Strange New Worlds 2016

by Various

  “Thank God,” Harry said airily once the noise had died down completely. His knees were shaking, and his clothes were soaked in sweat.

  Eve watched the holodisplay in silence. It wasn’t long before the Genesis torpedo reached the surface of the target star. That’s where the telemetry went dead. Eve had no visual evidence to confirm the star going nova. She had only her continued existence here, which seemed to be a good indication the Federation still existed and nothing had changed in the past.

  “I don’t understand,” Eve said to Portal.

  “It was Genesis that caused the Tkon star to go nova six hundred thousand years ago. The Tkon Empire vanquished virtually all of its enemies. It was a misbegotten attempt to save it that caused its destruction.” He gave her a smile, but it couldn’t hide the pain behind his eyes.

  “Why didn’t you try to stop it just now?”

  “I came to realize how long I’d been asleep and how much the galaxy had changed in my absence. I didn’t have the right to undo six hundred thousand years of history. It would be selfish, and selfishness is not the Tkon way.”

  Eve wanted to thank him, but she knew no words were sufficient for the sacrifice he’d just made. “What would you have us do with you and this place?”

  “I have only one request.”

  “Where will you take me?” The question hung in the air, thick as the Phocis Harju fog. Ruth was standing at the top of the landing ramp, staring down at Eve. The engines whined as Harry started the launch cycle.

  Eve laughed. “I’m not turning you in to Starfleet, if that’s what you’re asking. You can stay with me until we figure something out.”

  “Seems odd you’d let me walk away scot-free after what I tried to do.”

  “Maybe.” Eve looked out at the gloomy landscape one final time. “But then we’d have to tell Federation about this place, and I’m not going to do that. I have a promise to keep. Portal needs to sleep.”

  STAR TREK:

  THE NEXT GENERATION®

  A CHRISTMAS QAROL

  Gary Piserchio & Frank Tagader

  Stave One

  Q LOOKED INSIDE the ancient but painstakingly restored Millennium Dome in London, watching Captain Jean-Luc Picard stand before nearly three thousand inferior races from across the Federation. Q had little interest in them, but Jean-Luc always managed to pique his curiosity. The starship captain spoke on a topic to which the human was uncomfortably close. Q felt the tension in Jean-Luc’s body.

  “To date, there is no known antidote,” he said, looking out at the somber gathering. His right eye twitched. Q was amazed that the man still felt the prosthetic, now a phantom long past, adhered to the right side of his face. Picard tensed and started to lift a hand to his face, but the captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise was stronger than that, and he resisted the urge. Q nodded, feeling something akin to human respect for the man. But, no, that was far too strong a word. Q wondered what the word was for when a human feels that his pet has performed admirably. Ah, well, that wasn’t important at the moment.

  Picard smiled and moved toward a fairly young human child sitting in a propulsion chair. Deanna Troi, ship’s counselor for the U.S.S. Enterprise, stood behind the chair and rested her hands lightly on Timothy’s shoulders. The child was debilitated, which was odd in this age. But Q knew why the child was stricken. Just as he knew the next words the starship captain was going to speak.

  “There is no antidote,” repeated Picard, “but sometimes there is a cure.” The child smiled up at him. “The crew of the U.S.S. Enterprise rescued Timothy from the Borg nearly six months ago. He’d been part of the Collective for over three years. Doctor Beverly Crusher managed to remove the Borg nanites and began the process of mending his body, replacing the heinous prosthetics of the Borg”—the captain’s eye twitched again—“with prosthetics that Timothy can control and enjoy in his day-to-day life.

  “Of course, it’s not his body that concerns us most, but rather his mind and spirit.” Picard began to reach for the boy, intending to put his hand on Timothy’s shoulder, but he stopped. The child leaned slightly toward the starship captain. No one else noticed, except for the Vulcan contingent, but Q saw Jean-Luc move a few millimeters away when the boy leaned in. Captain Jean-Luc Picard, commander of the flagship of the Federation, a human who had faced countless perils, many of them life-threatening. In fact, because of his knowledge of the Borg, he had led the away team that rescued the young boy. The man threw himself into the face of danger for the greater good time and time again—blah blah yawn. Yet he was uncomfortable around children.

  Q smiled, an idea springing to his prodigious mind. He looked up from the Millennium Dome at the snow swirling through the city and coating the rooftops and trees along the avenues. It reminded Q of an ancient Earth toy composed of a heavy lead-glass sphere filled with water, a ceramic Earth scene of banal inconsequence, and bits of porcelain that roiled in the water when shaken. A snow globule or some such nonsense. And according to the ancient calendar called Gregorian, it was December on Earth. It was almost too perfect.

  Picard continued. “It’s up to us to mend him wholly. Completely. In a few moments, when we’ve finished here, we’ll take Timothy to the U.S.S. Pasteur, where the finest medical staff, aside from the Enterprise’s, of course”—there was polite laughter from the attendees, except from the Vulcan contingent—“ will take personal responsibility for this young man’s reintroduction to humanity.”

  “Will you be there too?” said Timothy, his voice anxious.

  Jean-Luc Picard’s had been the first human face the boy had seen when coming out of the medically induced coma after his first operations on the Enterprise. Q could feel Picard squirm on the inside while he remained as composed as ever on the outside. “Well, you see, Timothy. As a starship captain I have certain responsibilities that—”

  Troi knelt next to the boy on the other side of the chair from Picard. “Timothy,” she said in soft tones, “Captain Picard would very much like to be with you for your rehabilitation, but he has important work to do for the Federation. I’m sure he’ll visit you as often as he can.”

  “Yes! Yes, of course I’ll visit. Often!” Timothy looked hurt, but he didn’t say anything. Picard looked back to the audience and cleared his throat before saying, “As we take this bold step toward Timothy’s future—”

  Q stood up in the front row and clapped slowly. Picard looked in his direction and anger flashed in his eyes. It would be no fun at all if he didn’t get that rise out of the human.

  “Q, what are you doing here?”

  “Why, mon capitaine, I’ve come to delight in the holiday festivities of Earth. The holly, the ivy, the plum pudding, and, let us never forget, the wassail. I was feeling especially altruistic and thought I would share the bounty of Q with humanity at this special time of year.”

  Q felt Picard seething, but the human’s demeanor remained relatively calm.

  “Ah, I see someone is lacking in the Christmas spirit,” Q said with a smirk. “Yes, perhaps that’s what we need around here.”

  “Q, I haven’t the patience to deal with your frivolous ploys right now.”

  “ ‘Frivolous ploys’? I seek to bring enlightenment, love, and redemption to humanity.” Q sniffed as though smelling something distasteful.

  “Redemption? You don’t know the first thing about redemption.”

  “Perhaps the concept is beneath my vastly superior intellect. But it is not beneath yours. And so, like Father Hanukkah—” Q paused. “That doesn’t sound right. Is that right? Well, it doesn’t matter. I am here to bring joy and happiness to the masses. How about we start with this little one?” Q disappeared from the front row and reappeared next to Timothy. Before Picard could react, Q snapped his fingers. The clumsy prosthetics and grafts disappeared instantly to reveal whole limbs and flesh. Timothy’s e
yes lit up, and a grin sprang to his face as he straightened first one leg and then the other.

  “See, Jean-Luc? I’m already spreading cheer. Now, Timothy, why don’t you go out and play in the snow like a good lad.”

  Not quite sure of his new limbs, Timothy stood slowly. Troi helped him up, but he was able to stand on his own. He turned around and beamed at Q. An anxious murmur rose from the attendees, except from the Vulcan contingent.

  “Stop meddling, Q,” said Picard, his voice low and full of threat. Q found it childish and delightful.

  “Now, Jean-Luc, was that not the more compassionate answer for the boy? Instead of years of painful surgery, rehabilitation, and physical therapy, I give him but a small gift of Q. One should learn to not look a gift Q in the mouth, dear captain. Where is your compassion?”

  “Another concept I find hard to believe you understand. Stay out of the affairs of humanity.”

  “Exactly right, Jean-Luc, because humanity should be your business.”

  Captain Picard closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. “Now I understand. You’ve discovered Dickens.”

  “Discovered?” Q practically yelled. “If it wasn’t for me, I’ll have you know, that insignificant human would never have been published, let alone remembered.”

  Picard opened his eyes. “You want me to believe you influenced Charles Dickens?”

  “Influenced? I practically wrote all of his works. Your naiveté astounds me at times, Jean-Luc. Do you honestly believe a human could have written so many pieces that have survived the ages?”

  Picard looked up toward the ceiling. “What are you doing?” Darkness descended, obscuring all except Q, who commanded his own spotlight.

  Instead of seeing the inside of the Millennium Dome, Picard saw stars. For a moment, it looked like the dome had turned to glass. Snowflakes fell, but they didn’t look real at first until one touched his face and melted. The captain looked back at the stage—Troi and Timothy were gone. Turning, he saw the audience and seats replaced with people bustling along narrow streets and alleys. Their clothing changed from utilitarian temperature-regulating jumpsuits and uniforms to waistcoats, petticoats, top hats, scarves, and gloves.

  Gone was the refurbished late-twentieth-century arena. Instead, there was the sudden cacophony of a busy thoroughfare with the interaction of street vendors and their customers, the raucous conversations of friends. Horses pulling wagons and hansom cabs clickety-clopped across cobblestones. From somewhere a choir sang a Christmas carol. The air was cold, and Picard tasted and smelled the soot of burning wood and coal mixed with the festive odors of fresh pine boughs and cooking food.

  Beside him, Q said, “Strange, isn’t it? Seeing your beloved home so changed like this? But what better setting for a ghost story.”

  Picard sighed. “Don’t tell me. I’ll be visited by three spirits.”

  “Four, actually. Don’t forget about poor Marley. I thought he was a rather smart invention of mine.”

  “And if I refuse to go along with your bizarre antics?”

  “Antics, Jean-Luc? You disappoint me. You have so much still to learn. You should be honored that I am gracious enough to bestow more knowledge upon you, whether or not you’re capable of actually understanding any of it.”

  “The story is about compassion and redemption. I hardly think you are the one to teach anyone about those ideas.” There was anger in Picard’s voice. He took a step toward Q, who smiled and snapped his fingers.

  Stave Two

  Q found himself at a wooden desk, sitting in a very uncomfortable wooden chair. Before him were several stacks of English coins and a giant black-leather-bound ledger with columns of figures written in tiny, careful strokes. In his right hand was a pen recently dipped in ink. His fingertips were stained black from dabbing and cleaning the nib.

  “Excuse me, sir.” The growl of the voice was all too familiar. Q looked up slowly from the ledger. Worf, looking ridiculous in Victorian pants, waistcoat, jacket, and scarf, stood before Q. “After all, it is Christmas Eve, sir. And begging your pardon, sir, if it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Q said to Worf.

  The Klingon looked confused for a moment. “Well, I’m talking to you, Mister Scrooge,” he said, his voice gruff with modest good cheer—for a Klingon.

  Q blinked a few times. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t right at all. He felt, not fear, that was impossible, but something that almost approximated disquiet. But before he had time to consider his situation, the front door of the counting-house banged open. It was Riker, dressed in a finer raiment of Victorian clothing.

  “A Merry Christmas, Uncle! God save you!”

  Q stared at the first officer of the U.S.S. Enterprise. What was going on? He looked around the counting-house. Everything was as it should be: Worf working by candlelight, cold from the lack of coal; Riker as Scrooge’s cheerful and addlepated nephew. But where was Jean-Luc? He was supposed to be Ebenezer Scrooge. Q didn’t know what had gone wrong, but it was easily remedied. He snapped his fingers.

  Riker, still with that dim-witted grin on his face, looked to Worf. “Merry Christmas, Mister Cratchit.”

  “And a very Merry Christmas to you, good sir,” said the Klingon, baring his fang-like teeth in a grotesque smile, sickeningly full of Christmas spirit.

  Q slowly looked down at himself. As he suspected, he was dressed in Victorian garb as well—the same ensemble as he had picked out for Jean-Luc. Everything in the counting-house was exactly as he had planned, down to the smallest detail. The only problem was that he seemed to be stuck in the starring role. Not that he minded being the center of attention, but not like this. The disquieted feeling grew. He had to get out of here. Find someplace to himself to think.

  Q all but lunged from his chair, knocking it back. It clattered against the wall. “Out of my way, Riker.” Q pushed past the first officer. He ran—no, that was not correct; Q did not run. He moved in a decisive manner out into the frigid London evening. Q could see his breath. There was snow on the ground. Icicles twinkled from the eaves of buildings that leaned together along the cobblestone street, which was riotous with horrible people. There was an unsettling commotion as these same people eagerly and anxiously tried to finish their Christmas provisioning. A woman and her baby stood near the doorway. She turned toward Q.

  “A penny for the baby,” she said, brushing a strand of red hair from her face.

  Q would have delighted at the sight of Beverly Crusher reduced to street beggar if he was not so confused by the fact that he didn’t seem to be in control. He walked on without saying a word to the doctor. Her baby began to wail.

  “Shut up, Wesley,” she said sternly, tucking the threadbare gray blanket tighter around the infant.

  What was going on? Q looked more closely at his surroundings. It was definitely London in the 1840s. The same London he had created only a few moments earlier. He peered closely at an exterior wall of a building. They were even the same atoms he had used for the construct. But he shouldn’t have been here as Scrooge. And he certainly shouldn’t have been here without his powers—well, his most important powers. He snapped his fingers again. Nothing. Yet he’d been able to see the atomic structure of his surroundings. He looked up into the light snowfall.

  “Q, is that you?” he said.

  He wouldn’t put it past Q to do something like this. They were always butting in where they didn’t belong. But what senses he had remaining to him told him this wasn’t Q. Something else was going on. Someone else was in control. Q shivered. He told himself it was from the cold, having left Scrooge’s overcoat back at the counting-house.

  Around him, the closely packed street vendors and shops sold everything from unplucked geese to mulled wines, from toys and dolls to gemstones. The odors of both cooked and uncooked fo
ods, washed and unwashed humans, assaulted his olfactory senses. Q felt quite lost and out of sorts amongst the hoard of Victorian humanity. And he did not care for that feeling in the least.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  Q spun around as someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was La Forge and Troi.

  “Have I the pleasure of addressing Mister Scrooge or Mister Marley?” said the Betazoid, wearing a tightly corseted dress.

  Q was several blocks from the counting-house of Scrooge and Marley. “This isn’t supposed to happen here.” This was supposed to happen in the counting-house, right after Scrooge’s nephew left. The story was adapting, but Q wasn’t sure what that meant or if it meant anything.

  La Forge and Troi smiled at him, waiting for his answer. Q decided to test them.

  “I’m Marley,” said Q.

  The two glanced at each other and then back at Q.

  “Have I the pleasure of addressing Mister Scrooge or Mister Marley?” said La Forge.

  The players switched lines, but the lines stayed the same. Perhaps the players couldn’t ad-lib. The programming behind this was more archaic than even the clunky holodecks of which the humans were so proud. These “actors” were equipped with simple programs. Nothing more. And idiotic grins to match, like that of a simpleton or someone quite deranged. Q was certain that the sophistication of his situation was minimal.

  “Few things are ever as simple as they appear, Q,” said Troi.

  Q almost missed it because he was deep in thought. His eyes narrowed, and his head whipped around. “What did you say?”