Open Writing

PROLOGUE

Then.

The void surrenders its charge reluctantly, unwilling to give up its hold on the small craft. Held in the grip of a ’tractor beam, it is drawn into the interior of the much larger vessel. Once there, its rescuers cut away the seals on the doors and enter it cautiously, surveying its dim interior.

In the center of the vessel is a transparent chamber, a squat, circular shape comprised of two sleep modules, one of which is clearly in use. The suited figures of the rescue team crowd round, their helmets reflecting the soft azure glow of the Federation shuttle’s emergency lighting. They gaze in some awe at the chamber’s occupant, then carefully begin the task of its removal.

A short time later, the hypersleep chamber is resting in another place, a place of soft, muted colors and tones. Then the Federation starship, its prize safely aboard, sets its course for home and engages its warp drive.

Within the chamber, the figure lies motionless in a death-like sleep which, even on close examination, would appear to actually be death. His rescuers have decided that he is best left in hypersleep, to allow his recuperation from his injuries to continue. His chest rises almost imperceptibly, once every hundred seconds, and his heartbeat registers at less than twice that rate; a mirror held to his mouth would not fog.

The figure lies, seemingly, in state, his face haggard and drawn, his clothing torn and disheveled. He has a wound in his left shoulder, and his face and hands show signs of flash burns.
He is a man with the mark of battle upon him, but for now, he sleeps, and his dreams, if he has any at all, are undisturbed.

***

CHAPTER ONE

AND THEN THERE WAS ONE

Now.

Peach Grove, Mississippi.
April 25, 2406.

Jean-Luc Picard stood in the warm Mississippi sunshine, watching as the cortege made its way slowly up Main Street towards the cenotaph. The drum-beats of the following escort, men dressed in the gray of antique Confederate Civil War uniforms, sounded out solemnly as Peach Grove’s favorite son, and one of Star Fleet’s most famous, was carried to his final resting place.

Picard, despite his age, stood at full and formal attention as the carriage rolled past, and tried to ignore the chafing of his old dress uniform collar. A miracle the damn thing still fits me after all these years, he thought; good food and fine wines can’t have taken as much of a toll as might have been expected. But then, he reflected wryly, he wouldn’t be the first to take advantage of medicine’s advances in regeneration techniques. Present company definitely included. The man they were honoring today had lived to the amazing age of one hundred and seventy-seven years, a living or, more accurately now, dying advertisement for rejuvenation therapy. And what made it all the more ironic was that he had for so long refused it, and had been one of its most vehement opponents.

Picard watched as the old-fashioned gun carriage, drawn by four horses, approached his position, the coffin draped in the Federation flag. Here and there, dotted amongst the throng, a few flags of the old nineteenth century Confederacy could be seen fluttering bravely. Old passions, memories of Dixie, linger on in the Deep South, reflected Picard. More than twenty generations later, he marveled, and still they remember.

As he waited for the incongruously small procession to pass, drum and fife playing the ancient air that told of Johnny marching home, Picard glanced around at the picturesque scene. The sun was warm on his face, and the blue sky was dotted here and there with small puffs of cloud. A warm breeze stirred the magnolia trees lining the street, sending petals wafting gently to the ground, and Picard took a moment to seek out some of the others attending this most auspicious occasion. Star Fleet personnel, from ordinary crew members to officers, from ensigns to admirals, and right up to the C-in-C herself, stood in the blossom-strewn street rubbing shoulders with the hoi-polloi, residents of this sleepy little southern backwater, as its most honored citizen came home.

For a moment, Picard had a sense of otherness, a notion that there were unseen presences here, and just for an instant, the scene took on a surrealism, an air of not-quite-there, like a hologram moving momentarily out of phase. Then it passed, was gone almost before it was realized, and Picard looked about him again at his fellow mourners as the carriage rumbled softly past.

*

Alongside Picard, Federation Surgeon-General Beverly Crusher Adamson stood, younger than Jean-Luc and looking it. This was the second funeral she had attended in the past year, the first being that of her husband of twenty-seven years. John Adamson, noted surgeon, had passed away ten months previously, and for a time Beverley had been at a loss about what to do with herself. There had not long before been a change of administration in the Federation, and she had been appointed to her present post.

The duties of the Surgeon General, she found to her relief, were not as arduous as she had at first anticipated, but they kept her busy enough. Her marriage had been stable and, as far as that went, happy. Although she was not yet past childbearing age, she and her husband had decided not to have children; they each had busy careers, and led busy lives, and neither had the time for another family. Besides, John had two sons and a daughter by his first marriage, and Beverley had Wesley.

Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, John was gone, a heart attack coming out of nowhere and claiming him, a fit and healthy man, proving that medical science still did not have all the answers, nor could it predict who would live and who would die. Beverley had been offered the chance to resign her post; the President had been very understanding, and was quite prepared for her to leave public life if she so chose.

But Beverley had opted to stay on and, in the months following John’s death, was thankful that she had. Her life became an endless round of official engagements; after a while, she even began to re-enter society again, accepting the occasional invitation to informal outings or dinner parties. Different men would accompany her on these occasions; sometimes Wesley if he happened to be in the area or on leave, but there was never any suggestion of another serious relationship.

Today, she was here in her formal capacity; the passing of great men requires that many bear witness, and the man being honored today was one of humanity’s greatest.

However, Beverley would have responded to the call regardless, if only to see Picard again. It had been many years since she had seen her former captain, and the loss of her husband and the end of her childless second marriage had brought home to her the value of old friends. Her feelings for Jean-Luc had always been complicated and ambiguous, partly that of a friend, and partly something which, given the right opportunity and circumstances, might have developed into something else.

Her only child, Wesley Crusher, was a Star Fleet Captain, Master of the Fleet’s flagship, as Picard himself had once been. In his time, Picard had guided the young man in his training; he had done his best to instill the best qualities of a Star Fleet officer in him, and Beverley would always be grateful to her old friend for that. Wesley’s father had been one of Picard’s closest friends, and Picard had always felt responsible for Jack Crusher’s death. For that reason, he had taken Wesley under his wing, and the young man had responded by coming to regard Picard as a surrogate father. Perhaps, thought Beverley, as she looked around the assemblage, there might yet be time to develop something there. She smiled as she watched the procession, stealing the occasional sideways glance at her old friend, who appeared oblivious to her surreptitious attentions. Oh, stop it, she chided herself. Let it happen, or not, as it will. Regaining her formal bearing, she returned her attention to the people around her, and the passing parade.

*

Directly opposite Picard and Beverly, across the wide, blossom-strewn street stood Admiral of the Fleet William Riker, tall and gray-bearded, flanked by his aides. Looking across at his two former shipmates, he caught Picard’s eye and nodded, and the admiral’s onetime commanding officer smiled and nodded back. Since Jean-Luc had retired from Star Fleet, he and Will had stayed in touch, although not as closely as either of them might have wished. Now they were both here, and there would be a little time to catch up with each other, and talk of things both old and new.

Looking around the assembly, Riker saw that his former captain and medical officer were not the only familiar faces present. Just a short way up the street he noticed the familiar figures of Geordi La Forge, and the android, Data. La Forge looked older, as indeed did they all, rejuvenation therapy notwithstanding, and his dark skin contrasted with the whiteness of his hair and the brilliant blue of his genetically grown eyes. Data, of course, looked the same as always, except for a slight graying of his hair. Riker smiled to himself; how like the former science officer to affect a human response to age.

These days, Riker reflected, Data held the Lucasian chair of mathematics at New Cambridge University in England, the position once held by Sir Isaac Newton. Odd how much of the affair of the final contact with the omnipotent entity “Q” had actually come to pass, he thought.

Picard made wine in his beloved Bordeaux; Geordi wrote novels; he himself had risen high in Star Fleet and, if gossip could be believed, was rumored to be in line to become the next C-in-C, while Deanna….

Thinking of Deanna Troy elicited a mild pang for what might have been, still there after all this time. She and Worf had married, and had lived for many years now on Rigel 4. Deanna ran a school for especially gifted children, and Worf headed his own security business; no Klingon High Council for him! But Riker had expected that; his old weapons and tactics officer had never had much patience with politics, or with those who practiced it. Worf had always preferred to settle his disputes at the business end of a Bat’leth, the Klingon sword, or anything else that happened to be nearby.

Riker smiled at the memory of the ferociously loyal Klingon warrior, but his smile faded as he remembered why Deanna and Worf were not present on this occasion. Deanna had developed a serious case of Tyman’s syndrome, an aging disease to which Betazoids were particularly susceptible, and Riker planned to head for the Rigel system soon after this ceremony. He would ask Beverley if she had any new information on Deanna’s condition later. Meanwhile, his thoughts were with his two old friends, as were, he was certain, those of the rest of the former crew of the Enterprise.

*

Across the street, Picard relaxed a little as the carriage passed his position and continued on towards the Baptist church at the center of the Town Square. Then, along with the other mourners, he and Beverly turned to follow the procession. A few minutes later, Picard felt a small smile cross his face as he found himself walking alongside Riker and the others. The old crew had naturally gravitated towards each other, and now formed a line across the street, following the carriage as it made its way at last to the church.

Inside, no one had any special seating place; the interior of the small country chapel was crowded with friends and family of the deceased. Warm sunlight slanted through the stained-glass windows and dust motes danced on the air, while many in the crowd fanned themselves with ancient hand-held fans. The women wore hats of all sizes and descriptions, the men wore their Sunday best, and a fancy uniform or title meant little. So Picard and the others stood at the back in the general crush as the last words were said over the casket containing the mortal remains of Surgeon-Captain Leonard Horatio McCoy, M.D., Star Fleet (Ret.).

The service was simple and direct, much as McCoy might have wanted it. One of the McCoy family’s oldest members said a few words about growing up with “Uncle Leo”, and the C-in-C paid a glowing tribute to the legendary doctor’s record with Star Fleet, recounting a couple of anecdotes doubtlessly learned several hands removed. None of Picard’s group spoke, as none of them had known McCoy personally (which fact did not deter the C-in-C). Of course, they all knew of many of his famous exploits, and had even met him briefly during the Farpoint mission, their first action as a crew many years previously.

Then the minister stepped to the rostrum to deliver the eulogy. He was a large black man dressed in a simple black suit, without vestments of any kind. He surveyed the assembled crowd and spoke in a firm and commanding voice.
“Friends and strangers, family and well-wishers, welcome. We are here today to farewell and pay tribute to one of Peach Grove’s own, its most famous citizen. I knew him as well as most people here, as we all did. His exploits are the subject of legend, and are sure to pass into the folklore of the great state of Mississippi. Although he achieved fame beyond the boundaries of his home town, even his home world, to us here he was just plain folks, no different from anyone else.”

The clergyman paused, and looked around the congregation. “ I see many notable figures here today, people grand and mighty, who perhaps knew him better than we did, since he spent the better part of his life away from us. But now, he’s come home, and here he will rest, with us. Let us pray.”

The man of God lifted his arms, and the assembled people bowed their heads as his voice rose above them once more.
“ Lord, we ask you to receive the soul of our brother, Leonard McCoy. He achieved greatness during his time on earth, and now he is returned to dust, as will we all one day be. Receive and accept him into your divine presence, and grant him eternal rest, Lord. The Doc was a good man, who did his duty as best he could. We ask this in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”

The congregation murmured ‘amen’, the minister blessed the casket, and ’tractor beams carried it to its final destination. A few moments later, Picard and the others watched soberly as, to the accompaniment of an ancient hymn played on an equally ancient electronic church organ, a large piece of Federation history was consigned to the eternity of the flames.

***