by Greg Cox
On the other hand, Picard conceded a shade reluctantly, Q’s motives were not always malign. When he had briefly lost his powers several years ago, Q had surprised Picard by proving himself capable of both gratitude and self-sacrifice. And every so often Q hinted that he had Picard’s best interests at heart. But, he thought, with a friend like Q who needs enemies? Picard still didn’t entirely know what to make of their last encounter; what had truly been the point of that fragmented and disorienting excursion through time? As was too often the case with Q, he had seemed to be both thwarting and assisting Picard simultaneously. The incident frustrated the captain to this day; the more he turned that journey over in his head, the less sense it seemed to make. It’s possible, I suppose, that Q meant well that time around.
Even Q’s most deadly prank, exposing them to the Borg for the first time, had carried a bitter lesson for the future; if not for Q, the Collective might have caught the Federation totally unawares. But who knew what Q’s true purpose had been? He could have as easily done so in a fit of pique. Or on a whim.
Whatever his personal feelings toward Q might be, Picard knew he could not dismiss his advice out of hand. He could not deny, as much as he would like to, that Q was a highly advanced being in many respects, privy to scientific knowledge far beyond the Federation’s. There might well be some merit to his warning regarding the barrier.
But was Starfleet willing to let the future of humanoid exploration be dictated by a being like Q? That, it seemed to him, was the real crux of the matter. Had not Q himself once declared that the wonders of the universe were not for the timid?
“So I did,” Q confirmed, appearing without warning atop the surface of Picard’s desk. “How stunningly astute of you to remember, although, typically, you’ve chosen the worst possible occasion to do so.” He shook his head sadly. “Wouldn’t you know it? The one time you choose to recall my words of wisdom, it’s to justify ignoring my most recent advice.”
“I thought such paradoxes were your stock-in-trade?” Picard said, unable to resist such an obvious riposte.
“Touché,” Q responded, “or rather I should say, Olé!” In fact, he had traded in his guardsman’s uniform for the more flamboyant costume of a traditional Spanish matador. A black felt montera rested upon his scalp, above his glittering “coat of lights.” Golden rhinestones sparkled upon his collar, lapels, and trousers. A thin green tie was knotted at his throat, the chartreuse fabric matching the cummer-bund around his waist. A scarlet cape was draped over one arm, although Picard was relieved to see that this would-be bullfighter had left his saber at home.
A strangely appropriate guise for Q, Picard observed, doubtless inspired by my choice of music. When he thought about it, Q had much in common with an old-fashioned toreador. Both delighted in teasing and provoking a so-called lesser species for their own sadistic self-glorification. Bullfighting had been banned on Earth since the latter part of the twenty-first century, but Picard doubted that Q cared. “What now?” he demanded. “Why are you here?”
“Votre toast je peux vous le rendre,” Q sang in a surprisingly strong baritone, “and one of these days you might seriously think of offering me a drink, but, anyway, it occurred to me that you might be more likely to see reason in private, when you don’t have to strut and preen before your subordinates. Fine, I appreciate your primitive human need to save face in front of your crew. Now that we’re alone, though, be a good boy and turn this ship around. I have faith in you, Picard. Who knows why. I’m sure you can think of a suitably plausible excuse if you put your mind to it.”
Picard failed to appreciate Q’s backhanded flattery. He listened as patiently as he could, then spoke his mind. “First, before you accuse anyone else of strutting and preening, perhaps you should look in the mirror. Second, I have no intention of abandoning my mission unless you can provide me with a compelling reason to do so. Third, get off my desk!”
Q glanced down at his black rhinestone slippers, located only a few centimeters below Picard’s chin. “Picky, picky,” he clucked, transporting in a flash to the floor facing the sturdy desk. “There, are you happy now?”
“I am rarely happy when accosted by you,” Picard answered, holding up his hand to fend off another volley of insults and repartee, “but I am willing to listen to reason. Why, Q? I’m giving you a chance. Tell me why we should stay within the barrier?”
“Well, why shouldn’t you?” Q shot back, but his heart didn’t seem to be in it. He chewed on his lower lip and fumbled awkwardly with the satin cape in his hands while he appeared to wrestle with some inner conflict. He opened his mouth, then hesitated, and for a second Picard had an inkling that Q was actually on the verge of saying something genuinely sincere and heartfelt, perhaps ready for the first time to deal with Picard as one equal to another. Pouring out his soul in the background, Don José, the tragic soldier of Bizet’s opera, found himself torn between his duty, his heart, and his pride. Picard leaned forward, anxious to hear what Q had to say.
Then the moment passed, and Q retreated to his usual sarcastic demeanor. “Because I say so,” he added petulantly. “Really, Jean-Luc, for once in your inconsequential blink of a lifetime, listen to me. Don’t let your bruised human ego blind you to my superior wisdom.”
“I thought I was about to listen to you,” Picard stated, more in sorrow than in anger, “and I don’t think it was my ego that got in the way.” He decided to tempt fate by pushing Q even harder. “If it’s that important, Q, why not simply send us home with a wave of your hand? We both know you have the power to do so.”
“Forgive me, mon capitaine,” Q groused, “but perhaps I would prefer not to spend my immortality standing guard over the barrier. I don’t want Starfleet sneaking back here every time I’m not looking. I know how blindly stubborn and egomaniacal you mortals are. You’re not going to abandon your misbegotten quest unless you think you have some say in the matter.”
“Then you must also understand,” Picard answered, “humanity’s restless urge to explore, to see beyond the next hill.” He gestured toward the model starships displayed behind glass on one side of the room, each one a proud reminder of another starship called Enterprise. “You’re right about one thing. You can turn us back if you want, even destroy this ship if you deem it necessary, but we mortals, as you term us, will not give up that easily. The starships will keep coming, unless you can convince me otherwise.”
Q threw up his hands in mock despair. “You’re impossible, Picard, thoroughly impossible!” Music soared in the background as the ecstatic citizens of Seville celebrated the coming bullfight. “Well! I’m not about to waste my time here while you’re being so pigheaded and primeval, but heed my words, Picard, or you may not live to regret it.” He swept his cape off his arm and snapped it with a dramatic flourish. “Olé!”
Q vanished, leaving Picard alone with his books and Bizet. The problem with bullfights, he reflected soberly, is that the bull usually ends up dead.
Five
Despite the hour, the officers’ lounge was quite busy. Geordi La Forge spotted Sonya Gomez, Daniel Sutter, Reg Barclay, and several other members of his engineering team seated at various tables around the ship’s spacious lounge, trading rumors about Q’s most recent appearance, the upcoming assault on the galactic barrier, and other hot topics of discussion. The lights had been dimmed somewhat to give the room more of a murky nightclub ambience, appropriate to the approach of midnight.
Actually, it was a little too dark for his tastes, Geordi decided, so he cybernetically adjusted the light receptors of his optical implants, heightening the visual contrast controls as well. Ah, that’s better, he thought as Data’s gleaming visage emerged from the shadows. Not for the first time, Geordi regretted that the Enterprise-D had been destroyed before he got his implants. He would’ve liked to compare the old Ten-Forward to this new place, yet the switch from his VISOR to the implants made that more or less impossible. The new lounge looked different, all right, but was
that because the ship had changed or because his vision had? Probably a little bit of both, he guessed.
“It is quite puzzling,” Data commented to Geordi. “Spot now refuses to eat her cat food from anything but round plates, even though she has eaten from both round and square plates ever since she was a kitten.”
“Cats are just like that,” Geordi stated. “Where do you think all those jokes about finicky felines came from? I remember once Alexi, my old Circassian cat, decided that he would only eat if I was eating. Sometimes I’d have to fix myself an extra meal just to get him to finish his dinner. Gained nearly seven kilograms that summer. My parents had to buy me a whole set of clothes for school.”
“But it does not make sense, Geordi,” Data persisted. Clearly his pet’s latest eccentricity was thoroughly baffling his positronic mind. “Why should square plates suddenly become unacceptable for no apparent reason? What if tomorrow she randomly decides that she will only eat from round, blue plates?”
Geordi chuckled. “Thank heaven for replicators then.” He felt a yawn coming on and didn’t bother to suppress it, knowing that the android would not be offended. He and Professor Faal had only finished their prep work less than an hour ago, and he really needed to go to bed soon, but Geordi had learned from experience that, after a day of strenuous mental effort and technical challenges, his mind always needed a little time to unwind before he even tried to fall asleep, which is why he had dropped into the lounge in the first place. Besides, he had been eager to pump Data for details on Q’s surprise visit to the bridge.
He’d invited Lem Faal to join them, but the Betazoid scientist had politely declined, pleading exhaustion. Nothing too suspicious there, he thought, keeping in mind what Deanna thought she had sensed about Faal. No doubt the Iverson’s had reduced the professor’s stamina to some degree. He wished he had more to report to the captain, either to confirm or refute the counselor’s suspicions, but, aside from that brief-but-ugly tantrum after Barclay had almost wrecked his equipment, Faal had been on his best behavior. Too bad all big-name Federation scientists aren’t so easy to get along with. In his capacity as chief engineer aboard the flagship of the fleet, Geordi had worked alongside many of the most celebrated scientific minds in the entire quadrant, and some of them, he knew, could be real prima donnas. Like Paul Manheim, Bruce Maddox, or that jerk Kosinski. By comparison, Lem Faal struck him as normal enough, at least for a genius dying of an incurable disease.
“Another round of drinks, gentlemen?”
Geordi looked up to see a cheerful, round-faced Bolian carrying a tray of refreshments. His bright blue cheeks were the exact color of Romulan ale.
“Thanks,” Geordi answered. “Nothing too strong, though. I’ve got a lot of work in the morning.”
Neslo nodded knowingly. “Just as I anticipated. One hot synthehol cider for you,” he said, placing a steaming translucent mug on the table, “and for Mr. Data, a fresh glass of silicon lubricant.” Complete with a tiny paper umbrella, Geordi noted with amusement. I wonder whose idea that was, Neslo’s or Data’s? He could never tell what his android friend was going to come up with next, especially now that Data was experimenting with genuine emotions.
The blue-skinned bartender was handing the drink to Data when a flare of white light caught them all by surprise. The rest of the drinks tumbled from Neslo’s tray, crashing upon the floor, but no one was watching his mishap, not even Neslo. Every eye in the lounge was drawn to the spot by the bar where the flash burst into existence. Blinking against the sudden glare, and wishing that he hadn’t turned up his optical receptors after all, Geordi reacted at once, tapping his combadge and barking, “La Forge to Security. Q is in the officers’ lounge!”
Or maybe not. When the light faded, he saw to his surprise that the figure he had expected, Q in all his perverse smugness, was not there. Instead he gazed upon what appeared to be a humanoid woman and a small child. “Fascinating,” he heard Data remark.
The woman looked to be about thirtyish in age, slender and tall, with pale skin and a confident air. She was dressed for a safari, with a pith helmet, khaki jacket and trousers, and knee-high brown boots. A veil of mosquito netting hung from the brim of her helmet and she held on to the child’s tiny hand while her free hand raised an ivory lorgnette before her eyes. She peered through the mounted lenses and looked about her, seemingly taking stock of her surroundings. She did not appear either impressed or intimidated.
“Well, at least it’s a bit more spacious than that other vessel,” she commented to the child, quite unconcerned about being overheard, “although what your father sees in these creatures I still can’t comprehend.”
The toddler, a little boy clad in a spotless white sailor’s suit with navy-blue trimming, held an orangish ball against his chest as he searched the room with wide, curious eyes. Geordi, remembering his own little sister at roughly the same age, estimated that the boy was no more than two or three years old. “Daddy?” he inquired. “Daddy?”
Data, as the highest-ranking officer present, approached the strangers. “Greetings,” he declared. Geordi rose from his chair to follow behind the android. Bits of glass crunched beneath his feet as he accidentally stepped into a puddle of spilled synthehol and lubricant gel. Yuck, he thought as the syrupy mess clung to the soles of his boots.
The crackle of the shattered glasses attracted the woman’s attention. “Disgraceful,” she said, staring through the lorgnette at the remains of Neslo’s meticulously prepared drinks, “leaving sharp edges like that lying around where any child might find them.” She lowered the lorgnette and there was another flash of light at Geordi’s feet. When he looked down again, the entire mess, both the spilled liquids and the fragments of glass, had completely disappeared. The floor shone as if it had been freshly polished. Uh-oh, he thought, I think I see where this is heading.
“Children are not customarily permitted in the officers’ lounge,” Data explained evenly. “I am Lieutenant Commander Data of the Federation starship Enterprise. Whom do I have the privilege of addressing?”
Bet I can answer that one, Geordi thought. If the lady was not in fact Q in disguise, then she had to be a relation of some sort. That little trick with broken glass cinched it as far as he was concerned.
The woman looked skeptically at Data, as though noticing him for the first time. “A clockwork humanoid,” she observed. “How quaint.”
“Robot!” the child chirped happily. “Robot!”
“I am an android,” Data volunteered. “And you are?”
“Q,” she replied haughtily.
The double doors at the entrance to the lounge snapped open, faster than was usual, and Baeta Leyoro charged into the lounge, brandishing a type-3 phaser rifle. Two more security officers followed hot on her heels, each armed with an equally impressive firearm. “Where is he?” she demanded, searching the room with her eyes.
The security team’s dramatic arrival startled the little boy. His ball slipped from his hand, landing with a surprisingly solid thunk and rolling across the floor. Tears poured from his eyes and he let out an ear-piercing wail that Geordi guessed could be heard all over the ship. Lieutenant Leyoro, confronted by a crying toddler rather than Q as she had expected, looked a bit surprised as well. The muzzle of her rifle dipped toward the floor.
“Now see what you’ve done,” clucked the woman who called herself Q. She waved her lorgnette like a magic wand and all three phaser rifles disappeared. Turning her back on Leyoro and the others, she knelt to console the child.
“There, there, baby. Those naughty lower life-forms can’t hurt you. Mommy’s here.”
The boy’s frightened cries diminished, much to the relief of Geordi’s eardrums, replaced by a few quiet sniffles and sobs. The woman’s lorgnette transformed instantly into a silk handkerchief and she wiped the child’s runny nose. Leyoro stared in amazement at her suddenly empty hands, then eyed the woman with a new wariness. Only Data appeared unfazed by the most recent turn of events.
“Lieutenant Commander?” Leyoro asked the android, keeping her gaze on the woman.
“Permit me to introduce Q,” Data replied, but Leyoro did not look satisfied with his answer. The skeptical expression on her face was that of a person who thought someone else was trying to pull a fast one—and was going to regret it if she had anything to do about it.
“I’ve met Q,” she said. “This doesn’t look like him.”
“I believe,” Data elaborated, “that we are encountering another representative of the Q Continuum.”
“Well, of course,” the woman stated. She lifted the snuffling child and rested his head against her shoulder. “Even a bunch of unevolved primates such as yourselves should be able to figure that out without the help of a mechanical man.” She patted the child gently on his back while she glared at the crowd of men and women surrounding her. “I am Q,” she insisted.
Another Q, Geordi thought in wonder, and a baby Q as well! He hoped that this woman was less irresponsible and more congenial than the Q they were accustomed to. So far we don’t seem to have gotten off to a very good start.
Hoping to salvage this first-contact scenario, he scurried under a table to retrieve the child’s ball. The orange globe was about the size of a croquet ball and heavier than he expected, like a ball of concrete. It also felt distinctly warm to the touch. Shifting to infrared mode, he was surprised to discover that the globe had a core of red-hot, molten ore. Wait a second, he thought, increasing the magnification on his optical sensors. A cracked, rocky surface came into view, with odd-looking craters and outcroppings: hills and valleys, mesas and canals, riverbeds, plateaus, and mountain ranges.
