Star Trek: The Q Continuum (58 page)

“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.”

“Quit?” 0 sputtered angrily. He crawled across the deck on his hands and knees and tentacles, dragging his twisted leg behind him like a serpent’s tail. “Q is for quitting, not 0. Never 0!” His mask of jubilant insanity slipped away, revealing the millennia-old hatred and bitterness underneath. The sheer intensity of his malignant fervor was enough to silence any thought Q might have had of gloating further. He had not seen 0 so angry since the stranger, an exile from realms unknown even to the Q, had stood against the collective judgment of the Continuum. “Enough,” 0 spat. “Enough! Enough! Enough!” He slammed his fist down on the wet, wooden deck, so hard that the timbers cracked. “No more tricks!”

In a heartbeat, they went from
Tempest
to tundra. The simulated storm at sea vanished, taking with it all the theatrical noise and tumult that had twice thrown 0 off balance. Nor was there even an enchanted island on the horizon, let alone a sea to swim to safety in. Instead he was alone with 0 in the center of a desolate, frozen wasteland that seemed to stretch on forever.

“How’s your memory, Q?” 0 challenged, his breath misting before him. Now that the surface beneath him—once a wooden deck, now a sheet of snow-covered ice—had ceased to roll upon frenzied waves, he levitated off the ice in defiance of gravity, then landed on both feet opposite Q. “This ring a bell? Ring-a-ding, ring-a-ding?”

“How could I forget?” Q replied. A biting winter wind blew flecks of snow against his face while his regulation Starfleet footwear sank into the icy crust. Cold and distant stars shone in the dark sky far above the endless, rime-covered plain, providing only the faintest of starlight. A single burning torch, held aloft in 0’s right hand, yielded most of what illumination there was, casting lambent scarlet shadows upon the frosty tundra. Q needed no prompting to recall the bleak, inhospitable icescape where he had first encountered the being who introduced himself as 0. He knew instinctively that this was no hologram. 0 himself had created this arctic limbo from his own obsessed and spiteful remembrances.

Just the same, he couldn’t resist trying again. “Computer, restart
Tempest
program. Act One, Scene One.”

Nothing changed. The wintry Siberian wasteland remained, appropriately, frozen in place.
I thought as much,
Q admitted with a sigh. Picard’s clever little toy had been superseded by a creator of far more dangerous games and amusements: 0.

Q shivered involuntarily. Just from the temperature, of course. He was unquestionably underdressed for this irksome Ice Age environment. That 0 could just stand there, enduring the frigid conditions while wearing nothing more than tatters and rags, was yet more proof of his insanity.
As if any more were needed.
Q indulged himself by summoning a little extra insulation from the ether.
There,
he thought, as the fabric draped upon his frame thickened.
That’s better.

A profound impatience with 0’s sadistic notion of fun and games swept over him, dispelling most of his sense of self-preservation, never one of his strongest suits to begin with. Wasn’t it 0 who taught him that there was more to immortality than playing it safe? He wouldn’t run again. At least not yet.

“No more hide-and-seek,” Q said. “How far are you going to go, 0? What form of insane restitution do you require?”

“Listen to you!” 0 snarled. “You sound just like that haughty, humorless Continuum that used to make your life miserable.” He spat upon the hoarfrost, which sizzled as energetically as had the metaphorical marble tiles in the courtroom of the Continuum. “I should have known you’d turn out to be just another cowardly, craven, cringing conformist after all. Q is for quitter,” he chanted. “Quitter is you, Q!”

A harpoon appeared within his free hand and, ranting all the while, he hurled it at Q. It struck home with brutal force, spearing Q in the leg. His left leg, naturally, now as useless as 0’s.

After dodging missile after missile since 0’s return, evading blade after boomerang after bullet by the slimmest of margins, Q had been just a nanosecond too slow this time. He dropped, overcome by shock and agony, onto the cold, boreal plain, his falling body carving a deep trench into the snow.
Serves me right,
he thought, clutching his impaled leg and rocking in pain. A stream of his immortal essence leaked out of the wound onto the frozen crust. It looked strikingly like blood.
The big problem with omnipotence is that it leads so easily to overconfidence….

He felt sure that Picard would agree.

“Always a spear to spare. Never spare the spear, say I.” Limping closer to his wounded prey, 0 chuckled and leaned over Q until his smirking face was less than a finger’s length from Q, his hot breath fogging the air between them. “Game’s over, Q,” he said with surprising lucidity. “You lose.”

“Lieutenant Leyoro, reporting for duty, Commander.”

The Angosian security officer stepped out of the turbolift onto the bridge. Her eyes widened as she spotted Picard standing in front of a dense cloud of radiant plasma, hovering about a meter above the floor. Picard saw Leyoro reach for her phaser, only to discover it was missing from her side. It was hard to say, he thought, what had surprised her more: his return to the
Enterprise
or the presence of the alien entity upon the bridge.

“At ease, Lieutenant,” he assured her. “We’ve reached an understanding with the Calamarain, whose representative this is. Unfortunately, the real challenge lies ahead. At the moment, the true threat is engaged with Q in Holodeck Seven. I was just about to beam directly there, along with the Calamarain.”

“Permission to accompany you, sir?”

Picard considered her request. Some manner of security presence was in order, yet he was reluctant to introduce too many potential casualties to the conflict ahead. Ultimately, if his plan succeeded, the decisive role would be played by Q; there was only so much mere mortals could do to turn the tide in a battle between gods.
But that’s just what I’m attempting to do,
he acknowledged privately.

“Excuse me, Captain,” Ensign Berglund reported from tactical, “Commander Riker reports that the crisis in sickbay has been resolved with only one casualty: Professor Faal.” She looked sheepishly at Leyoro, whose post she had assumed. “The Commander also reports that Lieutenant Leyoro has, um, gone missing.”

Picard nodded. “Tell the commander and Dr. Crusher that we’ve located their missing patient.” He gave the security chief a concerned inspection. Although hardly at death’s door, as she’d been reported to be, she looked distinctly worse for wear. Dark circles hung beneath her eyes, which were shot with streaks of red. “Are you quite sure you’re up to this, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, Captain,” she said crisply. She walked over to the tactical podium and commandeered Ensign Berglund’s phaser. “As head of security, it is my duty to see this conflict through to the end, sir.”

Picard recalled the extraordinary physical feats that her fellow Angosian veteran Roga Danar had performed during his stay on the
Enterprise
-D. The man had actually broken free from a transporter beam, a feat Picard had never seen duplicated, before or since.

“Very well, Lieutenant,” he said. “I commend your devotion to duty.” He quickly brought Leyoro up to speed on his plan, then turned toward Ops. “Mr. Data, is the holodeck still in use?”

The android stared at his console with a quizzical expression on his face. “I believe so, Captain, although present readings are unusual.” He sounded as though he could not entirely accept what he was reporting. “As nearly as I can tell, it is
snowing
in the holodeck.”

If that doesn’t prove that Q is on hand, nothing does.
Picard decided to move promptly before either Q or 0 could relocate. “Mr. Data, you have the bridge. Three to beam to Holodeck Seven.”

“Yes, Captain,” Data affirmed, directing transporter operations from Ops. “Good luck, sir.”

We’re going to need it,
he thought, as the transporter effect washed over him, enveloping Leyoro and the Calamarain as well,
since even if my admittedly improvised plan can be put into effect, the outcome is by no means certain.
There were too many unknown factors, including the daunting question of whether he, or anyone, could get Q to put aside his ego and behave rationally.
That would be a first,
Picard thought dubiously.

He recognized what the holodeck had become the moment his molecules reintegrated at the site. The windblown snow. The endless glacial emptiness. Even the faint gray stars high above. This was a flawless recreation of that same polar purgatory where the young Q had been unlucky enough to make the acquaintance of 0. The cold, dry air stung his face and hands. A few steps away, her phaser drawn, Leyoro felt the cold, too, the icy wind turning her cheeks red. “Snow, all right,” she said tersely, fog issuing from her lips. “Must be the place.”

The Calamarain seemed unaffected by the cold. Picard recalled that the vaporous entities had to generate their own internal heat, and in significant quantities, in order to remain gaseous in the extreme cold of deep space. If anything, this environment was probably much warmer than the vacuum-dwelling life-form was accustomed to.
Perhaps someday,
he mused,
if and when the menace of 0 is contained, the Calamarain will permit themselves to be studied by Starfleet.
There was so much that could be learned from so unique a species, just as the Calamarain might benefit from being exposed to the mysteries of humanoid existence.

“Captain,” Leyoro said, pointing to the eastern horizon of the vast icefield, “over there.”

Obviously, the Angosian government had augmented her eyesight along with everything else. Picard peered into the distance, blinking against the gusts of ice crystals in the air, but all he could discern was perhaps a faint red ember. “What do you see?”

“Two figures,” she reported, “humanoid in appearance. They could be Q and that other entity you spoke of. They’re confronting each other…. Captain, I think we’d better hurry.”

Picard paused only long enough to make certain that the Calamarain understood his intentions. “We believe your enemy is nearby, with the other of his kind. Are you with us?”

The voice of the Calamarain, nearly as cold and lifeless as their current setting, spoke via his combadge. “We/singular comprehend/corroborate. Chaos/plural imminent. Approach/caution/imperative.”

Was that a warning,
Picard wondered,
or a statement of intent?
It troubled him that the entity still declined to draw a distinction between 0 and Q, apparently referring to both as “chaos.” That spoke poorly for the only strategy he could devise that might have a chance of succeeding against 0.
I’ll have to cross that bridge when I come to it, which shouldn’t be much longer.
“Let’s go,” he said.

Distances could be deceptive in a holodeck, where a generous panoply of illusory techniques were employed to create the appearance of entire worlds within a single chamber. Picard found it difficult to estimate how much ground they had to cover or even how far they had gone. The lack of any landmarks, not to mention the inherent difficulty of trudging through the deeply packed snow, frustrated him. He had to hope that any sort of contest between two ageless immortals would not reach its climax before they had a chance to arrive on the scene.

The Calamarain, who presumably could travel faster through the air than he and Leyoro could on foot, lagged behind them instead.
Perhaps that’s what it meant by “approach/caution/imperative,”
Picard speculated. It was becoming increasingly clear that the Calamarain, collectively and individually, did not intend to lead any charge against the forces of chaos, but preferred to let Picard present the first target to their foe.
Rather like negotiating with the Romulans,
he concluded. He just prayed it wouldn’t take a martyr or two to bring humanity and the Calamarain together.

As they fought their way through the snow and wind, Leyoro took stock of the simulation in which they were immersed. “Rura Penthe?” she guessed, citing the infamous frozen prison asteroid where the Klingons once exiled their political prisoners.

“Same idea, different dimension,” he informed her, reminded, as he had been the first time he beheld this forlorn wasteland, of Cocytus, the ninth and final circle of Dante’s Inferno, where the greatest traitors in history were buried in ice forever.
That’s undoubtedly where 0 considers that Q belongs….

Soon, no more than ten minutes at most, the red glow that he could now identify as a handheld torch exposed both Q and 0, facing each other amid the arctic desolation, just as they had over a million years ago, but this time in far less convivial a fashion. Picard watched in disbelief as the debased and demented tatterdemalion that 0 had become flung what looked like a harpoon into Q’s upper leg, physically injuring Q in a way that Picard would not have thought possible only days before. Yanking the spear free of Q’s metaphysical flesh, 0 raised it high above the wounded superbeing’s chest, preparing to deliver the killing blow, as he had to the dying sun of the Tkon Empire. “Stop him!” Picard ordered, his voice carrying through the frigid air.

Leyoro fired her phaser at the harpoon, which stubbornly refused to disintegrate. The energy beam caught 0’s attention, though, halting him in midstroke.

“Eh?” 0 contemplated the new arrivals with bemused indifference. “Specks and smoke. Smoke and specks.” His gaze swung from the humans to the Calamarain and back again. “Come to pay your last respects?”

“I’m not dead yet, you rhyming monstrosity,” Q protested, wincing as he spoke. He looked past Picard and his pained expression turned into one of shock and bewilderment as he spied the Calamarain, following Picard’s and Leyoro’s sunken footprints across the snow. “Have you gone insane, Picard?” he accused, aghast. “One revenge-crazed arch-foe wasn’t enough for me, you had to invite them in this unforgiving fog as well? Have you forgotten that they want to kill me?”

“Take a number. Stand in line,” 0 chanted, his fingers wrapped around the shaft of the harpoon, “nobody kills Q until I get mine.” He let go of the spear and stepped back, but the weapon remained suspended in the air, poised to impale Q. He winked at Picard and the others. “Want to watch? Watch to want? Watch away!”

The point of the spear descended inexorably toward where Q’s heart would be if he had mimicked human anatomy as meticulously as he had created his counterfeit uniform. Sweat broke out on his brow as he used his remaining strength to telekinetically hold back the harpoon, which hung like the sword of Damocles over Q’s chest. Picard saw the weapon vibrate from the force of two conflicting wills, but knew that Q, injured as he was, could not hold out against 0’s madness indefinitely.

“What is it, Picard?” Q cried out in righteous indignation, while his eyes stared at the harpoon as if it would cost him his life to look away for an instant. His voice held enormous reservoirs of self-pity. “You couldn’t turn down a chance to get rid of me once and for all, no matter the cost to creation? Thrown in your lot with the Calamarain and 0 and all the rest who want me dead and buried? I never dreamed you could be so petty.
Et tu,
Jean-Luc?”

“Shut up and listen to me, Q!” Picard barked. “You have to join your forces with the Calamarain. It’s our only choice. Neither of you has the raw power to oppose 0 individually, but together you might be able to subdue him. You have to try!”

Q laughed bitterly as the spear inched closer to his breastbone. “Always searching for the diplomatic solution…you’re consistent, I’ll give you that, Picard. But you’re as stark raving mad as he is if you think that the Calamarain and I can make peace after a million years of vaporous vendetta. Have you forgotten what I did to them? What they tried to do to me?”

“Chaos/plural/not singular,” the Calamarain stated flatly. “Indistinguishable/ unacceptable. Cannot forget/forgive.” The iridescent cloud ascended to the ceiling concealed by the illusion of an open sky. “Retreat/preserve/remember.”

Grunting with effort, Q managed to press back the spearpoint for a centimeter or two, but what small respite he gained began to slip away within seconds, millimeter by millimeter. “See, Picard,” he chided, seizing the chance for one last I-told-you-so, “the Calamarain can’t even be bothered to tell 0 and I apart.”

Picard felt his hopes soar away with the departing Calamarain. Nonetheless, he grabbed on to the spearshaft with both hands and added his own human strength to the telekinetic dual between 0 and Q. The iron harpoon was freezing to the touch, and his fingers had already gone numb from the cold, but he struggled against what felt like twice standard gravity. His arms were aching after only a moment. His palms and the pads of his fingers felt like they were welded to the freezing metal. He couldn’t pull them away now if he tried. And the worst part was, he didn’t even know if he was making the slightest difference.

“You might as well spare yourself a dislocated arm or two,” Q suggested, spitting out the words from a face contorted by the herculean mental effort required to keep the spear at bay. “0’s both gifted and truly insane. An unbeatable combination.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” Picard grunted. The iron javelin slipped downward suddenly, tearing at the skin of his palms. He held on despite the stinging pain, renewing his hold on the shaft.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,
mon captaine.”
The harpoon’s point dug into the padded insulation of Q’s modified Starfleet uniform. “I’m not nearly unhinged enough to derail his maniacal momentum. That would take real craziness!”

“And what could be crazier,” Picard persisted, “than you and the Calamarain, of all people, saving the
Enterprise?”
Certainly, the entire venture, his last hope for saving the galaxy from the ravages of both 0 and The One, was looking more like a lunatic’s fancy with each passing heartbeat.
Who is more insane?
he wondered.
0, or me, for thinking I could stop him?

0 paid no attention to the insignificant efforts of Picard, distracted by the ascension of the Calamarain. “Smoke and snow. Snow and smoke. Choke, smoke, choke!” His cracked lips curled downward as he recalled, possibly, the way the Coulalakritous had forcibly expelled him from their collective being a million years ago. He clenched his fist at the fleeing Calamarain, then began to squeeze. “Smoke into snow…”

Baeta Leyoro had seen a lot of ugly things in her career, but this 0 character took the grand prize. He looked like a half-mad Tarsian POW crossed with a bioluminescent squid from the pitch-black bottom of some alien sea. This was the creature that had killed poor Ensign Clarze, and brought the hostile Calamarain down upon the ship? She was willing to believe it.