Star Trek - [TNG] - All Good Things...

by Michael Jan Friedman

  Among them, were the same haggard souls he had seen in the vineyards of his "future" and in the shuttlebay of his "past"—except that their numbers had vastly multiplied. The air was rank with their scent, with their hatred and desperation.

  Suddenly, he knew where he was—and when. He had been here before, after all. The time was the twenty-first century, the era of mankind's post-atomic horror.

  That explained the hunger and the poverty that characterized the spectators... the bitterness in their voices, the hopelessness in their eyes.

  And this venue was the one in which he had been placed on trial several years earlier. Not just him alone, either, but all of humanity.

  As if to confirm his suspicions, everyone looked in one direction at once—at an entrance to the room, approachable only through a long, dark hallway. There was someone making his way down that hallway now— someone sitting cross-legged on a floating chair.

  Q, thought the captain. Who else?

  A moment later he was proven right. With impeccable timing, the entity emerged from the shadows, playing the crowd like a virtuoso. The haggard ones roared their approval as Q wafted out to the center of the room, wearing an elaborate set of judge's robes.

  Holding his hand up, he quieted the cheering throng. Finally, there was silence—utter and complete.

  With a supercilious smile on his face, Q turned to Picard.

  "Mon capitaine," he said, his eyes twinkling with irony. "I thought you'd never get here."

  CHAPTER 12

  "Q", said the captain. "I thought so."

  The entity shrugged. "Actually, you were only about ninety-six percent certain of it... but why quibble?"

  Picard had no patience for Q's antics. "What's going on?" he demanded.

  "Isn't it obvious, Jean-Luc?" Q made an expansive gesture, indicating the entire courtroom and its cadre of foul-smelling occupants. "Can't you see for yourself, old bean? Or is a little simple cognition beyond you?"

  The captain frowned. He would have to play the game, apparently, like it or not. "The last time I stood in this courtroom was seven years ago.... "

  "Seven years ago," Q repeated mockingly. "How little you mortals understand time. Must you be so linear, Jean-Luc?"

  Doggedly, Picard went on. "You accused me of being the representative of a barbarous species.... "

  "I believe the exact words were 'a dangerous, savage child-race,' were they not?"

  "But we demonstrated that mankind has become peaceful and benevolent," the captain insisted. "You agreed--and let us go on our way." He looked around at the crowd of silent, glaring onlookers. "Why do I find myself back in this courtroom now, when our business here is finished?"

  Q sighed. "You need me to connect the dots for you, I see. Lead you from A to B, B to C, and so on... so your puny mind can comprehend." He shook his head wearily, vexed by man's limitations. "How boring..."

  "For you, perhaps. But—"

  "It would be so much more entertaining," Q mused, "if you tried to figure this out." He snapped his fingers, his eyes widening as if seized all of a sudden by an idea.

  "In fact," he said, "I'll help you out." Reaching under his robes, he pulled out a small flipboard containing white cards. The first one had a large numeral 10 on it.

  "Here's the deal, mon ami. I'll answer any question that calls for a yes or a no. Put it together in ten questions or less... and you, Jean-Luc Picard, could be our big winner. What do you say?"

  The captain didn't seem to have much of a choice. "All right, Q." He tried to establish as much as possible right from the beginning. "Are you putting mankind on trial again?"

  Q smiled. "No," he said genially, flipping a card over to reveal the numeral 9.

  "Is there any connection at all," inquired Picard, "between the trial seven years ago and whatever's going on now?"

  Q pretended to think about that one. "Now, let's see. Hmmmmm...I would have to say... yes." He flipped to the card that showed 8.

  "Yet you say we're not on trial again.... "

  "That's correct," said Q. "The trial is long over. That's three questions for the contestant from Earth."

  The captain protested. "That was a statement, not a question!"

  Unmoved, Q flipped another card over. "Seven to go. And not a very good job so far, if I may say so. A chimp could probably have done better—and been more witty in the process."

  Frustrated, Picard concentrated on his next question. "The spatial anomaly in the Neutral Zone... is it related to what's happening?"

  "Oh," said Q, "most definitely yes." He flipped yet another card.

  "Is it part of a Romulan plot? A ploy to start a war?"

  "You've been spending too much time with the Klingon," Q observed. "No... and no again. Six down and only four to go."

  "Wait a minute," argued the captain. "That's only five."

  Q ticked off the questions on his fingers. "'Is it a Romulan plot'? Is it a ploy to start a war?' Those are separate questions."

  Picard held his anger in check. This was an opportunity to get to the bottom of this. He dared not waste it.

  "Did you create the anomaly, Q?"

  The entity laughed merrily. "No, no, no, my incredible dullard of a starship captain. You're going to be so surprised when you realize where it came from. That is, if you ever manage to figure it out. And you have only three questions left."

  The captain decided to try another tack. "Are you responsible for my shifting through time?"

  Q looked around, as if he was about to do something illegal and was concerned that someone might be watching. He leaned down from his perch atop the floating cushion.

  "I'll answer that if you promise you won't tell anyone," he breathed.

  "I promise," the human told him.

  "In that case," Q whispered, "ves."

  Picard shook his head. "But why?"

  "I'm sorry," said Q. "That's not a yes-or-no question. You forfeit the rest of the game." Giddily, he tossed away the flipboard. "I expected as much, you know. And, as I might point out, that's a perfect example of why we've made our decision."

  The captain shot him a questioning look. "Your decision?" he echoed.

  Q nodded. "The verdict has been decided, Captain. You're guilty."

  Picard took a half-step toward his adversary. "Guilty of what?"

  "Of being inferior, of course." Q looked at him with unconcealed contempt. "Seven years ago, I said we'd be watching you. And we have been. We've been watching and hoping that your apelike race would demonstrate some modicum of growth... give us some indication that your minds have the capacity for further expansion."

  Q's floating cushion lowered so that his eyes were on a level with the captain's. There was a hard-edged disdain in them that Picard had never seen there before.

  "And what have we seen instead?" the entity went on.

  "You spent your time worrying about Commander Riker's career... listening to Counselor Troi's pedantic psychobabble... helping Worf determine if he's a man or a mouse... and indulging Data in his witless exploration of humanity."

  "We have journeyed to countless new worlds," Picard maintained. "We have made contact with new species... expanded the Federation's understanding of the universe..."

  "In your own paltry, limited way," Q conceded. "But you have no idea how far you still have to go. And instead of using the past seven years to change and grow—you have squandered them."

  "I beg to differ..." he began.

  Q dismissed his comment with a wave of his hand. "Time in the universe may be eternal, Captain. However, the patience of our Continuum is not—and you and your kind have exhausted it."

  It sounded to Picard as if this was a battle he couldn't hope to win. It seemed that Q had already made his decision.

  "And having rendered a verdict," he asked, "have you decided upon a sentence?"

  "Indeed," replied Q. "You see, it's time to end your trek through the stars, Jean-Luc. It's time for you to make room for other, more w
orthy species."

  The captain didn't quite understand. "You mean we're to be denied travel through space?"

  Q's eyes flashed fire. "No, you obtuse piece of flotsam. You're to be denied existence. Humanity's fate has been sealed. You will be completely and irrevocably destroyed."

  No, thought Picard. How could that be? Even a spiteful entity like Q was not capable of such an act.

  "I?' responded Q, having intruded in the human's mind. "There you go again, blaming me for everything. Well, this time I'm not your enemy—even though I could easily have become one, after listening to that insipid balalaika music all evening."

  "Balalaika music? I don't—"

  "Never mind." He leaned in close to the captain, so close their noses were almost touching. "I'm not the one who causes the annihilation of mankind," said Q. "You are."

  Picard shook his head. "Me...?"

  "That's right. You're doing it right now... you've already done it... and you will do it yet again in the future."

  The captain felt his teeth grate together. "What sort of meaningless double-talk is that?"

  Q took a long, melodramatic draft of air and slowly let it out. "Oh, my. He doesn't understand. I have only myself to blame, I suppose. I believed in him… thought he had some tiny spark of potential. But apparently, I was wrong about him. C'est la vie."

  "No," said Picard, sensing that the entity was about to make his exit. "You can't just leave it at that. You've got to--"

  Q didn't even seem to hear him. "Good luck, Jean-Luc. Maybe you can still avoid killing every humanoid in the galaxy... but I doubt it."

  "No!" cried the captain.

  "May whatever god you believe in have mercy on your soul. This court stands adjourned."

  Again, louder this time: "No!"

  But Q was already raising his hand, signaling an end to his audience. There was the crash of a gong…

  ... and Picard sat up, fully awake. It wasn't until the sound had faded away to nothing that he realized he was in his ready room. And it took a moment longer than that for him to remember that he was in the "present."

  Bolting to his feet, he made his way to the door and emerged onto the bridge. Seeing that Riker wasn't there, he looked up to the intercom grid.

  "Commander Riker," he said.

  "Riker here," came the reply.

  "Assemble the senior staff," the captain told him, shivering at what he had just learned. "And go to red alert. We have a bigger problem on our hands than we thought."

  CHAPTER 13

  'Dr. Pulaski?"

  Kate Pulaski looked up from her solitary table, where she'd been playing the Andorian game of choctoq—and losing. She wasn't sure whom she expected to see… but it wasn't the Daughter of the Fifth House of Betazed, Holder of the Sacred Chalice of Riix.

  "Ambassador Troi?" she responded, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice. A few of her fellow officers looked up from the surrounding tables and then went back to their own conversations.

  Lwaxana Troi hadn't changed much in the five years since the doctor had seen her last. Her hair was a dusky red instead of brunette, but she still had that friskiness about her that sent strong captains sprinting wildly for the escape pods.

  Then again, Pulaski thought, who am I to talk about other people being frisky? Those who're been to the trough as often as I have shouldn't throw stones... to mix a metaphor.

  "I see you remember me," commented the Betazoid. "And yes, I have changed the color of my hair. How sweet of you to notice."

  Pulaski reddened. Telepathy was a damned inconvenient trait, when you came right down to it. Gesturing to the chair on the other side of the table, she said, "Please, sit down."

  The ambassador sat. Picking up one of the choctoq tiles, she inspected the dragonlike symbol on its smooth, white face. "I know," she began. "You're wondering what I'm doing here on the Repulse. Well, Ambassador Zul of Triannis took ill just a few days ago..."

  "And you took his place on the Alpha Tiberia negotiating team," the chief medical officer finished. "I've got it. But Ambassador Zul was one of our foremost experts on Ferengi barter techniques..."

  "So he was," Lwaxana agreed, replacing the tile in its starburst configuration. "Which is why they asked me to take his place. You see, I've had some dealings of my own with the Ferengi. And let me assure you, Doctor, they were a lot more colorful than Ambassador Zul's."

  Pulaski smiled. "I have no doubt of it. So, tell me… how's Deanna? And the rest of the Enterprise crew?"

  The Betazoid frowned. "You may not believe it, but Deanna's still not married. And she's got the prettiest face on that entire ship, if I say so myself." She sighed. "As for the others... they're about the same, I suppose." She thought for a moment. "Did Will Riker have a beard when you were with them?"

  The doctor nodded. "He'd just grown it."

  "And… did you meet Alexander?"

  Pulaski shook her head. "The name doesn't ring a bell. Who's he?"

  Lwaxana smiled. "Just the most precious little Klingon child you ever saw. It's hard to believe his father is someone as grim as Mr. Woof."

  The doctor looked at her, amused. "You mean Worf"

  "Woof, Worf..." She shrugged, as if the difference were insignificant. "In any case, Alexander came aboard after his poor mother died. Did you know K'Ehleyr?"

  Pulaski put cha' and cha' together. "K'Ehleyr was the boy's mother?"

  The Betazoid nodded. "Poor dear. She was killed by some horrid High Council member, when her research threatened to expose his family's treachery."

  The doctor shivered. "How awful. But the boy is all right?"

  "He is now," Lwaxana told her. "Thanks to the attention my daughter showers on him."

  Pulaski had liked Worf—but she couldn't picture him raising a youngster all on his own. It had to be hard on someone like him.

  "It is," the ambassador replied.

  Again, Pulaski had reason to regret the development of telepathy in Betazoids. "And Data?" she asked. "How's he doing?"

  Lwaxana looked at her. "The android?" She considered the question. "Actually, he doesn't seem to change much, does—" She stopped herself. "No, I take that back. He doesn't change physically. But now that I think about it, his personality has developed quite a bit. He's become more socially adept. More... human, I'd say, for lack of a better word."

  The doctor sighed and looked down at the primary-colored choctoq pieces on her side of the table. "I was so wrong."

  "About what?" asked the ambassador.

  "About Data," she answered. "When I was on the Enterprise, I really believed he was just a fancy bucket of bolts. After all, he wasn't a biological entity, and I didn't think there was any other kind. But I've been accessing his Starfleet personnel file from time to time, and I see now that I was off the mark." She grunted philosophically. "Way off."

  Lwaxana regarded her. "You ought to tell him so. I bet he'd like to hear it from someone like you. Someone he respects."

  Pulaski nodded. "Maybe I will. I don't know about him, but it'd sure as Shadrak make me feel better." She paused. "In fact, maybe I'll pay a little visit to the Enterprise. I've got some time coming, and—"

  The Betazoid leaned forward and shook her head."Not right now, dear," she said in a hushed tone.

  Lwaxana looked around to make sure no one else in the rec room was looking. Then, satisfied that they had some privacy, she went on.

  "The Enterprise is on a secret mission," she explained. "At the Romulan Neutral Zone. There's some sort of anomaly there—whatever that is."

  The doctor eyed her. "But if it's secret, how do you...?" And then she answered her own question. Telepathy.

  The ambassador smiled. "It pays to hang around with an admiral now and then. You never know what you might find out." Suddenly, the smile disappeared. "Of course, I wouldn't want any of this to become common knowledge. Deanna would kill me—and Riix knows, the poor girl has enough problems. Did I tell you she's still unmarried?"

&nb
sp; Pulaski grinned. "Yes, ma'am. I believe you did."

  Lieutenant Reginald Barclay heaved a long, tremulous sigh as he remembered the details of his recent transformation.

  "Actually," he said, "it wasn't so bad being a spider. I mean, I wasn't really aware of what was going on. I just had this general... I don't know, perception, I guess you'd call it... that things had changed. That they'd slowed down, somehow. Or that my reactions had speeded up. And... oh, yes. Then there was that other thing."

  He turned to look at Counselor Troi. As ever, she was gazing at him sympathetically from her chair on the other side of the room.

  "You mean the appetite for flies?" she suggested non-judgmentally.

  He nodded. Even now, it was hard for him to think of one without salivating just a little. "Yes. That."

  The counselor smiled. "As I've told you before, Reg, what you're feeling isn't at all abnormal. Everyone on the ship was affected by that protomorphosis disease. And everyone—myself included—has some unsettling memories of what happened to them while they were devolving."

  He grunted. "Yes, but not everyone on the ship had the disease named after him."

  Troi looked at him. "Dr. Crusher did that as a matter of scientific tradition. If you want her to change it..."

  He pondered the possibility for a moment, then shook his head. Now that he thought about it, he sort of liked the idea, even if it did imply that he was to blame for the whole epidemic.

  After all, it guaranteed him a certain immortality. For hundreds, maybe thousands of years, Federation doctors and scientists would be speaking of Barclay's protomorphosis syndrome in reverential tones.

  That is, if the Federation was still around. The way things were going, he wasn't so sure that would be the case.

  "I guess the spider thing isn't what's really bothering me," he confessed. "Or even the fact that I've had a disease named after me."

  The counselor had known that all along, of course, though she hadn't said so. That's how she worked, he mused.

  Now, for instance, she was waiting patiently for him to tell her what the real problem was. Finally, he spoke up.