I,Q

by John de Lancie

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

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  ISBN: 0-7434-0079-8

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  Table of Contents

  There seemed to . . .

  I,Q . . .

  Fishing on Dante IX . . .

  I have an . . .

  Once we were . . .

  There are certain . . .

  We went everywhere . . .

  The scream was . . .

  Several centuries ago, . . .

  My next recollection . . .

  True story: . . .

  I had, . . .

  God's house . . .

  My next thought . . .

  A shriek of . . .

  Think of the . . .

  She Realized . . .

  The deck of . . .

  There seemed to be . . .

  There seemed to be no reason to go on.

  The planets . . . the planets had held fascination for her . . . once.

  She had contemplated those miracles of natural construction, moving in their relaxed, elliptical paths around their respective suns. They seemed of infinite variety, some huge, some small. Some with rings encircling them, glittering in the rays of starlight that managed to reach and illuminate them. Some were freezing cold, balls of ice in space, while others were volcanic, seething with molten activity, their surfaces in such a constant state of flux that they seemed almost alive. Within these extremes there was a vast spectrum of worlds—temperate, dry, lush and green, flat and dull. An endless assortment of planets from which to choose . . .

  But. But, but, but . . .

  She was tired of looking. The unending choice had become repetitive. Big worlds, little worlds, inhabitable, uninhabitable . . . what difference did it make? The variety was so endless that, paradoxically, it made them seem very much the same.

  Of course there was the multiverse . . . the multiverse had also held fascination for her. . . once.

  There was a time when she could have stared forever into its mysteries, spent eons contemplating its infinite aspects. She could see endless possibilities, played out simultaneously in a dazzling array, a procession, of realities. In one universe, an action led to war. In another, the same action led to peace, as thousands of events played upon it, one tumbling against another, an array of cosmic dominos. And to shape it all was an activity that was nothing short of amazing.

  Oftentimes it had pleased her to study a particular galaxy (chosen at random) in one of the universes that comprised the multiverse.

  Since she lived in all times simultaneously, she was able to examine their past, present, and future all at the same time, tracking the delicate fibers of eternity’s tapestry. Sometimes she would go backward to discover how a galaxy, or even a world within a galaxy, was progressing in its development. Or she would simply pick a world and watch events unfold. Despite her limitless knowledge, a vision of the future was not always within her purview. She could be as surprised as anyone when things happened a particular way. On occasion she would survey any number of worlds, comparing and contrasting, looking for the similarities and delighting in the differences.

  But. But, but, but . . .

  She was tired of looking. For she had come to realize that none of it made a difference. Nothing of any consequence would ever truly occur because there were no absolutes, except perhaps that the multiverse had become absolutely, screamingly dull and boring. Because anything could happen, everything seemed pointless.

  And of course, there were people. Individuals had fascinated her . . . once.

  There were individuals of such vile, irredeemable natures that nothing they ever did was of benefit to the commonweal, and consequently nothing good ever stemmed from their actions. Conversely, there were individuals of such purity that they were incapable of harming anyone or anything.

  Of course . . . sometimes the vile individuals inadvertently killed someone who was even more vile than they, so greater suffering was averted. And sometimes those of the purest nature gave succor to someone who wasn’t deserving, leaving that individual free to do even greater harm. The same old song that put the “verse” in “multiverse”. . . not to mention “perverse.”

  But. But, but, but . . .

  There was nothing in the multiverse that could really be counted on, nothing that served as a bedrock. The center had not held, and the multiverse, that grand experiment, had become an abysmal failure.

  Life. Life had held fascination for her . . . once.

  The variety of life that existed was limitless. In one galaxy, there was a race that was so old, it had forgotten it was even alive. In another, a race of beings lived as pure thought. In yet another there was a group that assumed it was the preeminent force, not realizing there was another race far more advanced, albeit microscopic, living out its life as undetectable entities within the minds of the “superior” race, manipulating everything they did. Every war, every discovery, every step forward or back that the “superior” race had taken was, in fact, the collective life of a totally unknown race of beings whose existence hadn’t even been thought of and, indeed, never would be discerned by these “oh, so superior” beings.

  And yet each life, each race, so different from one another, sought the same things: survival; happiness (although the definitions varied widely), propagation of the species; good food; good companions; good . . . life.

  But. But, but, but . . .

  They were so damned noisy!

  When the multiverse began, it wasn’t teeming with life. It was gloriously, stupendously quiet. Back then, it was possible to think, to contemplate, to look about and truly appreciate the multiverse for what it was. Unfortunately, it had been impossible to leave well enough alone. More lives had sprung forward, one piling atop another, until the multiverse was a cacophony of voices raised in songs of joy or shouts of protest. It was distracting and annoying; and it made her nostalgic for the way it had been in the beginning. Or at least how it had seemed in the beginning.

  She now stood upon the beach and contemplated an end to it all.

  She liked the beach. She liked that the water lapped on the shore, caressing the sand like a lover. She liked the horizon: the horizon where the pink sky met the ocean, or the land. This was, of course, a bit fanciful, for they didn’t truly meet—it just seemed that way.

  Then again, that was the problem, wasn’t it? Reality was, after all, remarkably subjective, a term applied by lesser lights who had no real grasp of the Way Things Were. The multiverse provided a dazzling illusion of reality, a thought that only sent her into a deeper spiral of depression on this most fateful of mornings.

  The sky was now a dark blue, perhaps mirroring her increasing despair. She allowed the sand to work its way between her toes. She had never really like
d her toes. They were too long, not feminine. They were “mannish” toes.

  She was more or less satisfied with the rest of her. Her legs were long and lanky, her hips were nicely rounded, and her breasts were just so. She wore no clothing; it was an unnecessary affectation. The breeze caressed her long hair and tickled her shoulders. It felt nice . . . but what was the point of feeling nice? That, too, would pass, as all things did. As all things must. All things.

  She knelt down and built a sand castle. It was a rather impressive construction. She meticulously designed the turrets, even created a courtyard and a moat. Then she sat back and stared at it, as the sky turned dark.

  The water level began to rise, filling the moat, splashing into the channel she had shaped. For a moment, the moat looked as if it would hold and the castle appeared a stout fortress against the rising tide.

  But eventually . . . the foundation gave way, as all things eventually give way.

  She watched this little drama, seated several yards back with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around her legs.

  Before too long, the castle had collapsed completely. Its proud turrets were gone, its seemingly unassailable walls a mere memory. And still the water continued to rise.

  And still she watched.

  The darksome water stopped short of engulfing her, lapping her toes but coming no closer. She simply sat there, immobile as a statue. Finally the tide began to recede, and she couldn’t help but stare at the place where the castle had been. There was now only a sinkhole with little bits of flotsam and jetsam swirling about.

  It was an image that pleased her, and pleasing images were oh-so-rare.

  She looked heavenward, her eyes as dark as the sky itself. Flotsam and jetsam indeed. A sinkhole, all of it, all of it going down the drain. Yes. Yes, she was sure that that was how it was all going to end. She couldn’t be absolutely certain, of course. For this was the multiverse, and what occurred was entirely subjective, open to debate every step of the way.

  Perhaps that was the most tiresome thing of all. The endless debate, the struggling, the second-guessing. It was more grief than she needed, more than anyone needed. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a peaceful end to it all?

  She rose and took a step toward the ocean. It was time. On the one hand it seemed as if the ocean took no notice of her. On the other, it appeared to move up toward her, as if begging her to join it. She moved a step closer, and the water showed its excitement. It lapped at her feet. “Come to me” it seemed to say. “Come to me and put an end to it all.”

  A third step, a fourth, a fifth . . .

  And then . . .

  She stepped on something.

  She stopped and looked down. It was partially buried in the sand. It appeared to be glass. . . .

  A bottle.

  “A bottle!?” she said aloud, the first words she could remember uttering in quite some time. She knelt down and picked it up. There was something inside the bottle—a scroll—a message.

  Her interest was piqued. took her a few moments to The bottle was stoppered, and it work the cork free. She was surprised to find that the pure action of prying it loose was exciting. She felt a rush of curiosity, of anticipation. Where was this message from? Who had sent it? How had it gotten to this far-flung shore, and what possible significance could it have?

  The cork made a most satisfying popping sound when it was finally yanked free. She worked her fingers into the neck; extricating the manuscript was a deliriously prolonged ordeal. Several times, the tips of her fingers grazed the pages, but then the manuscript settled back down into the bottle just out of reach. For a moment she considered breaking the bottle. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. For whatever reason, she felt it was important to keep the bottle intact.

  Finally, finally, she snagged the papers securely. Slowly, she slid the sheaf of papers out of the bottle. They were dry, almost brittle to the touch. They didn’t unroll easily. It was impossible to tell just how long they’d been in there. She tried to flatten them out on the sand, but they defied her efforts. She finally rolled them in the opposite direction, twisting them delicately back upon themselves, so that at last the pages stayed somewhat flat. The writing was perfectly legible, and after a quick glance she could see that it was a narrative. Yes, a narrative!

  And what a truly remarkable narrative it was. There was much within it she already knew, and yet so much that she didn’t. To actually discover something outside her knowledge was indeed amazing; it was exhilarating! She read quickly . . . of the great party, and the great pit . . . the amazing descent . . . the trial . . . the riot . . . the terrifying battle atop the train . . . the reunion of father and loved ones . . . the voices crying out . . . the . . .

  She stopped for a moment to gather herself. In her nonlinear existence, her perceptions allowing everything to happen all at once, she normally just chose what was of interest to her and never had to worry about missing anything because she could always jump back or speed ahead to see how the matter resolved itself.

  And so, for a moment she thought of simply jumping forward and discovering the end of the story. But she resisted the impulse. Instead she sat down on the sand, stacking the pages neatly on her bare thighs. Although the printing was small, there were quite a few pages. Apparently the author had a bit to say.

  The blackened sky hung low as if it had business to attend to, but dared not proceed until she gave permission. But at this moment, her attention was most definitely directed elsewhere.

  She slid her hands along the manuscript’s edge one final time to make sure that the pages were “just so” in their stack, and then she began to concentrate on the narrative while the rest of the universe waited. . . .

  The narrative began thus. . . .

  I,Q . . .

  I, Q . . . My instinct is to start with me.

  It’s a natural instinct, I suppose, since I was there at the beginning. I have been around for as long as I can remember, as long as anyone can remember. And until this day—presuming one could call this a day—I had always assumed I would be here forever. Forever, after all, is a very, very long time. One doesn’t tend to dwell on the end, because such an event is naturally unthinkable to one such as me.

  And if the end ever did come, if we ever did stand on the brink, on the precipice, on the edge (in short) of oblivion, I had always assumed that I and my equally powerful fellows would be able to mount a defense against it. Each of my fellows, even as a lone individual, can do anything. So when you have an entire Continuum of infinitely powerful fellows, it would seem only logical to assume (there’s that word again) that there is nothing in the entirety of reality that could possibly stand against our collective will—except a two-year-old who’s teething, but that is a nightmare all its own.

  Humans, those ever-annoying creatures, have a saying. Actually, they have many sayings. As a race, they’re chockablock with homilies and aphorisms that cover just about every circumstance that mortal minds can conceive (which, granted, is not saying much). One of those jolly sayings happens to be, “Never ‘assume’ because it makes an ‘ass’ of ‘u’ and ‘me.’ ” It’s a fairly tortured dissection of a word simply to make a point, but nonetheless the point is well taken. I assumed, and therefore found myself in deep . . .

  Ah, shame on him! I’m sure you’re saying to yourself. He shouldn’t be starting with himself. How rude, how vainglorious. He should be starting with Jean-Luc Picard and his pocket calculator, Mr. Data. And so I shall.

  You see, they were fishing one day when the End of Everything (that’s with a big “E”) caught their attention. Of course, they had no idea what was really happening because . . .

  Oh, to hell with it! They’re boring. I’m sorry, but it’s true. They have their uses, certainly, and I suppose I have to admit that in our quest to stave off the End (with a big “E”) they’ve been very useful; but the fact is, I’m much more engaging then they are, and if this narrative is going to be even remotely entertai
ning, I’m going to have to provide that entertainment by talking about myself first.

  Me . . . Myself and I. Three of the best pronouns in the language.

  It has come to my attention that there have been numerous studies and tomes published about me. Several of them have been circulating on earth, because humans seem to have a fascination with me bordering on the morbidly obsessive.

  And I admit I find them rather intriguing, to the point where I lapse into their perspectives and perceptions, using their idioms and metaphors (such as the comment about the two-year-old earlier). One would have hoped I’d have elevated them. Instead, they have dragged me down. Pitiful. There have been publications on other worlds as well, worlds I’ve visited and where my endeavors and achievements have also been invariably misunderstood. Of course, I sympathize completely. It is as difficult to comprehend a being like me as it is for a paleontologist to understand a dinosaur by looking at a fossilized footprint.

  For example, I remember the residents of Kangus IV, an extremely gloomy race who seemed to have an endless fascination with the prospect of their eventual demise. One of their favorite pastimes was to insert their collective consciousness into a great machine that simulated the destruction of their planet. This machine allowed them to safely experience massive quakes, typhoons, starvation, wars, you name it. The machine was so realistic that while they were in the machine, great, gaping fissures would open beneath their feet, giving them a sense of being swallowed whole. What fun! They would then disconnect from the great machine and stumble out into the daylight, only to be drawn back to the extinction simulation over and over again. And for this experience they paid good money, diminishing their incomes as well as placing themselves in a perpetual state of anxiety.

  I stumbled upon their rather macabre pastime and took it upon myself to grant their ultimate wish by destroying their world. I thought they would enjoy it! It took no effort at all but, to my surprise, during the actual event there was so much shrieking and crying and gnashing of teeth that I felt compelled to put their world back together again. Apparently, the real-life experience so completely terrified them that they never again had any dealings with the great machine. Which was good, except it caused the financial ruin of the planet and forced the population to actually talk to one another.