“En marche,” Picard murmured, his voice steady. “The past is never truly gone, Will. It’s just waiting for us to catch up.”
“Will,” Picard said as the screen flickered to life, revealing the rugged, bearded face of William Riker. “I need a ship. And I need a friend who doesn’t mind breaking a few regulations.”
Before he could protest, she was gone, disappearing into the mist of the Rue de Rivoli.
Picard returned to Château Picard that night, the weight of the data rod heavy in his pocket. He didn’t call Starfleet. He didn't call the Federation. Instead, he opened a secure channel to a darkened room on a distant moon.