Star Trek: The Q Continuum (18 page)

The third diver looked less fortunate, his downward trajectory carrying him away from the charmed hexagon. Too late, he threw out his arms and legs, striving to alter his course, but his efforts were in vain. The entire crowd held its breath, and, for a second or two, Picard feared the young man would be scorched by the dancing flames of the torches.

Before he came within reach of the flames, however, an enormous serpentine head broke the surface of the black waters and snapped at the falling youth. Water streamed off its scaly hide and a slitted yellow eye fixed on the falling youth. A forked, sinuous tongue, larger than a man’s arm, flicked at the sky. Ivory fangs flashed in the moonlight and Picard saw a splash of azure blood burst from the diver before both predator and prey disappeared beneath the waves churned up by the creature’s shocking appearance.

Just like on the jade artifact,
Picard thought, saddened but not too surprised by what had transpired. Apparently the myth of the Sky Divers was all too true, up to and including the Teeth of the Depths.
So much for mere symbolic interpretations,
he thought.

And still the gliders cut their wings free, undeterred by the grisly fate of their cohort. Toward the waiting lake they dropped like Icarus, some attempting to steer their falls, others simply trusting to fate. Looking carefully, Picard saw more reptilian heads rising from the murky waters outside the protective torches, drawn no doubt by the scent of blood and the splashing of the defenseless bodies. Only within the illuminated hexagon did the divers appear to be safe. Those who hit the water within its confines floated merrily, crowing and cavorting as only those who have barely escaped death can rejoice. Those who plummeted beyond the light of the torches were quickly dragged under by the voracious predators.

“The trick,” Q said casually, as though discussing some minor athletic competition, “is to miss the flames and the snapping jaws. The faster the fall, the greater the risk—and the glory.” He applauded softly, whether for the divers or the serpents Picard was afraid to guess. “Like I told you a few years back, they really knew how to have fun here back in the good old days.” Wandering back toward the table, Q plucked a strip of raw meat from the copper plate and tossed it over the edge of the balcony. As Picard watched aghast, similar scraps flew from balconies all around him, so it looked like it was raining blue, bleeding strips of meat. “The treats are to distract the snakes from the divers,” Q explained, “or to incite the snakes to an even greater frenzy. I can’t remember which.”

Rather than watch the fierce serpents claim their prey, Picard focused on the jubilant survivors within the hexagon. “They’re safe now,” he said, “but how will they escape from the lake?”

“Oh, the snakes are strictly nocturnal,” Q told him. “They’ll be able to swim to shore in the morning, after what will undoubtedly be the greatest night of their lives.”

Picard was unable to tear his gaze away from the barbaric spectacle. Before his eyes, what seemed like an unending string of young people gambled with their lives, some joining the riotous celebration within the six-sided sanctuary, others torn asunder by the hungry serpents. To cope with the awful and awe-inspiring pageant, he forced himself to think like an archaeologist. “What is this?” he asked. “A religious sacrifice? An initiation rite? A means of population control?” Turning away from the rail, he confronted Q. “What in heaven’s name is the purpose of this appalling display?”

“Don’t be so stuffy, Jean-Luc,” Q said, offering Picard a strip of meat dripping with blue gore. Picard refused to even look at the edible. With a sigh, Q tossed it off the balcony himself. “They do it for the thrill. For the sheer excitement. It’s all in fun.”

Picard tried to grasp the notion. “You’re saying this is simply some form of sports or theater? A type of public entertainment?”

“Now you’re getting closer,” Q confirmed. “Think of the matadors or bull dancers of your own meager history. Or the
’Iwghargh
rituals of the Klingons. With a slightly higher body count, of course.”

It was almost too much to digest. Deep in thought, Picard pulled out a chair and sat down opposite Q. “This is fascinating, I admit, and, you’re right, no worse than various bloodthirsty chapters of early human history. The gladiatorial violence of the Roman coliseums, say, or the human sacrifices of the ancient Aztecs. I can’t say I regret having viewed this event. Still, seeing it in person, it’s hard not to be appalled by the profligate waste of life.”

“But you short-lived mortals have always taken the most extraordinary and foolish risks to your brief existences,” Q said. “Diving off cliffs, performing trapeze acts without a net, flying fragile starships into the galactic barrier…”

Q’s coy reference to the
Enterprise
jolted Picard, yanking the status of his ship back into the forefront of his consciousness. Never mind this timelost scenario, what was happening to Riker and his crew back in his own era, and how soon was this game of Q’s likely to end? “Is that why we’re here?” he asked, thinking that perhaps he had seen through Q’s current agenda. “It seems rather a roundabout way to make your point.”

“If only it were that easy,” Q replied, “but that diverting little entertainment out there is far from the most important event transpiring at this particular moment in time. Permit me to call your attention to that individual dining on that balcony over there.” Q pointed past Picard at a jade outcropping located several meters to the left, where he saw a solitary Imotru watch in fascination as the Sky Divers tempted fate with their death-defying descents. “Recognize him?”

What?
Q’s question puzzled Picard. How could he be expected to recognize a being who had died billions of years before he was born? “He’s Imotru, obviously, but beyond that I don’t see anything familiar about him.”

Q looked exasperated. “Really, Picard, you can be astonishingly dim sometimes.” He rolled up his sleeves and extended both hands toward the figure on the other balcony. He wiggled his fingers as if casting a spell. “Perhaps this will make things easier.”

Wavy brown hair sprouted from the Imotru’s shining skull, but he appeared not to notice. His features remolded themselves, becoming more human in appearance, even as he continued to observe the divers as if nothing were happening. His eyebrows darkened, his lips grew more pronounced, until Picard found himself staring at a very familiar acquaintance, albeit one still clad in Imotru garb. “It’s you,” he said to Q. “You were disguised as an Imotru.”

“I’m disguised every time we meet,” Q pointed out. “Surely, you understand that my true form no more resembles a human being than it does an Imotru.”

So we’re still exploring Q’s own past,
Picard realized. Examining the scene, he saw that the other Q looked noticeably younger than the Q who had brought him here, although not nearly as youthful as the boyish Q who had toyed with antimatter in the micro-universe. This Q had left adolescence behind and seemed in the first full flush of adulthood, however those terms applied to entities such as Q. He appeared utterly riveted by the grisly extravaganza put on by the Imotru, lifting a scrap of blue meat from his plate and nibbling on it experimentally while his eyes tracked each and every plunge. The expression on his face, Picard discerned, looked wistful and faintly envious.

“This was the first time I had ever seen anything like this,” the older Q said, “but not the last. I came every year for millennia, until their civilization crumbled, the Imotru gradually succumbed to extinction, and the Sky Divers became nothing more than a half-forgotten myth.” He watched himself watching the divers. “But it was never quite the same.”

“Did you always come alone?” Picard asked. It occurred to him how seldom the young Q seemed to interact with others of his kind.
When I was his age, relatively speaking,
he thought,
I thrived on the company of my friends: Marta, Cortin, Jenice, Jack Crusher…

“Funny you should mention that, Jean-Luc,” Q responded, throwing their last shred of blue meat to the serpents. He snapped his fingers and both he and Picard were gone before the bloody scrap even reached the water.

The red alert alarms did not go off in the guest quarters, so as not to panic unnecessarily any civilian passengers, but Milo Faal did not need to see any flashing colored lights to know that something was happening. He could sense the tension in the minds of the crew, as he could see the raging plasma storm outside his window and feel the tremors every time the thunder boomed around them.

Milo did his best not to look or think afraid in front of his little sister. Kinya was too young to understand all that was occurring. The little girl stood on her tiptoes, her nose and palms glued to the transparent window, captivated by the spectacular show of light and sound. Milo couldn’t look away from the storm, either. He stood behind Kinya with one hand on the arm of a chair and the other one on his sister’s shoulder, just in case she lost her balance, while he tried to figure out what was going on.

Most of the crew members whose thoughts he latched on to did not know much more than he did about the churning cloud outside, but he got the idea from some of them that the cloud was actually alive. Did that mean the storm was shaking them around on purpose? He could not repress a shudder at the thought, which transferred itself empathically to Kinya’s tiny frame, which began to tremble on its own, even if the little girl was not consciously aware of the source of the anxiety. “Milo,” she asked, looking back over her shoulder, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he fibbed, but another sudden lurch said otherwise. A half-completed jigsaw puzzle, featuring a striking illustration of a Klingon bird-of-prey, slid off a nearby end table, the plastic pieces spilling onto the carpet. Milo had spent close to an hour working on the puzzle, but he barely noticed the undoing of his efforts. He had more important things to worry about.

Where are you, Dad?
he called out telepathically. Lightning flashed on the other side of the window, throwing a harsh glare over the living room.
Dad?
he called again, but his father might as well have been back on Betazed for all the good it did.

Taking Kinya by the hand, and stretching his other arm out in front of him to break any falls, he led her across the living room toward the suite’s only exit. If his father would not come to them, he thought, then he was getting pretty tempted to go find their dad. The
Enterprise
was a huge ship, he knew, but it couldn’t be too hard to locate Engineering, could it? Anything was better than just sitting around in the quaking guest quarters, wondering what to do next.

He and Kinya approached the double doors leading outside, but the heavy metal sheets refused to slide apart. “Warning,” the voice of the ship’s computer said. “Passengers are requested to stay within their quarters until further notice. In the event of an emergency, you will be notified where to proceed.”

Milo stared in disbelief at the frozen doors.
In the event of an emergency…?
He glanced back at the seething mass of destructive plasma pounding against the hull. If this wasn’t an emergency, then what in the name of the Sacred Chalice was it? And how come Dad wasn’t stuck here, too?

“Dad?” Kinya picked up on his thoughts. “Where’s Daddy, Milo?”

I wish I knew,
he thought.

It took Picard a second or two to realize that he and Q had relocated once again, although none too far. The jade cliffs remained intact. The Sky Divers continued their daring plunges to salvation or doom. Even the cool of the evening breeze felt much the same as before. Then he observed that their vantage point had shifted by several degrees; they now occupied another balcony, one perched about ten or eleven meters above their previous locale. “I don’t understand,” he told Q. “Why have we moved? What else is there to see here?”

“Ignore the floor show,” Q advised, “and look at the audience.” He lifted an empty saucer from the table and set it glowing like a beacon in the night, using it as a spotlight to call Picard’s attention to one specific balcony below them. There Picard saw once more the solitary figure of the youthful Q, enraptured by the life-and-death drama of the ancient Imotru ritual. Before Picard could protest that he had already witnessed this particular episode in Q’s life, the beam shifted to another balcony, where Picard was stunned to see both himself and the older Q watching the younger Q intently. “Look familiar?” his companion asked. Speechless, Picard could now only nod numbly.
What is it about Q,
he lamented silently,
that he so delights in twisting time into knots?

But Q was not finished yet. The spotlight moved once again, darting over the face of the cliff until it fell upon a young Imotru couple dining on a balcony several meters to the right of Picard and Q’s new whereabouts. Or at least they looked like Imotru; the harsh white glare of the searching beam penetrated their attempt at camouflage, exposing them to be none other than the young Q one more time, as well as a female companion of similarly human appearance. “It’s you,” Picard gasped, “and that woman.” Although noticeably younger than Picard recalled, the other Q’s companion was manifestly the same individual who had recently visited the
Enterprise,
two billion years in the future.

Picard’s mind struggled to encompass all he was confronted with. Counting the smirking being seated across from him, there were, what,
four
different versions of Q present at this same moment in time? Not to mention at least two Picards. He kneaded his brow with his fingers; as captain of the
Enterprise,
he had coped with similar paradoxes before, including that time he had to stop himself from destroying the ship, but that didn’t make them any easier to deal with. The human mind, he was convinced, was never designed with time travel in mind.

Still, he had no choice but to make the best of it. “What are you and she doing over there?” he asked, contemplating the couple highlighted by the glow of the spotlight.

“If you’re referring to my future wife,” the Q at his table said, “her name is Q.” He beamed at the oblivious couple. “As for what is transpiring, can’t you recognize a romantic evening when you see one?”

“I’m not sure I’m prepared to cope with the concept of you dating, Q,” Picard said dryly. “Why are we here? Is it absolutely imperative that I share this moment with you?”

“Trust me, Jean-Luc,” Q assured him, “all will become clear in time.” Another goblet of liquid refreshment occupied the center of the table. Q finished off a cup of orange elixir, then placed the crystal goblet on the tabletop between him and Picard. He tapped the rim of the cup, producing a ringing tone. “Let’s listen in, shall we?”

A pair of voices rose from the cup, as though the goblet had somehow become some sort of audio receiver. The voice of the younger Q was unmistakable, although surprisingly sincere in tone. Picard heard none of the self-satisfied smugness he associated with the Q of his own time.

He (eagerly): “Isn’t it amazing? Didn’t I tell you how wondrous this is? Primitive, corporeal life, risking everything for one infinitesimal moment of glory. Look, the snakes got another one! Bravo, bravo.”

She (faintly scandalized): “But it’s so very aboriginal. You should be ashamed of yourself, Q. Sometimes I wonder why I associate with you at all.”

He (disappointed): “Oh. I was sure you, of all Q’s, would understand. Don’t you see, it’s their very primitiveness that makes it so moving? They’re just sentient enough to make their own choices, decide their own destinies.” He stared gloomily into his own cup. “At least they know what they want to do with their lives. Nothing’s restraining them except their own limitations as a species.”

She (conciliatory): “Well, maybe it’s not entirely dismal. I like the way the moonlight sparkles on the reptiles, especially when their jaws snap.” She placed a hand over his. “What’s really bothering you, Q? You’re young, immortal, all-powerful…a touch undisciplined, but still a member of the Continuum, the pinnacle of physical and psychic evolution. What could be better?”

He (wistful): “It’s just that…well, I feel so frustrated sometimes. What’s the good of having all this power, if I don’t know what to do with it? Merely maintaining the fundamental stability of the multiverse isn’t enough for me. I want to do something bold, something magnificent, maybe even something a little bit dangerous. Like those foolish, fearless humanoids out there, throwing themselves into gravity’s clutches. But every time I try anything the least bit creative, the Continuum comes down on me like a ton of dark matter. ‘No, no, Q, you mustn’t do that. It’s not proper. It’s not seemly. It violates the Central Canons of the Continuum….’ Sometimes the whole thing makes me sick.”

For a second, Picard experienced a twinge of guilt over eavesdropping on the young Q’s this way. It felt more than a little improper. Then he remembered how little Q had respected his own privacy over the years, even spying on his romantic encounters with Vash, and his compunctions dissolved at a remarkable rate.

She (consoling, but uncertain): “Every Q feels that way at times.” A long pause. “Well, no, they don’t actually, but I’m sure you do.” She made an effort to cheer the other Q up, looking out at the plummeting Imotru. “Look, two reptiles are fighting over that skinny specimen over there.” She shuddered and averted her eyes. “Their table manners are utterly atrocious!”

He (appreciative, aiming to lighten the mood): “You know, I don’t think you’re half as shocked as you make yourself out to be. You’ve got an unevolved streak as well, which is why I like you.”

She (huffily): “There’s no reason to be insulting.” She spun her chair around and refused to look at him.

He (hastily): “No, I didn’t mean it that way!” Materializing a pair of wine-glasses out of thin air, along with a bottle of some exotic violet liqueur, he poured the woman a libation and held it out to her. Glancing back over her shoulder, her slim back still turned on Q, she inspected the gift dubiously. Q plucked a bouquet of incandescent yellow tulips from the ether. “Really, Q, you know how much I respect and admire you.”

She (ominously, like one withdrawing a hidden weapon): “Just me?”

He (uncomfortably): “Um, whatever do you mean?”

She (going in for the kill): “I mean that cheeky little demi-goddess out by Antares. Don’t think I didn’t hear about you and her commingling on the ninth astral plane. I am omniscient, you know. I wasn’t going to mention it, presuming I was above such petty behavior, but since you think I’m so unevolved…!”

He (defensive): “What would I be doing on the ninth astral plane? This has to be a case of mistaken cosmology. It wasn’t me, it was Q. Why, I barely know that deity.”

She (unconvinced): “And a fertility spirit, no less! Really, Q, I thought you had better taste than that.”

He (desperate): “I do, I do, I promise. I was only trying to broaden my horizons a bit, explore another point of view….” He offered her a strip of succulent meat. “Here, why don’t you try feeding the serpents?”

She (chillingly): “I think I want to go home.”

Picard laughed out loud. It was almost worth traveling back in time to hear Q put on the spot like this. “That reminds me,” he said to the Q sitting across from him, “back during that business in Sherwood Forest, you gave me quite a bad time about my feelings for Vash. You described love as a weakness, and berated me constantly about being ‘brought down by a woman,’as I believe you put it.” He cocked his head toward the quarreling couple on the next balcony. “I must confess I find your own domestic situation, both here and back on the
Enterprise,
more than a little ironic.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the older Q retorted. “You can’t possibly compare your farcical mammalian liaisons with the communion, or lack thereof, between two highly advanced intelligences. They’re entirely different situations.”

“I see,” Picard said skeptically, contemplating the scene on the adjacent balcony, where the female Q had just conspicuously turned her back on her companion. “As we ridiculous mammals like to say, tell me another one.”

The voices from the goblet argued on, lending more credence to Picard’s position. He savored the sound of the younger Q losing ground by the moment.

He: “Fine, go back to the Continuum. See if I care!”

She: “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? More time to spend with that pantheistic strumpet of yours. No, on second thought, I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you.”

He: “Try and stop me.”

She: “Don’t you dare!”

Picard eyed Q across the jade tabletop. “Advanced intelligences, you said? I am positively awestruck by your spiritual and intellectual communion. You were quite correct, Q. This excursion is proving more illuminating than I ever dreamed.”

“I knew this was a bad idea,” Q muttered, a saturnine expression on his face. “I could hardly expect you to sympathize with the perfectly excusable follies of my youth.”

Picard showed him no mercy. “I have to ask: what did your ladyfriend over there think of your short-lived partnership with Vash?”

“That?” Q said dismissively. “That lasted a mere blink of an eye by our standards. It was nothing. Less than nothing even.” He shrugged his shoulders, remembering. “She was livid.”

More livid than she sounds now?
Picard wondered. That was hard to imagine.

He: “I should have known you wouldn’t appreciate any of this. None of you can.”

She: “Maybe that’s because the rest of us are perfectly happy being Q. But if that’s not good enough for you, then I don’t belong here either.”

With an emphatic flash, the female Q vanished from the scene, leaving the young Q just as alone as his even younger counterpart a few balconies below. “Our first fight,” an older Q explained, “but far from our last.”

The abandoned Q looked so dejected that, despite Picard’s well-earned animosity toward the being sitting opposite him, he felt a touch of sympathy for the unhappy young Q. “No one understands,” he muttered into his cup, completely unaware that his private heartbreak was being transmitted straight to Picard’s table. “Just once, why can’t I meet someone who understands me?”

His older self looked on with pity and regret. “I believe you mortals have a saying or two,” he observed, “about the danger of getting what you wished for.” He sighed and pushed the talking goblet away from him. “Too bad you wouldn’t coin those little words of wisdom for another billion years or so.”

A moment later, the balcony was empty.