A wiggle of my nose and we were gone. The last thing I heard was the roar of our leader, the great and all-powerful Q, raging, “You can’t stop the End, Q! Nothing can!”
He’ll get over it, I thought. As for me . . .
. . . I wasn’t going down without a fight.
We went everywhere . .
We went everywhere at once.
Humans can do that as well, except they do so on a much lower and more simplified level. They call it “dreaming.” The human mind, were it capable of utilizing more than the meager ten percent or so that it currently does, would be able to project itself to all places simultaneously. The human mind would be able to conceive of a universe way beyond the paltry limitations it perceives. But humans are unwilling, or perhaps unable, to let their minds “journey,” afraid of the responsibilities it would entail and the permanent change it might mean for them.
Going everywhere at once is fairly simple. The mind is the gateway, you see. The mind, each and every mind, is connected at a sort of matrix point to the rest of the universe. All one has to do in order to go everywhere at once is turn one’s mind inside out and step through. It’s quite elementary, really. A young Q is capable of such a thing within moments after its birth. A human, after a lifetime of study, might make a few halting steps in that direction, but inevitably stumbles. There are humans, a very small number of them, as I mentioned earlier, who look within themselves in self-reflection and introspection for year upon year, to the exclusion of all else. These few humans are the only ones who come close to obtaining the goal of becoming “one with everything.” Humans contemplate themselves and ponder. I contemplate humans and laugh. Not very loudly; that would be distracting. I just snicker politely from behind my hand and wonder out loud what fools these mortals be.
So . . . I went everywhere. Stretched my consciousness throughout the universe and back, considered all the possibilities, and tried to determine just where we should go next. I had to do it on the Q.T. because the other Q were close on my heels. I could sense their collective disapproval. They had all been busy with their great End-of-the-universe party until I dropped in as the official party pooper. I wanted to put a stop to it, and therefore they wanted to put a stop to me.
Part of me couldn’t blame them. Part of me would almost have considered it a mercy killing of sorts. If the only thing at stake had been the Q Continuum, I might very well have simply shrugged and said, “Fine. End it. The Q Continuum is so replete with humorless, cloddish dolts that we’re just as well rid of the whole thing. Pack it in, tie up the entire Q Continuum in a large box with a bow, and toss it away. Anything to spare us the eternal, infernal whining of the Q about how blasted boring everything was.”
But there was more at stake. There were, first and foremost, my mate and son, lost somewhere in the pit. I could not simply stride cheerfully and willingly into oblivion and let my last thoughts be those of confusion and uncertainty about their fate. I, who had spent my entire existence questioning, couldn’t allow my life to end with that question.
And there were my own needs to consider as well. The ennui of the Q was not shared by me. I had said it quite succinctly to the head of the Q Continuum—I wasn’t finished. Not yet.
But they would finish me off if they could catch me. No question about it. As I went everywhere, I could sense that they were doing the same: putting out feelers, trying to figure out where I would go next. And for what reason? To head me off. To stop me from stopping this great . . . whatever it was that faced us.
I kept ahead of them, but just barely. I extended my senses to the utmost, probing and detecting their presence before I committed myself to any one course of action. To the Enterprise, to Earth, to Voyager, to any one of a million different possibilities. But all those routes were closed to me; the Q Continuum was waiting for me like a lion in the high grass. I needed a safe place. . . .
And I found it.
It was the last place I had expected, but it should have been the first. I reached out and pulled Picard and Data with me, and a moment later we arrived, high on the precipice, poised on the edge . . . of the great abyss.
“What in the world—?” Picard managed to get out. He looked a little dizzy. The experience was quite unlike anything he’d encountered before. “Where . . . were we?” he demanded, trying to muster some of his old authority.
“Problem, Picard?”
“I felt . . . for a moment, I felt as if . . .”
“We were everywhere?” I asked.
He nodded. “It was an odd sensation . . . like . . .”
“Dreaming, yes, yes.”
“Will you stop finishing my sentences, Q?”
“Then talk faster.”
He looked at me a little perplexed. I continued to survey our surroundings. They were much as I remembered them. The great, gaping hole in the ocean’s floor stretching out before us was just as I had left it. I fancied I could almost hear voices from deep within the crevice, crying out in torment, but I shrugged it off. For one such as I, to believe is to shape reality, and so the voices immediately ceased. Perhaps they had never been there, or perhaps they still were, and I simply didn’t hear them. Either way, I didn’t want to listen to them anymore.
“This is the area where you rescued us,” Data observed. “Why have we returned here?”
“Do you have someplace you’d rather be?” I asked. Slowly I walked toward the crevice. The seabed had been wet and thick with mud, but now it was dried out and hard-caked. It was a vast and empty plain, with only this massive crack in the ground to give it any distinction. High above, the sky was a haze of purple, with shafts of red that conjured up the image of bleeding.
“Perhaps—”
“Be quiet, Picard,” I said, allowing the pressure of the moment to affect me for the first time. “You are here only at my sufferance. I have already saved your lives. You flatter yourselves to think you understand what is happening here, but you do not, you cannot!—The only thing standing between us and annihilation is my ability to concentrate and determine what we’re going to do, and your constant prattling isn’t contributing one shred of usefulness! This isn’t the Enterprise, Picard, and believe it or not, there are some situations in this vast, wonderful universe imploding around us that you are simply not fit to handle. Have I made it plain enough for you? Have I spelled it out? Have I delivered it to you in sufficiently small enough, bite-sized pieces that you can digest it? Well? Have I?”
I was standing barely inches away from him.
And he slapped me.
He.
Slapped.
Me.
I couldn’t quite believe it. Rage coursed through my entire body, and Picard was a hairbreadth away from being transformed into a frog or a cloud of vapor, or simply having his atoms scattered in a billion different directions.
“You still . . . have no idea . . . what I could do to you,” I stammered. “After all this time . . . all our encounters . . . perhaps your familiarity has bred contempt. Perhaps you think that I would hesitate to destroy you in the most painful way possible if it suited my fancy.” I was now so close to him that there was barely any air between us, and my gaze bore straight into the back of his head. “I am the villain. That hasn’t changed. Oh, we’ve had our fun with mariachi bands, and with Robin Hood and the like. But I’m still the bad guy. And any other bad guys you’ve faced since me . . . are nothing compared to me. The Borg? The Romulans? The Cardassians? I could have cracked apart their planets with a snap of my fingers. I could have sneezed and blown away their entire starfaring fleets. So whatever you think you are, Picard, and whatever you think your relationship with me might be, do not presume—for a moment—that anything less than a gulf the size of infinity separates you from me.”
I thought it was a pretty good speech—a bit long perhaps but I was hoping Data got every word. While I was pondering whether the speech came under the heading of motivational or inspirational, that idiot actually raised his h
and to me as if he were going to slap me again.
“Oh, do it, Picard. Make my day.”
And he could tell, from my voice, from the look in my eyes, that this time I meant it.
He lowered his hand.
But he did not lower his gaze. Instead, to my surprise, it softened and I saw, of all things, sympathy.
“You’re worried about them, aren’t you?” he said. “The End of the universe has less importance to you than finding your mate and your son.”
He was right, of course. I knew he was right. And worse than that, he knew he was right, and he knew I knew it.
“They’re going to be all right. We’ll get them out,” said Picard.
“Yes. Yes, we will,” I responded. The use of the word “we” was generous on my part, since I was certain that I was going to be carrying the bulk of the workload.
Pretending that the last few moments hadn’t taken place, I cheerfully tried to put us back on course.
“Picard,” I said, “we have to get to the bottom of this.” The two of them looked at me, waiting for the next shoe to drop. I didn’t say anything.
“That’s it? That’s your plan?”
“Right! I mean, it makes sense, doesn’t it? To find out what happening we need literally to get to the bottom of this. That’s where we will find the answer.”
“And if there is no answer?” asked Data.
“Oh, there’s always an answer, Mr. Data. It may not always be one that we want to hear, or that we understand. But there is always an answer.”
“Has there ever been an answer that you didn’t understand, Q?” asked Picard.
I gave it a moment’s thought, and then shrugged. “There’s a first time for everything, I suppose.”
“Let us hope this isn’t it,” Picard said.
“Indeed.”
And with that we stepped boldly toward the crevice.
It was big. Grand Canyon big! And I wanted to observe it before plunging in. Was it steaming hot or freezing cold? I tried to get some sort of sensation from it, but nothing was forthcoming.
“So . . . how do we get down?” asked Picard. And then, because he’d never been much good at waiting around for others to plot strategies, he answered his own question. “It would seem climbing is the only option. Unless you can simply . . . materialize us down there.”
“That, in fact, is my intention,” I told him.
Relocation was the easiest trick I knew. It was no more difficult than moving mountains . . .
So, with an admittedly nonessential flourish, I caused us to disappear in a burst of light. Our next stop: the bottom of the abyss. Imagine my surprise when we reappeared and found ourselves right back where we started. I spun in place, so quickly did I look around, that I nearly tripped over my own feet. “Say what—?” I managed to get out, which certainly wasn’t the brightest utterance I’d ever made.
“It would appear we have not moved,” Data said.
“Thank you! Thank you for that brilliant evaluation, Data,” I shot back. “Are there any other pithy comments you’d care to make?”
“What happened, Q?”
“I don’t know what happened, Picard. All I know is that we should be down there, but instead we’re still up here.”
“Did something negate your power?”
“No. No.” I was vamping. “It was as if we were . . . reflected . . . somehow. Bounced back.”
“Something is capable of defying your abilities?”
I rolled my eyes. “Why don’t you say it louder, Data? Why don’t you walk around with a billboard and make a big fat announcement?”
“Calm down, Q. I know it’s a bitter pill to swallow, but Data was just asking a question.”
“One question too many! And while we’re at it, let’s get something straight. I’m still Q. An infinity of options minus one is still an infinity of options.”
There was a sudden flash, and three pairs of antigravity boots materialized on our feet. I smiled smugly and walked straight toward the crevice. “You see, Picard?” I said. “We shall float down, as gently and as noiselessly as hair follicles deserting your scalp.”
I walked confidently over the edge, hovered there for a moment, the gravity boots working as expected . . .
. . . and then my stomach shot up into my mouth as I started to plummet.
The only thing that prevented my plunging straight into the void was the fact that I reached out and snagged an outcropping as I fell. I held on with all my strength, trying to use the toes of the boots to push myself back up. No good. My fingers slipped.
I was clutching nothing except air. But in the instant before I started to fall, Data’s golden hand grabbed my wrist and held me them. The strain on my shoulder felt tremendous. I thought my arm was going to rip right out of its socket. What was odd, of course, was that I was unaccustomed to feeling anything resembling pain, and why in the world I would experience such a sensation now, while dangling over the crevice, was a mystery to me.
“Your powers don’t seem to function within the proximity of the crevice,” Picard said.
“Oh, gee, Picard, you think so?” Masking my sarcasm had never been one of my strengths.
“So,” said Picard, wisely not reacting to my annoyance, “do you have any other ideas.”
“None spring readily to mind,” I admitted, “but I’m working on it!”
“So noted,” said Picard, as if everything that was occurring was going to be entered into his insufferable captain’s log.
“I believe I can be of service in this matter,” Data said. He walked straight to the edge of the abyss and looked down, contemplating it for a moment. Then he crouched and swung his legs over the drop, turned, and caught the edge with his fingers, all in one smooth motion.
“What are you doing?” asked Picard.
We heard the sound of chiseling. “Creating handholds, sir.”
Indeed he was. We approached the edge and looked down to see. The bottom was not visible; for all we knew, we would descend and descend until our strength gave out, at which point we would fall and keep on falling forever. Then again, it was clear that nothing was going to be accomplished without some degree of risk. And Data was endeavoring to reduce at least one element of that risk. With the strength of his android arms and legs, he was punching and kicking holes in the rock face beneath us, which we could easily use as a means of descent. He moved like a monkey: a superstrong, gold-skinned monkey. Data continued to descend with remarkable efficiency and paused only occasionally to look up. He was already nearly out of sight. “Shall I continue, Captain?” he called out.
“By all means, Mr. Data,” Picard answered back. “Good thinking.”
“Thank you, sir. ‘Good thinking’ is what I am paid for.” Data paused a moment, considered, then looked back up. “Am I technically still on salary, sir?”
“Data . . . keep working.”
“Yes, sir.”
He promptly continued his descent, and, a moment later, the darkness enveloped him completely. The only indication of his continuing descent was the sound of his hands punching into rock.
“After you, mon capitain,” I said gallantly, bowing slightly and gesturing toward the edge of the crevice. Picard did not seem amused . . . but then, what else was new? Unlike Data with his flowing and seamless movements, Picard moved far more gingerly over the edge. I waited a few moments to give him a head start, and then I followed. The darkness was absolute, and for some reason I felt very alone. It was a long way down, and after a few tentative descending movements I began to wish I could pray.
We Q don’t pray, you see. We never have. A prayer is, after all, an appeal to a greater source, a higher authority than we ourselves. That authority is created, defined, and deified by lesser beings: beings who attempt to put a label on that which they don’t understand in hopes of grasping it.
The simple fact is that there is no such thing as god.
Oh, I’ve tweaked Picard with the notio
n of a god now and then. Made allusions and such. But the truth of the universe is not so easily quantifiable that any aspect of it—particularly something as wondrous and amazing as the creation of it—can be tagged and labeled as “god.” I know, I know. . . there is more in heaven and Earth than is dreamt of in any philosophy, but the concept of one, single supreme being? No. No, it’s too nonsensical even to contemplate. Yes, there are those things which one doesn’t understand, and that is perfectly acceptable. There are things even I do not understand: The human fascination with the accordion, for instance. And coconut oil. Incomprehensible. Oh . . . and baseball. The only game more boring is found on Sraticon IV. It’s called Frimble, and it consists of groups of sentient beings sitting around placing bets as to when a newly painted wall will dry. It’s not bad enough that they sit and watch it dry; they spend their time commenting on it, as if it was a horse race! But baseball, in terms of boredom, comes a close second to Frimble. It makes me sad to think that the great coliseums of old, with all the pomp and circumstance, and the eating of the Christians, would be turned over to a sport as banal as hitting a little white ball around a field, all the time trying to catch it. It just goes to prove, certain things don’t get better.
But, to return to the concept of god . . . I have been worshiped as a god, so I know about the mind-set that brings about these attitudes. It’s all hogwash and nonsense. Gods exist for three reasons: (1) to explain that which cannot be understood at the time by the person who is asking; (2) to fulfill a spiritual longing; (3) to have someone to whine to about the unfairness of life when things go wrong. Obviously, none of the above apply to me.
How would one distinguish a god, anyway? Anything that might be attributed solely to a god’s ability on an ordinary planet, we of the Q Continuum can accomplish with the snap of a finger (and even that much effort is required only if we’re feeling overly dramatic). So how could we, or I, in turn, believe in something greater than ourselves? To explain the inexplicable? We’ve no need for that; to us, nothing is unexplained. Everything is clear, concise, and easily comprehensible.
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