Q-Space

by Greg Cox

  When the light faded, the containment chamber had been restored, but now it was Lem Faal, curled into a fetal position, who was confined within the clear dome. “That should hold him for the time being,” the female Q declared. “Do feel free to run any tests you choose on him. The more painful the better.”

  And then both she and q were gone, leaving Riker and Crusher alone in the pediatric unit. Beverly hoped that Jean-Luc and the others were faring as well with the Calamarain and that unknown intruder. One more thing puzzled her as well.

  What kind of errand does the female Q have in mind?

  Seventeen

  “Ugh. What a revolting sensation.”

  Q’s skin still itched from his emergency beam-out; he’d forgotten just how crudely tactile primitive matter transporters could be. Still, it beat working up a sweat, he supposed. If he never saw another starship corridor or Jefferies tube for another hundred million years, it would still be too soon.

  Nevertheless, here he was. Holodeck 7. Hundreds of alternative environments, and potential hiding places, available at his command. The next best thing to using his Q powers. Quite ingenious, he congratulated himself. 0 may have forced Q into this deadly game, but Q wasn’t about to make it easy for him.

  At the moment, of course, the holodeck was just a big, empty room waiting to be filled with three-dimensional illusions. A stark yellow grid pattern was laid out on the walls, floor, and ceiling, which were a singularly uninteresting shade of black. A pair of red double doors, surrounded by a streamlined archway that looked evocatively like a theatrical proscenium, marked the entrance of the holodeck for those who actually cared to enter via their feet. Easier said than done, Q thought ruefully, contemplating the unwieldy shackles about his ankle. He had hoped the transporter would leave the leg irons behind, but 0 had made them more stubborn than that. I should have expected as much, but who’d expect a lunatic to pay such attention to detail?

  In its bare simplicity, the default version of the holodeck was about the least promising hiding place one could imagine. But just give a few moments at those controls, Q gloated, and it will be a different story.

  “All right then,” he addressed the archway, “show me the specialties of the house.”

  The holodeck controls, which had been programmed to respond to a wide variety of verbal commands, complied by displaying a menu of available programs on a lighted monitor embedded in the right side of the proscenium. He scrolled through the various options, not quite certain what he was looking for, but confident that he would know it when he saw it.

  Aikido.Too strenuous, he decided.

  Altonian Brain Teaser.Meditation was not exactly what he had in mind.

  Ancient West.Too rustic, not to mention conducive to shoot-outs.

  Ballroom Dancing.Crusher’s favorite, no doubt.

  Bat’leth Practice. Left behind by the redoubtable Worf?

  Barclay 1-75.Too numerous to choose from.

  Bridge Officer Examination.Please!

  Champs Élysées.Too French.

  Camp Khitomer. Too Klingon.

  Christmas Carol, A.He’d spent quite enough time haunting the shadows of the past, thank yo very much!

  Q scrolled through the menu faster, glancing nervously over his shoulder. As brilliant as it was, his transporter trick wasn’t going to throw 0 off the trail indefinitely. He might be crazy as a chronal conundrum, but his former mentor had an undeniable talent for showing up precisely where he was least wanted. He raced through the vast array of selections at a feverish clip, examining and discarding options as fast as the display could produce them. Denubian Alps. No. Fly Fishing. No. Henry V. No. Klingon Calisthenics. God, no. Lake Cataria….

  What about that delightfully seedy waterfront dive? he wondered. With all that cheap hired muscle to throw at 0? No, wait, that was on Janeway’s ship. Would he ever have a chance to drop by Voyager again? Only if Picard came through, as was devoutly to be wished.

  Moonlight on the Beach. No. Orient Express. No. Rock Climbing. No. Romulan Firefalls. No. Tactical Simulation. No.

  Q was running out of time and hope when finally, near the end of the alphabetical listing, he spotted something that might suit his present purposes.

  The Tempest. From Picard’s beloved Bard, no less. Magic, trickery, and deferred revenge, plus an entire enchanted isle on which to elude 0. It was as close to perfect as he was going to find, particularly under the circumstances. Now if he could just call up the program before 0 arrived on the scene…!

  The sound of a heavy object whistling through the air alerted Q only seconds before a spiked mace would have collided with his skull. Ducking just in time, he pivoted around to see 0 just a few paces away, his archaic pistol aimed at Q once more. “You can’t trick a trickster, Q. Tricky, trickier, trickiest. A trick in a nick gives a bit of a kick.”

  His maniacal blue eyes searched their surroundings. “What’s this, Q? This is what? Some kind of aboriginal game room? Very fitting. Fit, fitter, fittest. Good of you to get into the spirit of the thing; too bad the game’s almost gone.” He grabbed Q’s arm to keep him from teleporting away, then cocked his revolver. Fingernails as long as knives dug into Q’s wrist. “Any last words, Q? Better make them good ones.”

  “Yes,” Q answered. “Begin program. Act One, Scene One.”

  The quiet of the holodeck became at once a scene of utter chaos. Q and 0 stood upon the rolling deck of a ship at sea, caught in the fury of a sudden squall. Sheets of cold rain pelted both ship and passenger alike. Sailors and civilians, the latter clad in drenched royal finery, ran about the deck in a frenzy of activity, shouting commands and warnings and heated imprecations at each other. The sky was dark with stormy clouds, not unlike the Calamarain, and the crash of white-capped waves competed with the howl of the wind and the rumble of thunder to drown out pages’ worth of theatrical dialogue. Jagged tines of lightning stabbed at the mast and mainsails, threatening to set the tempest-tossed vessel ablaze. “Hang, cur!” a villainous-looking boatswain managed to bellow above the din, directing his tirade at one of the bedraggled noblemen. “Hang, you whoreson, insolent noisemaker!”

  I couldn’t have put it better myself, Q thought. As anticipated, the abrupt change in venue, not to mention the general tumult, distracted 0 sufficiently that Q was able to yank his arm free from an ectoplasmic tentacle and rush across the pitching, rain-soaked deck to put a sturdy holographic mast between himself and 0’s primed firearm. Thank you, Willie, he thought, for an effectively over-the-top opening. Searching the horizon in every direction, using the electrical glare of a thunderbolt to dispel the worst of the gloom, Q spotted, right on schedule, a verdant island less than a kilometer away, its leafy greenery offering both sanctuary and, more importantly, seclusion. From 0, as opposed to the storm.

  “Q! Tricky, tricky Q!” 0 limped after Q, his mangled foot equitably slowing the vengeful madman as much as Q’s fetters impeded his escape. He fired his revolver, taking a chip out of the wooden rail beside Q. “Take your tricks to a watery grave, Q!”

  Exit, stage right, Q decided, tossing himself over the rail into the surging, frothing sea. For a simulacrum created by shaped forcefields and holographic images, the water was convincingly cold and wet. Almost too convincing, in fact; Q swallowed several mouthfuls of holographic brine before he managed to kick his way to the surface, his head emerging amid a flurry of waves and wind. His heavy leg irons hardly helped him keep afloat, but he trusted that Prospero’s magic (and the dictates of the plot) would carry him safely to shore.

  Another gunshot, splashing into the water only centimeters from his head, convinced him to give the program a hand by striking out for the island as quickly as a modified breast stroke would carry him. He was sorely tempted to turn himself into a dolphin or a Markoffian sea lizard, but he might just as well fire off signal flares announcing his precise location to his pursuer. There was nothing to be done except paddle along in a humanoid form rendered unfit for this pseudo-environm
ent by several million years of terrestrial evolution. I tried to tell them that leaving the ocean for the land was a huge mistake, but did they listen to me? Of course not.

  It took longer than he would have preferred, and his arms would have ached had he been genuinely mortal, but time and tide eventually deposited him on a sandy beach unmarred by any trace of human habitation. Climbing to his feet, he brushed the wet sand from the front of his soggy uniform, while a chill slurry of sand and seawater streamed from his hair, running down the back of his neck. Brrr! Looking out over the sea, he saw the last vestiges of the squall driving the abandoned ship to a waiting harbor; in theory, the rest of the dramatis personae would be washing ashore anytime now.

  Best to get going, he realized. Having not instructed the computer to cast him in any particular role, he remained an extraneous element in this Tempest, un-obliged to take part in the actual narrative. Still, there was no reason 0 couldn’t race ahead of the plot as well, once his scattered mind came to grips with the radically revised playing field. Q wanted to be safely lost in the jungle before 0 set foot on the island.

  Facing the sea, across a perilously exposed expanse of sand, the jungle awaited. A thick growth of towering mangrove and banyan trees offered shelter and shadows in which to hide, preceded by hedges of high grass and leafy ferns. He bolted for the overgrown foliage, wishing there were time to erase the sandy footprints he was inevitably leaving in his wake. I could really use a bushy tail right now, he thought.

  “Q!” a demented voice cried out behind him. “All ashore who’s dying ashore!” Q peeked back over his shoulder to see 0 striding out of the surf, his stringy hair plastered to his skull. He looked as though he had walked across the sea bottom all the way from the stormswept brigantine. Why didn’t I think of that? Q thought, snapping his fingers. Because it didn’t follow the logic of the play?

  Another instance where 0’s lunacy, and propensity for cheating, gave him the advantage. I’m going to have to think a lot crazier if I’m going to beat him at his own game.

  A flag upon a golden pole materialized at the end of 0’s upper right tentacle, which jabbed the bottom of the pole into the sand. “I claim this isle in the name of 0 the First!” he proclaimed grandly. The emblem on the flag was a numeral zero that looked like it had been scrawled in crayon, or maybe blood, by either a hyperactive three-year-old or a fugitive from an asylum. Q leaned strongly toward the latter.

  “What shall I name this serene and sandy shore?” Q asked aloud. “Q’s End? Q-Fall? Q’s Just Deserts?” He laughed raucously. “Too bad this isn’t a deserts island!”

  I still have a chance, Q thought. The outer fringe of the jungle was only a few meters away. With little to lose, he used his power to add wings to his feet. Literally. Two pairs of feathered pinions, chafing slightly at the edges of his shackles, propelled him into the sylvan sanctuary at hummingbird speed. A razor-edged boomerang chased him into the trees, slicing off the tip of an emerald frond before returning to 0’s waiting tentacle. “Cheater!” 0 shouted angrily. “Cheat and charlatan! Cheat, cheating, cheater!”

  Now there’s the singularity calling the neutron star black, Q thought as he lost himself in the beckoning wilderness. He leaped over gnarled roots and trickling streams, heading ever deeper into the lush holographic scenery. He couldn’t slow down to get some bearings because he could hear 0 crashing through the underbrush behind him, hacking at hanging vines and branches with a machete in each hand and swinging tentacle. “Run, Q, run!” he hollered. “Rotting bones in the jungle are as good as a burial at sea any day. Any day!”

  Not exactly Shakespeare, Q thought critically, but the intent was clear enough.

  The atmosphere within the tropical forest was hot, humid, and redolent of jungle violets. A dense, green canopy stretched overhead, letting through only shreds of artificial sunlight. Banyan and mangrove, mahogany and teak formed an arboreal maze through which Q ducked and weaved, changing course at random while trying to avoid running into any low-hanging boughs. Thankfully, this unnatural simulation of nature had been designed for relatively easy navigation by culture-seeking Starfleet drones already wrestling with the pitfalls and perplexities of iambic pentameter, so it was not nearly as clotted with underbrush and difficult to traverse as a real jungle would be. Thus, Q was able to make fairly good time, even hobbled by his increasingly aggravating leg irons; alas, the same applied to 0, although Q hoped that the deranged entity was having so much fun hacking and slashing his way through defenseless foliage that he might not realize such strenuous exertions were not entirely necessary. This is a fantastical romance, he thought caustically, deriving some small pleasure from his opponent’s inferior knowledge of earthly literature, not a quest for King Solomon’s Mines!

  They were not entirely alone within this fictional forest. Monkeys chattered in the treetops while small animals of undetermined nature rustled through knee-deep ferns and creepers. Sometimes he heard the whispered conversation of unseen fairies and spirits, or ran to the lilting music of invisible pipes and drums. “The isle is full of noises,” indeed, Q thought. Once he even glimpsed a misshapen humanoid figure, shaggy of hide and webbed of hand and foot, who loped sullenly through the jungle, muttering to himself in verse. Caught up in his own predestined plotline, Caliban remained unaware of Q’s uncanonical presence.

  It was rather charming, in a lowbrow human sort of way. Q found it encouraging that Jean-Luc Picard, he of the somber disposition and rigid decorum, could find value in something so thoroughly fanciful, and regretted that he was too busy fleeing for his life to fully soak up the atmosphere. Maybe some other time.

  “I can smell you!” 0 cried gleefully. To Q’s distress, he sounded much closer than before. “Smell you I can!” Footsteps behind him silenced the chittering pixies. The ethereal melody wafting through the trees took on a more ominous tone, the rhythm of the drumming keeping pace with the narrowing distance between Q and his foe. As if his singsong chanting wasn’t bad enough, Q groused silently, now he has his own musical score! “Here we go a-Q’ing, a-Q’ing we will go!”

  Maybe The Tempest wasn’t so ideal a setting after all. What he had hoped would be a refuge had turned into a hunting ground, with himself as the live game. It’s these infernal fetters, he complained silently, chagrined at the cosmic injustice of it all. How could he, the epitome of the unexpected, whose expansive imagination and ever-restless energy had carried him to every corner and cubbyhole in creation, be reduced to shambling through a computer-generated facsimile of a nonexistent fairyland tucked into a single compartment of a dust mote of a starship light-years away from anything resembling true civilization. This is no way for a Q to die!

  “I can see you, Q!” 0 sounded so close now that Q was afraid to turn around for fear of spying the deranged, multilimbed monster practically on top of him. “See, seen, saw…saw you in half, I will! See if I don’t!”

  With the sickening force of an inescapable cliche, Q saw his life pass before his eyes. Not the whole thing, of course—0 would be able to kill him a hundred times over and still have time to have the Federation for dessert before Q could relive his entire immortal existence—but faces and places from his wild and wayward past flashed upon the viewscreen of his memory, like a kaleidoscopic slide show from the life and times of Q:

  The antimatter universe. The heart of a sun. The cliffs of Tagus III. The Guardian of Forever. The Coulalakritous. Gorgan, (*), and The One. The Tkon Empress. The War. The barrier. The dawn of the New Era. Guinan. Farpoint Station. Picard. The Borg. The Calamarain. Sherwood Forest. Vash. Amanda Rogers. Deep Space Nine. Sisko. Voyager. Quinn. Janeway. The Civil War. Q. Little q….

  The only face he didn’t see, the one face he couldn’t bring himself to look upon, even in his mind’s eye, was the face following close on his winged heels. The face of his greatest folly.

  The face that, in a flash, suddenly appeared in his path. A smile like a skull’s stretched across 0’s weathered features. His ice-
blue eyes shone as bright as the supernova that destroyed the Tkon. Snakelike veins wriggled beneath the sallow flesh of his brow, threatening to erupt at any minute. Holographic seawater still dripped from his beard. “Surprise!” he crowed in manic delight. “Now you don’t see me, now you do!”

  Q’s headlong momentum was such that he almost ran straight into 0’s outflung tentacles. At the last second he threw himself backward, tripping over the knotted root of a sky-high mangrove. He tried to scuttle away, crablike, only to find that the chain linking his leg irons was caught on that very same root, which wasn’t even a real root at all, but a confounded concoction of forcefields and projected images. Hung up on a holograph, of all things! Talk about adding insult to (mortal) injury.

  “A good game, Q,” 0 congratulated him. “Was it good for you?” He turned a machete into an iron spike, which he used to pin the chain to the exposed root, effectively nailing Q to the spot. “But after the best of tests, you end up like the rest. No matter the game, the end’s always the same.” He yanked a reddish hair from his own bristly beard, then sliced it down the middle with a long silver blade. “But you know that already, don’t you? You figured that out a long time ago. Long, longer, longest.”

  No, Q thought defiantly. For once, one of your cruel, childish games is not going to end the way you planned. I’m changing the rules even if it kills me. With his shackles pinned in place, Q could not blink away, so he did the one thing he could do. “Computer, restart program.”

  They were back on the boat. Thunder pealed in the heavens as the outmatched brigantine yawed hard to port, tossing 0 to one side. His bad left leg could not support the sudden shift in weight, and he fell to the deck like a scarecrow knocked down by the wind. “Hang, cur!” the boatswain cursed the impertinent Sebastian. “Hang, you whoreson, insolent noisemaker!”

  With the intrusive root dispatched to the same computer bank as the rest of Prospero’s island, the iron spike was wedged into nothing at all. The spike toppled over and rolled away down the deck, freeing Q, who leaped to his feet. He savored the sight of 0, unable to regain his footing, floundering upon the storm-soaked deck, while holographic sailors and noblemen stepped over and on top of him. “Give it up, 0,” he gloated, looking down at his sprawling adversary. “You must see by now that I’m hardly the naive young Q you so easily misled before. That was a half a million years ago, and while you’ve grown crazier, I’ve grown craftier. A lot craftier. You might as well quit now.”