Q-Space

by Greg Cox

  “Captain! Commander Riker!” Ensign Clarze shouted over the quaking of the bridge. “The warp engines have come back on-line.”

  Thank you, Geordi, Riker thought. And just in time. “Go to warp, mister. Now!”

  Fee fie fo fum, I smell freedom. Here I come….

  The scent of freshly liberated neutrinos wafted across the great wall, bringing with it the promise of rescue after oh so many aeons. His pawn within the shiny silver bug, abetted by a piece of his own splendiferous spirit, had done its part at last. He sensed the forbidding fire of the great wall, the same damnable dynamism that had held him back for so long, crumbling beneath the ingenious assault of the clever little beings inhabiting the silver bug. A window was opening, a window through which he would finally be able to slip over to the other side, where an infinity of diversions awaited him, not to mention revenge on the perfidious Q.

  Q is for quisling, he chanted impatiently. Q is for quarry. He’d hunt Q, he would, enjoying every frenzied heartbeat of the chase, and, at the end of the game, he’d show just as much mercy and understanding as Q had showed him at the moment of bleakest, blackest betrayal. Q is for quitter, whose questionable quibbles and querulous qualms quashed my quintessential quest and quickened my quiddity to queer and quiescent quarantine.

  Within the barrier, reality twisted and contorted itself, creating a gap that had never before existed. So intent was he on the window that was being carved out of the unforgiving unity of the wall that he barely noticed the tiny silver insect fleeing frantically from the maelstrom it had engendered. Retracting his tendrils, compacting his entire being into a single infinitesimal point of consciousness, he watched and waited until the window opened all the way through to the other side. He felt exotic solar winds, exhaled by a billion distant suns, blow against his provoked perceptions, inciting him onward.

  With nary a nanosecond of doubt or hesitation, he hurled himself into the voracious vortex, diving for deliverance from an eternity of exile and isolation. The empty void of the window was like an ice-cold pond compared with the blazing furnace of cosmic energies that composed the wall. The shock was enough to stop his breath, assuming he felt the need to breathe, but he barreled on nonetheless, eager to reach the other side—where Q would be waiting.

  Once before, he recalled, his scattered memory racing backward in time even as the totality of his being rushed back into the galaxy, he had flung himself through another window, the so-called Guardian of Forever. Then, too, Q had been waiting, but to help him, not hinder, not yet. Oh, those were the days, he rhapsodized, days of fire and fun and furor. He flew past the pierced substance of the wall, the wall that could no longer deny him. Those days will come again.

  But the window was a fragile one, doomed to dissolve within a heartbeat. Already it was shrinking, squeezing him tightly. The gap was narrowing, the accursed wall encroaching on his escape route at a redoubtable rate. Again he recalled that earlier window, whose graven Guardian had strived so relentlessly to keep him from emerging into the new reality on the other side. For a time, he had been trapped in the window, held fast halfway between one realm and another. Then only Q had been there to pull him through, only Q had saved him, only to betray him when it mattered most.

  Q is for quisling. Q is for quitter.

  Now he was nearly trapped again, the window narrowing so quickly that he feared he would not be able to squeeze his way through to the other side, no matter how small he made himself, no matter how swiftly he soared nor how furiously he fought against the wall pressing in on him. Now, as before, it was Q that gave him the strength to continue, his hatred of Q and his desire for vengeance that propelled him onward despite the noxious narrowing of the window.

  I’m coming for you, he howled into the star-strewn galaxy ahead. Coming for Q and Q and Q!

  The distant stars were closer now, but the scope of his view was diminishing rapidly, shrinking inward like the pupil of a cyclopean eye dilating in reverse. So close! Close, closer, closest. He summoned the remainder of his resources, all that he had not already entrusted to his surrogate beyond the wall, for one final spasm of speed to bring him beyond the boundary forever and ever. The wall tried to deter him, the frictional forces fighting him every inch of the way. Then, all at once, he was free of both wall and window, among the stars he had spied upon from afar. He had made it! Made it he had!

  The window snapped shut behind him, shrinking into nothingness, the eternal wall regaining its seamless and sacred solidity, but he did not look back. There was nothing for him there, there never had been, only endless and immeasurable exile. His future, boundless and infinite enticing, lay ahead, like this gorgeous galaxy and its trillions upon trillions of waiting worlds. And Q, of course.

  Q is for quarry, quoth I. Q will quake and quiver and quail….

  “Go to warp, mister. Now!

  In an instant, the Enterprise was accelerated at warp speed out of the barrier and away from the wormhole. The bone-rattling shaking subsided and the eerie glow of the galactic barrier, which had filled the viewscreen since Picard’s return to his ship, gave way to the reassuring sight of stars streaking past the prow at what looked like warp factor eight or more, faster than the subspace shock wave that had nearly destroyed the Enterprise. They’d had a narrow escape, but had they fled swiftly enough to escape 0 himself?

  “Captain,” Data reported, “according to the long-range sensors, the artificial wormhole has already collapsed. The total duration of its existence was no longer than 1.004 seconds.”

  “Long enough,” Q said glumly, with uncharacteristic directness. “He’s here. On the Enterprise.”

  Eight

  “Little soldiers in a row,

  One big puff and down you go,

  Bodies, bodies, on the floor,

  Sadly you will play no more….”

  The ominous ditty came from on high, echoing all over the bridge. Startled, Riker and the others looked up at the ceiling, searching in vain for the source of the inexplicable crooning. Picard recognized the raspy voice, as did Q, who could not repress a genuine shudder. “I never did like his singing,” he said in a transparent attempt to maintain a brave front. For a moment, he reminded Picard inescapably of the in-over-his-head youth Q had once been. He could not possibly be looking forward to this reunion, not after playing such a deciding role in 0’s downfall so many ages ago. I almost feel sorry for him, Picard thought.

  He sat down in his chair and held his breath expectantly. He could not begin to imagine how 0 would manifest himself. Had the immortal entity changed at all over the last five hundred thousand years? What might all those thousands of centuries of banishment have done to him? “Be on your guard, Number One,” he said tersely. “This entity is not to be trusted.”

  But could Q? The thought fleetingly passed through Picard’s mind that maybe what he had witnessed in the distant past had been nothing more than an elaborate fiction, an illusion created by Q’s vast and limitless power. No, he concluded, that does not ring true. Although he conceded that Q could certainly create just such a shadow play if he so chose, Picard knew in his gut that all he had seen had truly happened. 0’s crimes had been real, and so was the present danger.

  A Q-like flash of light at the prow of the bridge heralded 0’s arrival. He appeared in front of the viewscreen, facing Data and Ensign Clarze. The helmsman lurched back in his seat involuntarily while the android merely cocked his head in contemplation of the stranger’s miraculous entrance and striking appearance.

  “Do you still like to play games, Q?”

  Picard barely recognized 0. He looked like a refugee or disaster victim, freshly rescued from some barren asteroid or moon, who had long since abandoned any concern over his appearance. His foppish finery had been reduced to rags and tatters, his shredded green velvet coat hanging like streamers from bony shoulders now a few sizes too small for his garments. Oily, uncombed orange hair, streaked with geriatric shocks of white, spilled over those same should
ers, joining a thick, matted beard through which cracked, yellow teeth bared a skull’s unsettling grin. Callused toes, the nails curled and overgrown, protruded from beneath the overlapping strips of fraying damask wrapped around his feet, the left of which remained twisted and distorted. Ancient scars climbed up his deformed ankle, disappearing beneath the torn cuffs of his antique trousers.

  The emaciated figure before Picard bore little resemblance to the charismatic ne’er-do-well who had so captivated the younger Q. The present Q stared aghast at what 0 had become. “By the Continuum!” he whispered hoarsely.

  The interdimensional exile appeared to have fallen on hard times indeed. Perhaps, Picard hoped, he is no longer as powerful as he once was. Certainly there was a glint of utter insanity in the figure’s gleeful blue eyes that Picard did not recall seeing there before. The wild eyes searched the bridge hungrily, taking in every detail before settling on Q. A string of saliva drooled from one corner of 0’s mouth.

  “Q!” he proclaimed. “And not just any Q, but my Q, the Q of all Qs!” His manic grin stretched even further, more than Picard would have thought was even possible. Was it just his imagination, or were 0’s very features more fluid and mutable than he remembered, as if the crippled castaway could no longer be bothered to maintain a consistent appearance? The bones and musculature beneath his beard and sallow skin seemed to shift subtly from moment to moment. “I told you I’d be back, I did. Are you ready for our game? I know I am.”

  “What game is that?” Q said warily, keeping his distance. He slowly raised his palms toward 0, just as he had once attempted to fend off Guinan the first time they encountered each other upon the Enterprise. He looked ready to defend himself if necessary.

  Glancing back at tactical, Picard saw Ensign Berglund reach for her phaser. Catching her eye, he shook his head to discourage whatever she had in mind; he was not about to risk any crew member’s life on a futile attempt to take the omnipotent intruder into custody. Let’s see what happens between him and Q before we try anything rash.

  “Why, the only game that matters, Q old Q. The game of life and death, remember?” He pointed a curling yellow fingernail, at least three centimeters in length, at Q, who flinched instinctively even though no lightning bolt or metaphysical death ray leaped from the extended digit. “I’m game if you are.”

  “More gamy than game, I think,” Q said, unable to resist the insult. He wrinkled his nose at 0’s wretched and debased appearance.

  “Don’t put on airs with me, Q!” 0 barked, so vehemently that Q stepped back in alarm. “I knew you when, don’t forget.” A bolt of energy leaped from his open hand, smashing through Q’s defenses as if they didn’t exist and knocking Q off his feet. The impact of the blast was enough to make the whole ship lurch downward, throwing everyone forward. Picard grabbed on to his armrails to keep from falling onto the floor of the command area. The inertial dampers restabilized their orientation after a moment, but it was a terrifying demonstration of the power that remained within 0’s degraded shell. Picard wanted desperately to intervene, to take a stand against 0’s callous disregard for the ship and the crew, but he knew better than to provoke 0 to no purpose. This is Q’s game for now. Let him play the first cards.

  0 paced back and forth before the viewscreen, dragging his mangled foot behind him. “Are your wits as sharp as your tongue, Q? I wonder. You’ll need all your wits to play my game. It’s time to be tested!” He fired another bolt that sent Q tumbling backward. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “I could have waited a good deal longer,” Q said weakly, climbing awkwardly to his feet. The look on his face deeply concerned Picard; Q looked genuinely surprised. But is he shocked by 0’s actions or his power? Picard wondered. He could only hope it was the former, given that Q was their best defense against the dangerous entity. Surely Q can put up a better fight than this?

  “No more waiting! Wait no more!” 0 cackled. “I had to wait for this shiny silver bug,” 0 said, spinning around on his good leg to take in the entire bridge. “I had to wait a very long time. Long, longer, longest.”

  He’s lost his mind altogether, Picard realized, a chill running down his spine. What was more to be dreaded, a cool and calculating 0 or a lunatic with the power of the gods? At least the intruder seemed focused exclusively on Q so far; he had yet to even acknowledge the presence of Picard and the others. We’re too far beneath him, I suppose.

  “What a fine, fast bug this is, too,” 0 declared. Something wriggled beneath the tattered fabric of his oversized coat. What in the world? Picard thought. Peering more closely at the raving superbeing, he took note of various mysterious moving objects coiling sinuously over 0’s shoulders and beneath his arms, making their way underneath his ragged clothing. With a start, Picard recalled the spectral tentacles he had sometimes glimpsed flickering about 0’s human form during moments of great stress or exertion. He got the distinct impression that the consistency of that human guise had suffered as much as the rest of his appearance. He was almost afraid to guess what was lurking and flexing beneath 0’s coat.

  “I can use this bug, when I’m through with you, Q. I have places to go, people to free.” The quivering tip of some luminous, phantasmal appendage poked from beneath 0’s collar and through the unkempt cascade of hair flowing over his shoulder. It wagged back and forth next to where 0’s neck presumably was, as if sampling the atmosphere of the bridge, then withdrew back into the concealing layers of hair and fabric. From the startled gasp and nervous gulp behind him, Picard guessed that both Berglund and Barclay had spotted the tendril as well.

  “Careful,” Q chided him, tugging at the neck of his Starfleet uniform. “You seem to have a bad case of writhing around the collar.”

  Was that an attempt at courage, Picard wondered, or was Q simply unable to overlook an opportunity to be snide? Knowing Q, he feared the latter.

  “Don’t worry, Q, I won’t forget you.” 0 limped across the prow of the bridge until he stood directly in front of the conn. “Just thinking ahead a bit. Remembering a Head I have to go get.” He eyed the navigational controls with keen and avaricious interest. “Right,” he muttered into his beard. “Ready the rudder. Ready and roaring.”

  He poked at the controls with a gnarled nail, keying in new coordinates with the speed and assurance of a veteran pilot, treating cutting-edge Starfleet technology like a children’s toy. Picard was appalled at how quickly the deranged entity had mastered the intricacies of starship navigation.

  “Wait! What are you doing?” Ensign Clarze protested as the ship began to pitch and yaw. Without thinking, he reached out and seized 0 by the wrist.

  It was the last thing he ever did. Before anyone even grasped what was happening, a glowing tentacle burst from 0’s chest, ripping his soiled shirt front asunder and wrapping itself around the young Deltan’s throat….

  Nine

  “Dr. Crusher, come quickly!”

  The holographic physician’s entreaty drew Beverly Crusher instantly to the biobed where Lieutenant Leyoro’s body rested within the protective embrace of the surgical support frame. She left Deanna Troi, freshly wakened from her cortically induced coma now that the Enterprise had left the barrier behind, to watch over the unconscious form of Milo Faal, while Nurse Ogawa supervised straightening up the disarray caused by Lem Faal during his telekinetic rampage. Thank heaven no one was hurt seriously, she thought, although the crazed and mutated scientist remained at large, and capable of most anything, or so it seemed. It must have been the barrier, she realized; somehow the awesome psionic energy of the galactic barrier had amplified the Betazoid’s already formidable mental gifts. Was this what he was planning all along? No wonder he resisted all my efforts to protect him from the barrier.

  Crusher pushed such speculations aside to concentrate on the patient at hand. “What is it?” she asked the EMH. Had Leyoro taken a turn for the worse? At a glance, her condition appeared unchanged.

  “Look,” the hologram said, pointin
g at the monitor above the bed. “Her neurotransmitter levels are dropping dramatically.”

  He was right. The activity within the unconscious officer’s brain was rapidly returning to normal. It was too early to predict what sort of neurological damage, if any, had already been done by her overstimulated synapses, but this was a very hopeful sign. “Did you do anything?” she asked the computer-generated doctor.

  “I wish I could take the credit,” he admitted, “but I’m afraid not. I was simply monitoring her condition as you instructed.” He glanced past her at the ward beyond, where Alyssa Ogawa was retrieving the last of the fallen exoscalpels from the floor. Like everyone else in sickbay, Ogawa had removed her magnetic boots now that gravity had been restored. Another nurse was handing out newly replicated combadges. “What in the name of Starfleet medical protocols went on over there?” the EMH inquired, referring to Professor Faal’s spectacular escape. “My programming did not begin to prepare me for any events of that nature.”

  “Join the club,” Crusher murmured, preferring to focus on Leyoro’s surprising recovery. What could have triggered this turnaround? The triclenidil, she wondered, or something else? Another thought occurred to her: Perhaps it was simply that the Enterprise had finally exited the galactic barrier? The removal of the barrier’s direct influence upon Leyoro’s artificially enhanced nervous system might account for the sudden diminishment of her symptoms.

  “How is she doing, Beverly?” Deanna asked, joining her at Leyoro’s side. Crusher noted that Ogawa had taken over the watch on Milo. Good, she thought. She wanted to know the minute the boy showed signs of consciousness.