William T. Riker
Captain of the U.S.S. Titan

"Ah, Paris," said Jean-Luc Picard after the shimmering transporter beam released him and faded from sight. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

Not wishing to offend his former commanding officer, Captain Will Riker struggled not to wrinkle his nose noticeably as he, too, sampled the chill air and took in his new surroundings. The ancient, cobbled alley in which they had materialized seemed utterly unremarkable.

Except for its rather pungent smell.

"You look disappointed, Captain," Picard said, reminding Riker how unaccustomed he was to being addressed by his new rank. Captain Picard had been in the habit of calling him "Number One" for fifteen years now.

Gesturing toward a meandering, meter-long crack in the brick wall beside him, Riker favored Picard with a wry smile. "As sightseeing destinations go, this doesn't exactly measure up to the Arc de Triomphe or the Champs Elysées."

Picard strode confidently away from the wall and into the late-afternoon shadows. Despite the apparently anonymous obscurity of the alley, he was clearly familiar with the terrain.

"You've seen those things before, Will," Picard said. "I've something more important to show you today. It's a rare privilege, and you've earned it."

A rare privilege, Riker thought, stepping carefully around a noisome pile of animal droppings as he followed his erstwhile CO around a corner. A scenic tour of an alley that smells like an open latrine.

"You brought me here because I scratched up your yacht, didn't you?" Riker said aloud as they reached a crowded, filthy rue that Riker recognized as emblematic of the oldest portions of the area surrounding Paris's Gare du Nord . "You realized you wouldn't be able to put reprimands in my file any longer, so you had to find another way of getting even with me."

Pausing to let a cluster of harried, overcoat-bundled Parisians pass him on the ancient concrete-and-cobble sidewalk, Picard turned toward Riker, an uncharacteristically fraternal smile splitting his face. "I lent you and Deanna the Calypso II as my wedding gift. I've no regrets on that score, Will, dents and scratches notwithstanding. But the important thing is that you and Deanna had a safe and pleasant honeymoon trip."

"You know what they say, sir. Any honeymoon you can walk away from…" Riker said, trailing off as he returned Picard's grin. He quickly fell into step beside Picard as they walked down the rue, which teemed with pedestrians and old-style ground vehicles.

"Do tell," Picard deadpanned.

Still grinning, Riker shook his head. "Not even under the influence of Romulan mind-probes."

"We'll see," Picard said enigmatically, though his smile remained firmly in place.

Despite the comradely familiarity his newly achieved rank afforded him with Captain Picard, Riker found he really wasn't very keen on discussing his recent three-week honeymoon in any detail. Suddenly, a new mix of pungent aromas assaulted him, causing his nose to wrinkle like a Ferengi's—and giving him the perfect excuse to change the subject.

"I hope you don't take this the wrong way, Captain, but why does this place smell so… strong?"

Picard gestured as broadly about the rue as the relentlessly determined streams of pedestrian traffic would permit. "For the same reason that the people prefer to walk. Or take vintage twentieth-century ground transportation. Or live in apartment buildings that predate the Industrial Revolution."

Riker nodded, beginning to understand. "It's a museum city." He was familiar with the common French complaint that many of Earth's modern cities were too sterile and antiseptic for Gallic tastes.

"My people are known for their singular resistance to change," Picard said. "As well as for our frequent small acts of rebellion against modernity. We're fiercely protective of our language, our architecture, our cuisine. Parisians are particularly so. Did you know that food replicators are forbidden in this arrondissement?"

Riker sniffed the air again. Cooking smells melded with the sickly-sweet bouquet of ripening garbage—and the dog droppings he had so carefully avoided, which now seemed to be stalking him.

Copyright © 2005 by Paramount Pictures.