But they couldn't move it for the same reason they couldn't scan it or breach it; it was not responding to any of their technology and short of physically pushing it they didn't know what else to try. Then leave it there, Picard replied. Didn't they have the same amount of docks as before? Yes, but it was a security matter now and in fact they had been operating for the past few days with the entire wing shut down, diagnostics being run on everything. Every port had been shifted aside to accommodate the new one. If anything so much as a self-sealing stem bolt was out of place they could lose most of the dock.

Picard felt an eye roll coming on. He managed to send back a now four-word reply.

I don't want it.

Eventually he signed the ship's registration over to Data. It could stay in the dock; he didn't care if Starfleet destroyed it. Knowing their opinion of Q, he guessed they eventually would. In the meantime he trusted Data would be as resourceful as he was discreet. As a Starfleet officer, Data brought the matter wholly in Starfleet's jurisdiction, leaving Picard to enjoy the remainder of his retirement in peace.

Picard was burdened only with two things. First, that he owed Commander Data a rather large favor for taking the ship under his wing. Second, the knowledge that Q was still out there, ready to torment him.

A month passed, and nothing. His paranoia about Q meddling in his life waxed and waned. He wasn't proud of it. Anytime something remotely coincidental happened, it was the first place his mind went.

Two months passed. Still nothing. He grew less paranoid.

One night he dreamed Q had reinstated him as captain of the Enterprise. After snapping Picard into his uniform, the entity created a mission tailor-fit for him, something related to both archeology and diplomacy. Picard tried to resist, but the whole of Starfleet was begging him to accept. Everyone from the old Enterprise was there, even Pulaski and Crusher, who had never served at the same time. The true oddity was none of the crew seemed to remember or perceive Q, not even when a fourth seat was added to the bridge on Picard's right hand, and Q ambled from the turbolift and slumped there. On Q's collar were three pips now, not four…

Picard awoke with a start. He made a cup of Earl Gray and tried to forget the dream. It had been three months since the infernal Prospero, three months and not one interference from Q so blatant as those first two. He'd had his suspicions, but they remained just that: suspicions. It was as if his subconscious had been speaking to him through the dream, saying, This. This is what an act of Q looks like, since you're forgetting. It isn't paranoia. It's tangible.

Picard had been certain Q would continue to torment him. He did not like being wrong, but it was becoming more and more blatant that he was. Even Data had stopped contacting him to ask with meaning-laced subtext if everything was well.

Picard had been forming a second hypothesis in light of his first one standing still, that the ship and the healing of his hip might have been meant as apologies. There was a poetry to them, since they addressed two of the weaknesses Q had particularly mocked him for: his foolishness since leaving the Enterprise (the Prospero) and his age (the hip). Perhaps Q wasn't continuing to point out Picard's impotence but was, instead, trying to move forward?

Picard liked this hypothesis the least. He rarely reflected on it. No, it was better to think there was something more.

Picard had never planned on acknowledging the ship, but after four months of questioning he wanted answers. He asked Data where he might be able to find it, if he might be able to find it. The commander replied they had still been unable to move the Prospero from port.

Picard beamed up to the dock. No reception was waiting for him when the transporter room materialized around him. Only Data was standing there, holding a glass of champagne which he offered to Picard.

"It's your ship, Commander," Picard replied, "you should be breaking this across the hull, not drinking it. Not me drinking it. Where's your glass?"

"I thought it imprudent to damage the carpet. And as I do not drink myself…"

Data led the way toward Prospero's port. "It is docking port 91. Previously the ports stopped at 90."

Picard sipped the champagne. "What's the gossip about me, Commander?"

"The consensus is you are a stubborn old man," Data replied. "The consensus is also since you have an omnipotent entity at your disposal, it is wiser to let you remain as such."

"Hardly at my disposal. Though they wouldn't believe it if I told them. So that's why they've left the ship here, hm?"

"I believe there were multiple factors in the decision."

They passed several of Picard's old colleagues, exchanging niceties with them before continuing on. Each of them was fidgety or brief, and Picard knew the reason for his coming here was as obvious as an alert light flashing over his head. Q, Q, Q. Four months on, and they were still tiptoeing around him. Would he ever escape it?

Docking port 91 was as much an advertisement for Q as Picard probably was. Sleek, low-lighted, organic… essentially nothing like the standardized ports around it. Only a month had passed since Starfleet had reopened the wing—so said Data. Except for the occasional cadet wafting past they were alone.

A green square glowed to the right of the hatch.

"I suppose this is it," Picard said, but before he pressed his hand to the panel he added, "You said there were multiple factors in this decision. Do you have any orders you should tell me about, Data?"

Data did not blink. "None that I should tell you about."

Picard thought he understood. "As soon as I open this, you're going to knock me out, aren't you?" He didn't wait for an answer. It wasn't fair to force one. He knew how thorough Starfleet could be, how loyal Data was in return, and so he pressed down his hand.

The hatch rolled open. A purple light glowed from within, staining their faces. Picard moved inside, feeling less the excitement of discovery than the urgency for privacy. After Data followed, the hatch shut behind them.

They had encountered a similar technology on the Enterprise when a man from the past had stolen a time capsule from the future. Rasputen? Picard couldn't remember the name. They'd been unable to scan the interior of his ship too, and so it was a solid bet Starfleet could not overhear them, even with Data's comm badge.

"Now would be the time, Data," Picard said.

"To knock you out," Data acknowledged the joke. "I was given orders, sir, but only to see the ship's removal from port. That is assuming I can pilot the ship, which is assuming a great deal. I understand these orders are primarily due to the ship being in my ownership. Otherwise I was told to accede to your wishes, even if you wish I return the ship to you."

"Fascinating," Picard said truthfully.

"I believe Admiral Atchinson trusts your judgment, as do many of the others."

"That's," Picard searched for the word, "interesting to note. But don't you think some of their lenient attitude has to do with Q?"

Data frowned. "I have considered this. I have also considered Starfleet may be curious about the ship's technology."

"I've considered that as well."

Picard continued forward.

"May I ask your intent in coming?" Data said.

"I suppose I'm looking for something." He added before Data could ask, "I don't know what it is."

A door swished open. Picard startled, his stomach dropping as if Q had just appeared in front of him. Beyond the door were three identical corridors forming a T. He scanned these branches quickly as if he might find Q standing here or leaning there. But there was no one.

Naturally, he thought. His paranoia was flairing up again, like a bad cough.

He started down the right branch, which opened into a modestly-sized dining and observation lounge. Its style matched the docking port outside, low-lit and peaceful, like a grotto. The next branch led them to a room not unlike Picard's quarters had been on the Enterprise. It made sense Q would choose something familiar there. The branch continued further, and at Picard's request Data went on ahead while Picard traced his steps back and took the third branch, to the left, which he had guessed would lead him to the bridge. He wanted to be alone for that one. The door did not open automatically. Like the main hatch, it seemed to require his touch.

He pressed his finger into the sensor. And there it was. The bridge.

It was surreal seeing it. He had thought of the Prospero so little he had no preconceived ideas, was simply experiencing it fresh. It was half the size of the Enterprise's bridge and almost completely bare. A single chair. A side table. A low shelf on the back wall. The most stunning feature was the ceiling, a dome made entirely of transparent aluminum. Were it not for the space dock, obscuring three-quarters of the sky, the room could be lit by starlight alone.

It was a bridge very much like one Q would dream up, a viewing room more than a command center, comfort more than utility.

Picard ran his hand along the ship's plaque on the wall. It read, simply, "The Prospero" with an outline of the ship underneath.

Picard had not let himself really analyze the name, but he was familiar with the character of Prospero: an old man whose claim to the throne had been stolen from him, forced to live out his days on a secluded island plotting revenge. Was that how Q saw him? Shipwrecked and powerless? The similarities between Q and Prospero's sprite Ariel were also pointed.

There was a box sitting in the captain's chair. Grey, unwrapped, an afterthought. It was tightly sealed, budging only when pressured a certain way. Picard could smell its contents before he saw them: loose leaves for tea, Earl Gray. He knew there had to be more.

He poured the leaves into the lid and—there it is—a yellow card on the bottom of the box. A few lines of calligraphy. Picard knew it was Q's handwriting though he had never seen Q's handwriting. It was too formal, too neat. He held the card to the starlight.

Jean-Luc, it began. Picard shut his eyes a moment.

He steeled himself to begin again.

Jean-Luc. You're the best human I've met, and you're too good for rotting in some French villa like you haven't been an explorer all your life. Go outside. Look around. There really is so much more.

Picard put the box aside. He sat in the captain's chair. It was comfortable, more comfortable than his chair on the Enterprise had been, damn Q. He heard someone at the door.

"It is a large ship for the amount of passengers it would accommodate. There are beds for six people and six separate quarters, all as large as the first one. A luxury vessel at first glance, and yet there are two laboratories fully equipped with Starfleet's current research technology. The alien technology pertains to privacy, speed and communications, and I could not decipher it. I did discover a panel which suggests at current consumption the ship's power would last for 2.5 millennia. Even at peak power consumption I believe that number would remain impressive."

"Of course it would," Picard said.

He waited for Data to tell him he was wrong about Q taunting him. Wrong about Q caring. It seemed so obvious now, what this ship was for.

"Have you located the ship's piloting mechanism?"

"What?" Picard said. "Oh. Not yet."

Data's eyes shifted to the opened box of tea.

"It's an apology," Picard said. "Not just that, the whole ship. And I don't think he cares whether or not I accept it."

Picard pressed his fingers into his eyelids, because he didn't know what to do. The ship was beyond worth. He couldn't destroy it, at least not without lengthy contemplation. He couldn't give it to Starfleet, not with technology such as this, so overtly ahead of its time. He didn't feel right using it either.

He was getting old, weak, delusional. For he saw now what a fool he'd been. All signs pointed to Q being gone forever.

The guidance systems on the Prospero were automated. Picard had only to turn on the computer and say where he wanted to go and, with a negligible margin of error, the ship went. They located an available dock orbiting Titan, a private port where the ship might elude the Federation's interest. The more Picard interacted with the ship's technology, the more he wanted to scold Q for ever bringing it here. The potential for abuse from a species so recently marred by war…

He had thought the Q were more responsible than that.

Picard asked Data to transfer the registration back to him. He made sure the ship was locked tight and booked a passage back to Earth. It was as if he was operating on autopilot, not really thinking about these decisions, simply doing what felt right until he could mull them over at some later, more lucid time. Along with the certainty of Q's absence came the ability to act as he wanted to, no pride, no need to make a statement.

When he arrived home, he put Q's note in a chest with some of his other keepsakes from the Enterprise, and marveled again that Q had given him a ship, of all things. Didn't that just epitomize his arrogance? Always Q presumed to know what Picard wanted only to land shockingly far from the mark.

Picard did not need to explore anymore. Nostalgia was a power enough for old age.

Within the year, Picard was using her regularly.

He rationalized it at first with a dual-pronged argument. First, he had not much else to do with his time, and second, why not exploit the Prospero for the betterment of mankind? He took a few scientists with him, choosing colleagues who knew as little about a ship's underpinnings as he did so as to ensure everyone was on the same page about researching what the ship could show them and not the ship itself. On these expeditions, advances were made in astrometry, cosmology, exobiology and so forth, after which Picard no longer needed to rationalize anything. He starting thinking of the ship not as a personal gift but as a consolation prize left over from years of Q's bullying. It felt a better fit, this mindset, a reminder of Q's true nature and how they were all better off without it. It also had the desirable side effect of Picard not feeling in any way indebted for his present happiness.

And he was happy. Some days he enjoyed himself as much as he had on the Enterprise. The Prospero was as fast as any warship, as comfortable as any luxury liner, and the shields and sensors allowed him to survey nearly any phenomenon he wished. More and more often he took her out by himself, gone for weeks at a time. Marie worried, but after a few instances of him returning home in one piece she seemed to forget to. He brought back souvenirs for her, holo-images of some of the events he had witnessed.

One such event was a sun going supernova. In one second's time the star consumed all the matter it had faithfully nurtured for two hundred million years. A wave of energy, a massive surge of light which sparked through ancient planets as though they were specks of lint. For anyone else it would have been a remarkable but not unheard-of phenomenon, worthy of data collection for academic study but not much more than that.

For Picard, it stirred something profound within him.

It gave him idea.

He was an explorer, after all. He needed to explore.

He went back to Earth, remaining there for as long as it took to see the old sights again and to correspond with anyone willing and available. He ate a comfortable dinner with his family. Packing his things late that night, he set out. When they asked him how long he would be gone this time, he didn't say. He didn't know the answer himself.

He set his destination according to the star charts, and then all that remained was getting there. The Prospero would do that. He could rest. Reading, research, whatever would pass the time.

Every week he scheduled a meeting with himself and every week he kept it. In these meetings, he asked himself if he wanted to press on, giving each and every one of his doubts a fair hearing. He brought logs of the ship's progress to determine exactly how long it would take to arrive at the destination and how long it would take to return home if he turned around immediately. Thirty-one times now he had answered the same. Press on. One more week.

He was confident, but that did not mean he didn't worry. At night when his mind settled into sleep the tendrils of doubt pushed their way through. He would remember the conversation he'd had with Riker a few weeks ago over the comm, his old friend painstakingly trying to understand his reasoning, and failing that, trying to argue him out of it. The conversation with Marie had been tender and tear-filled. Picard's dreams would be restless too, friends he had not spoken to since leaving, friends he'd avoided, a parade of faces not unlike what one might experience the moment before death.

He dreamed many times of the Enterprise. Q was there, still a member of the crew.

In one such dream, a Klingon ship had opened fire on them. Picard ordered Q to board the enemy vessel to put an end to it. He expected no issues. Q was omnipotent and rarely encountered resistance, even from Klingons. When Picard hailed the ship to see Q's progress, Q appeared on the view-screen. His face was hardened in an expression of cold fury. "Wake up," he said.

The air on the bridge felt like the inside of a bell which had just been struck. Picard's vision blurred and focused again. "What?" he asked, wondering what waking up had to do with the Klingons.

"Wake up," Q repeated. He appeared in front of Picard and slapped him. Picard recoiled…

And in that motion hurled himself off the bed and onto the floor. He groaned with the impact, his sheets tangled in his legs. He could still hear Q's voice as plainly as though he were standing in the room, so real he couldn't relax.

"Computer, lights," Picard muttered.

He scanned the room, exhaling a shuddery breath when he saw.

Q was standing in the doorway. Glaring.

Picard had hoped this would happen. He had even prepared himself for it, but for the life of him he couldn't remember a single thing he had planned to say.