by Various
The spirit approached, walking along an invisible path in the vacuum of space. As he came close, the impossible Borg cube and Borg-verse melted away, replaced by Scrooge’s sitting room. Q was actually happy to see the insipid Dutch fireplace.
“Are you telling me that by having a little fun with Jean-Luc, the Borg are going to assimilate Q?”
The apparition lifted its arms. Q expected to see skeletal hands within the folds of the dark cloak. But instead there were human hands. They lifted back the hood that shrouded the spirit’s face. It was the face of an older man. His hair was equal parts black and gray, as were his trim beard and mustache. He smiled the same annoying smile everyone else had sported.
“You’re not the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come,” said Q.
The older man shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice deep but gentle. “Perhaps you should consider me the Ghost of Alternate Timelines Yet to Come. Your alternate timeline, of course. And to answer your question about ‘having a little fun with Jean-Luc,’ yes and no. Q’s intrusive behavior has always caused an unnecessary stress to the fabric of the universe. You think you know everything. That’s dangerous to every other living thing throughout the multiverse. We felt it was time to show you what could happen from your meddling.”
“Rather melodramatic, don’t you think? Do you really believe that my putting mankind on trial or having Jean-Luc face the Borg years before humans and Borg would have naturally crossed paths led to the destruction of the Q Continuum?”
“Oh, you’ll believe what you want. But as we tried to tell you, you really understand so little. Yes, this had everything to do with your meddling with mankind. And while you and the rest of the Continuum will continue to find ways to be a bother, we have faith that even Q can learn. Perhaps to even redeem themselves.”
Q snorted in derision. But suddenly the name Ayelborne fired across the equivalent of his brainpan. Of course, the Organians—with Ayelborne in the human form he had taken for the benefit of Kirk and Spock. We have underestimated them, thought Q. Such a quiet lot. We took that as a measure of their lack of power. Of their will. That wouldn’t happen again.
“Do you want to see what causes the destruction of your precious Continuum?”
“I can hardly wait,” said Q, but he felt the tingle of fear at the back of his mind, and he hated that he knew the Organian felt it as well.
Q now sat on the stage of an auditorium. There were a few thousand beings in the audience. He recognized creatures from every member of the Federation. Then he noticed the pain. His legs and arms ached. Throbbed. Looking down, he saw that he inhabited the body of a child. Timothy, the former Borg-child. Then he realized someone was next to him. He looked up to see Captain Jean-Luc Picard sputtering some asinine gibberish.
“As we take this bold step toward Timothy’s future—”
Q saw himself stand up in the front row and clap slowly.
“Q, what are you doing here?”
And the events played out as they had before, except that when Q made the child whole, Q felt himself split. He was still the child, but now he was the child whole, without any Borg defects, a perfect specimen—well, as perfect as an inferior species can manage to be, even with a gift from Q—and he was also the child still with the throbbing limbs, whose incalculable courage was the only thing keeping him from crying out from the pain. His dual life unfolded before him.
As the healthy human, he was adopted by loving parents and grew into an adult who followed in his adoptive father’s footsteps and became a geologist. He conducted himself with honor and led what, for humans, was a good life, albeit banal and boring. However, Q thought smugly, all in all, not so bad. And the child avoided all the pain and anguish he would have suffered.
The other Timothy, however, endured painful surgeries, one after another, as the mostly ineffectual Federation doctors clumsily extracted every bit of Borg technology from his frail body. Despite the Federation’s best efforts, and even with Vulcans attempting to ease the child’s pain, each operation came with a thousand red-hot needles pushing into his flesh. But he rarely cried, and he never complained. His rehabilitation rolled before him as a seemingly infinite expanse of misery.
If it wasn’t for the kindness of Captain Picard and the crew of the U.S.S. Enterprise, he didn’t think he would have survived. They took him on board for extended voyages throughout the Alpha Quadrant. Picard practically doted on him, helping Timothy overcome the psychic trauma of being Borg. He fell in love with Deanna Troi. Over time he fell in love with a dozen or more other crew members.
Years passed, but the pain did not. Despite their best efforts, he was never free of it. But, with help from the Vulcans, he learned to embrace it as part of who he was. As a teenager, he braved the final operation and was as whole as Federation medical technology could make him. His body was still frail, and he walked with a limp, but his mind and his determination were strong. With recommendations from Admiral Picard and Captain Riker, he joined Starfleet Academy. He excelled in the sciences, especially nanotechnology.
As an adult he served on science vessels and worked on his theories of cybernetics. It was during a mission to the Delta Quadrant that his ship came in contact with the Borg. It was his genius with cybernetics that prevented the ship and crew from becoming assimilated. They were even able to capture the Borg’s away team. And using theories he’d been formulating since being a child, the medical staff and he successfully reverted the entire Borg away team back to their original species—without the trauma and innumerable surgeries he’d had to suffer.
Within a decade he developed an antidote for the universal virus known as Borg. As captain and task force commander of an armada of Federation vessels, he began the galaxy-wide inoculation of those affected. The tide turned. The Borg were no longer the aggressors. Their days as hunter had ended. Admiral Timothy Picard—having taken the name of his savior when joining Starfleet Academy—would see the Borg plague eradicated in his lifetime.
“Q, what are you doing here?”
Q stood in the front row of the auditorium, clapping slowly. Timothy sat in his propulsion chair next to the Starfleet captain. Deanna Troi knelt next to the boy. Q could feel the pain radiating from the boy. So much pain. And so much strength.
“Why, mon capitaine, can’t an old and dear friend come and wish another old, and I mean old, friend a Merry Christmas?”
“Christmas?”
“Now, no ‘bah humbugs,’ Jean-Luc.” Q snapped his fingers and was gone.
A box wrapped in red paper and gold ribbon appeared on Timothy’s lap.
Stave Seven
The boy read a label on the top of the box. “It has my name on it, and it says it’s from ‘Q.’ Who is that?”
Picard furrowed his brow. What was Q up to?
“He’s an—acquaintance of ours,” said the captain, looking across at Troi.
He wasn’t certain if he should allow the boy to open the present or if he should transport it into the heart of the sun. But in the instant that he hesitated, the boy tore the paper from the box. Picard knelt next to him, ready to grab the box in case something dangerous was inside.
“It’s beautiful,” was all Timothy said as he lifted the lid.
The boy brought out a glass globe that seemed to contain water. Within the glass was a Victorian cityscape with uncanny and delicate details. Lights twinkled, smoke rose from chimneys, people moved along cobblestone lanes and around the occasional horse-drawn carriage.
“What is it?”
Picard was fascinated by the object, even knowing it came from Q. “It’s called a snow globe, Timothy. Shake it.”
The young boy shook his gift. Picard had expected a swirl of porcelain flakes, but was surprised, and even a bit delighted, by what looked like a blizzard of real snow. Even at this scale he could see, or maybe sen
se was a better word, the intricate details and uniqueness of each flake, as though each was individually etched by a skilled artisan. What could have inspired Q to do something so, dare he say, gracious?
“Oh, listen!” gasped Timothy, holding the snow globe higher. Picard put a hand on Timothy’s shoulder and leaned in. There came the faint sounds of dogs barking, church bells pealing, and a choir singing a Christmas carol. The more the captain looked, the more details he saw. Like a holodeck in a jar, but somehow so much more real.
Then Picard whispered, “Scrooge.”
“Scrooge?” said Timothy.
Picard pointed to a window in one of the buildings deep within the globe. There was a cowering old man facing a spectral vision of a spirit bound in chains. The boy shook the globe again. The details shifted to a warehouse festooned with garland.
Picard said, “Look, it’s Fezziwig, dancing with his wife and his daughters.”
“Fezziwig?”
“It’s all from an ancient Earth story. I have a copy. I’ll forward it to you so that you can read it.”
Unable to stop himself, Picard gently took the globe from the boy’s hands. He shook it and peered even closer. Along with the swirling snow, were those galaxies and chains of DNA dancing in the liquid? Picard stared once more at Ebenezer Scrooge. For a second Picard thought he saw himself in the globe, or was it Q’s face?
“Sir?” said Troi.
“Hmm? Oh.” He handed the beautiful snow globe back to Timothy. Picard noticed a twinkling in the child’s eyes and that some of the pain seemed to be lifted, if only for a moment.
“If I remember correctly,” said Troi, “don’t you have a paper copy of that book?”
Picard nodded as he continued to gaze into the globe. “Of course I do. A first edition.”
“Interesting,” she said.
Puzzled, Picard looked at the counselor, who looked back at Timothy and the globe, a slight smile playing across her lips.
Picard paused a moment, then looked at the young boy. “Perhaps . . .” He trailed off.
“Yes, sir?” said Troi.
Timothy looked up at the captain and smiled.
“Well, I was just thinking that perhaps you’d like to see the Enterprise again. Visit some of the crew who looked after you.”
“Really? Do you mean it?” There was so much excitement in the boy’s voice.
Picard nodded brusquely. “That is, of course, if Counselor Troi is willing to supervise.”
Troi nodded. “As you wish, Captain.”
Picard frowned at her and looked back at the globe. His voice softened. “And perhaps, Timothy, if you wanted, I could read you that story.”
THE SUNWALKERS
Kelli Fitzpatrick
“You found a new beginning for yourself. The first step on a journey that few humans will ever take.”
—The Traveler, Dorvan V, 2370
HE HAD KEPT the dang sweater. Of all the things to drag to the Academy, her son had chosen the ugliest piece of clothing she’d ever made him wear.
Doctor Beverly Crusher ran her fingers over the gaudy olive cable knit, recalling how the baggy thing had engulfed Wesley’s lanky frame seven years ago, when the two of them first transferred to the Enterprise. She smiled. What a terrible mother I was to make him wear something so hideous. The strange wavy pattern of the weave was reminiscent of a snarl of seaweed, or perhaps a tetryon wave field. Yes, definitely waves. In that respect, maybe the sweater was a good fit—Wesley had always been a whiz at science. All right, he’d been a whiz at most everything he touched, much to the annoyance of some of the senior crew.
But he was gone now, off exploring the unknown reaches of the universe with the transdimensional being known as the Traveler. All that was left of her twenty-two-year-old prodigy was the box of his belongings on the bed before her.
Beverly was alone in her quarters, the lights dimmed, the stars sailing past the window. She laid the sweater on the bed and continued sorting through the things Wesley had left in his room at Starfleet Academy. It had been kind of Admiral Nechayev to have the items forwarded to the Enterprise. The doctor made a mental note to personally thank the admiral next time the woman came onboard. Crusher’s hands pulled gently through the loose objects, lifting the corners of study padds, brushing past a hyperspanner and a set of false-code isolinear chips, undoubtedly used for some training scenario.
It had been Wesley’s choice to leave or, rather, to advance his reality, taking advantage of an opportunity few humans are ever offered. She was happy for him; she really was. Any mother would be. She had told him so—through tears, perhaps, but joyful tears. And yet this business of sorting through this box of memories—former pieces of a life—reminded her too closely of another time she’d been forced to say goodbye to someone she dearly loved far too soon.
The ship’s computer beeped, announcing a visitor. It startled her a bit, but she quickly composed herself. “Come in.”
The doors whooshed open and Captain Picard stepped in, his posture tall and steady, strong yet unthreatening in his red-and-black uniform. He never changes, thought Crusher. In all the years she’d known Jean-Luc, he had remained a constant, like the backdrop of stars outside.
“Am I interrupting?” he said.
“No. Just going through Wesley’s stuff from the Academy.”
Picard stepped closer, surveying the spread of artifacts through calm eyes. “One can learn a great deal about a man by the objects he chooses to keep close to him.” He picked up a small metal contraption that had a shock of wires spraying from one end.
“A piece of one of his experiments,” Crusher said. “Don’t ask me what it does.”
Picard chuckled. “If I know Wesley Crusher, it enhances the efficiency of—something.” A half smile lingered on his lips as he placed the device carefully back on the bed. “I think all of us—here on the ship and back at the Academy—are going to miss Wesley’s unique brand of ‘enhancements.’ ”
Crusher’s heart twitched—a quick, tight pull. “He’s only on Dorvan V.”
“Yes. For now.”
Jean-Luc was right. Under the Traveler’s guidance, Wesley would continue to advance his metaphysical abilities. Who knew where he would end up, where his journeys would take him—or when? What was there to hold him here?
“Beverly?”
“Hmh.” The doctor’s hands moved instinctively back to the sweater. Why had he kept it? In a way, she wished he hadn’t. In a way, she wished that the box had been empty. That she didn’t have to deal with any of this.
“Beverly, have you spoken with Counselor Troi yet regarding this issue?”
“What issue? There’s nothing—” Doctor Crusher caught the captain’s eyes and suddenly stiffened. “Jean-Luc, don’t look at me like that.”
The captain’s brow furrowed. “Like what?”
“That’s the same expression you wore the day you brought me Jack’s body.” A shiver of cold memory iced her skin. The room suddenly seemed oppressively dark.
Picard drew a deep breath and sighed. “Forgive me, Doctor,” he said, looking down. “I want you to know I could not be more proud of Wesley’s accomplishments or more envious of the path of enlightenment that lies ahead of him.” He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “But I know how much his mother loves him. And if there’s any regret in my features at this moment, it’s because I’m concerned for her sake.”
“Well, you needn’t be,” Crusher said, dumping the remaining contents of the box onto the bed in a messy heap. There—at least it was all out in the open. “Wes isn’t dead, you know. He’s alive and well and on Dorvan V.” But for how long? She suddenly had the urge to turn the Enterprise around. To take back her heartfelt farewell and beg her only child to stay. On the ship. In Starfleet. Heck, in this dimension
. Anything. Anything but this cursed box. She tossed the empty container onto the floor, and it bounced with a thud.
“Perhaps—perhaps you should consider taking a few days to yourself,” Picard said, eyeing her with care. “We have time before our next scheduled rendezvous, and you might—”
“Data to Doctor Crusher.” The android commander’s even-toned voice came through her combadge.
Crusher was inwardly relieved for the momentary distraction. “Crusher here. Go ahead, Data.”
“Data, this is the captain,” Picard interjected. “Doctor Crusher is somewhat occupied at the moment. Can you—”
“Jean-Luc!” Beverly gasped. She did not like being spoken for, even by her commanding officer.
“I’m sorry to disturb the doctor, Captain,” Data said, “but we are receiving an emergency medical distress call from the settlement on Shar-Mi’la Prime. They say it is urgent, sir.”
Crusher glared at Picard. “We’re on our way, Data. We’ll meet you on the bridge. Crusher out.” The link broken, she flipped a smooth auburn lock of hair out of her eye. “I’m the chief medical officer of the Federation’s flagship, Jean-Luc, and there are people out there asking for my help. You don’t really suppose you’re going to tell me no.” She stared at him, waiting.
Picard pursed his lips but did not overrule her. Crusher turned and strode toward the door, leaving the sweater to lie limp among the shadowed collection of memories.
“They may be a new member of the Federation,” Picard said, “but they certainly seem quite advanced in their technologies.”
Crusher smiled inwardly at the curiosity in the captain’s voice; he had always been fascinated by the study of unique civilizations, both modern and ancient. The two of them stood beside Commander Data at the science station, skimming through the available information on the world that had reached out with a distress call. The bridge of the Enterprise glowed in its usual warm beiges and grays, and the darkness of her quarters seemed far away. She was engrossed in the briefing, finding out what it was these people needed, as well as how she could bring her expertise into play to help them. It was why she became a medical professional in the first place—to help others in their time of need.