Author's Note: Thank you for your support of this story!

In this chapter, I hope to capture the stark differences between the ongoing investigation and the domestic life of our characters.

This danger now lies within the very walls of their home.

There is a moment where Data and Tasha eat poke bowls. Please note, these are replicated. They prefer meals from Ten Forward made with real ingredients (Guinan's specials). But given the circumstances, they opt to share this meal from the replicator.

That means the typical concerns re: raw fish & pregnancy are not applicable. (Beverly will explain more when this little secret is finally revealed).

There are some fairly sappy moments between Data and Tasha in this chapter. It's mostly sappy. A little steamy.

I just couldn't help myself. These two are just so stinkin' cute.

There are several references to Romulan mythology based very loosely on Michael Chabon's work for Picard. Please don't fret if you haven't seen Picard.

You don't need to know any of it to understand this chapter as Picard only gave us a tiny taste of Romulan mythos.

If you are a big fan of Chabon & Picard, you may notice some 'ooo ooo!' moments. But if you aren't, please know that you aren't missing out on anything.

I have also chosen to ignore Sybok and the whole Vorta Vor, Romulan, and Vulcan mythology used in Star Trek V. I have nothing against the film, I've just chosen to go a different direction.

Chapter-specific C/W: Grief/Loss, discussion of scars and beauty standards. Sex (not explicit).

"Should I take the fact I'm talking to you as a good sign that things are going well on the Enterprise and Picard can delegate this task off?"

Tasha was in her office on a secure channel with Captain Rixx.

"Or does this mean he's too busy putting out fires?" Rixx asked.

Tasha hesitated and Rixx had his answer.

"I'm sorry, it's been a long day," Tasha apologised.

"You look like hell," Rixx said.

Tasha replied with a bleak grin. She had barely slept the last few days and was running on fumes.

"We need to find a new place to hide," Tasha said.

Rixx nodded slowly.

"Varley."

There was no trace of anger in Captain Rixx's voice. Rather, he seemed resigned to the fact such a consequence was inevitable.

"Well, it's a good thing I started looking this morning," Rixx said.

Rixx had backup plans for backup plans. It was just in his nature.

"You already have prospects?" Tasha asked, intrigued.

Rixx flashed her a smile.

"And preliminary probe data," Rixx replied.

His initial scans had already sent back valuable information.

"You always were a sweet talker." Tasha winked.

Commander Riker paused and grimaced as he stepped off the lift.

Then he felt doubly guilty for that reaction.

Rachel Cohn was waiting outside his office.

"I know I'm the last person you want to see," she said.

"No, no. Not at all," Riker lied. "Please, can I get you a cup of coffee? Have you had lunch yet?"

Rachel offered a wan smile in response.

"You don't have to pretend on my account. I know you don't mean anything by it. It's hard to be around someone, to know what to say or do when they're grieving," Rachel acknowledged.

Her words were enough to stop Riker in his tracks.

"I'm sorry," he apologised.

Rachel just shrugged and shook her head.

"It's not your fault. It makes you uncomfortable. It makes everyone uncomfortable," Rachel said.

And now she knew both sides of that feeling.

"Everyone has been on pins and needles all day. Whenever I walk into a room, it's like everything just comes to a stop."

Grief was isolating.

"You're right. I don't know what to say or do," Riker admitted.

Growing up in the shadow of a man like Kyle Riker left Will utterly incapable of acknowledging his own emotional intelligence. As a child, Will learned to suppress his emotions and hide anything that wasn't considered 'manly' enough for Kyle Riker's antiquated machismo.

Will Riker always had to be the strongest person in any situation, the caregiver that was ready with a reassuring word.

Will's time on Betazed and his early relationship with Deanna had been a godsend. She taught him how to identify and embrace his own emotions — even the ones that were unpleasant.

Growth came from discomfort, and it was a philosophy Will now fully welcomed.

"Would you like to talk? We could talk about Uriah, or your family. Or something completely different if you need a break," Riker offered. "Or, if you don't want to talk at all, I will stay. You aren't alone."

Rachel didn't know what to say.

"I make a mean chili," Riker said with his signature, goofy grin.

"I do appreciate your offer. But you and I both know there is only one thing I want," Rachel said.

Riker knew all too well.

And it broke his spirit to know he couldn't do anything to help her.

"I want to speak with my children. To send them a message. They need to know their father is gone," Rachel said.

She paused.

"And I would like to be able to tell them he died doing something important. Something that mattered," she pressed.

She had been given no details about Uriah's death. Her request for the last mission log had been blocked at every turn.

"Commander, please," Rachel urged. "What was my husband doing out there? What was his final mission?"

"Computer, pause," Data ordered.

The analysis on the screen stopped. Data furiously tapped the screen to pull up a music file.

Data was seated behind his workstation in his quarters.

He needed something to distract his mind. He didn't want to think about the Romulan messages.

Data didn't even want to look at them on his computer.

Data slid out his chair and ordered an herbal tea from the replicator. He inhaled deeply, savouring the scent of chamomile and lemon.

As he sipped on his cuppa, Data studied the blue Himalayan poppy plant in the corner by the sofa. Data wondered how many more days he would get to water that planet.

How many more cups of herbal tea would he share with Tasha over breakfast?

How many days before the Romulans delivered their final blow?

The code in the messages was complex. It had taken Data nearly ninety minutes to find the key and crack it.

Then it took another eighteen minutes for Data to write a programme to analyse and sort the information.

Ever since, Data had absorbed far more Romulan information that he was comfortable knowing.

The messages had contained a wealth of expected information about schematics, the crew complement, and fleet movement.

But it had also contained information Data considered to be a violation of privacy.

The Romulans weren't just interested in Data's design — they had taken a keen interest into the personal lives of the senior crew and a number of other key officers.

The spy had transmitted personnel files, career highlights, evaluative reports, and more.

Woven into those logs was a wealth of personal information. It included daily schedules. The Romulans knew what they ate, where they slept.

They knew about Geordi's weekly video chats with his mother and that Lwaxana Troi sent her daughter a box of chocolates every month.

Their lives were in those messages.

All they held dear.

Data was equally disturbed by the amount of information the messages contained about Data himself.

The android.

They never referred to Data by his name, rank, or position. He was always 'the android.'

His relationship with Tasha was deemed 'the great abomination.'

Data knew Romulans were xenophobic. They despised other races and found synthetic life abhorrent. They tolerated Klingons due to their shared border and history.

Data knew the Romulans would likely strip him to parts if they ever got their hands on him.

It was chilling to see just how cruel their worldview was put to words.

There were those in the Federation that felt Data was less than a person. At best, there were those who saw him as a human-like machine. He was a beautiful creation but nothing more than advanced machinery.

At its worst, there were those who saw Data as a tool. He was a weapon, a slave.

The Romulans didn't even believe Data had a right to exist.

Stardate 41263.6 — Picard has granted the android permission to teach an art course for children. They have grown so complacent as to allow their offspring to be left unsupervised in the care of this demon.

Teaching that course was one of Data's favourite activities. He adored his class and his planning sessions with Keiko. Data liked to tie his art class to other departments.

His students found great joy in collaborating with the Arboretum, music studies, and even the entomology lab.

Stardate 42527.4 — The android's hearing is going well. Yet, these fools are lining up to defend it. Humans have always favoured lost causes.

It will only be a matter of time before it is declared property.

Then this terrible sham of allowing a machine a position on the Bridge will be done once and for all.

Each log was like a fresh wound.

Stardate 41522.1 — I have received word of a rumour most foul. It is said that the Turkanan whore is now carrying the android's offspring in her womb. I have hacked the medical database and discovered the abomination does carry the means within its construction.

The ship is abuzz with excitement over this unnatural obscenity.

Unnatural.

Data had a complicated relationship with the word 'natural.' It was so rarely used to described anything in a synthetic life. Yet, there were experiences Data could only coin as 'natural.'

They felt natural.

Tears.

The sense of relief that came from feeling clean after a shower.

The desire to love and be loved in return.

Data could think of nothing more natural.

Stardate 41529.7 — After four unsuccessful attempts, I have finally managed to secure a dose of misprolanpitocin. Though I have yet to find the means to deliver it to that Turkanan whore. Her routine has changed.

Misprolanpitocin was a common abortifacient.

This act may expose our operation. But the unholy abomination that grows within her womb cannot be permitted to come to term.

I will try again to slip into her Raktajino tomorrow.

Divines protect me in this cursed place.

The whole incident had been a misunderstanding. Tasha's appendix had flared up. The rumour mill and Data's imagination had done the rest.

Yes, it had all been a mistake. There was no pregnancy.

But the Romulans had come for Data's child.

For his family.

Data now knew that the Romulans would stop at nothing.

They viewed his life as so unimportant, as his very existence so disgusting, that they were willing to risk exposing their entire operation on the flagship just to prevent Data from starting a family.

Their hatred ran deep.

That was the log entry that had been one too many for Data to listen to. That was the breaking point.

And it had unlocked a whole new set of fears for Data. He was disturbed. Angry.

Hurt.

If the Romulans were willing to take such drastic measures based on rumour alone — how far would they go?

Would they have killed Timothy?

Data and Tasha eventually planned to adopt a child.

Would the Romulans try again? Or come after Tasha?

Data was so consumed in his thoughts that he didn't realise his hand was shaking. He clutched his teacup, subconsciously pouring all of his fear into his grip.

He needed something to hang onto.

The teacup shattered.

Data glanced down at his wet, trembling hand. He pulled it close to his chest to stop the shaking and squeezed his eyes shut.

Thick, golden tears fell to the carpet as he wept.

There had been no word from the Yamato.

By 16:00 hours, the Enterprise and the Thomas Paine were both safely relocated to a new hiding spot deep within a nebula cloud.

Repairs were back underway. The investigation continued. And Captain Picard had ordered the team involved in the Lantera mission to rest.

Now, there was nothing they could do but wait.

Tasha had gone back to her quarters to slip into a pair of cosy leggings and her oversized Rangers jumper.

After polishing off a snack (a double order of hasperat), Tasha laid down on the sofa to nap before heading to Data's quarters for the evening.

Sleep remained elusive.

Tasha felt anxious. She didn't know if it was the prolonged lack of sleep and Romulan threat or all the Raktajino.

Tasha had so much energy that she was ready to shake apart.

She sat up and glanced around at her quarters.

Tasha kept her space tidy. There were some automated cleaning programmes equipped to aid in that process. The carpets and enamelled polymer surfaces of the loo were maintained by an automated cleaning robot. And the replicator sanitised itself.

Tasha dusted her belongings every week and was meticulous about keeping her bedding clean.

She was, perhaps, almost too meticulous.

Having grown up with so little, it was important for Tasha to maintain what she had.

She had never forgotten the night her flatmate at the Academy had come home to find Tasha stitching up a ripped sleeve on her uniform.

Her peers couldn't understand why Tasha would bother with such a trivial repair when she could simply get a replacement.

Tasha recalled feeling small and stupid in that moment.

Tasha may have learned to adapt to a world where food and clothing could be obtained on demand, but she still retained the part of her that felt compelled to keep what she had in workable order.

To that end, Tasha threw off her blanket and went to work.

Tasha combed through the built-in cabinet that served as a small pantry. She kept her non-replicated food like jars of real pickles, hot sauce, hasperat, and whisky in there.

She dusted and rearranged her various sparring trophies, Starfleet decorations, and art she'd collected over the years.

Then, Tasha stopped to study the shelves that lined the wall.

Data and Tasha had agreed to get a cat on Føroyar. Tasha knew shelves would make a great perch for a cat and that all of her lovely Andorian crystalline sculptures and Aikido awards would be in a prime position for pushing off.

All her knickknacks offered additional opportunities for Romulan listening devices.

And if they adopted a child…

Tasha could just envision a curious wee explorer pulling a brass trophy down atop their soft head. It was a sharp reminder that they were woefully unprepared to start a family anytime soon.

In, fact, as Tasha surveyed the room, she realised just how unsafe the whole environment was for a child. None of the devices were equipped with child security locks. Such locks weren't required, but Tasha had heard the stories of small children unintentionally burning an arm with hot food or accidentally paging a parent on a duty channel.

The lamp was a topple risk.

The laces on her boxing gloves were a choking hazard.

Tasha kept a personal phaser locked in her bedroom. But many of her decorative knives were on display.

In the end, Tasha decided to pack it all away into storage.

Adoption was a long way off — but Tasha felt an urge to start. She surmised it would take time to adjust and there was no harm in taking those steps now.

Many of the same safety measures applied to both an animal companion and a child.

By the time she was done, Tasha realised that her quarters looked rather spartan. She wasn't bothered by it. Rather, she realised that those empty spaces would soon hold new objects like cat toys, grooming supplies, and more.

"A bed," she said aloud.

A cat would need a space of its own with a proper bed and feeding device. They would need to get a litter box and find the room to house it somewhere.

There was still the unresolved matter of exactly where Data and Tasha were planning to settle. But Tasha figured that it couldn't hurt to start planning.

If they stayed in her place, things would be ready. If they settled in Data's quarters, then at least she would be half done with the packing.

Tasha paused and grinned to herself.

Their family was expanding — and it was the strangest mix of fear and excitement.

When Tasha didn't arrive by 18:00 hours, Data decided to go check on her. Her figured she was up to one of two things — working around the Captain's order to rest by browsing files for the investigation in her quarters or sleeping.

He was surprised to find Tasha up and about, pushing around the furniture in her quarters.

"You are rearranging your personal space," Data said.

He cocked his head to the side.

"Is this for aesthetic reasons or because you wish to optimise the ergonomic layout?" Data asked.

Tasha was pushing one of her end tables into the corner. She stopped and looked up, winded from exertion.

She grinned.

"Just moving a few things around," she said.

"You have removed your awards," Data said as he noticed most of the contents of her shelves were gone.

Tasha put her hands on her hips and sighed.

"Well, they're a topple risk. If a child were to try and climb up—"

Data's eyes visibly widened. His neural net surged.

They had spoken often of their mutual desire to one day adopt a child. But Data had not expected Tasha to agree to such a step so soon.

Tasha could practically hear Data's thoughts.

"I mean if… if we get a cat," Tasha said quickly.

She immediately regretted her hasty correction. Her heart sank as she watched Data's joy deflate before her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—" Tasha began to say.

She bit her lip.

"Someday," she assured Data.

Data nodded in understanding.

He stepped over and pulled Tasha into his arms.

"Someday," he replied.

Tasha clutched the back of Data's uniform.

They stood in silence in one another's arms. Data glanced over at the table and spied the empty plate.

"You have already eaten?" Data asked.

"Just a snack. I could eat again," she replied honestly.

Data kissed the top of Tasha's head.

"How about you slip into the bath, and I will attend to our meal?" Data suggested.

Tasha glanced up to meet his eyes.

"I'm sorry, we were going to stay at your place tonight," Tasha said.

"We made those plans before we knew the Enterprise would be in a nebula cloud," Data said.

He stared out the window behind Tasha to take in the beautiful mix of colour and soft dust clouds.

Stardust.

"If it is alright with you, I would prefer to stay in here tonight," Data said.

"Of course, we can," Tasha replied.

Data kissed the tip of her nose and sent her on the way to the bath.

As the tap filled, Data set the table. His fingers danced across the console as he punched in a familiar favourite.

He turned to carry the meal over to the table and paused, catching a second glimpse at the nebula cloud.

It was a lovely sight and one that would not have been visible from Data's own quarters.

He didn't have a window.

It was Data's hope that he would have many more nights to enjoy with Tasha in these quarters. But he was resigned that if things did not bode well for the Enterprise, he was grateful this night offered such a wonderful view.

Across the ship, Deanna was settling in for her own evening meal.

Given the weight of the last twenty-four hours and her own demanding schedule, Deanna had agreed to break a cardinal rule.

She was hosting a special counselling session in her own quarters over dinner.

Deanna was willing to go many places for her clients. She wanted them to feel at ease. She'd met for sessions in the Library and the Arboretum. Lieutenant Pok was fond of using the holodeck to replicate her garden at home. Ensign Travers preferred to walk around the track in the fitness centre.

Deanna never — ever — permitted clients to meet in her personal quarters.

But she hadn't been home all day. She needed to slip off her boots and eat a hot meal.

She needed to relax.

And there was one person on board that desperately needed an emergency session.

Deanna had no sooner replicated a steaming bowl of soup when the door chimed.

"It's open," Deanna called out.

"I've got fresh bread!" Beverly replied.

Keiko frowned.

"Miles?"

He didn't respond.

"Miles," she said a little louder.

"Hmm?" he replied absentmindedly.

He had been uncharacteristically quiet since his return home. Keiko suspected it was in part because of the long hours.

She also knew it stemmed from whatever secret mission Miles had been gone on for the days preceding what was known as 'the incident.'

No one knew exactly what had transpired. The rumours grew increasingly more farfetched. But one thing was certain – the Enterprise had been involved in a heavy firefight.

Whoever they'd exchanged fire with had dealt considerable damage to the ship and was likely still out there. That was the only reason anyone could think of to explain the mysterious communications blackout.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Keiko asked.

"The food's lovely," Miles replied.

"You haven't even touched your plate," Keiko pointed out.

For the better part of the last half hour, Miles had simply pushed a sprout back and forth. He used his fork to roll it to one side and then back again. He said nothing. From time to time, he let out a heavy sigh.

He was concerned about more than just repairs.

Keiko also suspected it was difficult for Miles to be back in a combat situation given his experience in the Border Wars.

"Miles?" Keiko tried again.

He flinched.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. Long day," Miles said.

Keiko reached across the table for Miles's hand.

"I'm here," she said.

A pained look crossed Miles's face. He squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced. Then he cracked one eye open and shot Keiko a wordless plea.

"I can't…. I can't tell you," Miles confessed.

Keiko squeezed his hand.

"And you don't have to," she assured him. "I just want you to know that I'm here."

Miles brought her fingers to his lips. He placed a soft kiss on the back of Keiko's hand.

"I know. Thank you."

"Maybe you could talk to Counsellor Troi?" Keiko suggested.

The Chief shook his head.

"It's not that I don't want to. But she's so busy," Miles said.

He knew that there were people out there in desperate need of immediate help. Miles did need to speak with a counsellor. But he also recognised he could wait. He'd been through quite a lot of counselling in the wake of his time on the Cardassian front.

"I'm not okay. But I will be. And right now, I just have to focus on getting the ship back up and running," Miles said.

He flashed Keiko a reassuring smile.

"So, I can make it safe for you," Miles concluded.

And there it was.

The fear that had consumed him ever since learning of the conspiracy.

Miles didn't have to elaborate. Keiko had enough information to infer there was a serious threat. It wasn't like Miles to fret. He was easily the most easy-going member of the senior staff.

If Miles was rattled, that meant they were up against something bad.

Suddenly, Keiko felt the urge to get something off her chest — something she had been thinking about ever since Miles had left for his mysterious mission.

"Miles? I want to marry you," Keiko said.

Miles's expression softened. He blinked in surprise. Keiko could tell he didn't follow.

"I mean now," Keiko clarified.

Miles choked on his coffee.

"Now?" he squeaked.

Keiko chuckled.

"I don't mean right now."

Keiko pushed her plate aside so she could hold both of Miles's hands.

"I mean that I don't want any of it. All of the planning, the big wedding, the layered cake. I don't want it and I don't need it," Keiko said.

They had spent months planning for a big wedding back on Earth. Keiko wanted her family there and she'd always imagined being wed at the Okazaki Shrine in Kyoto.

It was one of the loveliest gardens Keiko had ever seen and it was where her grandmother had been married.

Miles knew there would be hell to pay if he didn't invite his own family to the wedding. He also had his own traditions that were important.

Miles had already spoken with his sister to request a special item. It was tradition for an Irish bride to carry a fine handkerchief on her wedding day. The custom was to then turn that handkerchief into a bonnet for a child and so the tradition went.

In Miles's family, his mother and sister's own handkerchiefs had been sewn using fabric from their great-great grandmother's wedding dress.

It was a tradition that the family had carried for four generations and one Miles was reluctant to break.

Someday, his own child would hopefully carry on the family way.

"I know that our traditions are important to both of us," Keiko acknowledged. "But when it comes right down to it, all that really matters is you."

Miles was touched.

"It would be wonderful to have that big wedding. But what I want most is to know that you and I made that commitment to one another," Keiko went on.

Word of Uriah Cohn's death had spread quickly.

He wasn't the only person killed on the recent mission. But Uriah and his wife Rachel were a staple fixture at many events on board the Enterprise.

They liked to attend concerts together and support the different clubs. Rachel was active in the Enterprise running club and they both enjoyed competitive swing dancing.

It was no secret that Uriah had taken a demotion in order to accompany his wife on the Enterprise. After thirty years of marriage, they were still completely enamoured with one another.

The whole ship felt that loss.

Uriah Cohn's death had raised more than a few questions in the minds of the crew. For some, it was enough to solidify that relationships were a bad choice.

For others, it was a push to take that next step.

"And since we don't know when we'll be able to go home—"

Keiko narrowly avoided saying 'if.'

"I was thinking we could just do something here on the ship. We could still work in a lot of our traditions. And many of our friends are here," Keiko said.

"You're right," Miles said. "You're absolutely right."

The two shared a warm smile before turning back to their dinner.

Miles inhaled his dinner. His appetite was back.

Tasha laid her head back against the edge of the tub. She let her arm hang loose over the side. Tasha closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Steam filled her nostrils.

The heat felt wonderful.

Tasha wanted to melt into the warm comfort of the water.

Data stood in the doorframe, stopped by the sight in front of him. Tasha was lounging in the water wearing nothing but a subconscious smile and an ethereal glow that spoke of pure bliss.

She looked totally at ease.

Data knelt down next to the tub. He reached for a clean flannel, gently stopping Tasha when she moved to get up.

"I can get out," Tasha said.

"No, no. Stay," Data said softly.

Dinner could wait. It was safe under a temperature-controlled stasis field.

Data dipped the flannel into the water and rung it out over Tasha's shoulders.

"I made you a cup of the tea Guinan dropped off," Data said, taking his time as he cleaned each of her fingers.

He had brought the tea in so that Tasha could enjoy it in the bath.

"I could bring dinner in here too," Data suggested.

"I'll be a prune if I stay in here too long," Tasha said.

"And you will be the loveliest prune," Data said as he nibbled at her ear.

Tasha giggled.

She lunged, sloshing water over the side as she caught Data. Tasha cupped his face, holding him close as she captured his lips.

When they broke apart, Tasha lingered close to nuzzle against Data's face.

"Why are you so kind to me?" she asked.

Data sat back and studied Tasha's face for a moment. As he held her gaze, thoughts of the Romulan logs and the attempt on her life came flooding back.

"Because you are the dearest thing to me in all the universe," Data confessed.

In an instant, the mood had shifted from playful to serious.

"And if I should ever lose you-"

Tasha shushed him, putting her finger to Data's lips.

"I'm not going anywhere," she promised.

Tasha sealed it with a quick peck.

"Besides, I can't go anywhere with these travel restrictions," she teased. "Except for maybe out of this tub."

Tasha was hungry now and starting to turn pruney.

Data offered her a hand up. But before Tasha could reach for her towel, Data snagged it. He scooped Tasha up, throwing her over his shoulder as he carried her out of the bath.

"Data!" she protested.

They didn't make it past the sofa.

Dinner was left under the stasis field.

For the first twenty minutes of their meal, Beverly and Deanna ate in silence.

It was the first time all day that both women had a chance to simply be alone with their thoughts.

"This pie is delicious," Deanna said.

"Wesley made it," Beverly replied.

Deanna was pleasantly surprised.

"Well, my compliments to the chef. Glad to know he hasn't taken after Commander Riker in that respect," Deanna teased.

Will was infamous for his culinary efforts. There was no lack of enthusiasm, but his penchant for odd flavours and exotic ingredients didn't always pan out.

"He stayed up until were back. Until I got back from Sickbay. He had dinner waiting," Beverly said.

"He's a responsible and considerate young man," Deanna said with a smile.

Only Beverly wasn't smiling.

"He's a child," Beverly said.

Her comment hung in the air for a moment as Deanna gave Beverly space to work through her thoughts.

"He said he wasn't afraid," Beverly went on.

There was no telling whether Wesley truly meant it or was simply trying to make his mother feel better — and Beverly didn't want to know the answer.

"He's also an intelligent person. He knows this weighs on you," Deanna said.

"He was also smart enough to figure out we went to the Neutral Zone, retrieved survivors from the Enterprise-C, and that we went back to battle the Romulans," Beverly shared.

Deanna blinked in surprise.

"Oh. I see."

Beverly released a heavy sigh. She reached for her wine.

"I haven't told Jean-Luc. I trust Wesley will tell no one. He understands the importance of all this," Beverly said.

She had no inkling of Wesley's encounter with Proventus nor of the role her son had played in capturing the rogue Romulan.

"And that bothers you?" Deanna pressed.

"It does."

Beverly took a long sip.

"I was so proud of Wesley when he accepted the role of Acting Ensign. All he's ever wanted was to learn, to serve. And I knew that sooner or later he would go off to Starfleet Academy," Beverly said.

Each passing year and development milestone was a reminder that her little boy was growing up.

Too fast.

"Now here we are. He's working duty shifts, serving on the Bridge, helping in Engineering," Beverly said.

She trailed off and shook her head in dismay.

"And now he's fifteen and already a grown man in so many ways," Beverly said.

"He is a very clever young man. A promising officer. He's got a brilliant career ahead of him," Deanna said.

Deanna knew Beverly already knew this. She could also sense that it filled Beverly with turmoil.

"Are you worried about losing him? It is perfectly natural to feel a sense of loss when a child prepares to go off on their own," Deanna assured her.

"It's not that," Beverly said.

In truth, there were parts of her life she was looking forward to reclaiming when the role of motherhood shifted.

"He's on duty. It's like he can't shut it off."

Beverly turned her attention to the nebula cloud out the window.

"When we were stationed on the Stargazer, Wesley used to curl up on my lap and we would watch the stars together every night," Beverly recalled.

As a designated science vessel, the Stargazer had far fewer diplomatic missions than the Enterprise. The bulk of their work on that ship had been analysing nebula clouds, planetary surveys, and specialised geological missions.

"Even when he was young, he was so calm about duty. He never got angry when I had to rush off to Sickbay or when his father was summoned to the Bridge," Beverly explained.

When Jean-Luc had brought Jack's body home, Beverly had sat down to explain it to Wesley.

He was five and at an age where he started to understand death — but the notion of permanence was a struggle.

When is papa coming home from work?

Papa come back?

"Before we left for Lantera, Wesley told me that he understood why I was going. That he was proud of me for taking on this mission," Beverly shared.

There were any number of conversations where Beverly felt like she was talking to an adult rather than her teenage son. But it had never felt more real than that moment.

"And when I got home last night, he wanted to know if the mission was a success," Beverly replied.

She paused and frowned, dropping her gaze to the glass of wine in her hand.

"Do you remember when I thought I was going to lose Wesley on the Edo planet? Or when he was abducted by the Aldeans?"

Twice.

Twice in the last year Beverly had come close to losing her son forever— and that wasn't counting run-ins with Q or times when the entirety of the Enterprise had been at risk.

"And he wears it like it's a duty," Beverly said.

Her voice was tainted with bitterness.

"He wears it like we do after a long day. The way we just pack at all away in a nice little box," Beverly said. "The way his father did. The same way—"

She stopped herself.

"You were going to say the same way Captain Picard does," Deanna said, finishing Beverly's thought aloud.

Beverly glanced back. She wordlessly pleaded with Deanna for understanding.

"Wesley wanted to know what our mission meant in regard to the Treaty of Algeron."

She had shared no details of the mission — nor had Wesley asked.

"He wanted me to know that he wasn't afraid. That he was going to apply for Starfleet Academy again as soon as he could. That he was ready to step up in the war to come," Beverly spat.

The war to come.

Those were the exact words Wesley used.

"I don't want him to be. I don't want that for him," Beverly shared.

She wanted the curious little boy that wanted to know why stars blinked and why trees changed colours. Beverly found it utterly heartbreaking that her sweet, inquisitive son could be so composed about the prospect of war with the Romulans.

"A year ago, he would have asked me why war was even necessary. He would have found it all repulsive," Beverly said.

Like mother, like son.

"I don't mean to imply that he's eager. He's not eager. He feels… responsible for things he shouldn't," Beverly settled on.

It all felt so wrong.

Beverly wanted her son to be the same boy that refused to believe peace was and compromise could not be achieved.

She wanted Wesley to fight — kicking and screaming – against any effort to join Starfleet during a time of war. Their missions may have been deemed peacekeeping, but in reality, they were combat missions.

Beverly was old enough to remember the war with the Klingons and the Talarian conflict.

She had seen countless lives destroyed by violence, starbases choked with refugees fleeing, stories of loved ones left behind, abandoned homesteads, and the orphans left in the wake of whatever latest tactical move was thought to be the silver bullet that would end the fighting.

The people left with debilitating injuries or dying of the rampant disease that infected crowded refugee camps were trapped by a geopolitical conflict that promised to save them — but often led to death and destruction.

Beverly herself could give fig for the Prime Directive when it came to people starving and dying of injuries and illnesses that easily treatable.

Beverly understood that it wasn't enough for medicine to be available. It also had to be accessible. She found it abhorrent that treaties, embargos, and the bloody Prime Directive kept lifesaving treatments out of the hands of those that needed them most.

And she had thought Wesley shared that same passion.

Now, he seemed more like a young man she'd once known. A man full of ambition that dreamed of glory. A man driven by discovery.

A man that set those dreams aside for duty.

"I want him to be a child," Beverly said.

"He is a child," Deanna assured her.

Beverly glanced up from her glass of wine.

"Is he?" she asked.

"We met in college at the Science Academy on Regulus III," Rachel said.

At Commander Riker's suggestion, Rachel Cohn had agreed to accompany him to Ten Forward for dinner. Will listened patiently as Rachel talk about her life with her husband. Occasionally, Riker asked a question if it seemed like a fond memory.

She seemed to be coping well.

But Will suspected that she was trying to keep a stiff upper lip for the sake of morale.

"Uriah was studying Systems Operations. He knew it would be his best shot at having his pick of assignments," Rachel said.

Systems Operations specialists were in high demand. It wasn't a glamorous job. But every starship, starbase, and planetary installation required such specialists.

"But his real passion was language," Rachel said.

Crewman Cohn's role on the Enterprise was as a general maintenance tech. He had taken a position of lower rank in order to accompany his wife.

Part of what made Uriah Cohn such a beloved member of the crew was his expertise systems management — and willingness to help anyone.

"You know, he was translating a compilation of Vulcanoid children's stories?"

Uriah Cohn's passion for Vulcanoid languages (including the three common Romulan dialects) is part of what distinguished him as a good choice for the Lantera mission.

He was trustworthy and he knew the language.

"He would have loved to have been a comms officer. But life rarely goes as we plan, eh? Our daughter was a complete surprise," Rachel went on.

Rachel smiled, fidgeting with a necklace as she recalled a memory.

"Uriah insisted on being the one to stay home with her. He put his own plans on hold. We thought it would be a year or two and then he'd follow me to the Academy."

Rachel chuckled and shook her head.

"And then we had our son," she said.

"Uriah wanted to stay home with him?" Riker asked.

Rachel nodded.

"He took a job at the Academy. Worked maintenance. Gamma shift. Mostly nights," Rachel explained. "He did it so I wouldn't have to interrupt my studies. He was good like that."

"You had a happy marriage," Riker concluded.

"Thirty years of it," Rachel replied.

Thirty years. Children. A home on New Berlin colony. Another ten years and they would have been ready to retire and live out their days together.

"We are lucky to share a great relationship with our children. Uriah especially, he… he loved them so much," Rachel said.

He had been a dedicated, loving father.

A shadow appeared on the carpet and Rachel's breath hitched. She whipped around, half-expecting to see her husband.

But it was only Lieutenant Barclay. He knew Rachel from their work in Engineering.

"I'm very s-sorry for your loss. Your husband was always very kind to me," Reg said.

Rachel gave Barclay's hand a warm squeeze.

"Thank you, Mr Barclay," she said.

"Have you had the chance to speak with your children?" Barclay inquired.

Will Riker wanted to curl up and die.

"No, not yet," Rachel said. "The uh… well, you know about the communications blackout."

Reg nodded in understanding.

The three officers at the next table were not so accommodating.

Lieutenant Gemma Arendon whipped around so fast that she nearly knocked over her pint of beer.

"Excuse me, did I hear that you haven't been allowed to talk to your children?" Arendon asked.

Before Rachel could answer, Ensign Calloway rounded on Commander Riker.

"This is outrageous," Calloway said.

"I agree," Riker confessed. "But you have to understand that—"

"And just what is the First Officer doing about it?" Calloway demanded.

"All she wants to do is send a message to her children," Arendon pressed. "Surely, they deserve to know their father is gone."

All of the questions had started to gain the attention of other nearby tables. A crowd soon descended on Commander Riker. They were full of questions.

And they were angry.

"My wife's back on Saturnalia Colony. She's very sick. I haven't spoken to her in weeks. She was due for surgery," Ensign Danse said.

"I was supposed to be at my son's wedding last week. Instead, I can't even tell him why I missed it!" Lieutenant Trenton added.

Will Riker's mouth went dry. He stammered for an answer.

"I uh —"

Riker wanted to back away. But he was sitting at a table in the middle of Ten Forward and there was nowhere for him to retreat.

The crowd closed in fast. Will was struck by the uncomfortable memory of his final moments on the Pegasus before she descended into all out mutiny.

Riker would have called for Security, but they had thrown in with the crowd.

Everyone was riled up over missed milestones, unanswered letters from home, and the general lack of answers.

Suddenly, Guinan stepped out from behind the bar.

"That's enough," she announced.

The room fell silent.

"You know just as well as I do that Commander Riker doesn't have any control over the communications directive," Guinan said. "If Starfleet has a reason for cutting off our communications, then I trust it's a damn good one."

Guinan knew better.

She knew this was no Starfleet order.

But she trusted Jean-Luc Picard — and she certainly didn't want to send an angry mob his direction.

In Guinan's enlightened wisdom, she thought it was better to lay the blame on Starfleet.

"We're all in this together. And Commander Riker is just as cut off from his friends and family as the rest of us," Guinan said.

Though less aggressive than before, the crowd could hardly be considered calm.

"But what about her children, eh? Don't they have the right to know their father is dead?"

"I missed my boy's wedding!" Lieutenant Trenton repeated.

More and more members of the crew chimed in with their own frustrations.

"I was supposed to meet my grandmother on Caldos. It was her hundredth birthday! We've been planning it for more than a year!" Crewman Wharry said.

"Are we to weigh our pain against one another?" Guinan asked.

No one responded.

No one wanted to challenge Guinan. It was worse than being chastised by one's gran.

"We can't do anything about our communications. But we can enjoy an evening together. The food is good — I hope," Guinan said, her voice much softer than before.

She flashed the crowd a wry grin.

"And I have a new drink that I think you'll enjoy."

With her supplies cut off, Guinan had been forced to get creative.

"Now who wants a dill martini?"

As the crowd dispersed, Riker excused himself for a brief aside with Guinan.

"Thanks," he said.

"Don't mention it," Guinan replied.

Riker wasn't sure what he would have done had Guinan not intervened.

"But you need to get this under control soon," Guinan warned.

As an expert in the field of behaviour, Guinan knew the ship was a tinderbox. It only took one small spark and the whole situation would devolve.

When it did, it would happen quickly.

"Dill martini?" Riker questioned.

Guinan shot him one of her deadpan looks.

"I have a hard enough time procuring many of my fresh ingredients during routine missions. You try getting bar supplies smuggled across the Neutral Zone," Guinan said out of the corner of her mouth.

Data was resting on the sofa in Tasha's quarters. Tasha was lying atop him.

Outside the window, the beautiful array of colour from the nebula cloud mingled with the exterior lights of the ship in a dazzling display.

But Data's thoughts weren't on the nebula.

His fingers ghosted over the length of Tasha's spine. They travelled across Tasha's shoulders. She shivered as they caressed the nape of her neck.

Then Data stopped to trace the scar tissue on Tasha's bicep.

"I should dress," Tasha said.

"Do not. Please," Data said suddenly.

Data had never shuddered at the scars Tasha bore on her body. Tasha could care less about the aesthetics of her scar tissue, but she liked to keep them covered.

Tasha didn't like answering questions. She didn't want whispers or sympathy.

Most of all, Tasha didn't like to think about them.

Because each one of her scars was a reminder of an unpleasant memory.

Turkana had left its mark in more ways than one. Data didn't know much about Turgon beyond his name and the fact that he was a Turkanan warlord.

But Data knew enough about Tasha's childhood to understand she had been exploited and abused.

Contrary to his suspicions, most of Tasha's scars were not from her time with Turgon.

No, Turgon and his men had always been careful.

Spare the flesh.

Most of the scars from Turkana had come from the lashings she'd received as a child during a stint working at a textile mill. Tasha had only been a young girl. The overseer felt children worked faster after a thorough lashing.

Not all of her scars were horrible memories.

She had a few from her time in covert operations thanks to Gul Eltor when Tasha had infiltrated the Cardassian camp at G'kantal.

Liberating G'kantal was a necessity. There were many people saved thanks to their efforts.

Tasha still preferred not to think about that mission.

"Dinner will get—" Tasha began to protest.

Data cut her off.

"Dinner is under a stasis field."

Data brought Tasha's hand to his lips. Tasha's body tensed as Data kissed the small scar on her second knuckle.

"You are uncomfortable," Data observed.

He opened his mouth to continue, but Tasha cut him off.

"Don't," she warned.

Tasha didn't want to hear it.

"Don't tell me you don't see them. We both know that's a lie."

Tasha had never appreciated such comments. She'd taken others to her bed that had used that line. Something about it made Tasha squick — like her scars were so awful they had to pretend they weren't there.

"And don't tell me that I'm still beautiful or that they make me beautiful," Tasha spat.

She had heard that line too from friends and lovers.

From the first Starfleet medical team that had treated Tasha after she was found by the USS Renegade.

Tasha had been fifteen. Their advanced medical devices were awesome and terrifying. Dermal regenerators and bone knitters seemed like magic.

Tasha had asked a kindly medic if they would take away her scars too.

On Turkana, Tasha had been told time and again how lucky she was.

She'd had the pox as a young child and the scars had largely faded by the time she was taken as Yar. And she was a good Yar — one of the best Turgon had ever owned.

Tasha bore scars. But they were far less than many others on Turkana. She had never lost an eye or her fingers. Between fighting, frostbite, gruesome punishments, and the wild megafauna that stalked the wilderness, it was a wonder Tasha survived at all.

But Tasha didn't care about appearances.

She had asked because she didn't want to remember.

Any time someone asked about the scars or snuck a glance when they thought she wasn't looking, it was a reminder of who Tasha was.

Of what she was.

Every time Tasha looked at her own body in the mirror or bathed, those scars were a living reminder of parts of herself she would rather forget — the Overseer, the Dog Catcher, Turgon.

So, Tasha had asked if Starfleet would take those scars away.

And that medic had flashed Tasha a smile that spoke only of lies.

You're still a very pretty little girl.

"So don't tell me that I'm beautiful because of my scars or in spite of my scars. I know I'm beautiful," Tasha said.

Data smiled at that.

"They're just a part of my body no more or less so than any other," Tasha said.

She refused to give them emphasis. Men like Turgon didn't deserve a moment in her thoughts.

"I wanted to say that I like them," Data confessed.

Tasha grimaced.

"Please, let me explain," Data said quickly.

Tasha relaxed — a little.

Data could be strange at times. Tasha was infinitely patient and trusted that Data did not intend to be hurtful.

"I like them because they remind me of my own seams," Data explained.

There were thin, barely imperceptible seams all over Data's body. They felt almost like scar tissue, and they marked the places where some of his joints came together and where access panels sat below Data's bioplast.

They lined Data's elbows and shoulders. He had a longer one inside his thigh that covered his waste port. There was also a tiny, raised line of bioplast directly behind Data's left ear that allowed hardwire access to Data's neural net.

"I suppose you could say they are my own scars. Scars from my construction," Data pondered aloud.

Where Tasha had been ready to snap in anger, now she felt terrible for being cross.

"They make me feel uncomfortable. I know that people stare. They whisper and wonder," Data said.

Like Tasha, Data took steps to cover his seams. He rarely wore anything with short sleeves except when around Tasha or sometimes with Geordi and Chief O'Brien on the holodeck.

Data's insecurity about his seams was a large part of why he wanted only Geordi to examine him in privacy.

"They are a reminder that I am different. That I am not truly human," Data said.

Data's seams were also a reminder of his time with Bruce Maddox. Maddox would often detach parts of Data for study, as punishment, or simply to assert power. Maddox never asked for consent — he simply took.

To be denied the use of one's own body was terribly degrading.

It only reinforced the notion that Data was not his own person and never would be.

Tasha blinked back tears. It broke her heart whenever Data felt less-than.

"Please forgive me for focusing on your own scars. They just… they make me feel my seams are not so different," Data shared.

That I am not so different.

"Data," Tasha said softly.

She kissed the side of his chin and nuzzled against his face.

"You're beautiful," Tasha murmured.

Tasha said it often.

She told him loudly and frequently whenever someone made a smart remark about 'the android' or questioned Data's sentience.

She whispered it at night when they laid in bed spooned up against each other.

It fell from her lips in the dark when they held one another close, when there was nothing but the two of them and things like shift rotations and Romulan threats faded into the background.

"I know I am beautiful," Data said, echoing Tasha's earlier statement.

Tasha laughed against shoulder.

"Mmm. Yes, you are," she agreed.

"It is nice to think that there are connections between myself and humans. Between us," Data said.

"We are far more alike than we are different," Tasha said.

It wasn't just language and the mechanics of their anatomy. Data had dreams and desires. His fears were as real as any experienced by humans.

And the emotions they evoked impacted Data just the same.

"Your heart is the purest thing I have ever known," Tasha said as she slipped her fingers between Data's. "Your mind is… well, you're probably the most brilliant person in all of existence, Data. And I don't mean that because of those trillions of calculations every millisecond."

Tasha sighed softly as she gazed into Data's golden eyes.

"You make every day better. You make this whole universe a better place. For all of us," Tasha said, smiling. "And it is my great fortune that I get to share it with you."

Her kiss was unhurried.

"And that doesn't even start to cover how wickedly handsome you are," Tasha said.

Her lips travelled along the line of Data's jaw.

"Or the way you make me laugh."

Data closed his eyes and focused his attention on the feel of her breath against his bioplast and the soft scent of lavender and sugary scrub from Tasha skin.

"Or your cute little bum."

Tasha was teasing, but Data knew her words were not hollow. She had a terrible habit of pinching him when he least expected it.

Data also suspected she got a thrill from watching him look adorably bashful whenever she came up from behind to cup his arse when they were alone.

She loved him — seams and all.

Tasha paused to kiss the seam behind Data's left ear.

"My golden eyed man," she whispered.

Tasha nipped the shell of Data's ear.

"And his golden heart."

Without warning, Data sat up. He gripped the small of Tasha's back, holding her firmly against him. His other hand caught her neck.

Data said nothing as he studied Tasha's face. She said nothing as they stared at one another.

"You have often spoken of my—"

Data paused as he settled on a word.

"Unique perspective. But I believe the same can be said of you, my dear."

A beat passed.

"I never had to prove myself to you," Data said. "I never had to prove I was human enough. You saw me as a person before you even knew me."

During their early days on the Enterprise, Tasha had stood up for Data after several junior officers mocked him for giving an order.

Data wasn't present when Tasha spoke up for him. In fact, she thought he was out of earshot and never knew Data was even aware of it until the matter had come up in counselling.

"You saw me," Data said.

His voice was so low that Tasha wasn't sure if Data had really said it or not.

Data ran his thumb across Tasha's bottom lip and then caressed her cheek.

"No one has your eyes," Data said.

Tasha wasn't sure what to say.

"I—"

"No one," Data said firmly.

Data's statement was not merely a reflection of Tasha's perspective.

"I am capable of analysing and cataloguing every person I have ever met. No one has your eyes," Data said. "And they are the most beautiful I will ever see. Not only because they are exceptionally lovely, but because I know that when you look at me, you see me."

Tasha felt like she'd stopped breathing.

"Because you see beauty in everything. You find hope in the midst of despair," Data said.

Tasha had endured violence and cruelty. She had lived through carnage the likes of which most Federation citizens believed only existed in history or the pages of fiction.

"True to your namesake, you have been a spark of light during my darkest days," Data went on.

The taste of Guinan's tea lingered on Tasha's tongue. Data's senses flooded with cinnamon and honey.

And something that was distinctly her.

Tasha could taste herself on Data's lips. (He did so insist on kissing every inch of her.)

For Data, sex was a full-body experience. For Tasha, it was more like out-of- body.

When Data made love, he gave all of himself – his hands, his lips, his tongue.

His voice.

And Data was never satisfied until Tasha was left gasping and trembling.

Data held Tasha flush against his body. She squeaked and then keened as he deepened their kiss. He clutched the back of Tasha's hair as he held her there.

Tasha rolled her hips in response. There was nothing subtle about what she wanted.

Needed. Tasha corrected herself.

She had ached for Data all day.

And even though they had made love only an hour earlier, Tasha was ready for more.

It wasn't just the emotional toll of the last few days or the fear that they might follow the same fate as Uriah Cohn that drove her need.

This felt raw.

Hormonal.

Natural.

Any other night, Data would have stopped to insist Tasha eat before they continued. But these weren't ordinary circumstances.

They were in the Neutral Zone.

On the run.

Data and Tasha had been pursued and shot at. They were sleep deprived, hungry, and grieving.

It hadn't even been forty-eight hours since Data had nearly lost Tasha on Lantera.

Now here they were at the edge of the world, standing on a precipice awaiting the outcome. The next few days would determine whether they find salvation or total ruin.

It was only a matter of time before Starfleet or the Romulans found the Enterprise.

Hours?

Days?

Data did not know the answer to that question. He had momentarily shut down the portion of his processing that was capable of calculating the odds.

At the moment, Data only wanted to focus on being together with Tasha.

If this was to be their final moments, Data could think of no better way to spend them than in her arms.

Tasha grasped the nape of Data's neck. She whimpered softly.

"I have got you," Data whispered, his breath warm against her ear.

He could feel Tasha's heart pounding against his own chest cavity. He could feel her breathing hard as they moved together.

Data clung to Tasha. He needed something to hold onto. He shut out all other sounds to concentrate all of his attention on the sound of her breathing — the soft hiss as she sucked air in through her teeth, the gentle, soothing rhythm as she exhaled.

Each breath meant there was air in her lungs. It meant her heart was still beating. It was steady tempo and music to Data's ears.

Because every beat of her heart meant Tasha lived to take another breath.

It meant that she was still with Data.

It meant she was alive.

Data felt alive too.

His neural net surged. His bioplast seemed to crackle with energy. He felt wanton and possessive and utterly reckless with desire.

Tasha lifted her head off his shoulder and caught Data's hand. She twisted her fingers through his own and held it tight.

Tasha locked eyes with Data.

He growled and tightened his grip in the small of Tasha's back to support her.

"Ah, ah, ah, ah."

They had moved past soft words and gentle whispers of love to the sort of low, guttural noises that came when they didn't care about propriety, who passed by in the corridor, or what they might think.

It was the sort of abandon that only came from giving themselves over completely to feeling that transcended biological and synthetic.

The noises that escaped from Tasha's throat grew in both intensity and volume as her sweet tenor filled the air.

Data prayed that he would never have to know her silence.

Tasha threw her head back.

Data dove at her neck, marking the tender flesh there with his teeth. He took pleasure in knowing those marks would still be there the next day, hidden under her uniform collar.

A little secret just for him.

Data also found a sense of pride. The Romulans thought he was an abomination. They thought he didn't deserve to exist.

They were revolted by Data's relationship with Tasha.

Yet, Data was just as driven by desire, just as bound by the emotional need for physical reassurance as any other being.

He longed to be loved and to give in return.

To the Romulans, Data's wish to be human was a wicked, foul thing. They called it unnatural.

Data could think of nothing more natural than making love to the woman he adored.

Jean-Luc Picard sat in silence in his Ready Room with the pendant in his hand.

True to his word, Captain Rixx had beamed over the object so Picard could study it.

Rixx was the Romulan expert — but no one knew the Iconians better than Picard.

Picard studied the pendant in his hand.

The eight-pointed star.

It was heavy. But that was not surprising given its size and construction. There were no obvious clues as to its age.

Picard had first run a structural scan of the object.

According to the tricorder, part of it was made of silver. The other half was gold coated in cobalt oxide to create a deep, charcoal-coloured metal.

The Iconians had poured symbolism into everything. It was one more facet of their culture the Romulans inherited. So, Picard did not want to overlook any detail in his analysis.

Four of the points of the star were silver and four were black. The design of the pendant alternated.

When held on one side, the pendant was silver with black accoutrements. When flipped, it was black with silver accents — almost like someone had put two separate stars together.

"A signal?" Picard mused aloud. "Or two sides of the same face?"

Livingston the fish, who had been hovering in the water, retreated into his rock.

In Iconian legend, the octagonal star was a symbol of wisdom and direction. It also represented balance.

The balance between life and death.

Good and evil.

And the balance between technology and the natural world.

The Iconians had preached the importance of maintaining that equilibrium long before their own demise. Some historians suspected an upset of that balance contributed to the downfall of the Iconians.

Both sides of the pendant featured a different engraving.

On the silver side, a feminine figure stood atop what looked like a fertile field as she banged a drum. Above her shoulder, sat the symbol of a sun.

It said 'Seb-Natan.'

On the reverse side, a second distinctly feminine figure sat atop a hill of skulls. This one blew a horn. The slender curve of a crescent moon lingered behind her.

Seb-Cheneb.

Picard was not familiar with either term.

On both sides, there were words engraved around the image. The words were tiny — barely readable — and set in a way that encircled the centre of the pendant.

They were the same on both sides.

Sum an matsus lysaeihr. Sum an matsus theair. Veonmhith r'Shiar. Lerash'es r'Falek. Obcultus fiduenes secreto Zhat Vash.

The language was an indecipherable mix of Romulan and Iconian. Mostly Iconian, but there were Romulan terms interspersed.

The Iconian language itself was of the primary influences of the Romulan language, much in the same way some branches of Earth's Indo-European language tree descended from Latin.

Picard dangled the chain from his hand. The pendant turned slowly, almost hypnotic in the way it taunted him with information that remained just out of reach.

Picard frowned.

"What secrets do you hold?" he mused.

Jean-Luc got up from his desk.

There was a large trunk that sat in the corner of his Ready Room. It so rarely got any use that he had to be mindful to dust it lest the thick layer give away its contents.

Picard cracked the top. He sifted through a lifetime of memories, awards, and old uniforms.

A year earlier, there would be no way for Jean-Luc to reference this source. Had it not been for their encounter with a Ferengi vessel, Picard would never have been reunited with his personal trunk from the Stargazer.

He had thought his work on Iconia lost — just like the empire itself.

Thanks to Daimon Bok's quest for revenge, Jean-Luc had the best possible source to find answers.

"Ah ha!" he cried in triumph when he found the item in question.

Jean-Luc hauled an old book over to his desk. It was so worn that the binding had started to come undone. The spine bore the wear and tear from decades of use.

The book represented hours upon hours of work from a time when a young Jean-Luc Picard had toiled to copy (by hand) the entirety of notes on Iconian.

He had purchased the massive, leather-bound book from a speciality shop in Paris.

At first, the project was a labour of love. Picard thought it would help denote Iconian facts to memory and demonstrate his commitment to learning.

By the end, he was so consumed with bitter determination to finish the damn thing that he spent two hours a night working on it — forgoing more than a few parties and an offer to join one then-Beverly Howard for a performance of Twelfth Night in the park.

Picard had translated an Iconian epic poem that night.

The women he loved had taken Jack Crusher instead and the rest was history.

There were many nights when Jean-Luc sat alone in his office and reflected on the choices he'd made in his youth. From time to time, he pondered whether his decision to prioritise his career and his passion for discovery were worth all that he'd given up.

But tonight was not one of them.

Picard furiously flipped to the back of the book where he had included a dictionary of known Iconian words.

He froze.

Zhat Vash was an Iconian word.

There, scrawled in his own hand was a note from decades before.

Zhat Vash — dead, death (dual meaning, see 'Zhat Vash' under mythology)

"Computer, display Romulan translation search programme," Picard ordered.

The screen of the computer on his desk blinked to life.

Jean-Luc glanced over at the pendant again as he studied the image of the feminine figure blowing on a horn.

"Computer, start with Seb-Cheneb," Picard ordered.

It was nearly 21:00 hours.

Tasha had barely slept in the last forty-eight hours.

And yet, she was still awake.

Data was lying on the sofa. Tasha was stretched out on top of him. She sighed contentedly as Data caressed the scar on her bicep.

He had sought to catalogue all of them with new meaning.

"This one?" he asked.

"Rolled into a campfire," Tasha said.

After that, she kept a few metres clear— even if it meant sleeping cold.

Data dropped his hand to her leg where there was a particularly long scar on the back of Tasha's thigh.

"And this one?" he inquired.

She shivered as his fingers ghosted along the scarred tissue.

"A horn," Tasha said without elaboration.

"A horn?" Data pressed.

"An aurochs," Tasha said.

Data frowned. He cocked his head to the side as he considered this. As an exobiologist, Data was familiar with the species.

Once long extinct on Earth, there were any number of similar species all called 'aurochs' on a number of planets.

They were an impressive species of cattle with massive, elongated horns. Aurochs were closer in size to buffalo than to that of any cow.

"Tasha, how did you—"

Data trailed off. He wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

"I was very nearly mauled by an aurochs," she answered.

Data blinked slowly as he tried to process this revelation. Tasha had been a child on Turkana where such megafauna still existed.

Data was both impressed and alarmed that such a young girl had managed to escape from one.

"How?"

It was all Data could think to ask.

"I almost lost a fight to an aurochs," Tasha said.

Data knew she wasn't just being funny. Tasha's response had been drenched in sarcasm. It was something she only did when she was trying to hide how she truly felt.

Tasha took a breath to steady her nerves. She hoped Data would move on, that curiosity would compel to keep moving through all of the scars he had yet to denote to memory.

"That is the fourth time you have attributed a scar to a fight," Data observed. "Was such an occurrence so common on Turkana?"

She wasn't ready to tell Data what 'Yar' really meant.

She didn't have the heart to share that with him. Tasha never wanted Data to find out about that part of her life.

"Or were you just prone to fighting?" Data teased.

"Only when I had to," Tasha replied in a faraway voice.

Data sensed he had touched on a delicate topic. He did not wish to press her, so he let the matter go — or so he thought.

His hand dropped to Tasha's side.

She tensed as Data's fingers trailed over the tattoo and raised flesh there.

"And this one?"

It was the only scar that Tasha had specifically tried to obscure with a tattoo. Data had long wanted to inquire as to the meaning.

The smoking feather conjured images from Tasha's stories of Sela and Nastasiyla.

But Data knew the thick keloid scar was not like Tasha's other scars. He had first spied the difference during the polywater incident.

To anyone else, it looked like a perfectly ordinary scar surrounded by ink.

But Data suspected the ink was a clever guise to hide a symbol within the keloid scar tissue. He also knew that symbol glowed under blacklight (and that Tasha was unaware of his knowledge on that subject).

At the start of their relationship, Data had been keen to research the symbol as he was not familiar with it.

Out of respect for Tasha, he did not.

Data surmised she would tell him someday when she was ready.

But as she had been amenable to his request to ask about her other scars, Data's natural curiosity had won out.

"Is this one special?" Data asked.

"No," Tasha said.

She wasn't trying to deceive Data. Tasha refused to grant any special meaning to the mark that marred her body.

It was Turgon's mark. Tasha had been branded as a baby just as all Yars were.

She may have carried the mark since her birth, but she rejected the notion that such a mark defined who she was.

"It feels like a pattern," Data said as he traced the design.

"It is nothing. It means nothing," Tasha said.

"How did you come by this scar?" Data asked.

He was only trying to be polite.

"A burn," Tasha said.

"Hmm," Data replied in his usual way.

To Tasha's dismay, he did not move on.

"What did you burn yourself on?"

Tasha wanted to close her eyes and grumble in frustration. But years of covert operations training had equipped her to cover with ease.

Any sort of visible agitation would only fuel Data's curiosity.

So, Tasha did not react.

"I was very little. Too young to remember it happening. I was just a baby," Tasha answered.

Technically, it wasn't a lie.

Suddenly, Tasha sat up.

"We should eat," she announced.

Data knew it was an attempt to change the subject. He didn't have the heart to push back.

"I will fetch our meal," Data said.

As he got up from the sofa, Tasha's hand shot. She caught Data's wrist and pulled him back toward her.

"I love you, Data," Tasha said.

"Such a feeling is not in question," Data assured her.

Data returned a moment later with two poke bowls. They sat in silence as Tasha inhaled her wasabi-smothered salmon and mango. Her stomach was crying for nutrients.

As Tasha chewed on a mouthful of rice, her gaze shifted to the nebula cloud outside the window.

It truly was a beautiful sight.

"I am glad we are staying here tonight," Data said.

"Yeah," Tasha replied.

Even the tempting flavours of avocado and cilantro were not enough to tear her eyes away from the nebula.

Tasha was transfixed. She barely registered as Data reached up to tuck an errant strand of hair back from her face.

"Do you wish to sleep out here tonight?" Data asked.

"Uh huh," Tasha nodded.

"Humans have studied nebulae for centuries," Data said. "The supernova that created the Crab Nebula was observed by ancient Chinese and Arabic astronomers more than three centuries before Gutenberg created his press."

Geordi was the real expert on ancient Terran astronomy due to his fascination with sailing. But Data knew enough to be dangerous.

"It's almost like watching storm clouds. But more lovely," Tasha remarked.

"The visible light is caused by spectral line radiation emitted by ionised hydrogen particles," Data said. "A thousand years ago, this was a star."

It had gone supernova.

"Now this is all that is left," Data said.

There was no telling how many people or species had been wiped out when the star went supernova. It was rather humbling to see the nebula and know it had once been the source of light and heat for this region of space.

People and stories and civilisations reduced to nothing more than dust.

"It is a complex mix of ionised hydrogen and cosmic dust," Data explained. "And someday it will begin to form denser regions. It will attract more matter over time. Eventually, those dense pockets will continue to grow and expand."

Tasha listened with rapt attention as Data walked her through the process.

"It will collapse from gravitational pressure and create a protostar," Data said.

"A baby star?" Tasha asked.

Data was tempted to say 'no' and launch into a detailed description of how a protostar differed from a star.

But Tasha glanced over and flashed him a wry smirk. She knew her answer was simplistic and hardly on par with Data's understanding.

"Yes," Data said. "A baby star."

A smile broke out on her face before she turned back to the window.

"And one day, the core of that protostar will grow hot enough to ignite fusion," Data described. "And that star may go on heat a whole system."

"So, all of this will be a star someday," Tasha said in awe.

"Not all of it. Some of the other material might form into asteroids or other stellar matter – even planets," Data said. "And those planets might support life."

Data realised he might very well still be alive one day to see it.

"Well, I think it's sort of beautiful just like this," Tasha said.

She thought it was far more breathtaking than a sun.

"We are looking at the building blocks of a whole system. The very beginning," Data said.

"It's like a womb. Marinating a little baby star," Tasha said.

Data pulled Tasha close and pressed a tender kiss against her temple.

"Even the iron in your blood and the lithium in my power cell can be traced back to the cosmic dust left in the wake of the big bang," Data said.

"We are stardust," Tasha realised.

"You could say that," Data acknowledged.

Tasha glanced up at Data.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I mean we are stardust."

Data tilted his head to the right. He didn't follow.

"You came from stardust. So did I. So did everyone on this ship," Tasha said.

She cupped Data's face.

"We are more alike than we are different," Tasha said, echoing her earlier assertion.

Data didn't know what to say.

He had never thought of it like that.

Tasha turned her head back toward the window.

"And this? This isn't the end. It's the beginning of our life together. I can feel it," Tasha said.

She had never felt so sure of anything before. Data could feel it too. That unbreakable spirit radiated off Tasha. It was infectious.

"May I take you out tomorrow?" Data asked.

He stopped prefacing his questions with caveats like 'when this situation is over' or 'once the crisis had passed.'

Data wasn't going to wait.

Sure, they couldn't hop a shuttle to Føroyar.

Yet.

Their wedding plans remained on hold. But they remained on hold not because Romulans or corrupt Starfleet officials had led to travel restrictions.

They remained on hold because Data and Tasha wanted their idea of a perfect wedding.

There was a Romulan spy on board. The enemy had invaded the Enterprise.

Their home.

Without words, an understanding passed between Data and Tasha. They were not going to allow the Romulans or any other threat to stop them from living, from making plans for their life together.

"I would like to take you to Ten Forward," Data said.

Tasha turned back and grinned.

"It's a date," she declared.

She gave him a quick peck on the lips.

"I don't know what I did to deserve you, Data. But I am going to spend the rest of my life loving you," Tasha said.

"The rest of your life?" Data asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Uh huh," Tasha replied.

She shoved a thick piece of salmon into her mouth.

"Does that include tomorrow?" Data asked in his signature deadpan manner.

"Mmm hmm," Tasha replied through a mouthful of food.

"What about the day after that?"

"Oh, I always love you on Tuesdays," Tasha answered.

Tasha dropped her head to look at her bowl to hide her inability to keep a straight face.

"Hmmm," Data replied.

He cupped his own chin, frowned, and tapped his finger there as if to mimic that he was in deep thought.

"What about next week?"

"Of course," Tasha responded as if they were simply scheduling an interdepartmental meeting.

"I see," Data replied, nodding slowly.

He placed his elbows on top of his thighs and folded his hands before resting his chin atop them. Tasha knew Data was doing it on purpose. He wanted her to break first.

"And will you love me fifty days from now?" Data asked.

"Most definitely," Tasha replied with a small, dismissive wave of her hand.

"And the day after that?"

It was a game now.

Data was poking her, trying to force Tasha to laugh. He knew she was close. And once he had her going, she would collapse in a fit of giggles.

They both needed it.

There was no guarantee they would even have tomorrow. But they were both too exhausted and emotionally frayed to let it bring them down.

To Data's delight, Tasha held out longer than expected and gave as good as she got.

"And the day after that one?" Data continued.

Tasha stopped.

She set her bowl down and put on the most serious face she could muster.

"That is fifty-six days from now," Tasha said.

Data said nothing, maintaining his own stoic demeanour.

"That is a long way off," Tasha said, clucking her tongue. "I will have to check my schedule. It would only be prudent to check."

She paused and sighed dramatically.

"I suppose we'll just have to wait and see."

Tasha shrieked as Data whacked her with one of the decorative pillows on the sofa.

"You hit me!" she roared, amused.

Data stopped and handed over the pillow.

"Then it would only be fair to allow you to return the action," Data said.

Tasha swung.

Data dipped out of the way just in the nick of time.

"Forgive me. It is instinct to avoid impact," Data said innocently.

Tasha was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. But when she tried again, Data once more dodged her swing.

"Not fair," she said, laughing.

"Perhaps a third attempt would be successful?" Data suggested.

"I should know better than to even try against you. You're too fast," Tasha said.

In a flash, Data tackled her.

"And you love it," he growled.

There was nothing Jean-Luc Picard loved more than a good mystery — particularly one rich with symbolism and framed by political intrigue.

Now that he found himself thrust into the heart of such a mystery, all he wanted to do was retreat as far and as fast as he could from anything involving Iconia.

Jean-Luc stared down at the handwritten notes on his desk.

Sure, he could translate the different Iconian and Romulan words. He had put together a number of possible translations.

Though Romulans were infamous for their use of clever double meanings. Jean-Luc wouldn't put it past them to layer this pendant with more than a few tricks designed to throw off any unwelcome discoveries.

Jean-Luc had attempted to break down the passage into manageable chunks. But that only added to the confusion.

For example, the start of the passage used the term 'lysaehir.'

In its root form, 'lys' was the Iconian word for light, while 'saehir' was one of many Romulan words for star.

'Lysaehir' was a Romulan term used for mother, starlight, or even sun depending on the context.

Toward the end of the passage was the phrase 'Atugresus Lerash'es r'Falek.'

That statement alone could mean 'iron forged in fire' or 'iron consumed by flames' or 'that which is made of iron, destroyed.'

What he really needed was a proper expert in Romulan translation to put the whole engraving in context.

But Jean-Luc knew that wasn't possible.

There was a strong possibility any one of the onboard Romulan experts was a spy.

Captain Picard pinched the bridge of his nose. An exasperated growl rumbled from low in his chest.

The only thing he was certain of was that this pendant spoke of a secret.

Zhat Vash was the Iconian word for the dead. And in accordance with Iconian mythology, the Zhat Vash were also spirits.

Spectres.

It was said the Zhat Vash were a circle of the oldest and wisest shadows. They guarded the knowledge that was too dangerous for the world and could be called up on exact retribution on enemies of the Iconian Empire.

An old Romulan adage warned that the dead were the only reliable keepers of secrets.

It was Romulan tradition to seal prominent treaties with a symbolic honour of death. The Treaty of Algeron had been signed at the Tomb of Emperor Iconius.

Customarily, even Romulan business deals were sealed in graveyards.

It had once been the custom for Romulans to seal significant treaties or agreements with a sacrifice. These sacrifices were not offered to their Divines. Rather, they demonstrated the commitment of each party.

They believed no one would risk breaking the agreement when it came at such a high cost.

At its base level, this meant a symbolic cut on each party to conclude their dealing. For significant compromises like marriage contracts or business dealings, ordinary citizens would offer an animal sacrifice.

Treaties between prominent families or interstellar powers required a greater sacrifice.

Jean-Luc had once read that for the Romulan Empire peace was bought through spilled blood.

Emperor Iconius himself, one of their most revered Emperors, had sacrificed his own daughter to solidify the first Romulan-Klingon alliance.

Then there was the tale of the failed Emperor Braechosus who had refused to sacrifice his own son for peace with the Breen. He was assassinated by his own Praetor days later. His son, Braetonin, suffered a short reign. Within six months, the Empire had descended into anarchy.

It plunged the Empire into civil war (one of many) and two-hundred years of open-conflict with the Breen.

The practice had eventually fallen out of fashion.

Though no longer utilised, the custom lived on in different ways. The act of symbolling cutting one's body and meeting in a graveyard or tomb still carried great meaning for the Romulan populace. And it was not unheard of for prominent Romulan families to take in the child of a defeated rival as a hostage to ensure loyalty.

In many ways, being forced to give over a child as the ward of a rival was considered the symbolic 'death' of one's line.

Captain Picard turned the pendant back and forth in his hands.

"Is that what you are? Life and death?" he asked aloud.

It would explain the skulls on the dark side. Picard wondered if the horn on the opposite side was to represent exposing a secret.

Could it be a herald?

Such a symbol could reasonably be considered the opposite of silence and secret-keeping.

Many cultures had symbolic figures that represented the duality of life and death, dark and light.

The beginning and the end.

There were no Iconian accounts of their own demise. Surviving contemporary sources spoke of the Iconian homeworld devoured by a force that was more powerful than their own advanced technology.

For all their prowess, there was nothing the Iconians could do to prevent their own demise.

Or so the stories went.

It was difficult to distinguish between what was fact and what was merely fiction designed to preach a warning against the hubris of great starfaring powers.

Data would probably be his best bet for someone to bounce ideas off of. Like Picard, Data was aware of the Iconian research recovered by Captain Varley and his team.

Data also knew about as much on Romulan culture as any of the onboard experts.

Jean-Luc would ask in the morning.

He did not wish to disturb Data. The team had just returned from a heavy mission. It took an emotional toll. They had barely slept before being thrust into the next crisis.

Jean-Luc didn't have the heart to go snatch Data away from a much-needed break.

Picard tapped the screen on his computer to open a new message. Data was likely enjoying his rest programme. But Picard had an inkling there was still one person up — and they would be more than willing to talk about the pendant.

"I thought you might be up," Picard said.

Captain Rixx chuckled.

"Can't sleep?" Rixx asked.

"I wanted to ask about the pendant," Picard explained.

"And here I thought you had called just to see my pretty face," Rixx retorted.

Jean-Luc cut straight to the chase.

"What does it mean?" he asked as he held the pendant up in front of the screen.

Picard's brow furrowed. He shook his head.

"I sit here and stare at it, and I can think of dozens of possible meanings – each more intriguing than the last," Picard admitted. "The symbolism. The construction."

He snorted.

"And knowing the Romulans this could all just be a clever practical joke to throw off curious outsiders."

Rixx nodded slowly as he folded his lean, slender fingers in his lap.

"And yet, we are drawn to conspiracy theories because they are so juicy," Rixx said. "We can't help ourselves. Well, that and the Romulans sure do make them interesting."

There were thousands of lectures, academic papers, and books dedicated to Romulan conspiracy theories.

In the Shadow of the Tal Shiar was an award-winning production that had swept through theatres and performance halls from Betazed to Bolius IX.

More than a hundred million Federation residents subscribed to The Enigma Code. It was a monthly periodical that documented alleged Romulan sightings, explored Romulan conspiracy theories, and peddled in general alarm-raising articles.

The magazine had found itself in hot water a few years earlier after a bombastic article that accused renowned Vulcan Ambassador T'Pel of being a secret Romulan agent.

"Truth be told, I don't know as much about the Romulans as I should," Picard said.

He had never appreciated the way Romulan culture had assumed Iconian technology, ideals, and imagery for its own purposes.

"You're the Romulan expert," Picard said.

"And you know far more about Iconia that I ever will," Rixx said.

Rixx was a well-read man — but he was no archaeologist.

"Zhat Vash is Iconian," Picard said.

"Very good," Rixx said.

Captain Picard turned the pendant over, studying both sides before he continued.

"The dead," Jean-Luc sighed.

"The only reliable keeper of secrets," Rixx said, echoing the old Romulan saying.

That connection alone certainly lent credence to the theory Zhat Vash was some sort of intelligence institution or tied to the Tal Shiar.

"But these engravings. This Seb-Cheneb and Seb-Natan. I am not familiar with these terms."

They were not Iconian terms and Jean-Luc had found no mention of them in known Romulan sources.

"What do you know about Romulan mythology?" Rixx asked.

"Truthfully, I've learned more these last few days than I ever cared to know," Picard replied.

Captain Rixx flashed Picard a sympathetic smile.

"I've spent decades studying it. For as much as it dominates the Romulan political landscape, they are not keen to share it with outsiders," Rixx informed him.

Little information had leaked out. Federation knowledge largely relied on the information gleaned from defectors — many of whom were not keen to discuss such aspects of Romulan society.

"The Romulans lifted heavily from the Iconians. They embraced much of the Iconian imagery. But it's more than that," Rixx said.

Romulans had long sought to trace their lineage back to the Iconians. Such ties were dubious at best.

"But there are links between Iconian influence and numerous proto-Vulcanoid peoples along the Neutral Zone," Rixx said.

Archaeological records and recent scientific surveys supported that theory. The study of numerous non-warp capable Vulcanoid peoples was a hot research topic for the Vulcan Science Academy, the Rigellian Institute of Sciences, and Starfleet.

Long-term survey missions to observe the Mintakans, the Sulasians, and the semi-aquatic dwelling Volturnians were all priority projects.

"We know that nearly two-thousand years ago, the Vulcanoid people experienced a long and bloody conflict that ended with a cultural upheaval," Rixx said.

"Mmm," Picard murmured, nodding in agreement. "The Vulcan Time of Awakening."

In the annals of Vulcan history, this period marked a significant change in Vulcan culture.

The conflict that predated the Time of Awakening had claimed countless lives. Numerous Vulcan colonies were decimated – some were left inhospitable.

Vulcan itself had taken two centuries to fully recover from the environmental impact of such devastation.

The conflict marked a division.

The people that would become known to history as 'Vulcans' cast aside their violent ways to embrace pacifism, logic, and the teachings of Surak.

Meanwhile, a rival group of dissidents did not embrace Surak's philosophy. They wanted to continue the old ways.

They were known as Subrum Aquilae or 'those who marched under the banner of the raptor.'

Their leader was a man named Montus. He was the Governor General of a colony in the Beta Quadrant on the planet that would eventually become Romulus.

Vulcan history recorded that Montus and his followers did not have the numbers to suppress Surak. They were given an ultimatum to reject the old ways or leave.

In the end, they chose exile.

Montus and his followers declared themselves an independent empire. Montus was named the first Emperor and renamed the planet 'Romulus' in honour of the Iconian mythological figure.

They would go on to conquer other neighbouring colonies and new worlds, eventually becoming the Romulan Star Empire of the modern era.

"The Romulans have a different tale. Their history records that Governor Montus and his people chose to resettle on Romulus, exiling all of the weakest among them to Vulcan," Rixx said.

As with most great lies, there was a grain of truth to this revisionist account. Vulcan had been devastated by centuries of conflict.

At the time, the colony on Romulus was the most prosperous in the ancient Vulcan world. It offered fertile ground. The water had not been contaminated. It offered a new, rich escape from a planet ravaged by war.

"Much like the Byzantium of your world succeeded Rome, so Romulus became the successor of the old Vulcanoid ways," Rixx said.

It was a matter neither power was particularly keen to discuss.

The Romulans considered Vulcans their natural enemies – a wound that had festered for more than a thousand years.

The Vulcans treated Romulans like they were a dirty little secret. As much as they preached about logic, Vulcans still carried the collective emotional wound of their own fraught history.

And the Romulans were a bitter reminder of the worst parts of that saga.

"Montus wasn't just the first Emperor. He was a student of history and military tactics. And by all accounts — the most egotistical arse that side of the Neutral Zone," Rixx said.

It was how Montus had distinguished himself as a commander.

Montus wasn't the first Vulcanoid to claim heritage from the ancient Iconians. But he was the one that made it an artform.

"The new Vulcan belief retained their old polytheistic theology as nothing more than mythology and fables. Doctrines became literature. Temples of worship became museums," Rixx went on.

That did not sit well with the ancient Romulans. The Vulcans called themselves enlightened. The Romulans took that as an intentional slight against both them and the old ways.

"They also sought to distinguish themselves, to cut off all ties to Vulcan. So, Montus sought to reinvent their old religion in a way that was advantageous to his new Empire. In a way that strengthened the claim of Romulan superiority."

The glorious reformation.

"He reworked the pantheon of deities, borrowed from other Vulcanoid creation mythology, and in some places outright stole from other cultures," Rixx outlined. "Montus wanted to blend the old belief with the Iconian legend because it had formed and reinforced the central parts of his own philosophy."

Military prowess.

Weapons superiority.

The divine right of conquest.

The old Vulcan mother-creator deity became the divine Imperial Mother.

The Vulcan god known as 'the wandered' that represented the lack of knowledge took on a darker turn as the Romulan Divine Shadow.

"So, where do Seb-Cheneb and Seb-Natan fit in?" Picard asked.

"Perhaps the most intriguing of all," Rixx said.

Jean-Luc pursed his lips. He was desperate for an answer.

"They don't exist before the Time of Awakening," Rixx said. "They aren't borrowed from the old Vulcanoid religion or reworked from Iconian legend. In fact, there is no known equivalent in comparable mythology."

Now he had Jean-Luc's attention.

"What are you saying?" Picard pressed.

Rixx shifted in his chair and leaned forward on his desk.

"I cannot tell you how or why they were created. I do not know if they were created by Montus. But what I can tell you, is that this concept is uniquely Romulan," Rixx said.

Rixx clicked his computer. A second later, Jean-Luc saw a new file in his inbox.

"The story of Ganmadan is a Romulan tale of the end of days. Seb-Natan is a character from that story. She is also known as the Foreteller."

Jean-Luc stared in awe at the image on the screen.

"This picture was taken from an Imperial shrine on the Ravennus colony. It was smuggled out by one of my operatives," Rixx explained.

Starfleet intelligence hadn't cared much for the information, but Rixx thought it was essential to understanding the Romulan people.

"Seb-Natan is not worshipped as a deity. Though she is regarded as a non-mortal being," Rixx continued.

According to Romulan legend, the drum Seb-Natan played was the beat of time itself.

"It is said that she loved her empire so deeply that she never ceased. Forges were fuelled to the beat of her song. The fires of industry were stoked in time to the music. Seeds were sown to that tempo."

It reinforced the Romulan tenet of service to the Empire.

"And when the Empire went to war, it was the drum of Seb-Natan that her people marched to. She played her drum until her heart burst," Rixx said.

Duty unto death.

"And when she died, her twin sister was so overcome with grief that she sounded the ancient horn of war," Rixx said.

"Seb-Cheneb," Picard breathed.

Rixx clicked to move to the next image. It was a horrifying mural painting of demonic beings tearing into the flesh of people as the world was consumed by fire.

"Seb-Cheneb summoned a hellbeast. A thousand days of pain followed until the world was purified by fire," Rixx said.

If the artwork was any indication, it was a gruesome sight. It reminded Jean-Luc of Earth's own romantic-era oil paintings with dark religious imagery.

"And so, the world burned until all that was once iron was consumed by the flame and reduced to ash. And the world returned to silence," Rixx concluded.

Jean-Luc frowned.

"Now that is familiar," Picard said.

"There are certainly similarities to the legend of the fall of the Iconian Empire," Rixx acknowledged.

But those similarities only extended as far as the end of the story.

"Then is this a warning about the hubris of great power?" Picard asked.

Rixx shrugged nonchalantly.

"From what I can gather, some Romulans believe this is nothing more than a creation myth. Some think it is a prophecy about the end of days," Rixx said. "To others, it is history."

Jean-Luc blinked quickly as he processed this information.

"Then this, this pendant is what? A representation of the fall of Iconia?"

"Possibly. Some theorise it might be a symbolic retelling of the split between the Vulcans and the Romulans," Rixx said.

He paused.

"And there are other theories."

Jean-Luc raised one eyebrow.

"Other theories?"

Rixx nodded.

"It could simply be a story of the natural evolution of any great power. Empires rise and fall. Society grows until the bubble bursts, and it all starts up again," Rixx said.

"But that's not what you think," Picard said, noting a slight change in Rixx's tone.

Rixx sighed.

It was evident they had wandered deep into the weeds of philosophy.

"I've heard rumours."

It was all Rixx said.

"Rumours of what?" Picard asked in a terse voice.

He was in no mood to dance.

"What indeed," Rixx replied.

Jean-Luc was about to tell his counterpart off when Rixx put up his hand to stop him.

"I'm not trying to play games with you. It's a big universe," Rixx said. "Some Romulans have indicated a belief in something more."

He stopped and frowned.

"That this Seb-Cheneb and Seb-Natan might be actual beings. I've never gotten a straight answer," Rixx said. "Does that mean they're powerful deities like this Q you've encountered? Or maybe some sort of advanced humanoid?"

Rixx shrugged.

"Hell, for all we know they could be androids like your Second Officer," Rixx said.

He grinned.

"One thing these legends do have in common is that this Ganmadan hellbeast is a pale-faced creature with yellow eyes," Rixx said.

"Are you saying some Romulans believe Seb-Cheneb and Seb-Natan are real? Like another species? Or some type of interdimensional being?" Picard asked.

"Like I said — it's a big universe," Riker replied.

If Picard's own experience was any indication, there was an untold number of species still waiting out there to be discovered (or rediscovered).

"Then where does Zhat Vash fit in?" Picard inquired.

"I don't know," Rixx answered in earnest.

Based on their limited understanding, the Zhat Vash could be anything from an intelligence branch of the Tal Shiar to a cult.

Or something in between.

"I've had a number of contacts over the years. Some of them fear the Zhat Vash even more than the Tal Shiar. Others deny its existence altogether," Rixx said.

Romulans were infamous for the lies they built upon their lies.

"The file I sent you is everything I have on Zhat Vash. In all my time on the Neutral Zone, that pendant is the only solid piece of evidence I've gathered to prove its existence," Rixx said.

It was a relief to finally share it with someone that could appreciate its significance.

"I do think it's something," Rixx said. "I don't know what. But it's something."

"Duality is a recurring motif in many cultures. Divine twins too," Picard said.

Rixx chuckled.

"But that's the thing — twins rarely occur in Romulan society," Rixx said.

Jean-Luc's brow furrowed.

"What are you saying?"

"We know so little about them. But Vulcans are much the same. It's genetic. From what I understand, your species has a number of ways multiple births can occur," Rixx said.

Jean-Luc nodded.

"That's correct," he said.

"It just isn't the case with Vulcanoids," Rixx explained.

It wasn't entirely impossible. There were people with mixed Vulcan-human ancestry that had given birth to multiples.

"And Romulans would probably view that as a pollution of the gene pool," Picard realised.

"They are ever so exclusive," Rixx teased.

There was no telling for certain as Rixx had never come across a documented case of Romulan twins.

"If it is alright with you, I would like to take a few scans of this pendant before I transport it back."

"By all means," Rixx said with a nod.

When Jean-Luc went to bed that night, he found it hard to enjoy his rest. He tossed and turned in his bed.

His dreams were dominated by nightmares of flying the Enterprise into a great sun. The ship was engulfed in flames. The crew pleaded for him to stop.

But all Picard could think of was chasing the dream of discovery.

And as the consoles melted and the heat consumed his chair, Picard ordered the crew to maintain their course.

The air was choked with ash and soot. Deanna urged him to stop. Beverly lectured Picard until she was blue in the face.

And in the dream, Picard had an argument with Riker before the First Officer disappeared into the fire.

Jean-Luc could feel himself drawing closer. He wasn't even entirely sure what it was he was after.

From the helm, Wesley Crusher advised the shields were about to fail.

It was in this moment that Jean-Luc weighed the possibility of turning back.

Dream Data turned his seat.

"Sir, it will make no difference to turn back. The ship will be destroyed long before we return to safety," Data advised in his ever-composed demeanour.

Jean-Luc froze. His gaze was fixated on the blinding light ahead as they ship passed into the star's corona.

"Your orders, sir?" Data prompted.

"I don't know," Jean-Luc said.

"Sir?" Data urged in an infuriatingly calm manner that ill befit the situation.

But Picard was at a loss.

"I don't know. I don't know if this is the end or the beginning," he remarked.

Several decks below, Data was enjoying the perfect end to a terrible day.

He was still awake, watching the nebula and thinking about nothing and everything all at once.

Tasha was fast asleep.

She had drifted off listening to Data somewhere between Data's analysis of Gustov Holst's The Planets and his thoughts on the phenomenon of dark nebulae.

It had been a trying day — exacerbated by the lack of sleep and the weight of the last mission.

The Romulans loomed out there like an unseen shadow. They had infiltrated the Enterprise.

They had come into Data's home.

Our home. Data thought.

He cocked his head to the side.

Our home.

Yes, Data liked the sound of that.

Data surveyed the darkened room. Tasha had indeed done considerable work. He understood it was her favourite coping mechanism.

But this felt like more.

Data and Tasha had promised to get a cat on Føroyar. Adopting a furry companion was a symbolic first step together toward building the family they wanted.

Data adored all creatures great and small. He found felines particularly intriguing.

Tasha had not taken another companion since the loss of her beloved cat Speckle more than a decade earlier.

A soft snuggle with a cat was the only thing missing from this perfect conclusion to the evening.

With Tasha in his arms and such a lovely view, Data could rest easy.

And what a view!

The soft clouds and swirling cosmic dust of the nebula were enough to keep Data awake all night. He didn't want to close his eyes.

And Data realised (with a pang of remorse) that this view would not have been visible from the comfort of his own quarters.

He had no window to look out upon the stars.

Tasha stirred and shifted, nuzzling back down against Data's torso.

Data stroked her hair. He watched the gentle rise and fall of her back before he turned toward the window again.

This window to the stars was important to Tasha.

As a girl, she had dreamed of escaping into them. Now that same inky expanse was her refuge. It was the place they both retreated to after a long day.

But there was more to Tasha's quarters than just physical space.

Many of the milestones of their relationship had occurred within the walls of Tasha's quarters.

Data would never forget the sight of Tasha standing in her doorframe on that fateful afternoon when they had first acted upon their feelings.

Tasha was lying on the same sofa when she nearly died after an encounter with a rogue energy entity wreaked havoc on the environmental controls.

In that moment, Data had confessed he cared about Tasha a lot more than he was supposed to.

They had initiated their relationship on the same sofa.

It was within those quarters where they laughed while reading, held each other on the hardest of days, and exchanged smiles over breakfast.

Tasha's quarters were filled with memories.

It was the first place Tasha had said that she loved Data – and the first time Data had ever heard those words from anyone.

As Data glanced around the room, he realised his own quarters were ill-suited for expansion.

They would never do for a cat.

Tasha mumbled in her sleep, drawing Data's attention back from his own thoughts. As he stroked his fingers through Tasha's hair, everything else seemed to melt away.

At that moment, Data made an important decision.

He would put in a formal request for family quarters. In the meantime, Data would make preparations to move into Tasha's quarters.

He would give up his own space (including the oversized tub) to convert his quarters into an office. It would take several weeks to sort out the details. The transformation itself would have to wait until their mission with the Romulans was over – assuming they survived.

Data was resolved that their relationship was his biggest priority.

Nothing was going to hold them back.

All other matters were trivial.

Data couldn't help but smile. His neural net flooded with a sense he could only liken to the human experience of an endorphin rush. He had never felt so certain of anything.

He gently kissed Tasha's cheek.

"Sleep, my darling. For I have so much to tell you in the morning," Data whispered.

USS Yamato | Romulan Space

Donald Varley pinched the bridge of his nose. He rubbed his eyes and sighed.

"Computer, coffee. Black. Hot," Varley ordered.

As he raised the cup of warm, bitter liquid to his lips.

The lights flickered overhead.

Varley paused and the flickering stopped.

But just as he was about to enjoy that first sip, the power went out. Then Red Alert klaxons began to blare.

Varley hissed as he spilled hot coffee down the front of his uniform. He winced in pain as it burned his hand.

"Dammit."

He needed to tend to the burn and the spilled coffee. Varley also needed a new uniform. But there were more pressing matters.

Captain Varley was still standing in the dark.

In silence.

The emergency backups had not come online.

Captain Varley took a series of slow, steady breaths as his eyes adjusted to the dark. He managed to return the cup to the replicator tray and felt his way to his desk.

There was a torch in the top drawer.

It was no use trying his combadge — communications were offline. They had been sporadic for hours and were now down completely.

Suddenly, there was a commotion outside the door.

Three officers managed to slide the door open with the assistance of an emergency power pack.

"Captain! We've got a situation."

"The backups haven't come online."

"We can't reach Engineering!"

Everyone was talking at once. Without the backups, they had less than an hour before the primary shield grid would fail — leaving the ship exposed to space.

Without warning, the lights came on. The gentle hum of the environmental system returned, and air began to flood the room.

Someone hollered from outside that the bulkheads had released, allowing passage through the Jefferies tubes once again.

The crew of the Yamato had long since given up on trying to use the lifts.

Something was terribly wrong with the ship.

Earlier that day, the Yamato had arrived at a previously unknown planet located at coordinates 227 mark 359.

They were still well within the Neutral Zone and closer to Romulan territory than Federation space.

Varley had been chasing a lead from his mysterious source. By all accounts, this was the lead. The one that would upend everything the knew about Iconia.

The one that would end this chase to beat the Romulans at their own desperate attempts to steal Iconian technology.

And what a find it was.

All evidence indicated it was the largest Iconian structure left in existence — perhaps even their fabled homeworld.

Initial scans had indicated nothing beyond a desolate planet and a few isolated ruins. Whatever had once been there was long gone and all that remained was pumice and ash.

Though there was water present on the surface, it bubbled and smoked, oozing foul, sulphuric vapours powered by strong geothermal activity below the surface.

Scans and probe data showed long forgotten structures in pockets buried well beneath layers of solidified rock.

Varley's Chief Science Officer theorised that an ultra-Plinian eruption had likely devastated the planet at some point in the past — and several times since.

There was no way to date those eruptions without further study of the geological evidence.

Only Captain Varley couldn't dispatch a team.

He had authorised an away team. But there was no way for them to leave the ship.

The Yamato had been scanned by an unusual orbital probe shortly after arrival. They had taken the device aboard for further study.

If it was Romulan technology, they wanted to be sure to deactivate it. And if it was Iconian, they absolutely didn't want to leave it around for the Romulans to find.

Varley's source had warned a Romulan team was inbound to recover any information on the planet's surface.

Hours earlier, the Yamato had received an urgent hail from Jean-Luc. It warned that his code was confirmed to be used by Romulan espionage agents and it urged Varley to abandon his mission.

Donald had ignored the request.

He didn't care if it was a trap.

The Romulans were determined to hunt down Iconian technology and turn it against their enemies. Varley was uniquely positioned to understand exactly how dangerous a threat that was.

He was risking his ship and his crew – but Varley believed stopping the Romulans was that important.

Donald had anticipated they may run into problems. They could find nothing at all or a Romulan contingent waiting for them.

He was ready to shoot his way out and run like hell if it came down to it.

He had never anticipated his own ship would turn against him.

Worst of all, there was no way what caused the mysterious malfunctions that had plagued the Yamato. It was possible the probe they had taken aboard was a booby trap of sorts, programmed to infect the ship with an unknown virus that rendered it combat ineffective.

But whether that was due to old Iconian defensive technology or Romulan interference remained unknown.

With all the power fluctuations and computer problems, there was no way to properly study the device.

It was also possible there was a saboteur aboard.

Varley's attention settled on the framed picture that sat atop his desk. That photo was nearly forty years old. He had been a young man then.

The photograph had been taken on Varley's first assignment after Starfleet Academy.

It was before the Yamato and the Enterprise and the Horatio.

Before the moustache.

It was from a time when Gregory Quinn had taken a promising group of young people and moulded them into fine officers.

The people in that picture were Varley's closest friends. They called themselves the 'Great Eight.'

Now Gregory Quinn was gone.

Walker Keel, Cort Zweller, and Jack Crusher were dead.

Marta Batanides was halfway across the galaxy on a long-term exploratory mission.

And Jean-Luc Picard and Beverly Crusher were facing just as much danger as Varley.

"Do we have any probes left?" Varley asked.

"Yes, sir. But I don't see what we could gain from launching another probe. We have no operable terminals for study and-"

Varley cut off his Operations Chief.

"I don't want to study the planet. I need to get a message out," Varley explained.