Strange New Worlds 2016 (8 page)

“As we take this bold step toward Timothy’s future—”

Q saw himself stand up in the front row and clap slowly.

“Q, what are you doing here?”

And the events played out as they had before, except that when Q made the child whole,
Q felt himself split. He was still the child, but now he was the child whole, without
any Borg defects, a perfect specimen—well, as perfect as an inferior species can manage
to be, even with a gift from Q—and he was also the child still with the throbbing
limbs, whose incalculable courage was the only thing keeping him from crying out from
the pain. His dual life unfolded before him.

As the healthy human, he was adopted by loving parents and grew into an adult who
followed in his adoptive father’s footsteps and became a geologist. He conducted himself
with honor and led what, for humans, was a good life, albeit banal and boring. However,
Q thought smugly, all in all, not so bad. And the child avoided all the pain and anguish
he would have suffered.

The other Timothy, however, endured painful surgeries, one after another, as the mostly
ineffectual Federation doctors clumsily extracted every bit of Borg technology from
his frail body. Despite the Federation’s best efforts, and even with Vulcans attempting
to ease the child’s pain, each operation came with a thousand red-hot needles pushing
into his flesh. But he rarely cried, and he never complained. His rehabilitation rolled
before him as a seemingly infinite expanse of misery.

If it wasn’t for the kindness of Captain Picard and the crew of the
U.S.S.
Enterprise
, he didn’t think he would have survived. They took him on board for extended voyages
throughout the Alpha Quadrant. Picard practically doted on him, helping Timothy overcome
the psychic trauma of being Borg. He fell in love with Deanna Troi. Over time he fell
in love with a dozen or more other crew members.

Years passed, but the pain did not. Despite their best efforts, he was never free
of it. But, with help from the Vulcans, he learned to embrace it as part of who he
was. As a teenager, he braved the final operation and was as whole as Federation medical
technology could make him. His body was still frail, and he walked with a limp, but
his mind and his determination were strong. With recommendations from Admiral Picard
and Captain Riker, he joined Starfleet Academy. He excelled in the sciences, especially
nanotechnology.

As an adult he served on science vessels and worked on his theories of cybernetics.
It was during a mission to the Delta Quadrant that his ship came in contact with the
Borg. It was his genius with cybernetics that prevented the ship and crew from becoming
assimilated. They were even able to capture the Borg’s away team. And using theories
he’d been formulating since being a child, the medical staff and he successfully reverted
the entire Borg away team back to their original species—without the trauma and innumerable
surgeries he’d had to suffer.

Within a decade he developed an antidote for the universal virus known as Borg. As
captain and task force commander of an armada of Federation vessels, he began the
galaxy-wide inoculation of those affected. The tide turned. The Borg were no longer
the aggressors. Their days as hunter had ended. Admiral Timothy Picard—having taken
the name of his savior when joining Starfleet Academy—would see the Borg plague eradicated
in his lifetime.

“Q, what are you doing here?”

Q stood in the front row of the auditorium, clapping slowly. Timothy sat in his propulsion
chair next to the Starfleet captain. Deanna Troi knelt next to the boy. Q could feel
the pain radiating from the boy. So much pain. And so much strength.

“Why,
mon capitaine
, can’t an old and dear friend come and wish another old, and I mean old, friend a
Merry Christmas?”

“Christmas?”

“Now, no ‘bah humbugs,’ Jean-Luc.” Q snapped his fingers and was gone.

A box wrapped in red paper and gold ribbon appeared on Timothy’s lap.

Stave Seven

The boy read a label on the top of the box. “It has my name on it, and it says it’s
from ‘Q.’ Who is that?”

Picard furrowed his brow.
What was Q up to?

“He’s an—acquaintance of ours,” said the captain, looking across at Troi.

He wasn’t certain if he should allow the boy to open the present or if he should transport
it into the heart of the sun. But in the instant that he hesitated, the boy tore the
paper from the box. Picard knelt next to him, ready to grab the box in case something
dangerous was inside.

“It’s beautiful,” was all Timothy said as he lifted the lid.

The boy brought out a glass globe that seemed to contain water. Within the glass was
a Victorian cityscape with uncanny and delicate details. Lights twinkled, smoke rose
from chimneys, people moved along cobblestone lanes and around the occasional horse-drawn
carriage.

“What is it?”

Picard was fascinated by the object, even knowing it came from Q. “It’s called a snow
globe, Timothy. Shake it.”

The young boy shook his gift. Picard had expected a swirl of porcelain flakes, but
was surprised, and even a bit delighted, by what looked like a blizzard of real snow.
Even at this scale he could see, or maybe sense was a better word, the intricate details
and uniqueness of each flake, as though each was individually etched by a skilled
artisan. What could have inspired Q to do something so, dare he say, gracious?

“Oh, listen!” gasped Timothy, holding the snow globe higher. Picard put a hand on
Timothy’s shoulder and leaned in. There came the faint sounds of dogs barking, church
bells pealing, and a choir singing a Christmas carol. The more the captain looked,
the more details he saw. Like a holodeck in a jar, but somehow so much more real.

Then Picard whispered, “Scrooge.”

“Scrooge?” said Timothy.

Picard pointed to a window in one of the buildings deep within the globe. There was
a cowering old man facing a spectral vision of a spirit bound in chains. The boy shook
the globe again. The details shifted to a warehouse festooned with garland.

Picard said, “Look, it’s Fezziwig, dancing with his wife and his daughters.”

“Fezziwig?”

“It’s all from an ancient Earth story. I have a copy. I’ll forward it to you so that
you can read it.”

Unable to stop himself, Picard gently took the globe from the boy’s hands. He shook
it and peered even closer. Along with the swirling snow, were those galaxies and chains
of DNA dancing in the liquid? Picard stared once more at Ebenezer Scrooge. For a second
Picard thought he saw himself in the globe, or was it Q’s face?

“Sir?” said Troi.

“Hmm? Oh.” He handed the beautiful snow globe back to Timothy. Picard noticed a twinkling
in the child’s eyes and that some of the pain seemed to be lifted, if only for a moment.

“If I remember correctly,” said Troi, “don’t you have a paper copy of that book?”

Picard nodded as he continued to gaze into the globe. “Of course I do. A first edition.”

“Interesting,” she said.

Puzzled, Picard looked at the counselor, who looked back at Timothy and the globe,
a slight smile playing across her lips.

Picard paused a moment, then looked at the young boy. “Perhaps . . .” He trailed off.

“Yes, sir?” said Troi.

Timothy looked up at the captain and smiled.

“Well, I was just thinking that perhaps you’d like to see the
Enterprise
again. Visit some of the crew who looked after you.”

“Really? Do you mean it?” There was so much excitement in the boy’s voice.

Picard nodded brusquely. “That is, of course, if Counselor Troi is willing to supervise.”

Troi nodded. “As you wish, Captain.”

Picard frowned at her and looked back at the globe. His voice softened. “And perhaps,
Timothy, if you wanted, I could read you that story.”

T
HE
S
UNWALKERS

Kelli Fitzpatrick

“You found a new beginning for yourself. The first step on a journey that few humans
will ever take.”

—The Traveler, Dorvan V, 2370

H
E HAD KEPT
the dang sweater. Of all the things to drag to the Academy, her son had chosen the
ugliest piece of clothing she’d ever made him wear.

Doctor Beverly Crusher ran her fingers over the gaudy olive cable knit, recalling
how the baggy thing had engulfed Wesley’s lanky frame seven years ago, when the two
of them first transferred to the
Enterprise
. She smiled.
What a terrible mother I was to make him wear something so hideous
. The strange wavy pattern of the weave was reminiscent of a snarl of seaweed, or
perhaps a tetryon wave field. Yes, definitely waves. In that respect, maybe the sweater
was
a good fit—Wesley had always been a whiz at science. All right, he’d been a whiz at
most everything he touched, much to the annoyance of some of the senior crew.

But he was gone now, off exploring the unknown reaches of the universe with the transdimensional
being known as the Traveler. All that was left of her twenty-two-year-old prodigy
was the box of his belongings on the bed before her.

Beverly was alone in her quarters, the lights dimmed, the stars sailing past the window.
She laid the sweater on the bed and continued sorting through the things Wesley had
left in his room at Starfleet Academy. It had been kind of Admiral Nechayev to have
the items forwarded to the
Enterprise
.
The doctor made a mental note to personally thank the admiral next time the woman
came onboard. Crusher’s hands pulled gently through the loose objects, lifting the
corners of study padds, brushing past a hyperspanner and a set of false-code isolinear
chips, undoubtedly used for some training scenario.

It had been Wesley’s choice to leave or, rather, to advance his reality, taking advantage
of an opportunity few humans are ever offered. She was happy for him; she really was.
Any mother would be. She had told him so—through tears, perhaps, but joyful tears.
And yet this business of sorting through this box of memories—former pieces of a life—reminded
her too closely of another time she’d been forced to say goodbye to someone she dearly
loved far too soon.

The ship’s computer beeped, announcing a visitor. It startled her a bit, but she quickly
composed herself. “Come in.”

The doors whooshed open and Captain Picard stepped in, his posture tall and steady,
strong yet unthreatening in his red-and-black uniform.
He never changes
,
thought Crusher. In all the years she’d known Jean-Luc, he had remained a constant,
like the backdrop of stars outside.

“Am I interrupting?” he said.

“No. Just going through Wesley’s stuff from the Academy.”

Picard stepped closer, surveying the spread of artifacts through calm eyes. “One can
learn a great deal about a man by the objects he chooses to keep close to him.” He
picked up a small metal contraption that had a shock of wires spraying from one end.

“A piece of one of his experiments,” Crusher said. “Don’t ask me what it does.”

Picard chuckled. “If I know Wesley Crusher, it enhances the efficiency of—something.”
A half smile lingered on his lips as he placed the device carefully back on the bed.
“I think all of us—here on the ship and back at the Academy—are going to miss Wesley’s
unique brand of ‘enhancements.’ ”

Crusher’s heart twitched—a quick, tight pull. “He’s only on Dorvan V.”

“Yes. For now.”

Jean-Luc was right. Under the Traveler’s guidance, Wesley would continue to advance
his metaphysical abilities. Who knew where he would end up, where his journeys would
take him—or when? What was there to hold him here?

“Beverly?”

“Hmh.” The doctor’s hands moved instinctively back to the sweater.
Why had he kept it?
In a way, she wished he hadn’t. In a way, she wished that the box had been empty.
That she didn’t have to deal with any of this.

“Beverly, have you spoken with Counselor Troi yet regarding this issue?”

“What issue? There’s nothing—” Doctor Crusher caught the captain’s eyes and suddenly
stiffened. “Jean-Luc, don’t look at me like that.”

The captain’s brow furrowed. “Like what?”

“That’s the same expression you wore the day you brought me Jack’s body.” A shiver
of cold memory iced her skin. The room suddenly seemed oppressively dark.

Picard drew a deep breath and sighed. “Forgive me, Doctor,” he said, looking down.
“I want you to know I could not be more proud of Wesley’s accomplishments or more
envious of the path of enlightenment that lies ahead of him.” He placed a gentle hand
on her shoulder. “But I know how much his mother loves him. And if there’s any regret
in my features at this moment, it’s because I’m concerned for
her
sake.”

“Well, you needn’t be,” Crusher said, dumping the remaining contents of the box onto
the bed in a messy heap. There—at least it was all out in the open. “Wes isn’t dead,
you know. He’s alive and well and on Dorvan V.” But for how long? She suddenly had
the urge to turn the
Enterprise
around. To take back her heartfelt farewell and beg her only child to stay. On the
ship. In Starfleet. Heck, in this dimension. Anything.
Anything but this cursed box.
She tossed the empty container onto the floor, and it bounced with a thud.

“Perhaps—perhaps you should consider taking a few days to yourself,” Picard said,
eyeing her with care. “We have time before our next scheduled rendezvous, and you
might—”

“Data to Doctor Crusher.”
The android commander’s even-toned voice came through her combadge.

Crusher was inwardly relieved for the momentary distraction. “Crusher here. Go ahead,
Data.”

“Data, this is the captain,” Picard interjected. “Doctor Crusher is somewhat occupied
at the moment. Can you—”

“Jean-Luc!” Beverly gasped. She did not like being spoken for, even by her commanding
officer.

“I’m sorry to disturb the doctor, Captain,”
Data said,
“but we are receiving an emergency medical distress call from the settlement on Shar-Mi’la
Prime. They say it is urgent, sir.”

Crusher glared at Picard. “We’re on our way, Data. We’ll meet you on the bridge. Crusher
out.” The link broken, she flipped a smooth auburn lock of hair out of her eye. “I’m
the chief medical officer of the Federation’s flagship, Jean-Luc, and there are people
out there asking for my help. You don’t really suppose you’re going to tell me
no.
” She stared at him, waiting.

Picard pursed his lips but did not overrule her. Crusher turned and strode toward
the door, leaving the sweater to lie limp among the shadowed collection of memories.

“They may be a new member of the Federation,” Picard said, “but they certainly seem
quite advanced in their technologies.”

Crusher smiled inwardly at the curiosity in the captain’s voice; he had always been
fascinated by the study of unique civilizations, both modern and ancient. The two
of them stood beside Commander Data at the science station, skimming through the available
information on the world that had reached out with a distress call. The bridge of
the
Enterprise
glowed in its usual warm beiges and grays, and the darkness of her quarters seemed
far away. She was engrossed in the briefing, finding out what it was these people
needed, as well as how she could bring her expertise into play to help them. It was
why she became a medical professional in the first place—to help others in their time
of need.

“What is known about their world, Commander?” Picard said. Beverly knew that, given
the opportunity, Jean-Luc would likely have preferred to investigate the topic himself,
but asking Data was far more expeditious.

Lieutenant Commander Data, whose pale android skin and yellow eyes blended with the
mustard color of his uniform, conducted a search of his memory banks that took less
than a millisecond. “Shar-Mi’la Prime is the solitary L-class planet orbiting the
white dwarf star Vakor II,” Data recited. “A newly inducted member of the Federation,
Shar-Mi’la is known for its network of innovative shielding that allows the humanoid
inhabitants to live on the surface, despite the otherwise damaging levels of tetra-helon
radiation from the nearby star.”

“
Tetra-helon
radiation?” Crusher said, her mouth hanging open a bit. That couldn’t be right. “Data,
are you sure?”

“Quite sure, Doctor. Not everything is known about Shar-Mi’lan society—there are significant
gaps in the planet’s profile—but this particular point is well established. Shar-Mi’la
Prime is classified as an L-class planet due to the harsh environment. It is considered
only marginally livable for humans.”

The doctor frowned. “Tetra-helon radiation is deadly to most carbon-based life-forms.
How did a biosphere develop on this world at all?”

Data cocked his head, processing. “While I have no evidence to support such a claim,
I would speculate that life on Shar-Mi’la evolved to adapt to the presence of the
radiation.”

Picard nodded, still looking over the diagrams of shielding specifications. “Yes,
it seems these people are quite adept at adaptation, of one form or another. What
is the nature of their medical emergency?”

Data turned to Lieutenant Worf, who stood slightly behind them at the tactical station.
The tall Klingon security officer also wore the gold operations uniform, but unlike
the pallor of the android, Worf’s skin was dark and his voice deep. He turned his
ridged forehead in their direction. “Sir, the
Enterprise
received the following recorded message from Shar-Mi’la, audio only.” Worf began playback.

“This is Commissioner Cal’Sohn of the Shar-Mi’lan Central Authority. We are experiencing
a medical emergency involving a small group of our population. Their condition is
worsening, despite our best treatment efforts.”
Crusher was struck by the worry in the voice, the fraying concern.
“We request immediate assistance in dealing with this matter. I thank you in advance.”
The transmission ended.

“Mister Worf,” Picard began, shoulders square, “are we the only ship in range?”

Worf pressed several controls at his station. “Aye, sir. The next closest Starfleet
vessel equipped to provide medical aid is the
Coriolanus
,
five days away at maximum warp.”

Picard nodded. “Very well. Alert Starfleet Command that we will be detouring from
our current course to investigate this matter. Doctor—” The captain turned to Crusher,
and for an instant she saw the familiar compassion flash across his otherwise duty-bound
countenance. “Prepare an away team to beam down and survey the situation on the surface
once we arrive. Attempt to communicate with the Shar-Mi’lan Authority, and take all
necessary precautions.”

She could tell he wished to say more, but refrained. The bridge was for duty, and
both of them respected their oaths.