“This way !” a voice suddenly boomed. The floor reverberated under my feet in conjunction. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Let me guess,” Picard said to me. “It’s . . . Q.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“You know, Q . . . there are twenty-five other letters in the alphabet. Certainly you and your associates could have used at least a few of them, just for clarity’s sake.”
“You mean for your sake. Picard, you can be quite tiresome. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“I’ll answer that question honestly if you’ll answer mine.”
I didn’t see fit to dignify the comment with a response.
We went up a curving set of marble stairs. At the top of the stairs was a large set of double doors that stood partly open. Light cascaded from within. “This way. Keep coming,” came the voice. I pushed the door open.
We were in a large office, with mahogany furniture polished to such a rich and reflective sheen that I could see myself in it. At the far end was a wide desk, with—conveniently—three chairs lined up facing it. Behind the desk was, of course, Q.
He came across as very much the avuncular sort, this Q did. A bit rotund, with patches of white hair clinging to either side of his otherwise bald head. He had a salt-and-pepper beard that he was scratching distractedly. However, these aspects of his outward appearance were merely a façade. I had known him for . . . well, always, of course. He was, in fact, a fairly nasty customer. He was superb at putting forward a disarming attitude, convincing everyone around that he was a pleasant sort with not an enemy in the universe. But in reality he was a ruthless maintainer of the status quo, and a formidable enemy. He and I had not seen eye to eye since before Picard’s ancestors hauled themselves out of the primordial ooze. Whatever actions had been taken against me by the Continuum as a consequence of my perceived “indiscretions,” it had been this Q who had been one of the loudest advocates, if not the prime mover.
Picard and Data knew none of that, of course. All they knew was that this was easily the most pleasant and welcoming member of the Continuum they’d yet encountered. “Come in, come in,” he said, getting to his feet and extending a big hand toward Picard. “Captain Picard, I’ve heard a great deal about you. Never actually had the honor, though.”
“Honor.” The word seemed to amuse Picard. “From what Q has said, I wouldn’t have thought that you would hold me or my species in any particular esteem.”
“Oh, quite the contrary,” replied Q. “Anyone whom Q finds so endlessly fascinating and needs to visit time and again certainly must have something going for him. And you, Mr. Data.” He shook Data’s hand firmly as well. “Quite a remarkable achievement, you are.”
“I am something of an advancement in artificial intelligence, yes, thank you,” Data said.
“Artificial intelligence? Nonsense. No such thing,” said Q. “The human brain is a machine, nothing more. An organic machine, but what of that? Organics are given far too much credit. The function remains the same, even though the manufacturer might change, and what should be considered above all else is efficiency and quality of performance. So . . .” and he sat once more behind the desk, gesturing for us to follow suit. Picard and I sat. Data remained standing. “I know why you’re here, of course. You want to know what’s going on.”
“That would be preferable to ignorance,” said Picard.
“Don’t be so quick to dismiss the joys of ignorance,” Q said, waggling a meaty finger. “It is, after all, bliss.”
“Q,” I said after a moment of silence, leaning back in the chair and trying to look as casual as possible. I interlaced my fingers and crossed my legs. For me to look any more snug, someone would have had to toss a blanket over me and serve me some hot cocoa. “All of this we’re witnessing . . . the great sinkhole that swallowed my family, this excitement in the Continuum . . . is it what I think it is?”
There was no need for dissembling, of course. We were, after all, Q. On the cab ride over, Q had deliberately blocked his thoughts. But here in this office, this Q was making no effort whatsoever. I knew in an instant the answer to my question, almost before I’d even framed it.
Yet Q didn’t reply immediately. Instead he leaned back, steepling his fingers and regarding me almost with amusement. Knowing the answer to the question was a given, he instead said, “Do you understand why we are reacting the way we are?”
“Of course,” I said. “Who, better than I, knows the insufferable ennui that has settled over this entire Continuum? We’ve seen it all, we know it all, we’ve done it all. And for uncounted millennia we’ve just been sitting about, contemplating our collective navels and wondering when something, anything, was going to occur that would terminate this endless boredom. So it doesn’t surprise me the Continuum is ecstatic about it.”
He smiled. For a moment there was a hint of the wolfishness behind his smile which I knew was ever-present. “Naturally.”
“Q . . .” Picard began.
“Yes?” we both replied.
“Well, that was inevitable,” he muttered before starting again. “Q . . . either of you . . .” he added quickly, “it’s fairly evident that the two of you fully understand what you’re discussing. Unfortunately, Data and I do not. Perhaps if you elaborate or clarify our situation, we can provide some sort of help. . . . ”
“Help?” Q said to them, his eyes twinkling as if he’d just heard the greatest joke ever told.
(The greatest joke ever told, it should be noted, was developed in a monastery in the upper mountain regions on the larger moon of Sicila IV. What made it so great was this: with most other jokes, repeated tellings only diminish their effectiveness—but not this one. The joke of the Sicila monks was so multilayered, so comically hilarious, that it became funnier upon repeated tellings. In fact, it was so funny that it was addictive. Hearing it once was insufficient. One had to hear it repeatedly. It was like a narcotic. Indeed, to hear the joke once was to have your life ruined, because then you had to hear it again and again and again. It became impossible to get on with anything else. You lived for the joke. You died for the joke. The only ones who were immune to the joke were the monks themselves, since, by a strange twist of fate, they had no sense of humor whatsoever. Casual telling of the joke to groundskeepers or the occasional odd visitor to the monastery was enough for the monks to realize what a horrific weapon had been handed to them. So naturally the entire order committed suicide rather than take a chance of the joke spreading further and more damage being done. Thus was the greatest joke ever told brought to a tragic and untimely end. I know it, of course. But to be honest, I don’t think it’s all that funny. Something about sentient potato salad. Perhaps I’ll tell it later.)
“Help?” Q said again. He turned and looked at me, his ample stomach shaking from mirth. “They want to help? Heavens, Q, I begin to understand why you find them so entertaining.”
“I’m ecstatic that we can be a source for such merriment,” said Picard in his trademark “we are not amused” manner. “But would you be kind enough to at least give us some inkling about what is going on?”
“Captain, I believe what is being discussed is . . . the End.”
“The end?” Picard looked at us in confusion. “The End . . . of the Q Continuum?”
“Among other things,” said Q. He leaned back once more, having composed himself. “Your machine is correct, Captain Picard. What is being discussed is the End of . . . Everything. The expansion is over, the final contraction has begun. The universe has run its course. The End is nigh.”
Picard stared at him. It was such an impossible concept that he clearly couldn’t wrap his mind around it. “The End of . . . Everything? Of the universe? That’s impossible. The universe is infinite. You can’t terminate infinity.”
“And you are speaking from personal experience, are you, in regard to what can and can’t be done on a cosmic scale?” Q asked quietly. There was a faintly mocking tone to his voice
.
“Is there some enemy? Some great—?”
“No, Picard,” said Q. “It was inevitable. It had to happen sooner or later. In this instance, it is later.”
“Later? You’re saying it’s happening now!”
“Now is late enough. You have no idea, Picard, what it’s been like for us,” he sighed. “Eons of sitting about, unable to find anything sufficiently worthy of our interest. The Continuum has been waiting for this moment longer than you can possibly conceive. It may seem too soon to you, and I understand why; your species has been around for barely an eye blink, and now you’re being flushed away. It must seem dreadfully unfair. Perhaps it is. But there were many, uncounted billions of races, before the human race came onto the scene. Or, to put it in the vernacular: the previous customers have left the eatery. You, I’m afraid, are stuck with the check.”
“Are you speaking of entropy?” said Data. “The gradual erosion of the very fabric of the universe?”
“It’s absurd.” Picard seemed determined to regard this as some sort of cosmic hoax. “The Federation has instrumentation . . . starships, research teams . . . we study the galaxy, the universe around us, constantly, down to its very molecular structure. Are you trying to tell me that the universe is approaching its natural conclusion . . . winding down . . . and no one noticed it? That’s ludicrous!”
“There’s an axiom, Picard, that I’m sure you’re familiar with,” he said. “If the universe were shrinking at the steady rate of one inch a day, and all means of measurement were shrinking at a proportionate rate, then there would be no way for anyone to know . . . and that includes all the mighty minds of the Federation combined.”
Picard looked at me, and there was incredulity on his face. “And you agree with this?” he said. “This . . . person . . . sitting here . . . tells you that there’s nothing to be done. That we are to acknowledge the End of the universe . . . and that is perfectly acceptable to you?” I didn’t respond. He rose from his chain “Well, it’s not acceptable to me! It makes no sense! It can’t be natural! You saw that . . . thing! That sinkhole! There’s some intelligence behind all of this! An entity, a creature that exists. And if something exists, it can be reasoned with . . . or stopped. Anything can be stopped if there are a few beings who are stubborn enough or determined enough to stop it!”
“You’re wrong, Picard,” said Q, and bit by bit any last hint of his pleasant manner was evaporating. The room suddenly seemed colder, his face darken “You are in no position to say what form the End will take. Your own people cannot agree on the matter, even though end-of-the-world scenarios abound in your culture. In one scenario, there is a fanfare of trumpets, four horsemen, and an ultimate judgment. In another, a gigantic wolf devours your system’s sun while a fire demon sweeps your world clean with his flaming sword. If the true End of the universe involves all of creation being sucked down a gigantic crevice into oblivion . . . who are you to dismiss that scenario out of hand?” He rested his elbows on the desk. Perhaps it was a trick of lighting in the room, but suddenly it was nearly impossible to see his eyes. “A wise human—and there are such things—once said that a little learning is a dangerous thing. You may be quite wise for one of your kind, Captain Picard, but in truth, you have very little learning. Be content to know that the universe is more complex than you could ever imagine.”
“But you have unbounded power,” Picard said tightly. “I’ve seen the things that Q here can accomplish . . . and he’s just one of your race. When I think of the power at the collective command of the Q Continuum . . . and you aren’t even trying to use . . .”
“Why would we want to? The final termination of our existence is a consummation devoutly to be wished. We embrace it with open arms. Obviously, you don’t understand that. But Q does.” He gestured to me. “Even he, who is arguably the biggest maverick of all of us, understands that an end comes to all things. It is the collective desire of the Q Continuum not to combat this event. It would be interference with the natural order of things. Tell him, Q.” Picard turned and looked at me.
But I was thinking of my son and my mate. They had not considered this event as a “consummation devoutly to be wished.” They had not gone quietly into that good night, no. They had gone down screaming, calling for my aid. Was I to take their death in stride? Nod obediently, accept the collective ruling of the Continuum, and wait for everything to grind to a halt?
Well, that was the natural thing to do, wasn’t it?
“. . . It’s the natural thing to do,” I said, giving voice to my inner monologue.
“Exactly!” Q said. “So you see, Picard—”
“I’m not finished.”
“What do you mean?” he said, very slowly, very dangerously. It wasn’t so much a question as it was a dare to speak my mind.
I rose from my chair. Something about the dynamics of the moment called for me to be a bit taller. “If we are agreed that all things must follow their nature . . . then it is against my nature to follow. I owe my wife and my son more than that. I owe it to myself. Picard has a point. We are making an assumption that there isn’t an entity behind this. Perhaps you of the Continuum are too eager to . . .”
“We, Q. We of the Continuum,” he said. “You speak as if you are not one of us. But you are, and that membership carries with it certain responsibilities. They are responsibilities you have shirked in the past, but not this time. This time you will abide by our decision.”
“Why?” I demanded. “If you truly believe that this is an act of nature—that the universe’s time has come—then absolutely nothing I could do could possibly stop it.” I was leaning forward on the desk, resting my knuckles on it so that Q and I were only inches apart. “But if you’re trying to rein me in, then that implies you’re concerned about something. Perhaps . . . you’re worded that I can stop this. Is that the case, Q?”
“No. You give yourself entirely too much credit, Q,” he said. “And you give us too little. We are certain of the reality of the situation. We would not be reacting this way otherwise.”
“Then you won’t have any problem if I investigate this myself,” I said. I turned to face Picard and Data. “Come, gentlemen. We will away!”
“You will do nothing of the kind.”
I turned to face Q once more . . . but he was gone. The jolly white-haired man had vanished from behind his desk. But his presence was most certainly still there. It filled the room, it filled my very essence. Picard suddenly flinched in his chair, covering his ears. Data sat there.
The voice came from everywhere. “I have never liked you, Q. None of us has. And many is the time I’ve said that I will bring you into line with the rest of the Continuum if it is the last thing I ever do. Well, Q. . . I am rapidly running out of opportunities. Time is growing short, and even I, with all my ennui, have a few goals I would still like to accomplish. You are among them. You will not leave the Continuum. You will remain here, of your own accord or not, that is your choice. But remain you will. Do you understand me, Q?”
I did not hesitate. I grabbed Picard by one wrist, Data by the other, and yanked them both to their feet. Suddenly all of reality seemed to explode around me. For a moment, just a moment, I was certain that I had waited too long, that the End had actually come. I imagined that I heard my son and wife calling to me, except they were speaking not in fear, but in anger. “You’ve failed us! You’ve failed us! You, with all your power and pride and arrogance . . . you could have, should have, done so much more! Instead you let us down! When all was said and done . . . you weren’t omnipotent! You weren’t all-powerful. You weren’t ever around! You are the weakest of the weak!”
I tried to speak, but I was unable to, because I knew they were right.
And then everything went mercifully black.
There are certain . . .
There are certain occasions—we need not be specific at this time, but we all know to what I’m alluding—when one wishes, upon regaining consciousness, that
one hadn’t, because oblivion was far better than discovering the truth. I can tell you, categorically, that this happened to be one of those times.
I opened my eyes and felt a great heaviness, as if my eyelids weighed several pounds each. Picard was standing a few feet away, looking concerned. Data was next to him, with that annoying deadpan look he so often exhibited. I realized they were looking up at me, and drew from that the logical conclusion that I must be looking down at them. I was elevated for some reason, but I had no idea why. I tried to move my head, to glance around and get an assessment of the situation, but I found I was totally paralyzed. I couldn’t move my head so much as an inch. I tried to move my mouth and, lo and behold, I could speak. “What are you gawking at, Picard?”
He appeared visibly relieved, if for no other reason than that I was yelling at him. I found I could turn my eyes around a bit and so I got just a little sense of where we were. It was a park, with trees and walking paths all around.
“What is that annoying sound right next to my ear?”
“Would you be referring to a sort of ‘cooing’ sound?” Data inquired.
“Yes.
“Ah. That would be the pigeon on your head.”
“Pigeon!”
“Yes. A large white and gray specimen.”
“Get it off me!” I said in no uncertain terms. “Before it . . .”
Data, unfortunately, did not move quickly enough. Considering that the android prided himself on the speed with which he processed information, I have to say that he was very slow on the uptake in this instance. The pigeon cooed once more, left a second little gift on my head, and then fluttered away. “New York,” I muttered, “is becoming tiresome.”
Picard pulled a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Data. Interesting that he would have Data clean me off. Just goes to show that they may be friends, but they’re not equals. While Data was attending to business, Picard asked me, “Q . . . can you move?”
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