The Q Continuum

by Greg Cox

  “That world is our birthplace,” a woman shouted indignantly from the forefront of the crowd. From the looks of her, she was a governmental functionary of approximately the sixth echelon, whose reddish hair was already turning silver. A disk-shaped emblem melded to the collar of her insulated winter mantle proclaimed that she had voluntarily donated more than her allotted share to the Great Endeavor.

  The young man’s partisans among the crowd, students mostly, greeted the woman’s passionate outburst with jeers and laughter. Emboldened by their support, the speaker on the steps hooted as well. “I wasn’t born there and neither were you,” he shot back, winning another round of cheers from his contemporaries. Despite the chill of the evening, on a world little known for its warmth, his vermilion cloak was open to the wind and flapping above his shoulder as he spoke. His ebony locks were knotted in the latest style. “I’m proud to say that I was born here on Rzom—and to Hades with decrepit Tkon!”

  Many of the older spectators clucked disapprovingly and shook their heads. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” the aging functionary said. “You don’t deserve the blessings of the empire!”

  One crystal step above and behind the youthful firebrand, unobserved by either his supporters or detractors, nor by the watchful eyes of the vigilant safeties, Gorgan watched with pleasure as the public debate grew more heated. It’s always so easy, he thought, pitting the young against the old. This new plane is no different than any other realm.

  The graying woman’s admonition was seconded by others in the audience. This time those rallying around her matched the volume of the young people’s catcalls and derisive glee. “That’s right,” another man yelled. He looked like an archivist or invested myth reader. “Go live among the barbarians if that’s what you want. Real Tkon know that the homeworld is worth any sacrifice.”

  The open show of opposition seemed to rattle the leader of the dissidents, who stepped backward involuntarily, passing effortlessly through the immaterial form of Gorgan, who casually eased to one side for a bit more personal space. The proud young Rzom faltered, momentarily at a loss for words, but Gorgan came to his rescue, whispering into the youth’s ear in a voice only his unconscious mind could hear.

  “Blessings? What blessings?” the speaker demanded, parroting the words that flowed so easily from Gorgan’s lips. “Over fifteen percent of the empire’s adult laborers are devoted to the empress’s misguided Endeavor, and over twenty-seven percent of the entire imperial budget! All to keep the inner planets from meeting their natural fate. Can you imagine what else could have been done with all that time and treasure, the advances we could have achieved in art, science, medicine, exploration, and social betterment? The finest minds of a generation are being squandered on a grandiose exercise in sentimentality and nostalgia.” His voice grew bolder and more confident as Gorgan fed him subliminal cues. “Our ancestors had the courage to physically leave Tkon generations ago; we should have the courage to let go of it spiritually at long last. Let’s work together to enhance the future, not preserve the past!”

  “Hear, hear!” cried a young woman, barely past adolescence, her emerald tresses knotted so tightly that not a single strand blew freely in the wind. “Tell them, Jenole!”

  The man beside her, wearing the indigo crest of a licensed commerce artist, gave her a contemptuous sneer. “Spoiled whelp,” he muttered, loud enough for her to hear. Throughout the assembled throng, individuals eyed their neighbors skeptically and began clustering into hostile pockets of two or more, placing physical as well as ideological distance between themselves and those who disagreed with them. Soon the crowd had parted into two hostile camps, glaring at each other and shouting slogans and insults at their fellow citizens. Even the acutely disciplined safeties began to let their masks of neutrality slip, betraying their inclinations and allegiances with a slightly downturned lip here, an arched eyebrow or furrowed brow there.

  Marvelous, Gorgan thought, delighted to see the people turning on themselves, splitting apart along generational lines. Just marvelous. It was his curse and his glory that he could only achieve and wield power through the manipulation of others, but that restriction was of little import when such creatures as these proved so easy to beguile.

  “And what of the trillions of inhabitants of the inner worlds?” the older woman challenged the youth. “Are you prepared to cope with the countless refugees the dying sun will send stampeding in our direction? Not to mention the loss of our history, the end of all archaeological research into the distant past, the utter destruction of sites and natural wonders hallowed by millions of years of striving and civilization?” She paused for breath, then turned around to face the divided assemblage. “Don’t future generations deserve a chance to gaze upon the sacred shore of Azzapa? Or walk in the footsteps of Llaxem or Yson?” She held out her hands to the crowd, pleading for their understanding. “Don’t you see? If we let Tkon and the other worlds be destroyed, then we’re cutting out the very heart of the culture we all share.”

  Gorgan was disturbed to see uncertainty upon the faces of some of the younger members of the audience. He scowled at the aging bureaucrat whose words appeared to be striking a nerve in listeners both young and old. She’s making too much sense, he brooded. Something has to be done.

  Leaving the leader of the dissidents to his own devices, Gorgan glided down the steps toward the woman, the hem of his voluminous gown leaving no trail upon the polished surface of the steps. He crept silently to her side until his face was only a finger away from her ear. You don’t stand a chance, he whispered. You’re too old. Your time has passed.

  Higher upon the crystal steps, the youth called Jenole attempted to regain the mob’s attention, along with the loyalty of his followers. “Tkon’s no heart. It’s just a planet, a big rock in the endless null…like a hundred million other worlds.” He thumped a fist against his chest, raising his voice to heighten the impact of his impassioned declaration. “The real heart of the empire is right here! On Rzom, and inside us all!”

  His fellow students cheered in unison, some of them a bit less robustly than before, drawing murderous looks from the opposing camp. The narrow gazes of the safeties arced back and forth between the students and their critics, watching both sides carefully. The silicon rings on their fingers glinted beneath the elevated lights of the plaza, which cast a gentle, faintly violet radiance over all that transpired.

  “But that doesn’t mean anything,” the functionary protested, responding to Jenole’s shouted claim to the heart of the empire. She tried to match his fiery intensity, but found her will and energy fading. It’s no use, a voice at the back of her mind whispered, sounding very much like her own. There’s no point, you’ve already lost. Despite several layers of insulated fabric to protect her from the winter, she felt a chill work its way into the marrow of her bones. Tkon is doomed. Nobody cares. The sun is dying and so are you….

  Still, she tried to rally her spirits, fighting against the despair and hopelessness that descended over her like a suffocating fog. “No, you don’t understand. We have a choice.” She could barely hear her own words over the insidious voice inside her skull (It’s a lost cause), but she struggled to force her argument out through her lips. “We can either run from the disaster or prevent it. Diaspora or deliverance.”

  “What’s that?” her opponent seemed to bellow at her. “Speak up. We can’t hear you.”

  Sadness shrouded her like a heavy net, dragging her down. “What do you want?” she murmured. There is no hope. Her chin sagged against her chest as her gaze dropped to the uncaring steps below. They’ll never learn. “Why won’t you listen? We have a choice. It doesn’t have to happen….”

  She receded back into the crowd, as if drawn by some inexorable gravitational force, leaving Gorgan alone and triumphant upon the lower steps. Despair is a powerful weapon, he gloated, especially for those already feeling the tug of entropy upon their bodies and souls. He contemplated the victor of the debat
e, standing tall before the imposing edifice behind him, blithely incognizant of the alien influences that had driven his critic from the field. Arrogance, too, has its uses. With both tools at my disposal, I can sever any bond, tear asunder any union, and work my will on the scraps that remain.

  One of those scraps, clad in a cloak as florid as his oratory, trumpeted his cause to the entire plaza. “You see, the rightness of our position cannot be denied! Down with the musty memory of Tkon. The future belongs to the new age of Rzom!”

  His peers took up his cry, but at the fringes of the crowd people began to drift away. The older citizens in particular, having lost their most vocal advocate, seemed to lose interest in the confrontation. One by one, they turned away, shrugging dismissively. It was cold out, after all, and they had better things to do. Beneath their crisp, spotless uniforms, the coiled muscles of the safeties geared down to an only slightly lessened state of readiness.

  Gorgan noticed the difference and, noticing, frowned. The situation had plateaued too soon and now ran the risk of inspiring nothing more than empty rhetoric. He could not settle for mere words, no matter how inflammatory. It was time to up the stakes, accelerate the conflict to the next level. He eyed the safeties, so self-assured in their authority, and smirked in anticipation of what was to come. You have no idea what awaits you.

  He did not need to draw any nearer to the cocksure youth standing astride the top steps to project his new suggestions into such a willing mind. He rode the momentum he had already brought about to egg the self-infatuated student leader on to greater heights of rebellion.

  “Friends, allies, brothers and sisters in arms,” Jenole called out, the regal facade of the governor’s palace looming behind him. “Listen to me. We need to send a message to everyone who has tried to force down our throats their Great Endeavor.” He spat out the name as if it were an obscenity. “To the governor, to the selfish cowards back on Tkon, and even to the empress herself.”

  Leaping onto the uppermost step, beneath the carved crystal archway of the grand entrance, he aimed an accusing finger at the statue of the empress upon her pedestal. “There she is,” he hollered, “the architect of this entire insane enterprise.”

  Not far away, but separated from this moment and place by a phase or two of reality, a timelost starship captain flinched at the word “enterprise” as he heard it translated into his own tongue. The name reminded him of dangers and responsibilities he was not being allowed to face. “Q,” he began.

  “Sssh,” Q hushed him, watching 0 and his younger self watching Gorgan watching the Rzom. “Pay attention, Jean-Luc. You may find the modus operandi quite instructive. I certainly did.”

  “Let’s show the galaxy that we mean what we say,” the Rzom youth continued, “that we refuse to blindly worship the past. Down with that monument to folly. Down with the empress!”

  Incited by their spokesman, the mob of students rushed the statue, climbing onto the pedestal and throwing their weight against the marble figure. Horrified by this attempt at vandalism, a few of the older citizens tried to intervene, placing themselves between the statue and the next wave of demonstrators, but they were quickly shoved aside by the overexcited students. Fists were raised and angry words exchanged, prompting the safeties to take action at last. “Attention,” the senior safety announced, her voice artificially amplified by a mechanism planted against the base of her throat. “Step away from the statue at once. This gathering is declared a threat to public order and is hereby terminated. All citizens are directed to refrain from further debate and to exit the plaza in an orderly fashion.”

  The safety’s instructions chastened a fraction of those assembled, who froze sheepishly in their tracks, then began to slink away; lawlessness did not come easily to people who had known decades of peace and stability. But the majority of the students, whose memories were shorter and whose law-abiding habits were less deeply ingrained, ignored the safety, continuing to clamber over the marble monument like Belzoidian fleas swarming over an unguarded piece of cake, while shouting and cheering uproariously. They appeared to be having the time of their lives, much to the delight of Gorgan. Tools that enjoyed their work always performed better than those who had to be grudgingly forced to their tasks. He nodded approvingly as a jubilant young Rzom started swinging back and forth from the outstretched arm of the sculpted empress.

  The senior safety, on the other hand, scowled grimly at the sight. She had been afraid of this; the disturbance had already escalated too far, too fast. Choosing not to waste time with any further warnings, she sent a silent electronic signal to her fellow safeties, then aimed the ring on her left forefinger at the youth hanging from the statue’s arm.

  A beam of directed energy, fluorescently orange, leaped from the ring, targeting the would-be vandal, who instantly disappeared from sight. The safety smiled in satisfaction, knowing that the reckless youth had been painlessly transferred to a holding facility at headquarters several city blocks away. Not for the first time, she wondered how safeties had ever managed before transference technology became so convenient; she could just imagine the incredible nuisance of having to physically subdue and transport each offender before placing them into a cell.

  Around the plaza, each of the five safeties used their rings to thin out the crowd of students attacking the monument. As expected, the mere sight of their friends being deleted from the scene was enough to discourage several of the students, who backed away from the statue and each other, clearly unwilling to spend the night in a pacification cell, and probably not too eager to explain to their parents and tutors exactly how they ended up there. The senior safety permitted herself a sigh of relief; for a few seconds there, she had worried that she’d waited too long before attempting to dispel the agitated crowd. Now, though, the situation seemed to be coming under control.

  But the student leader, not to mention Gorgan, would not surrender so easily. Urged on by his anonymous muse, Jenole entreated his followers to carry on their crusade in the face of the safeties’ resistance. “Don’t give up!” he cried out. “This is our moment, our chance to demonstrate once and for all that we will not be herded into submission, that we can take control of our destiny no matter who stands against us!”

  His words had an impact on his peers, who kept storming the statue even as their fellow rebels disappeared left and right. Cracks formed in the marble surface of the monument, branching out from each other like twigs on a tree branch. An ominous scraping noise emerged from the base of the statue, where the empress’s sculpted feet met the pedestal below. Beams of light picked off the demonstrators as they climbed out onto the arms and shoulders of the statue, but new bodies replaced those that vanished almost as quickly as their predecessors were transferred away. “That’s right!” Jenole encouraged them from the top of the steps. “Don’t let them break our spirits with their cowardly ploys. Show them that the future belongs to us!”

  “Doesn’t he ever run out of breath?” the senior safety muttered to herself. Turning away from the besieged monument, she directed both her ring and her attention at the students’ ringleader, who presented quite an inviting target as he posed before the palace, his garish red cloak flapping in the wind. With any luck, deleting that loudmouthed boy would suck the wildfire out of the rest of the protestors.

  No, Gorgan thought, shaking his head slowly. He would not allow the furor he had created to be so readily extinguished. As the safety took aim at Jenole, Gorgan summoned his power by clenching his fists and pantomiming a pounding motion with his hands, tapping one fist upon the other with a steady, deliberate rhythm. Without even realizing he was doing it, Jenole mimicked the gesture, pounding his own fists together in time with his unseen mentor just as the transference beam locked on to him.

  Nothing happened.

  To the safety’s astonishment, Jenole remained where he stood, defying her attempt to relocate him. She blinked and tried again, with equally nonexistent results. The safety did not underst
and, and Jenole looked a bit bewildered as well; neither of them had ever known a safety’s equipment to malfunction before. Only Gorgan, his upper hand silently hammering the fist below, greeted this new complication with aplomb. The surprises are only beginning, he promised.

  The confused safety wagged her hand from the wrist up, hoping she could somehow shake her ring back into life. When that proved futile, she sent a private audio transmission to the two nearest safeties. A lighted visual display sewn into her right sleeve instantly informed her of their ranks and identity numbers. “One-one-two-eight, six-seven-four, target subject at top of steps immediately. Priority Skr’zta.”

  Responding without hesitation, two uniformed figures, previously facing the endangered statue, swiveled at the waist and directed beams of cadmium light at Jenole. Either ray, the senior safety knew, would communicate his coordinates to the central processor, initiating the transference. The outspoken student gulped visibly as the twin beams intersected upon his chest right above his heart, but he continued to make that peculiar pounding gesture, for reasons neither he nor the safeties truly understood.

  Whatever he was doing was obviously working. The other safeties exchanged baffled looks as Jenole persisted in striking a dramatic pose overlooking the plaza, despite the best efforts of three safeties—and advanced Tkon technology—to remove him. Now it was the senior safety’s turn to swallow nervously, flinching involuntarily as one of the empress’s marble arms broke away from her body, plummeting onto the tiled floor of the plaza to shatter into two pieces. With her pacification ring rendered unaccountably impotent, the safety felt like she had lost her own arm as well. “Get the safeties,” Jenole instructed the other dissidents. “Their rings are useless now. Don’t let them stop us!”