Counselor Troi was already seated at Picard’s left. Her dark eyes were fixed on the sleek, catamaran‑like image that had just taken shape on the viewer.
“The U.S.S. Thunderchild,”Picard said. “The new Akiraclass. One of Starfleet’s latest designs.”
“Thunderchild,”Troi repeated. “What a peculiar name.”
Standing beside one of the starboard science consoles, Lieutenant Commander Data watched the approaching ship with evident appreciation. “Actually, the starship’s nomenclature is an allusion to the imaginative literature of Earth’s late nineteenth century. In The War of the Worldsby H. G. Wells, the H.M.S. Thunderchildwas one of the vessels the British navy sent to fend off an invasion by hostile Martians.”
Picard heard Hawk’s quiet chuckle. He recalled then that Hawk had grown up on Mars.
“And how did the Thunderchild’s crew fare against these . . . Martians?” Troi asked Data, her eyes brimming with restrained amusement.
“They were . . . not entirely successful. However, the literary genre in question was often prone to unfounded speculation, well into the twenty‑first century. Many of these works contain an abundance of factual inaccuracies.”
“Such as the existence of bloodthirsty, tentacled Martians,” Riker deadpanned.
Data nodded. “Precisely, Commander.”
Picard remembered The War of the Worldswell, having savored the Victorian tale of alien invasion several times during his boyhood in Labarre, France. He had reread it during his Starfleet Academy days, and again years later aboard the Stargazer.He could only hope that this latter‑day Thunderchildwould never face a crisis like the one that had beset her literary namesake.
“We are now within transporter range,” Data said.
A tall, slender Skorr female, whose golden‑feathered wings were closed unobtrusively behind her, swiveled from behind a communications console toward the bridge’s center. “They’re hailing us, Captain,” the avian said.
“Thank you, Ensign Rixa,” Picard said, rising to his feet. “Thunderchild,this is Captain Jean‑Luc Picard of the Enterprise.”
The image on the viewer shifted, displaying the Thunderchild’s bridge, where a half‑dozen Starfleet officers busied themselves at various tasks. A uniformed human female, fiftyish, occupied the captain’s chair. To her right sat a male humanoid of robust middle age, dressed in a high‑collared, gray civilian suit. Picard could not recall ever having seen him before. Sitting at the captain’s other side was a slightly built, silver‑haired human woman, wearing Starfleet regalia and an admiral’s pips.
Picard recognized her instantly. Had his heart not been artificial, it might have skipped a beat. He suddenly became aware of Troi watching him, her eyebrows slightly raised in an unspoken question.
“Captain Picard,” the Thunderchild’s commander said. “I am Captain Evelyn Hoffman. Please allow me to introduce the Federation’s special envoy, Ambassador Aubin Tabor.”
The civilian beside Hoffman smiled and nodded in Picard’s direction. He projected an air of authority that was just short of arrogance. When he spoke, his words were crisp and precisely measured.
“I am looking forward to working with you and your crew, Captain Picard.”
Picard noticed the gray mottling at the man’s temples, markings that identified him as a member of the telepathic Ullian species. He could now see a good reason for putting aside his initial umbrage at not having been selected to head up the Chiarosan diplomatic mission; having a true telepath in the thick of things might be a real boon to the coming negotiations.
“Likewise, Mr. Tabor,” Picard said, bowing his head slightly.
“And this is Vice‑Admiral Marta Batanides,” Hoffman said as the silver‑haired woman smiled and rose to her feet. Picard was struck by how little she had changed during the forty‑odd years since they had exchanged their farewells at Starbase Earhart. Certainly, her hair color was different, her rank had advanced, and many small lines now framed her eyes. But those eyes and that winsome smile took him straight back to his hell‑for‑leather Academy days.
“Captain,” she said simply. Though her tone was businesslike, her smile struck him as mischievous.
Picard’s throat suddenly felt as dry as the desert on Lambda Paz. “Admiral. We’ll beam you and the ambassador aboard as soon as you’re ready.”
“We are ready now,Captain,” Tabor said, rising and taking a step toward one of the turbolifts. “The sooner we get under way the better. And I would appreciate it if you would organize a briefing so that I can bring your senior staff up to speed on some of the difficulties we’ll be facing. Say in thirty minutes?”
“Absolutely, Ambassador. In the meantime, my first officer will see that you are issued appropriate quarters.”
Apparently satisfied, Tabor dismissed Picard with a nod, then strode toward the Thunderchild’s turbolift, with the admiral in tow. Captain Hoffman signed off, and the viewer once again displayed the other vessel. “I’ll meet them in transporter room three,” Riker said, then excused himself from the bridge as several betawatch officers entered, their shifts about to begin.
Picard faced the helm. “Mr. Hawk, make best speed to Chiaros IV as soon as our guests are aboard.”
“Aye, sir. ETA in approximately twenty‑three hours.”
“Mr. Data, you have the conn,” Picard said as he walked back toward his ready room.
Marta,Picard thought. Whatever have you been up to all these years?
Even after the ready‑room doors had closed behind him, he thought he could feel Troi’s inquisitive gaze burning holes into the back of his head.
Awash in memories, Picard ran a finger along the model Stargazer’s warp nacelles when the ready‑room door chime sounded once again.
“Come,” Picard said, facing the door and straightening his uniform tunic with a quick tug. The doors hissed open and Vice‑Admiral Marta Batanides entered.
The doors closed behind her. They were alone together.
She smiled broadly. “Johnny. It’s been a long time.”
“Indeed it has, Marta,” was all he could think of to say.
The admiral took a step toward him and extended her arms. “Don’t tell me you can’t spare a hug for an old friend.”
He paused to look at her face. Even after all these years, she still had the same elfin, graceful quality he had found so endearing during their Academy days. But overlying that was a subtle toughness that only years of experience could bring. Somewhat awkwardly, he allowed himself to be drawn into a firm but chaste embrace.
They separated to arm’s length moments later, and continued regarding one another in companionable silence. Like Picard, Batanides had graduated from the Academy class of ’27, and despite the intensity of his subsequent experiences over the intervening decades, his thoughts often drifted back to those heady yet relatively carefree times, when cadets Jean‑Luc Picard, Marta Batanides, and Cortin Zweller had been an inseparable team. Picard suspected that those days had left an equally strong imprint on Batanides. And although they had never been more than close friends, Picard knew that he would always wonder what he and Marta might have shared together had they both been less caught up in the exigencies of their duties.
And less afraid,he thought wistfully. But that ship sailed long ago.
“Would you like something to drink?” Picard said finally, breaking the long silence.
She grinned. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
He rose, chuckling as he walked toward the replicator niche. “I’m afraid my tastes have become somewhat . . . tamer since we last saw one another. Computer, tea, Earl Grey, hot. Two cups.” The replicator hummed as the beverages materialized.