Q-Space

by Greg Cox

  He spun his chair around to confront the anachronistic wooden bleachers and the incongruous duo resting upon them. Riker inspected the female Q. She was an attractive woman, he noted, more so than Q deserved, in his opinion. Remarkably tall, too; it wasn’t often Riker met women who were the same height as he, but the individual standing in front of him met his gaze at near eye-level. She looks almost as imposing as a Klingon woman, he thought. Although I guess an omnipotent being can be as tall as she wants.

  “You,” he accused. “Are you at the heart of this business? Are the Calamarain afraid of you?”

  “Me?” the woman asked. She added ketchup to a hot dog that had not existed a heartbeat before. Neither had the ketchup, for that matter.

  “Yes,” Riker answered. “The Calamarain tried to kill your husband before. Is it you they fear?”

  “They should,” she said darkly, then assumed a more chipper expression, “but I’m in a forgiving mood today. No, First Officer, that’s not it; the Calamarain have far more to worry about than me and little q these days.”

  “What do you mean?” Riker demanded. He didn’t get the impression the woman was dissembling, unlike the original Q, who always came off as about as sincere as a Ferengi used-shuttle salesman, but who could tell with a Q? As he understood it, this wasn’t even her true appearance. “Explain yourself.”

  The little q reached for his mother’s hat, so the female Q amused him by trading their headwear with a snap of her fingers. The oversized hat looked ridiculous on the child’s small head, but q giggled happily, his face all but concealed by the drooping brim of the hat.

  “About the Calamarain,” Riker prompted firmly. Even with their shields defending them from the Calamarain’s lethal tachyons, he had no desire to linger in their grasp any longer than necessary. This Q could play the doting mother on her own time. “I’m still waiting for an explanation.”

  “Such a one-track mind,” the Q sighed. “Q is right. You creatures really do need to learn how to stop and smell the nebulas now and again.” She tapped the child-sized baseball cap upon her head and it expanded to fit more comfortably. “I’m sure if my husband wanted you to understand about the Calamarain and their selfish grievances, he would have explained it all to you. Mind you, I don’t blame him for keeping mum where this whole business is concerned. Kind of an embarrassing anecdote, especially since it was all his fault in the first place.”

  What in blazes does she mean by that? Riker briefly wished that he had hung on to the supernatural powers Q had granted him years ago, just so he could threaten to kick this other Q off the ship if she didn’t start giving him straight answers. “Embarrassing?” he said with deeply felt indignation. “Your husband kidnapped our captain. For all I know, he sicced the Calamarain on us, too. I call that more than ‘embarrassing’ and I want to know what you intend to do about it, starting with telling us just where Q has taken Captain Picard.”

  The female Q peered down her nose at Riker. “I’m not sure I approve of your tone,” she said icily, placing her hands over baby q’s ears. The child, curious, grew a new pair of velvety silver bunny ears out of the top of his scalp, foiling his mother’s well-intentioned efforts.

  “I don’t want your approval,” Riker said. The hum of the Calamarain buzzed in his ears, reminding him that he had more important things to do than waste his breath trying to reason with a Q. “I want you to lend a hand, answer my questions, or get off the bridge.”

  His harsh tone got through to little q, whose childish grin crumpled into tears and sobs. The mother fixed a chilly stare on Riker, who felt his life expectancy shrinking at a geometrical rate. “Well, if that’s how you’re going to be,” she huffed. Without another word, she disappeared from the bridge, taking little q and the bleachers with her.

  Well, that’s something, he thought, thankful that members of the Q Continuum tended to leave as unexpectedly as they arrived. For indestructible, immortal beings, they sure seem pretty thin-skinned. He swiveled his chair around to face the prow of the bridge. On the main viewer, he saw a portion of the Calamarain, its iridescent substance drifting past the window like some lifeless chemical vapor. The roiling gases outside the ship looked more agitated than before. The rainbow colors darkened, the separate fumes clumping together in heavy, swollen accumulations that promised an approaching storm. Flickers of bright electricity leaped from billow to billow, sparking like bursts of lightning through the all-encompassing cloud. Riker felt like they were trapped inside the galaxy’s biggest thunderhead. “Deflectors?” he asked, wanting a status report.

  “Shields holding,” Leyoro informed him, “although I’m detecting an increase in harmful tachyon radiation.”

  “That is correct,” Data confirmed from Ops. “The Calamarain have rapidly raised the intensity of the emissions directed against the ship, possibly in an attempt to penetrate our defenses.” He peered intently at the display at his console. “By placing further pressure upon our shields, the amplified nature of the Calamarain’s attack reduces our safety factor by 1.531 hours.”

  “Understood,” Riker said, “but we’re not going to stick around that long.” The captain was missing. The ship was under attack. A prudent departure was definitely in order, he judged. He knew he did not need to worry about leaving the captain behind; Q could find the Enterprise anywhere in the universe if he felt so inclined. It seemed a shame to turn tail and run when all they had managed to do so far was misplace Jean-Luc Picard, but there was no compelling reason to continue the experiment in the face of an enemy; it was a pure research assignment after all. The barrier had been around for billions of years. It could wait a little longer. “Mr. Clarze, prepare to go to warp.”

  “Commander,” Lieutenant Leyoro pointed out, “we haven’t even tried to strike back at the Calamarain yet. Perhaps we can drive them away with our phasers?”

  Riker shook his head. “There’s no reason to get into a shooting war, not if we can simply turn around. For all we know, the Calamarain may have legitimate interests in this region of space.” He saw Deanna nod in agreement. “Take us out of here, Mr. Clarze.”

  “Yes, sir,” the young Deltan said from the conn, entering the appropriate coordinates into the helm controls. Riker noted a light sheen of perspiration upon the pilot’s domed skull; he’d probably never been caught inside a sentient cloud before. Could be worse, Riker thought. According to the history tapes, Kirk’s Enterprise had once been swallowed by a giant space amoeba. “Heading?” Clarze asked.

  “The nearest starbase,” Riker said, “to report our findings.” Too bad we never got the chance to take on the galactic barrier, he thought. Still, no experiment was worth risking the Enterprise, especially with civilians and children aboard. Starfleet would have to challenge the barrier another day, with or without Professor Faal. It was tragic that the dying scientist had to be thwarted this close to the completion of his final experiment, but the Calamarain had given them no other choice. Who knows? Maybe someday they might even get another chance to establish genuine contact with the Calamarain.

  At the moment, though, he found himself more worried about the fact that the viewscreen still held the image of the Calamarain despite his order to go to warp. “Mr. Clarze?”

  “I’m trying, Commander!” Clarze blurted, jabbing at the control panel with his fingers. “But something’s wrong with the warp engines. I can’t get them to engage.”

  “What?” Riker reacted. If the warp engines were down, the Enterprise was in serious trouble. He knew from experience that they could not outrun the Calamarain on impulse alone. He glanced over his shoulder at the crew member manning the aft science station. “Mr. Schultz, what’s our engine status?”

  “I’m not sure, sir,” Ensign Robert Schultz said, peering anxiously at the monitors and display panels at the aft engineering station. “The warp core is still on-line and the plasma injectors seem to be functioning properly, but somehow the warp field coils are not generating the necessary propulsi
ve effect. I can’t figure out why.”

  “That’s not good enough,” Riker said. Hoping that Geordi had already made it back to Engineering, he tapped his comm badge. “Geordi, this is Riker. What the devil is going on down there?”

  “I wish I could tell you,” the chief engineer’s voice answered, confirming the speed and efficacy of the ship’s turbolifts. “We can initiate the pulse frequency in the plasma, no problem, but something’s damping the warp field layers, keeping our energy levels below eight hundred millicochranes, tops. We need at least a thousand to surpass lightspeed.”

  “Understood,” Riker acknowledged, remembering basic warp theory. He glanced at Data, wondering if he should pull the android off Ops and send him to assist Geordi in Engineering. Not unless I absolutely have to, he decided. “What about the impulse drive?”

  “That’s still up and running,” Geordi stated, “at least for now.”

  That’s something, I suppose, Riker thought, although what he really needed was warp capacity. “Anything you can do to fix the field coils in a hurry?”

  “I can run a systems-wide diagnostic,” Geordi suggested, “but that’s going to take a while. Plus, I’ve already got half my teams working overtime to maintain the deflectors.”

  In the meantime, we’re stuck here, Riker thought, with our shields failing and the Calamarain at the door. “Do what you can, Mr. La Forge.” He clenched his fists angrily, frustrated by this latest turn of affairs. It seemed retreat was no longer an option, at least not at present. They might have to fight their way out after all. A strategic notion occurred to him, and he reopened the line to La Forge. “Geordi, have an engineering officer look at the remains of the probe the Calamarain attacked. I want to find out as much as we can about their modes of attack.”

  “You got it,” Geordi promised. “I’ll put Barclay on it right away.”

  Riker experienced a momentary qualm when Reg Barclay’s name was mentioned. Deanna insisted that Barclay was making substantial progress, and certainly the man had come in useful when they had to repair Zefram Cochrane’s primitive warp vessel back in 2063, but even still…Then again, it dawned on him, analyzing the probe was probably less stressful under the circumstances than working on the shields or engines, so the probe and Barclay made a good fit. I should never have doubted Geordi’s work assignments, he thought. He knows exactly what his people are capable of.

  Just as Riker knew what a certain android officer could do when the chips were down. “Mr. Data, since we can’t get away from the Calamarain, we need to find out what they want. I want you to give top priority to establishing communication with the Calamarain. Perhaps our sensor readings can give you what you need to bring the Universal Translator up to speed. Work with Counselor Troi, if you think she can help. Maybe her nonverbal impressions can provide you with the clue you need to crack their language.”

  “Yes, Commander,” the android replied. He sounded like he was looking forward to tackling the problem. “A most intriguing challenge.” He studied the displays at Ops, swiftly switching from one sensor mode to another until he found something. “Counselor Troi,” he said after a few moments, “I am detecting a directed transmission from the entity on a narrower wavelength than their tachyon barrage. It may be an attempt at communication. Can you sense its meaning?”

  Riker could not see Deanna’s face from his chair, but he could well imagine the look of concentration on her face. Even after all these years, her empathic abilities still impressed him, although he could recall more than a few instances when he’d wished that she had not been able to see through him quite so easily. Like that time on Risa, he thought.

  Deanna Troi shut her eyes, doing her best to filter out the emotions of the crew members present in the conference room as well as, more faintly, throughout the ship. Speak to me, she thought to the gaseous mass outside the ship. Let me know what you’re feeling.

  Suddenly, an unexpected “voice” intruded into her thoughts. You have to talk to the commander, it urged her silently. Make him understand. I have to go on with my work. It’s vitally important.

  She recognized the telepathic voice immediately. Lem Faal. How desperate was he, she worried, that he would take advantage of her sensitivity like this? Please, she told him. Not now. Please leave me alone. She needed to have all her faculties focused on the task of reading the Calamarain.

  But my work! he persisted. His telepathic voice, she noted, lacked the hoarseness and shortness of breath that weakened his physical voice. It was firm and emphatic, unravaged by disease.

  Fortunately, years of dealing with her mother had given her plenty of experience at dispelling an unwanted telepathic presence from her mind. No! Faal protested as he felt her squeeze him out of her consciousness. Wait! I need your help!

  “Leave me alone,” she repeated, before banishing him entirely.

  “Deanna?” Will Riker asked. Her eyes snapped open and she saw him watching her with a confused, anxious expression. So were Data and Lieutenant Leyoro and the others on the bridge. She hadn’t realized she had spoken aloud.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was…distracted.”

  “By the Calamarain?” the commander asked. She could feel his concern for her well-being.

  “No,” she answered, shaking her head. She would have to speak to the commander about Faal later; there was something frightening about the scientist’s obsession with his experiment, beyond simple determination to see his work completed before death claimed him. First, though, there were still the Calamarain. “Let me try again,” she said, closing her eyes once more.

  This time Faal did not interfere. Perhaps he had finally gotten the message to keep out of her head. Screening out all other distractions, she opened herself up to the alien emotions seeping into the ship from outside.

  They tasted strange to her mental receptors, like some exotic spice or flavor she couldn’t quite place. Was that anger/fear or fear/anger or something else altogether? She felt queer impressions suffusing the air around her, like the steady drone of the humming she had heard in the background ever since the cloud had surrounded the ship. They were relentlessly consistent, never quavering or varying in tone or intensity. She couldn’t name the feeling, but it was a constant, unchanging, a firm and unshakable conviction/resolution/determination to do what must be done, whatever that might be. She probed as hard as she was able, but the feeling never changed. That was all she could sense, the same inflexible purpose surrounding the Enterprise on all sides.

  Convinced that she’d heard enough, she opened her eyes slowly, took a few deep breaths, and let the alien emotions recede into the background. “I’m picking up an increased sense of urgency, of alarm mixed with fury,” she stated. “There’s a feeling of danger, whether to us or from us I can’t say.” She hesitated for a second, reaching out across the gulf of space with her empathic senses. “I think it’s a warning…or a threat.”

  That’s a big difference, Riker thought, listening carefully to Deanna’s report. Do the Calamarain want to help us or hurt us? Judging from the way they’d knocked the probe about earlier, he’d bet on the latter.

  “Thank you, Counselor,” Data said, comparing Deanna’s impressions against his readings and entering the results into his console. “That was quite helpful. I now have several promising avenues to explore.”

  Could Data really use Deanna’s empathic skills as a Rosetta Stone to crack the Calamarain’s language? Riker could only wonder how the android was managing to translate Deanna’s subjective emotional readings into the mathematical algorithms used by the Universal Translator. Then again, he remembered, Data had knowledge of hundreds, if not thousands, of languages stored in his positronic brain, making him something of an artificial translator himself. If anybody can do it, he thought.

  “Excuse me, Commander,” Leyoro said, “but what’s that old human expression again? The one about the best offense…?”

  Riker permitted himself a wry smile. “Point take
n, Lieutenant. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten our phasers.”

  Given a choice, he’d rather talk than shoot, but the time for talking was swiftly running out.

  Interlude

  Bug.

  It was buzzing over there, just out of reach. A shiny, silver bug. He could see it now, the image refracted through the lens of the wall, deformed and distorted, true, but definitely there. Itty-bitty little bug, buzzing about on the other side, doing teeny-weeny, buggy little things.

  Busy bug, he crooned. How fast can you fly? How quick can you die?

  He couldn’t wait to swat it with his hungry hand. No, not swat it, he corrected himself. He’d play with it first, teach it tricks, then pull off its wings. Soon, he promised, soon to its ruin.

  Then the bug wasn’t alone anymore. A wisp of smoke drifted over to where the bug flitted. Bug and smoke, he cursed, his mood darkening. He remembered that smoke, oh yes he did, and remembering, hated. A joke on the smoke, ever so long ago. Choke on the smoke. Smoking, choking…choking the bug! Through the fractured glass of the wall, he watched as the thin, insubstantial wisp of vapor surrounded the bug. No! You can’t have it! he raved. It’s mine, mine to find, mine to grind!

  Impatiently, he reached out for the bug and the smoke, unable to wait any longer, forgetting for the moment all that lay between him and his prizes. But his will collided against the perpetual presence of the wall and rebounded back in pain and fury. He drew inward on himself, nursing his injured pride, while the bug and the smoke circled each other just beyond his grasp. Not now, he recalled, not how. But when, when, WHEN…?

  He howled in frustration—and a voice answered. The same voice that had greeted his cries not very long ago. It was a small, barely audible voice, but it sounded faintly louder than it had before, like it was coming from some place not nearly so far away.