I,Q

by John de Lancie

  He was right, of course. Right about everything. I really didn’t have any idea what was going on, and not only that, but there was a most distressing sensation of fear gnawing at my gut. This entire business was something I had never seen before.

  You have to understand just how alarming that can be for someone like me. When you have existed as long as I have, there is a tendency to feel that everything that can be seen, has been seen. The truth is that history repeats itself constantly, and whatever activities and behaviors I might witness, whatever phenomena may unfold before my eyes, at some point I’ve seen it all before. In fact, based upon previous observation, I’m usually able to predict just how the situation will turn out.

  Perhaps it’s that very repetition that leads to the sort of ennui and boredom that had settled upon the Q Continuum eons earlier. The sense of “been there, done that—got the T-shirt.” It can all be rather suffocating. But boredom is comforting—to some. No worries or problems present themselves because everything is preordained. It’s impossible to be surprised by anything . . . and that prevents one from getting too discombobulated.

  But now, I was faced with something unlike anything I’d ever experienced—and I didn’t like it! I’ve been powerless before, and I can assure you that it’s probably my least favorite thing in the universe, being powerless. But even then, when I wasn’t omnipotent, I at least knew where I stood. This time . . .

  This time I didn’t. And it bothered the hell out of me.

  Naturally I could not, would not, say any of this to Picard. “You are right, Picard” were the four words I should have said, but unfortunately, my baser instincts took hold. “You. Are. Right. Picard.” are simply four words that don’t string together no matter how sincerely I try to get my lips around them, so . . .

  So instead I simply glowered at him.

  “All right . . . this is the situation,” I began again, acting as if he hadn’t spoken. “Something is happening in the so-called real world. As a consequence, there’s a ripple effect that is sweeping through every realm. This New Year’s scenario you see is your way of processing some important information, information that the Continuum knows as well . . . that something is ending.”

  “And that black ball up there,” Picard pointed, “is a way of letting me know that there is nothing to come afterwards but oblivion?”

  “Yes,” I said, nodding. “That is precisely right.”

  “And what do we do about it? And about Data?” he added after a moment, looking down upon his fallen Tinkertoy.

  “We leave him,” I said. “He always irritated me with his endless yammering about wanting to be human. In a perfect imitation of Data’s mechanical whine, I said, ‘Oh, I wish I weren’t a poor, helpless android who is stronger than ten combined humans, and can think faster and know more than any creature that has ever walked on two legs upon the dreary earth. Oh, beat me with a stick, I wish I were human.’ ” I shook my head and, returning to my own voice, I said, “He could be running your planet, your entire Federation if he chose. But instead all this android wants is to be less than he is. What a tremendous waste of material.”

  “He doesn’t want to be less than he is. He wants to be different,” Picard said sharply. “You, of all individuals, should understand that. Look at you! A self-proclaimed omnipotent being, who needn’t worry about anyone or anything. Your fellow Q keep to themselves, leave all of us ‘lesser’ beings alone. But not you, oh no.” He advanced on me. I could always tell when Picard was upset; his head tended to look pointier. “You have to meddle with humanity, get involved, get your hands dirty, like a child neatly dressed for Sunday school who sees an absolutely irresistible mud puddle.”

  “Picard,” I said, making no effort to keep the edge of danger from my voice, “you are starting to annoy me. First you scold me about the manner in which I address you. And now you seem to be put out because I’m expressing my opinions about Data and his endless pining for the dubious gift of humanity. Sitting in judgment of me can be hazardous to your long-term health.”

  He didn’t appear to be the least bit daunted at what I said. He actually continued to glare at me.

  “Picard,” I said slowly, exhibiting as much patience as I could muster. “We are accomplishing nothing. I want to find out what’s going on. So do you. We can do this together or not . . .”

  “You want me with you.” Picard suddenly regarded me with amazement. “Why?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. Whether you’re with me or not, I don’t really care.”

  “I think you do,” he said, eyes narrowed. “And I think there’s an assortment of reasons. Perhaps you simply want someone to lord it over. Perhaps you want to avail yourself of Data’s scientific acumen or my strategic viewpoints. Or maybe it’s something else. Perhaps it’s—”

  “Masochism?” I suggested. “Maybe I’m a masochist. Have you ever thought of that?”

  “No.”

  “Picard, truly, what does it matter? We’re faced with some sort of cataclysmic situation that may have already claimed my wife and my son . . . and . . .”—I looked around at the pandemonium that surrounded us—“. . . the collective sanity of the Q Continuum. Is there really anything to be gained by standing around and trying to sort out exactly why I feel your presence is required . . . ?”

  “So! You do feel it’s necessary to have Data and me along.” He spoke as if he had just had some sort of cosmic revelation.

  “If that will shut you up, then yes, fine. You’re necessary. Does that make you feel better, Picard? Does that appeal to that aspect of humanity which dictates that, first and foremost, your pathetic little species has to be at the center of everything having to do with the unfolding of the universe’s destiny?” I shook my head, amazed. “Picard, the self-obsession of your entire race in general, and you in particular, is absolutely beyond the pale. What does it matter why you’re here? You are here!”

  “It matters to me,” he said very quietly. In all the time that I had interacted with him, I had never heard him quite so serious or sober as he was at that particular moment. “Because I think that, despite all that you and I have been through from time to time in our . . . ‘association,’ ” he said, for lack of a better word, “what we are about to encounter is beyond anything that either of us has experienced. And I simply think it will be healthier for our continued interaction if we know where each of us stands from the very beginning.”

  “Picard, what would you have me say? What possible explanation for my decision to bring you along—aside from pure stupidity—would you accept?”

  “Perhaps . . . that you would be lost without your Boswell.”

  It was neither Picard nor I who had spoken. Data was still on the ground, lying flat on his back, but his golden eyes had refocused. His brain, such as it was, was back in charge. His gaze flickered from Picard to me and back.

  Picard knelt down next to Data, overjoyed that his personal computer had apparently rebooted. “Data . . . are you all right?”

  “My circuits appear to be back on-line and functioning in a reliable and standard manner,” Data told him. “I am not entirely certain why, however. Nor do I comprehend,” and he glanced around himself, “why we appear to be in early twentieth-century Times Square.”

  “You . . . see it as I do?”

  “Is there any reason it would be seen in some other way?”

  Instead of answering Data’s question, Picard looked to me. “Did you do this?”

  “I may have done,” I replied casually. “I don’t necessarily remember.” Then I looked at him scornfully, an expression I had mastered through many years of practice. “Of course I did it. You seemed paralyzed at the thought of leaving the walking toaster behind, so I brought him around by altering his mind to perceive the Q Continuum in a way that wouldn’t be too much of a strain. Is that satisfactory to you, Picard, or are you going to find some aspect of my good deed to complain about?”

  I could tell that Picard want
ed to snap back a defiant response, but obviously he thought better of it. “Your . . . aid . . . is appreciated. Data, what was that you said earlier? About Boswell?”

  “Ah. From the chronicles of Sherlock Holmes. Holmes at one point implores the then-married Doctor Watson to accompany him on a case, stating that he would be lost without his Boswell. That is to say, he required the presence of his chronicler in order to function. Q finds himself in a situation that is rife with uncertainty. Perhaps, in order for him to function at his best, it is necessary that he bring a familiar aspect of his life with him. In this instance, that familiar aspect would be you. Q is accustomed to feeling superior to you, sir, and not without cause. . . .” At Picard’s priceless expression, Data promptly amended, “No offense intended, sir.”

  “None taken,” Picard said, but he still looked a bit put out.

  “In any event,” he continued, “since Q may find himself facing a power that is even greater than his, he might well feel the need to have someone at his side to whom he can feel superior. To provide balance, as it were.”

  “As it were,” commented Picard dryly. He turned to face me. “Is that the case, Q? You want me around so that you can have someone to lord it over in the face of adversity?”

  “Truth to tell . . . I’m not sure. I suppose I could have just let you and Data disappear down the sinkhole with the rest of the flotsam and jetsam. And perhaps I should have, because then I could have been about my business far sooner, and not wasted valuable minutes catering to your inflated ego, and your overwhelming need to precisely determine your position in the universe. That said, as far as I’m concerned, you’re here because . . . you’re supposed to be here. I don’t quite know why. I just have the sense that you are. And when one is as attuned to the universe as I, one tends to go with his instincts.” My face darkened as I added, “That’s the final answer you’re going to get from me. And if it isn’t satisfactory, there’s a gigantic hole with your name on it into which I will be more than happy to toss you. Are we clear with each other?”

  Picard must have realized that he’d pushed matters as far as he could. So he nodded. “Crystal clear. So, Q, if you’re that attuned to the universe . . . tell me what’s happening to it. What is all this?” He gestured to the pandemonium that was the Q Continuum.

  “That is what we’re here to find out. And there’s only one place I can think of where we might get an answer.

  “And that would be . . . ?”

  “HQ,” I said.

  Picard looked slightly pained. “I might have known.”

  “I’ll take us there immediately,” I said, and—with my customary nonchalance—envisioned us being at HQ.

  Nothing happened.

  Picard seemed politely confused. “How are you taking us there?” he inquired.

  “Be quiet.” I pictured HQ, this time putting more than casual effort into it. Still nothing. “Something is wrong,” I said.

  “Are you losing your powers?”

  “I . . . don’t think so.” I tried to keep the worry out of my voice. “After all, I brought Data back easily enough. But something is definitely up. Perhaps HQ isn’t inclined to talk to me. Well, I’m not going to let a little thing like not being wanted slow me down.”

  “You never have before,” Data observed.

  Fortunately for his continued android existence, I let the comment pass. Instead I hailed a cab.

  None of the cabs even slowed down. Indeed, several of them snapped on their off-duty lights as soon as they saw me. I noticed the Q cab drivers averting their eyes as they passed by, as if they were afraid to acknowledge my very existence.

  “What did you call it again . . . ‘mindality’?” Picard asked after the tenth or so cab had sped past us. “Influencing one’s environment or causing it to conform to one’s worldview through sheer force of will?”

  “An oversimplification, but the easiest way I could think of to explain it to you,” I said.

  “All right. This is a Dixon Hill environment. Let’s see just how much I can influence it.”

  Before I could say anything, Picard had stepped into the middle of the street. A cab was bearing down on him and didn’t appear to have any inclination to slow down. Picard reached into his coat as if he knew just what he would find there and pulled out a revolver. It was sleek and black and had the initials “DH” engraved on the handle. He aimed it squarely at the windshield of the oncoming cab.

  I knew the Q who was driving it all too well. He was the one who had restored my powers after the Continuum had annoyingly seen fit to strip me of them. He certainly had a knack for showing up at difficult times. He slowed down, cast an uncertain glance at me, and then brought the cab to a halt. The “off-duty” sign atop the cab glowed pale yellow.

  “Take us to HQ,” said Picard. The gun didn’t waver as he held it steady.

  Q pointed toward the top of the cab. “I’m off duty,” he said.

  Picard angled the gun slightly and fired off a round. The bullet shattered the off-duty sign. Q jumped, a bit startled at the abrupt noise.

  “Your shift was just extended,” Picard told him.

  All around us, everything came to a momentary halt as the blast of the gun cut through the hubbub and commotion. Everyone was stating at us. I, for one, didn’t mind a bit. It was always nice to shake things up in the excessively complacent Q Continuum. The fact that the place was a hive of industry for the first time in eons didn’t make it any less satisfying.

  Q hesitated and then shrugged. “Get in.”

  We quickly did so, and the cab roared off. Picard and Data were in the backseat, while I took up residence in the passenger seat. I turned to Q and said, “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “I don’t have to,” he said and kept his eye on the road. We sailed through traffic lights with little regard to whether they were red or green. Every so often, cars would screech to a halt to avoid slamming into us. “You’ll find out at HQ,” he replied.

  “But perhaps you can save me a trip.”

  “Why should I? I can use the fare.”

  I glanced at the meter. We had gone five blocks. The fare was up to eighty-seven dollars. “I think you’ve got the meter slightly rigged.”

  He shrugged noncommittally.

  “Look . . . Q,” I said, leaning over and lowering my voice. “Playing along with Picard’s vision of the Continuum is all well and good, and can certainly provide a few giggles. Under ordinary circumstances, I’d find it heartening, because I wouldn’t have thought you or any other Q capable of amusement. But we both know that something very ugly is happening, and I want to get to the bottom of it.”

  He looked at me with a strange grin. “Perhaps it’s not as ugly as you think. Perhaps it’s glorious. Perhaps it’s everything we could have hoped for.”

  “What is this ‘it’? What are you talking about? Why don’t I know about it?”

  “Why would you?” He allowed annoyance to creep into his voice. “You’re never here, Q. You’re always somewhere else, exploring this thing or getting involved with that thing. As skittish as we felt about the entire matter, some of us hoped that your union with Lady Q and the birth of your son might serve at least one useful purpose: to ground you. However, not only has that not been the case, it appears to have had a negative effect on them as well. The fact that you’ve lost them may in fact be the best thing for them. You certainly haven’t been a positive influence.”

  “So you know they’re gone,” I said intently.

  “Know? Of course I know. What part of—”

  “—omniscient don’t I get. Yes, I know. Then you must know where they are. Know whether they’re all right or not.”

  He said nothing. The numbers on the meter kept climbing.

  I suddenly realized I wasn’t in the mood for fooling around. I grabbed him firmly by the shoulder, so firmly that he winced in pain. “Tell me,” I said. “Tell me where they are, and tell me what’s going on.”

&n
bsp; Instead of replying, he angled the cab over to the curb and flipped the flag up on the meter. “You’re here,” he said flatly.

  I looked out the window. We were next to a large, gleaming white building with stone columns that seemed to stretch upward to infinity. The words “CITY HALL” were carved into the upper section.

  “That’ll be $926 and twenty cents,” Q said, tapping the meter.

  Picard leaned forward from the back seat and handed him a thousand-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks. Baby needs a new pair of shoes,” Q told him, taking the proffered bill.

  We climbed out of the cab and stood on the curb. The noise of Times Square in the distance was still audible. “Q,” I said, leaning on the open passenger door. “Q . . . please . . . tell me what’s happening.”

  Q smiled and said, “It’s a wonderful moment, Q. I almost envy you, your not knowing. Because you will have the chance to experience firsthand the excitement and glory of the Great Discovery. And I suspect that even you will find fulfillment, Q. Even you.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” I told him as the cab pulled away. As we turned and headed into City Hall, Picard mentioned something about hoping he didn’t have to fight it. It was a joke, but I wasn’t laughing.

  Once we were . . .

  Once we were inside City Hall and the great door swung shut behind us, all was fearfully silent. Our heels click-clacked loudly on the gleaming floors and the lights were dimmed; there didn’t seem to be anyone about.

  Not that I was fearful, you understand. It was, after all, my own familiar Continuum, no matter what the current visual images were telling us. But I was nonetheless concerned. I was all too aware that I was witnessing something far outside the norm, and I still had no solid information about what precisely was happening. But I was beginning to have some vague and frankly disturbing inklings. I was not going to share them with Picard and Data, though. Better to know for sure first.