“Hello, Picard!” I called back and waved my fingers jovially. “Did you buy us anything?”
“What?” he shouted back. Grasping the fine points of sarcasm has never been Jean-Luc’s forte.
Then the voice of Locutus of Borg rang out. It was the same voice, of course, but in the intonation, the delivery, the two could not have been more dissimilar.
“No talking. No fighting. Talking is irrelevant. Fighting is futile.” Not a great conversationalist.
Locutus had taken up a position on the top of the foremost car. Smoke was billowing from the smokestack, obscuring him from time to time before the wind carried it away. He looked formidable from his perch, and clearly he was not about to tolerate anyone who gave him the least bit of difficulty.
Picard’s head snapped around when he heard the voice. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. We were now in front of the open door of the foremost boxcar. The guards were working their magic, and within moments we were unceremoniously shoved into the car. The massive door slammed shut. Everything was dark. It took a few seconds for the eyes to adjust, during which time the reality of the situation struck home . . . we were imprisoned in a cattle car with a hundred other beings. Things looked bleak.
I called out, “Q, q!” But no one responded. No one said anything. There was occasional sniffing and sobbing, and the smell . . .
Understand something: all beings give off aromas—which is a nice way of putting it. This is simply a fact of nature. Normally these aromas are checked by frequent ablutions, usually taking place once a day. However, if I had my wish, there are certain individuals who might consider attending to the problem every few hours! As you can imagine, this was an extremely stressful situation. Whatever scent control might have been in use was, under these circumstances, not working. It was a less than satisfactory olfactory experience, I can tell you.
After a few minutes my eyes adjusted.
We were a motley crew. Beings from every corner of the universe were packed in so tightly that everyone was forced to stand. Picard made his way to my side. He looked stunned, shaken to his core. “Did you see him?” he asked, and I could tell it was not a rhetorical question. He was genuinely open to the possibility that his senses had deceived him.
“Yes, Picard, we saw him,” I said.
“Presuming,” Data added formally, “that you are referring to Locutus.”
“Of course I’m referring to Locutus, Data!” Picard snapped. Then, with obvious effort, he calmed himself. “I’m sorry, Data. I shouldn’t have spoken like that.” It was classic Picard. With the entire universe teetering on the brink, thrust into an alien situation, and faced with the flesh-and-blood ghost of one of the most horrific experiences of his past, Picard was still concerned about treating his pet android with tact. Manners: can’t live with them, can’t live without them!
“No apology necessary, Captain. I am not schooled in taking offense.”
Under the circumstances, it was impressive that Picard managed to smile at all. Then he grew serious. “How is it possible, Q? That Locutus could be here, as well as me?”
“Locutus is part of your past, Picard. Do you recall having been here before?”
“Certainly not.”
“A cross-dimensional occurrence might be a possibility,” Data noted.
“Yes, that would seem to answer it. Owh! Watch where you’re going!” I snapped as someone stumbled into me. It was a large, beefy man. I pushed him back, hard.
“I think Data has put his finger on it,” I continued. “We’ve been speaking thus far of the universe ending, but that’s not really the case. It’s the multiverse that’s coming to an end . . . and as such, it would make sense that we might run into manifestations from other dimensions.”
“So he . . .” Picard involuntarily glanced upward, assuming that the dreaded specter of his past was still prowling about on the roof of the car, “is from another dimension . . . a parallel universe . . . where I was never rescued . . . where I continue to be Locutus?”
At that moment the whistle screeched and the train lurched forward.
Picard spotted a Vulcan standing stoically in the corner. If one is looking for sound, logical thinking, a Vulcan is a good individual to go to. I must admit that even we Q find the Vulcans among the more impressive of races. Not on our level, of course. But of all the races I’ve encountered in my time, they certainly have the greatest potential not to make complete idiots of themselves.
The Vulcan was of medium age, his temples slightly graying. He appeared to be meditating. “Excuse me! Sir! You there!” Picard said. “Do you know where we are? Where we’re going?”
He looked at Picard with quiet assessment, and then said, “We are not going anywhere.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“We are in a circumstance that is clearly impossible,” the Vulcan continued. “On the surface of it, we have been pulled from our homes, our lives, our livelihoods to this unknown place and crammed into a strange conveyance for no discernible reason. That cannot be. Such things simply do not happen. It is not logical.”
“Yes, but . . . that is what’s happening,” Picard replied gently, feeling he needed to bring the Vulcan up to speed.
The Vulcan shook his head, looking ever so slightly amused. “That is circular reasoning, sir. The fact is that such things do not happen; therefore, this cannot be happening either.”
Data, naturally, had to stick his golden nose into it. “That is also circular reasoning.”
“Perhaps. But it is logical. The notion, however, that what I am currently experiencing has a basis in reality, is absurd at its core. It is far more reasonable to assume that this is a hallucination of some sort, or a dream. Perhaps a mind-meld gone wrong, or an illness which has befallen me that I do not comprehend. The simplest explanation is generally the correct one.”
“Occam’s Razor,” said Data.
The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. “Sutak’s Fifth Principle.”
“Beethoven’s Ninth,” I chimed in, but no one found it amusing.
“It would appear that great minds think alike,” Data observed. He was looking at the Vulcan instead of me when he said this . . . the little asswipe.
“This is a charming discourse, truly, and I would like to keep listening to it for seconds on end, but we have other things to attend to,” I said. “My family isn’t in this boxcar, so there’s no reason for us to remain.”
But Picard didn’t seem quite so sanguine about leaving. He had decided to make it his personal challenge to convince everyone to attend to the situation. So, he assumed his “soapbox” voice and called out, “All of you . . . listen to me! You do not have to submit to this! We can commandeer the train! We can mobilize, we can defeat this thing, we can . . .”
“What are you saying?!?” someone screamed. “Nothing is wrong.”
“Nothing is wrong? You’ve given over control of your lives to unknown oppressors who are shipping you to a place you don’t know, for reasons that are equally murky. How can you say nothing is wrong?”
“There is no problem. Nothing is wrong. Everything is going to be fine.”
Similar sentiments were expressed throughout the car. “It’s fine. There’s nothing wrong. Don’t make trouble!”
To his credit, Picard continued the argument. “Listen to me!” he said. “This is a fact: as incredible as it may sound, some force, some entity is threatening the very fabric of the universe! We are, all of us, being subjected to an ordeal, the reasons for which we cannot comprehend. The only thing we can do is to rise against it and let whoever, or whatever, is behind this know that we will not tolerate it! That we are not cattle to be pushed and prodded about. We are people! Sentient beings with a right to control our own destinies! Now who is with me?”
I had to admit, it was a most stellar performance, and under ordinary circumstances, such rhetoric would have been sufficient to get even the most recalcitrant of individuals to bellow, “We’re with you,
Picard, and we will follow you into the very jaws of hell!”
Instead, the only response he got was blank stares and confused looks. And then the Vulcan, with the air of authority that only Vulcans can lend to a pronouncement, said, “There is nothing wrong. None of this . . . is happening.” If Mary Baker Eddy had heard him, she would have risen from the grave and kissed that Vulcan on the lips.
“Why are you denying the obvious?” Picard shot back.
“The senses can be deceived . . . can they not?” said the Vulcan, and he looked me square in the eye. I was taken aback. I wasn’t entirely sure why the Vulcan should be addressing me so specifically. After all, a little while earlier I had been musing on the very subject of how untrustworthy one’s senses could be, particularly in a situation as totally alien as this one. I was beginning to feel that everybody was picking on me.
Then someone in the back of the boxcar called out, “It is most definitely happening, but everything is going to be fine. Just fine. Everything is going to be just as it was, and we’re not in any danger whatsoever. Why . . . they’re just taking us on a ride somewhere, and after that we’ll be returned to our homes none the worse for wear.” This Pollyannaish sentiment was getting huge nods of approval. What idiots!
“You are wrong. It is not happening,” the Vulcan retorted. “None of us is here. But you are correct in your belief that no action need be taken. On that, we are mutually agreed; merely for different reasons.”
I hope this exchange will give the reader some inkling of the absurdity of the situation. I felt as if I were in some “poor man’s” philosophy class. A little hemlock at this juncture would have gone a long way.
Raising my hand as if I were a schoolboy, I said, “Picard, I’ve already stated that there is no reason for us to stay here, and given the banality of the conversation, can we get on with it? Can we continue searching the train?!”
I could not recall a time when I had seen Picard look so discouraged. “Yes,” he said softly. “Yes . . . I see no reason for remaining here either. You’re right, Q.”
“My three favorite words,” I said. “Now, any thoughts as to how we are going to get out of here?”
“Mr. Data—” said Picard, and then he motioned toward the far wall of the boxcar. At first, I thought that he was asking Data for suggestions. But then, as I saw Data nod, I understood that since the two of them had been working together for so long only a few words from Picard were necessary. All he needed to do to set the android into motion was nod.
I hate to admit it, but to some degree I envied them that relationship. For all the uncounted centuries that I’ve strode the galaxy, I had never really had anyone with whom I communicated on that level. Not even the Lady Q. Granted, we were able to communicate by sharing thoughts, as were all the Q in the Continuum. But there was a difference between that and not even having to think because the other person knows what you’re thinking. That entailed a level of confidence and trust that was—remarkable as it may seem—outside of my experience.
Not that I would have said any of this to Picard, of course. So instead I simply said, “Yes, Data, get on with it . . . proceed. . . . Chop . . . chop!”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Data made his way to the far end of the car and placed his hands flat against the wall. The Vulcan took a mild interest in what Data was up to; perhaps he thought the android was mind-melding with the boxcar. I, however, immediately understood what he was doing. He was silently testing the wall of the boxcar, placing pressure against it, sensing its give. Then, without any further hesitation, he drew back his fist and drove it right through the slats of wood. The boards splintered, and a gust of wind blew through the opening. Considering the stench within the car, it was most refreshing. In a moment Data had an opening large enough for a man to pass through.
Data turned and gestured for us to approach. We cleared away the remaining boards and got a good look at the situation. I couldn’t say I liked what I saw. We were flying along the tracks at an incredible rate, the wheels clacking away like staccato thunder. The idea of hopping from car to car was quickly losing its luster. I had no idea just how much personal protection I had in this realm, but I was beginning to suspect that the answer was, very little. I had already felt muscular pain, cold, and discomfort. Based on that, I had to believe that tumbling to the ground at our present speed would have nothing but unfortunate consequences for me. Data, I suspected, could probably handle such a fall with minimal risk, but that wasn’t going to do Picard or me one bit of good.
To make matters worse, the cars were attached by a coupling mechanism that was far narrower than I would have liked. Where were my powers when I needed them?!
Interestingly, Picard wasn’t looking at the tracks; he was looking up at the roof of the car. “Looking for Locutus, are you, Picard?”
He nodded.
“Afraid of what he represents?”
Picard’s brow furrowed. “Of course not! I am simply concerned about the security risk he presents. We don’t need him shooting at us from overhead.”
Picard had been so blasted smug since this business began, I was pleased to give him some of it back. “That’s not it at all, Picard,” I said, smirking. “I saw the way you looked at him when we were at the station. The very thought of him terrifies you, paralyzes you with fear.”
“I’ve made my peace with that a long time ago, Q.”
“One never makes peace with evil.”
“You don’t know my mind, Q.”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
Picard disdained to look at me after that crack, instead turning his focus to Data. “Data, can you get us through to the next car?”
“Yes, sir,” Data said confidently. That was the useful thing with him: a human might answer such a question out of a misguided sense of bravado. He would then have to screw his courage to the sticking place and try to see through on the boast. Not Data. Clearly he had already analyzed the situation, considered it within the parameters of what he knew he could and could not accomplish, and concluded—based on all that information—that it was within his capabilities to accomplish the task at hand.
“Then make it so,” said Picard. I love that expression! So typically Picard. Our hero couldn’t settle for saying “Go ahead” or “Best of luck” or “Let’s do it.” No, he had to proclaim, “Make it so.” Picard was someone who fancied himself master of his own destiny. No wonder he was so easily able to master the fundamental and underlying concepts of mindality in the Q Continuum. He was someone who routinely believed in shaping reality to his needs. “Make it so” basically translated to, “Make reality into what I wish it to be.”
Damn the man. He would have made a passable Q, given different circumstances.
Data stepped out onto the coupling. Since he had decided that he could do it, there was no second-guessing or hesitation on his part. He simply did it. Rather commendable, really. With quick, sure steps he crossed the coupling, unconcerned for his personal safety, his uniform jacket and pants riffling in the wind, but his hair staying flat. I think he combed it with shellack. The adjacent car was only a few feet away, but for some, the distance might as well have been miles. Not Data. He might have just as easily been crossing the street to the bagel shop.
Data proceeded to punch through to the next car. I could only imagine the reaction of the people on the other side of the wall: standing about, squatting perhaps, when suddenly a golden fist comes crashing through the wall. Data was probably very sweet about it. He always said, “Excuse me.” “Pardon me.” “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Within seconds, Data had again cleared enough of an opening for us to step into the next car.
“After you, mon capitain,” I said with a mock salute.
Taking a deep breath, Picard stepped out onto the coupling. He moved surely at first, but a sudden bump in the track sent him staggering. In a flash Data snagged Picard’s wrist just as the captain started to lose his balance. With
a little tug Data eased his commanding officer into the next car. He then turned to me and extended his hand. I thought I was at a debutante party. “Why, Data, I didn’t know you cared,” I intoned in my most coy voice.
I stepped onto the coupling and froze. All I could envision was me, tumbling onto the tracks—to my death. Actually, I’m being a little dramatic. Would I die?—of course not. I’m too grand to die. I might just . . . fade away, however, remembered by a few billion as a good friend and mentor. A happy-go-lucky soul . . . abon vivant . . . a . . .
“Q! Come on!” shouted Picard. “Do you need me to help you?”
That was, of course, all I needed to hear to jar me out of my reverie. I set my jaw and stepped onto the coupling with a confidence that I couldn’t begin to feel. The thing shook beneath me, but I paid it no heed. I took three quick steps, and started to trip, when Data grabbed me with the same assuredness he had used reeling in his captain. He pulled me through to the next car, and once more we were awash in the smell of confined beings in various states of fear, but this time the stench was almost welcome.
I anticipated great protestations from the assembled rabble but . . .
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. In this car, everyone was seated, and they were all staring in the same direction: toward the great sliding door. And every single person who was looking at the door was shaking his head.
It was almost as if they were practicing a strange religious ceremony. Back and forth, back and forth went the heads, in a slow and steady rhythm that was chilling to behold. “No,” they droned, “no, no, no.”
I called out, trying to find my family, but got no answer. They weren’t there. Truthfully, it was hard to believe that even the people who were there were in fact there. They seemed so totally disconnected from their surroundings, even more profoundly than those in the car we had just left. No. No. No. No.
“Why are you all shaking your heads?” Picard demanded. The man was never capable of leaving well enough alone.
Naturally he received no answer. Why should he? How could he? If he were surrounded by people who were denying everything around them, how in the world could they be expected to acknowledge Picard’s question, or even Picard himself?
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