As I said, I dislike crowds.
Which reminds me of another story. It took place on Earth during one of their end-of-the-year celebrations.
Once upon a time, thousands upon thousands of humans congregated in a place called Times Square in a town called New York City in a state called New York (thus demonstrating the remarkable lack of human imagination in coming up with two different names). At the end of each Earth year, Times Square is packed with humans quivering in anticipation as they fixate on a ball (which signifies the passing of time) that drops from a tower at the stroke of midnight. Imagine their state of mind when that yearly ritual closed out a century. Of course most of them were so cockeyed drunk when the hour approached that they didn’t see just one ball drop but rather two, or four.
It was such a bizarre event to get worked up about that I wanted to observe the phenomenon at close range. I stood in the middle of Times Square in the midst of the surging mass of humanity. They were crushing in from all directions—it was indeed a most disconcerting sensation. Nonetheless, I took it in stride. They were, after all, only humans, and certainly no threat to me.
It was interesting to watch the humans up close and personal. There were so many expressions on their faces—hope, fear, excitement, even boredom—the entire gamut of human emotions. It was as if humanity realized that it was standing on the precipice of something . . . remarkable. As if they knew, as I did, that the next century could be a time of great achievement—unparalleled in human history.
So, there I was in Times Square fending off the pickpockets when I noticed a young lady across the square. In this crowd of thousands, she was alone. All alone. She had long black hair, and she was rather pale, but her eyes were a remarkable cobalt blue. There was something about her, something special I couldn’t quite put my finger on, so I moved toward her. It was no great trick. There was no reason for me to wend my way through the crowd. I simply willed myself to be next to her, and I was. She looked startled when she saw me.
“You appear perplexed,” I said.
“Not really,” she said. “Just a little afraid.”
“Why?”
“Because . . .” Clearly she was about to toss off an answer, but then she stopped and considered a moment before she responded. “Because, if you really want to know, I’m thinking about everything that we’ve done so far . . . and everything we can be . . . and I see tremendous opportunities. I see what we can achieve. I see . . .” She looked to the night sky, which was devoid of clouds. The stars glittered in a manner that was doubtless impressive to someone who has never walked among them. “I see great ships, cruising the spaceways. I see species—all sorts of species—from different worlds, coming together. I see a new era of harmony, a new golden age for mankind—for universal kind. I see so many possibilities.”
“Why would that make you afraid?”
“Because I’m afraid that we’ll blow it.”
“Blow it?” I had no idea what she was talking about. Even when you’re omniscient it’s hard to be current with the myriad ways humans mangle their language. “Blow what?” I said.
“It,” she said. “We might not make it. We might annihilate ourselves before that vision can ever be realized. And that would be just the most incredible waste. We’re at a crossroads, and I hope we’re able to take the right one. As the poet said: ‘Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: ‘It might have been.’ ”
I wanted to share my latest poem with her, “On the road to Alpha Centauri, I stopped for a pint at the brewery”. . . but, somehow, I didn’t think the mood was right.
She continued, “I can’t wait to find out what happens. The suspense is killing me. I wish I could live forever just to see how it all turns out.”
I was impressed. I was very impressed. Something about the way she spoke, something in her quiet conviction that humankind had all sorts of possibilities which might be realized if only humanity were up to the challenge . . . very interesting . . . very uplifting.
Okay, I liked her. She was possibly the first human I ever actually liked. Perhaps it was because our meeting was so brief. For all I know, if I had continued to spend time with her, she might well have turned out to be as dreary as the rest of her race.
“What is your name?” I asked.
She looked up at me, a hank of hair covering part of her face. She brushed it back in a casual manner and said, “Melony.”
“Happy New Year, Melony,” I said.
Impulsively, she stood on her toes, for she was half a head shorter than I, and kissed me on the cheek. She gasped the moment her lips pressed against my face. Something in that contact had jolted her. Perhaps I had let my guard down ever so slightly, and she had gotten just an inkling of who I was, although she wouldn’t have been able to explain it to anyone, including herself. She tilted her head slightly, and it seemed to me as if those blue eyes pierced to the back of my head. There was definitely something about her!
I turned away and slipped back into the crowd. I glanced behind and saw her trying to follow me, but the people were packed in so tightly that she couldn’t make headway.
“Possibilities,” I murmured to myself. “They have definite . . . possibilities.”
My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a great roar from the crowd. They were watching a gigantic electric ball sliding down a pole in Times Square. It was already on its way down, and the crowd was chanting, “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . .”
Melony had completely lost sight of me. I saw her give a little shrug, and then join in the counting. “Six . . . five . . . four . . .”
One step and then another, and I was at the far end of Times Square. It made it easier for me to observe them all as they stood shoulder to shoulder, packed in like so many stuffed olives. As the countdown continued, I was surprised to hear myself mutter, “Good luck, humans.”
“. . . two . . . one . . .”
The shouts of “Happy New Year!” however, were drowned out by a massive explosion.
The first of the explosive charges was set off as the huge ball made contact. People stared in disbelief, unable to process what they were seeing. Then the second explosion went off, and then the third, and by that point even the dullest humans had come to the realization that their celebration had gone very much awry.
Huge, flaming pieces of the erstwhile ball tumbled toward the crowd in what seemed like slow motion, while chunks of the building followed close behind. And still the explosions continued, one explosion for each century, it would later be announced by the terrorist organization that set them. There would be governmental investigations, and finger-pointing, and accusations of slipshod security procedures, and an entire presidential administration would collapse when attempts at retaliation were deemed by the public not vengeful enough.
Times Square was a ring of fire. Everywhere, buildings were collapsing. From beneath the streets there were even more explosions, as gas mains erupted with volcanic force. People tried to run, of course, but there was nowhere for them to go. They were packed in too tightly, you see. They screamed and cried out, begging for their maker, their creator, to intervene, but their god simply looked down, shrugged, and said, “Sorry. Free will. Better luck next time,” then rolled over and went back to sleep.
I watched it all. I had an excellent view.
The explosions seemed to stretch on forever.
Finally, even I couldn’t stand it any longer. The entire display was so distasteful. I stepped forward. “All right, that’s enough of that. Whichever of you sadistic scum was trying to make a point, I trust that it’s been made.” And so, intervening where their god showed no inclination to do so, I snuffed out the flames. Then I waited a few moments for things to calm down, and began to look around.
It was a pathetic sight, truly pathetic. Humanity had been poised to celebrate its aspirations for the future, and some vomitous little psychopath had chosen that very moment to make a political statement that
necessitated the slaughter of thousands. And all for what? “See the world the way I do or die”?
I shook my head in disgust. I had totally underestimated the human capacity for carnage.
It was some minutes before I spotted Melony’s body, or at least what was left of it. A chunk of the demolished ball had fallen on her and others nearby. Only her head and left arm were visible. For all I knew, the rest of her wasn’t attached, but I didn’t feel inclined to check. Her hair was thick with blood, her arm was at an odd angle, and her eyes . . .
Those glorious cobalt blue eyes that had possessed such an intriguing mix of fear and anticipation stared at . . . nothing.
I crouched next to her and closed her eyelids with my hand. “At least it wasn’t the suspense that killed you,” I said. It was a morbid attempt at humor. She didn’t laugh.
I walked away shaking my head, thinking that for every thoughtful, contemplative specimen such as Melony, there was an overabundance of beasts on this planet ready to brutalize their fellows for whatever reason caught their fancy and in whatever way seemed the most expedient.
“Foolish race,” I said to myself. “Foolish, foolish race.”
I took one final look at the carnage and, as sirens sounded in the distance and the looters began making their rounds, I vanished.
So you see, I come by my antipathy of crowds rather honestly.
This is all by way of explaining how “put off” I was when, arriving at the Q Continuum, I was met with a mob of “well-oiled” Qs. I couldn’t help but wonder where this group of devout teetotalers had been hiding the stuff all these years.
Picard, Data, and I had materialized in a burst of golden haze. (I like “golden,” it has a celestial feel about it—very dramatic.) What I beheld when I landed was barely controlled chaos.
Everywhere, my fellow members of the Q were in a state of physical refraction, indicating their high level of excitement. The subether was in massive quantum flux as it responded to both the conscious and subconscious overstimulation of the eternal beings collectively referred to as the Continuum. This must sound like a lot of technobabble to you. In layman’s terms: The shit had hit the fan. It was difficult for me to know where to look first. Below me, eternity stretched out; above me, infinity yawned. To the right of me was endlessness; to the left of me was pointlessness; and it was all shimmering and throbbing with an intensity all its own. Usually the Continuum was regulated by the combined will of the Q, but in this case, there seemed to be nothing coherent holding it together . . . and yet, I was seeing more enthusiasm, more spontaneity than I had in eons. I tried to catch the attention of one of the passing Q, but was unable to do so—so great was his excitement. “Hey, you!” I shouted, but still got no reaction.
That was when I heard a rather loud thud. I turned and saw that Data had passed out.
“Passed out” is actually a depressingly human term, and I should know better than to use it. “Shut down” is more like it. “Crashed” might be an even better word. Picard knelt next to him, calling out his name. It struck me as a little ridiculous, kind of like addressing a broken platter after it’s hit the floor. Data’s golden eyes remained open and unblinking, as if he were going to snap back into active mode at any moment.
“What’s happened to him?” said Picard.
“I should have known,” I said.
Picard looked up at me, still not comprehending. “What? What should you have known?”
“Data has no human perceptions. His positronic brain tried to process the Q Continuum as it truly is, rather than filtering it through some reference he could grasp.” I stood over Data, arms folded, making no attempt to hide my annoyance with the situation. “It was too much for him.”
“What?” Picard stared around himself.
It was at that point I remembered what should have been painfully obvious, and indeed would have been if I hadn’t been so distracted by the dire situation facing my family. The simple fact was that Picard also wasn’t seeing the Q Continuum in the way that it actually existed. This was, of course, fortunate, for if he had, he would have suffered the same fate as Data. Data, aside from his occasional dabbling with dreams, was still a stranger to the concept of imagination. He was far too literal-minded. Picard’s mind, however, was fully capable of automatically guarding his sanity by the simple expedient of preventing him from truly seeing what surrounded him. It was a bit impressive; other humans would have needed my help in shifting perceptions. It was an indicator of the strength of Picard’s brain.
It was no more than a simple mental adjustment, really, for me to see the Continuum in the same way Picard was seeing it. By giving us a common frame of reference, I hoped to simplify further communication between us. And since bringing him up to my level was clearly impossible, the only other choice was to bring myself down to his. I stooped to conquer.
In an instant, Picard had on a trench coat, black slacks, and polished shoes. He sported an old-style fedora on his head, tilted rakishly. Some people’s delusions about themselves are boundless, and at this moment I was happy to support that delusion. As for Data, although he was still in “crash mode,” he was attired in a pin-stripe suit with a pale blue tie knotted nattily around his throat. Picard crouched at his side, waving his fedora in Data’s face as if hoping the breeze would somehow revive him. A twelve-volt battery and a good set of jumper cables would have been more effective.
Not wanting these two gallants to think that they were the only “trick-or-treaters” dressed up for the occasion, I too wore a trench coat, with what appeared to be some sort of gold badge attached to the outer lapel. I was standing in what was clearly a street, and the rude honking of an automobile horn prompted me to step onto the curb and out of the way. Another Q hurtled past in a car, waving to me and whooping his joy. What he was joyful over, I couldn’t say. The car was a roadster, circa Earth’s early twentieth century.
We were in Times Square again, but it was a different era. The women wore thick fur coats over long, elegant shimmering gowns cut high on the leg, in some cases almost to the hip. Invariably, they walked past on the arm of large bruiser-types, although naturally I recognized all of them as my fellow Q.
“This is . . .” Picard began to say, and then hesitated as he took a moment to try to understand what he was witnessing. “This is . . . this is a Dixon Hill environment. I recognize it. It has to be . . .” He looked around. “It has to be from the fourth novel—the one about the serial killer who strangles a beautiful woman every December 31. It’s called Wringing in the New Year. But what are we doing here? Is there going to be a murder . . . ?”
“I doubt it,” I told him. “It simply looks this way because it’s an environment you’re familiar with . . . and a state of mindality that is at least somewhat akin to what’s really happening.”
“Of . . . mindality? I don’t understand.”
I blew air impatiently between my lips. “Mindality. The combination of mind and reality. Like Clamato—clam juice and tomato. Reality is an illusion, as subjective as anything else. You should know that by now, Picard. That’s how the universe works. You’ve certainly seen it enough on your own world. Your personal universe remains immutable, until someone with sufficient power and imagination decides to change it. The people you call inventors think they’re delving into some great font of knowledge from their own heads. Not at all. They simply tap into mindality with sufficient strength and force to make the reality of their world match the one they’ve conjured in their heads.”
Picard nodded in what actually seemed to be understanding. “We are such stuff as dreams are made of,” he intoned, and then looked at me and said, “Shakespeare.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I said. “Let’s try and keep our eye on the ball. You may have forgotten that we have a dire situation on our hands, Picard, but I have not.”
I had to admit, however, that the situation around us looked far from dire. Car horns were blaring, couples were kissing, and everywhere ther
e was a sense of celebration. And just as I had witnessed all those centuries before, people were crowding into Times Square, looking up at something.
It was not, however, a glowing electronic ball festooned with thousands of lights. There was nothing festive about it. Don’t get me wrong, it was a “New Year’s Ball”; but this ball was solid black. It reminded me of a black hole—it reminded me of a funeral.
I realized that I had stopped talking out loud, and Picard was now staring at me. I picked up where I thought I had left off. . . . “A new year,” I told him, “is a time not only of new beginnings . . . but an end to what was.”
“Out with the old, in with the new,” Picard nodded. And then he looked at me gravely and said, “And if there is no new? Then what?”
One has to say this much for Picard: not very much slips past him.
“All right,” I said after a moment’s consideration. “This is the situation, Picard. I hope you’re listening closely, because I don’t want to have to repeat it. . . .”
To my astonishment, his voice hardened. “Stop it, Q. Stop it right now.”
“Stop—?”
“The arrogance. The condescension.” He walked toward me, shaking a finger angrily. “I’m used to it under ordinary circumstances. I—” He stepped quickly to one side as a Q on a bicycle nearly ran him down. Picard didn’t even bother to glance after him. “I’ve even grown to tolerate it, although I probably shouldn’t have. But what we have here is far from an ordinary circumstance. Your wife and child are gone, the very fabric of reality is undergoing some sort of massive shake-up, and—admit it—you don’t know why. You’re confused and probably even a bit scared. We’re on equal footing here for once, Q, and if you have any interest in my working with you to sort this out, you’d be well advised to toss aside your attitude before it truly gets in the way. Have I made myself clear?”
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