Prologue

LET ME BACK IN!

In back me let !

Beyond the wall, he gibbered. Time meant nothing

to him. An instant was the same as an eternity; both

were merely subjective measures of his isolation and

his madness, which began the moment he was cast out

of creation and had been taking its toll ever since. His

exile had just begun, and it had lasted forever.

It's not fair, he thought, as he had thought since the

wall came into being. Fair is.fair, there is there, and

here is nowhere, nowhere, no hope. Isn't that so?

So it is, he answered himself, since he'd had no one

else to talk to for as long as long could possibly be. So,

so, so... so how could they lock me up like this? Why

could they?

His feverish mind offered an explanation. Fear.

That was their paltry excuse. Mere fear, sheer fear,

that's clear. He cackled at his own cleverness. Fear,

here. Fair, there. Fear is fair.

No, it is not, he protested angrily. I never did

anything, anything that mattered. Matter isn't any-

thing. No, it isn't, is it?

Not at all. All is not. Not is now.

Now. Now. Now.

Now, for the first time since his bleak, barbaric

banishment began, something new was happening.

There was a weakness in the wall, not enough to allow

him to slide his way through, at least not yet, but a

certain slackening that perhaps foretold an end to his

stubborn struggle to get past the wall. He felt a crack,

an infinitesimal fracture in the infinite, that he

shouted through with all his might. Me back in let/

Even if the entirety of his being could not pass

through the tantalizingly, tormentingly small lesion,

he could still send his ceaseless craving back into the

realm from which he had been so unjustly cast out,

crying out to anyone who might hear his desperate

plea.

Back let me in he demanded.

And a voice answered back.

Chapter One

Captain's log, stardate 500146.2.

At Starfleet's request, the Enterprise has ar-

rived at Betazed to take on Lem Faal, a distin-

guished Betazoid scientist, and his two children.

Under Faal's direction, this ship will take part in

a highly classified experiment that, if it is success-

ful, may open up a vast new frontier for explora-

tion.

"ARE YOU QUITE SURE, COUNSELOR, that you do not

wish to visit your family while we are here at Be-

tazed?"

"No, thank you, Captain," Commander Deanna

Troi replied. "As it happens, my mother and little

brother are off on one of her regular excursions to the

Parallax Colony on Shiralea VI, so there's not much

point in beaming down."

You didn't have to be an empath to detect an

unmistakable look of relief on Captain Jean-Luc

Picard's face when he learned that Lwaxana Troi was

several dozen light-years away. She knew exactly how

he felt; even though she genuinely loved her mother,

Troi wasn't too disappointed that there would be no

parent-daughter reunion on this particular mission.

Surviving a visit with Lwaxana always required a lot

of energy--and patience. Maybe it will get easier

someday, she thought. And maybe Klingons will be-

come vegetarians, too.

"That's too bad," Captain Picard said unconvinc-

ingly. "Although I'm sure our guest must be anxious

to get under way." He glanced toward the far end of

the conference room, where a middle-aged Betazoid

male waited patiently, reviewing the data on a padd

that he held at arm's length from himself. Must be

farsighted, Troi guessed, a not uncommon condition

in Betazoids of a certain age. Lem Faal had striking,

dark brown eyes, a receding hairline, and the slightly

distracted air of a born academic. He reminded Troi

of any number of professors she had encountered

during her student days at the university., although, on

closer inspection, she also picked up an impression of

infirmity even though she couldn't spot any obvious

handicap. Wearing a tan-colored civilian suit, he

looked out of place among all the Starfleet uniforms.

Almost instinctively, her empathic senses reached out

to get a reading on the new arrival, only to immedi-

ately come into contact with a telepathic presence far

more powerful than her own. Becoming aware of her

tentative probing, Faal looked up from his data padd

and made eye contact with Troi from across the room.

Hello, he thought to her.

Er, hello, she thought back. Growing up on Be-

tazed, she had become accustomed to dealing with

full telepaths, even though she felt a bit rusty at mind-

speaking after spending so many years among hu-

mans and other nontelepathic races. Welcome to the

Enterprise.

Thank you, he answered. She sensed, behind his

verbal responses, feelings of keen anticipation, excite-

ment, anxiety, and... something else as well, some-

thing she couldn't quite make out. Curious, she

stretched out further, deeper until she could almost--

Excuse me, Faal thought, blocking her. I think the

captain is ready to begin the briefing.

Troi blinked, momentarily disoriented by the speed

with which she had been shoved out of Faal's mind.

She looked around the conference room of the

Enterprise-E. The other Betazoid's telepathic com-

ment seemed accurate enough; her fellow officers

were already taking their places around the curved,

illuminated conference table. Captain Picard stood at

the head of the table, opposite the blank viewscreen at

the other end of the room, where Faal waited to make

his presentation. Decorative windows along the outer

wall of the conference room offered a eye-catching

view of Betazed's upper hemisphere, an image re-

flected in the glass panes of the display case mounted

to the inner wall. Gold-plated models of great star-

sh!ps of the past hung within the case, including a

mtmature replica of the lost Enterprise-D, her home

for seven years. Troi always winced inside a little

whenever she noticed that model. She'd been at the

helm of that Enterprise when it made its fatal crash

into Veridian III. Even though she knew, intellectu-

ally, that it wasn't her fault, she still couldn't forget

the sense of horror she had felt as the saucer section

dived into the atmosphere of Veridian III, never to

rise again. This new ship was a fine vessel, as she'd

proven during their historic battle with the Borg a few

months ago, but she didn't feel quite like home. Not

yet.

Preoccupied with thoughts of the past, Troi sat

down at the table between Geordi La Forge and

Beverly Crusher. Will Riker and Data were seated

across from her, their attention on Captain Picard.

Riker's confidence and good humor radiated from

him, helping to dispel her gloomy memories. She

shook her head to clear her mind and listened atten-

tively as the captain began to speak.

"We are honored to have with us today Lem Faal, a

specialist in applied physics from the University of

Betazed. Professor Faal has previously won awards

from the Daystrom Institute and the Vulcan Science

Academy for his groundbreaking work in energy wave

dynamics."

"Impressive stuff," Geordi said, obviously familiar

with Faars work. Troi could feel the intensity of his

scientific interest seeping off him. No surprise there;

she'd expect their chief engineer to be fascinated by

"energy wave dynamics" and like matters.

"Indeed," Data commented. "I have been particu-

larly intrigued by the professor's insights into the

practical applications of transwarp spatial anoma-

lies." The android's sense of anticipation felt just as

acute as Geordi's. He must have activated his emotion

chip, Troi realized. She could always tell, which cer-

tainly demonstrated how genuine Data's on-again,

off-again emotions could be.

"Starfleet," the captain continued, "has the greatest

of interest in Professor Faal's current line of research,

and the Enterprise has been selected to participate in

an experiment testing certain new theories he has

devised." He gestured toward Faal, who nodded his

head in acknowledgment. "Professor, no doubt you

can explain your intentions better."

"Well, I can try," the scientist answered. He tapped

a control on his padd and the viewscreen behind him

lit up. The image that appeared on the screen was of a

shimmering ribbon of reddish-purple energy that ap-

peared to stretch across a wide expanse of interstellar

space. The Nexus? Troi thought for a second, but, no,

this glowing band did not look quite the same color as

the mysterious phenomenon that had obsessed Tolian

Soran. It looked familiar, though, like something she

might have seen at an astrophysics lecture back at

Starfleet Academy. Of course, she realized instantly,

the barrier!

She felt a temporary surge of puzzlement quickly

fade from the room. Obviously, the other officers had

recognized the barrier as well. Faal let his audience

take in the image for a few seconds before beginning

his lecture.

"For centuries," he began, "the great galactic barri-

er has blocked the Federation's exploration of the

universe beyond our own Milky Way galaxy. It com-

pletely surrounds the perimeter of our galaxy, posing

a serious hazard to any vessel that attempts to venture

to the outer limits of inhabited space. Not only do the

unnatural energies that comprise the barrier batter a

vessel physically, but there is also a psychic compo-

nent to the barrier that causes insanity, brain damage,

and even death to any humanoid that comes into

contact with it."

Troi winced at the thought. As an empath, she knew

just how fragile a mind could be, and how a height-

ened sensitivity to psychic phenomena sometimes left

one particularly vulnerable to such effects as the

professor described. As a full telepath, Faal had to be

even more wary of powerful psychokinetic forces. She

wondered if his own gifts played any part in his

interest in the barrier.

Faal pressed another button on his padd and the

picture of the barrier was replaced by a standard map

of the known galaxy, divided into the usual four

sections. A flashing purple line, indicating the galactic

barrier, circled all four quadrants. "The Federation

has always accepted this limitation, as have the Kling-

ons and the Romulans and the other major starfaring

civilizations, because there has always been so much

territory to explore within our own galaxy. After all,

even after centuries of warp travel, both the Gamma

and the Delta quadrants remain largely uncharted.

Furthermore, the distances between galaxies are so

incalculably immense that, even if there were a safe

way to cross the barrier, a voyage to another galaxy

would require a ship to travel for centuries at maxi-

mum warp. And finally, to be totally honest, we have

accepted the barrier because there has been no viable

alternative to doing so.

"That situation may have changed," Faal an-

nounced with what was to Troi a palpable sense of

pride. Typical, she thought. What scientist is not proud

of his accomplishments? The map of the galaxy flick-

ered, giving way to a photo of a blond-haired woman

whose pale skin was delicately speckled with dark red

markings that ran from her temples down to the sides

of her throat. A Trill, Troi thought, recognizing the

characteristic spotting of that symbiotic life-form.

She felt a fleeting pang of sadness from the woman

seated next to her and sympathized with Beverly, who

was surely recalling her own doomed love affair with

the Trill diplomat Ambassador Odan. Troi wasn't

sure, but she thought she sensed a bit of discomfort

from Will Riker as well. A reasonable reaction, con-

sidering that Will had once "loaned" his own body to

a Trill symbiont. She was relieved to note that both

Will and Beverly swiftly overcame their flashes of

emotion, focusing once more on the present. They

acknowledged their pasts, then moved on, the counsel-

or diagnosed approvingly. Very healthy behavior.

Worfmarried a Trill, she remembered with only the

slightest twinge of jealousy. Then she took her own

advice and put that reaction behind her. I wish him

only the best, she thought.

"Some of you may be familiar with the recent work

of Dr. Lenara Kahn, the noted Trill physicist," Faal

went on. Heads nodded around the table and Troi

experienced a twinge of guilt; she tried to keep up to

date on the latest scientific developments, as summa-

rized in Starfleet's never-ending bulletins and posi-

tion papers, but her own interests leaned more toward

psychology and sociology than the hard sciences,

which she sometimes gave only a cursory inspection.

Oh well, she thought, I never intended to transfer to

Engineering. "A few years ago, Dr. Kahn and her

associates conducted a test on Deep Space Nine,

which resulted in the creation of the Federation's first

artificially generated wormhole. The wormhole was

unstable, and collapsed only moments after its cre-

ation, but Kahn's research team has continued to

refine and develop this new technology. They're still

years away from being able to produce an artificial

wormhole that's stable enough to permit reliable

transport to other sectors of the galaxy, but it dawned

on me that the same technique, modified somewhat,

might allow a starship to open a temporary breach in

the galactic barrier, allowing safe passage through to

the other side. As you may have guessed, that's where

the Enterprise comes in."

A low murmur arose in the conference room as the

assembled officers reacted to Faal's revelation. Data

and Geordi took turns peppering the Betazoid scien-

tist with highly technical questions that quickly left

Troi behind. Just as well, she thought. She was startled

enough by just the basic idea.

Breaking the barrier.t It was one of those things, like

passing the warp-ten threshold or flying through a

sun, that people talked about sometimes, but you

never really expected to happen in your lifetime.

Searching her memory, she vaguely recalled that the

original Enterprise, Captain Kirk's ship, had passed

through the barrier on a couple of occasions, usually

with spectacularly disastrous consequences. Starfleet

had declared such expeditions off-limits decades ago,

although every few years some crackpot or daredevil

would try to break the barrier in a specially modified

ship. To date, none of these would-be heroes had

survived. She remembered Will Riker once, years ago

on Betazed, describing such dubious endeavors as

"the warp-era equivalent of going over Niagara in a

barrel." Now, apparently, it was time for the

Enterprise-E to take the plunge. She couldn't suppress

a chill at the very thought.

"I'm curious, Professor," Riker asked. "Where ex-

actly do you plan to make the test?"

Faal tapped his padd and the map of the galaxy

reappeared on the screen. The image zoomed in on

the Alpha Quadrant and he pointed at a wedge-

shaped area on the map. "Those portions of the

barrier that exist within Federation space have been

thoroughly surveyed by unmanned probes containing

the most advanced sensors available, and they've

made a very intriguing discovery. Over the last year

or so, energy levels within the barrier have fluctuated

significantly, producing what appears to be a distinct

weakening in the barrier at several locations."

Shaded red areas appeared throughout the flashing

purple curve on the screen. Troi noted that the shaded

sections represented only a small portion of the

barrier. They looked like mere dots scattered along

the length of the line. Like leaks in a dam, she

thought, finding the comparison somewhat unsettling.

Faal gave her an odd look, as if aware of her

momentary discomfort. "These... imperfections...

in the integrity of the barrier are not substantial,

representing only a fractional diminution in the bar-

rier's strength, but they are significant enough to

recommend themselves as the logical sites at which to

attempt to penetrate the barrier. This particular site,"

he said, pointing tø one of the red spots, which began

to flash brighter than the rest, "is located in an

uninhabited and otherwise uninteresting sector of

space. Since Starfleet would prefer to conduct this

experiment in secrecy, far from the prying eyes of the

Romulans or the Cardassians, this site has been

selected for our trial run. Even as I speak, specialized

equipment, adapted from the original Trill designs, is

being transported aboard the Enterprise. I look for-

ward to working with Mr. La Forge and his engineer-

ing team on this project."

10

"Thanks," Geordi replied. The ocular implants

that served as his eyes glanced from Data to Faal.

"Whatever you need, I'm sure we're up to it. Sounds

like quite a breakthrough, in more ways than one."

Troi peered at the spot that Faal had indicated on

the map. She didn't recall much about that region, but

she estimated that it was about two to three days away

at warp five. Neither the captain nor Will Riker

radiated any concern about the location Faal had

chosen. She could tell that they anticipated an un-

eventful flight until they arrived at the barrier.

"Professor," she asked, "how similar is the galactic

barrier to the Great Barrier? Would your new tech-

nique be effective on both?"

Faal nodded knowingly. "That's a good question.

What is colloquially known as 'the Great Barrier' is a

similar wall of energy that encloses the very center of

our galaxy, as opposed to the outer rim of the galaxy.

More precisely, the Great Barrier is an intragalactic

energy field while our destination is an extragalactic

field." He ran his hand through his thinning gray hair.

"Research conducted over the last hundred years

suggests that both barriers are composed of equiva-

lent, maybe even identical, forms of energy. In theory,

the artificial wormhole process, if it's successful,

could be used to penetrate the Great Barrier as well.

Many theorists believe both barriers stem from the

same root cause."

"Which is?" she inquired.

Faal chuckled. "I'm afraid that's more of a theolog-

ical question than a scientific one, and thus rather out

of my field. As far as we can tell, the existence of the

barriers predates the development of sentient life in

our galaxy. Or at least any life-forms we're familiar

with."

That's odd, Troi mused. She wasn't sure but she

thought she detected a flicker of insincerity behind

the scientist's ingratiating manner, like he was hold-

ing something back. Perhaps he's not as confident

about his theories as he'd like Starfleet to think, she

thought. It was hard to tell; Faal's own telepathic gifts

made him difficult to read.

Sitting beside Troi, Beverly Crusher spoke up, a

look of concern upon her features. "Has anyone

thought about the potential ecological consequences

of poking a hole in the barrier? If these walls have

been in place for billions of years, maybe they serve

some vital purpose, either to us or to whatever life-

forms exist on the opposite side of the wall. I hate to

throw cold water on a fascinating proposal, but maybe

the barrier shouldn't be breached?"

There it is again, Troi thought, watching the Beta-

zoid scientist carefully. She sensed some sort of

reaction from Faal in response to Beverly's question.

It flared up immediately, then was quickly snuffed out

before she could clearly identify the emotion. Fear?

Guilt? Annoyance? Maybe he simply doesnt like hav-

ing his experiment challenged, she speculated. Cer-

tainly he wouldn't be the first dedicated scientist to

suffer from tunnel vision where his brainchild was

concerned. Researchers, she knew from experience,

could be as protective of their pet projects as an

enraged sehlat defending its young.

If he was feeling defensive, he displayed no sign of

it. "Above all else, first do no harm, correct, Doctor?"

he replied to Crusher amiably, paraphrasing the Hip-

pocratic Oath. "I appreciate your concerns, Doctor.

Let me reassure you a bit regarding the scale of our

experiment. The galactic barrier itself is so unfath-

omably vast that our proposed exercise is not unlike

knocking a few bricks out of your own Earth's Great

Wall of China. It's hard to imagine that we could do

much damage to the ecosystem of the entire galaxy,

let alone whatever lies beyond, although the potential

danger is another good reason for conducting this

preliminary test in an unpopulated sector. As far as

we know, there's nothing on the other side except the

vast emptiness between our own galaxy and its neigh-

bors." He pressed a finger against his padd and the

screen behind him reverted to the compelling image

with which he had begun his lecture: the awe-inspiring

sight of the galactic barrier stretching across countless

light-years of space, its eerie, incandescent energies

rippling through the shimmering wall of violet light.

"Starfleet feels--" he started to say, but a harsh

choking noise interrupted his explanation. He placed

his free hand over his mouth and coughed a few more

times. Troi saw his chest heaving beneath his suit and

winced in sympathy. She was no physician, but she

didn't like the sound of Faal's coughs, which seemed

to come from deep within his lungs. She could tell

that Beverly was concerned as well.

"Excuse me," Faal gasped, fishing around in the

pockets of his tan suit. He withdrew a compact silver

hypospray, which he pressed against the crook of his

arm. Troi heard a distinctive hiss as the instrument

released its medication into his body. Within a few

seconds, Faal appeared to regain control of his breath-

ing. "I apologize for the interruption, but I'm afraid

my health isn't all it should be."

Troi recalled her earlier impression of infirmity.

Was this ailment, she wondered, what the professor

was trying so hard to conceal? Even Betazoids, who

generally prided themselves on being at ease with

their own bodies, could feel uncomfortable about

revealing a serious medical condition. She recalled

that Faal had brought his family along on this mis-

sion, despite the possibility of danger, and she won-

dered how his obvious health problems might have

affected his children. Perhaps I shouM prepare for

some family counseling, just in case my assistance is

needed.

Faal took a few deep breaths to steady himself, then

addressed Beverly. "As ship's medical officer, Dr.

Crusher, you should probably be aware that I have

Iverson's disease."

The emotional temperature of the room rose to a

heightened level the moment Faal mentioned the

dreaded sickness. Iverson's disease remained one of

the more conspicuous failures of twenty-fourth-

century medicine: a debilitating, degenerative condi-

tion for which there was no known cure. Thankfully

noncontagious, the disorder attacked muscle fiber and

other connective tissues, resulting in the progressive

atrophy of limbs and vital organs; from the sound of

Faal's labored breathing, Troi suspected that Faal's

ailment had targeted his respiratory system. She felt

acute sympathy and embarrassment on the part of her

fellow officers. No doubt all of them were remember-

ing Admiral Mark Jamesonwand the desperate

lengths the disease had driven him to during that

mission to Mordan IV. "I'm very sorry," she said.

"Please feel free to call on me for whatever care you

may require," Beverly stressed. "Perhaps you should

come by sickbay later so we can discuss your condi-

tion in private."

"Thank you," he said, "but please don't let my

condition concern any of you." He held up the

hypospray. "My doctor has prescribed polyadrenaline

for my current symptoms. All that matters now is that

I live long enough to see the completion of my work."

The hypospray went back into his pocket and Faal

pointed again to the image of the galactic barrier on

the screen.

"At any rate," he continued, "Starfleet Science has

judged the potential risk of this experiment to be

acceptable when weighed against the promise of

opening up a new era of expansion beyond the

boundaries of this galaxy. Exploring the unknown

always contains an element of danger. Isn't that so,

Captain?"

"Indeed," the captain agreed. "The fundamental

mission of the Enterprise, as well as that of Star fleet,

has always been to extend the limits of our knowledge

of the universe, exploring new and uncharted territo-

ry." Picard rose from his seat at the head of the table.

'Your experiment, Professor Faal, falls squarely with-

in the proud tradition of this ship. Let us hope for the

best of luck in this exciting new endeavor."

It's too bad, Troi thought, that the rest of the crew

can't sense Captain Picard's passion and commitment

the same way I can. Then she looked around the

conference table and saw the glow of the captain's

inspiration reflected in the faces of her fellow officers.

Even Beverly, despite her earlier doubts, shared their

commitment to the mission. On second thought, may-

be they can.

"Thank you, Captain," Lem Faal said warmly. Troi

noticed that he still seemed a bit out of breath. "I am

anxious to begin."

This time Troi detected nothing but total sincerity

in the man's words.

Chapter Two

"THE MOST DIFFICULT PART," Lem Faal explained, "is

going to be keeping the torpedo intact inside the

barrier until it can send out a magneton pulse."

"That's more than difficult," Chief Engineer Geordi

La Forge commented. He had been reading up on the

galactic barrier ever since the briefing, so he had a

better idea of what they were up against. "That's close

to impossible."

The duty engineer's console, adjacent to the chief

engineer's office, had been reassigned to the Betazoid

researcher as a workstation where he could complete

the preparations for his experiment. To accommodate

Faal's shaky health, La Forge had also taken care to

provide a sturdy stool Faal could rest upon while he

worked. Now he and Geordi scrutinized the diagrams

unfolding on a monitor as Faal spelled out the details

of his experiment:

"Not if we fine-tune the polarity of the shields to

match exactly the amplitude of the barrier at the

point where the quantum torpedo containing the

magneton pulse generator enters the barrier. That

amplitude is constantly shifting, of course, but if we

get it right, then the torpedo should hold together long

enough to emit a magneton pulse that will react with a

subspace tensor matrix generated by the Enterprise to

create an opening in the space-time continuum. Then,

according to my calculations, the artificial wormhole

will disrupt the energy lattice of the barrier, creating a

pathway of normal space through to the other side?

"Then it's only two million light-years to the next

galaxy, right?" Geordi said with a grin. "I guess we'll

have to build that bridge when we get to it."

"Precisely," Faal answered. "For myself, I'll leave

that challenge for the starship designers and trans-

warp enthusiasts. Who knows? Maybe a generation

ship is the answer, if you can find enough colonists

who don't mind leaving the landing to their descen-

dants. Or suspended animation, perhaps. But before

we can face the long gulf between the galaxies, first we

must break free from the glimmering cage that has

hemmed us in since time began. We're like baby birds

that finally have to leave the nest and explore the great

blue sky beyond."

"I never quite thought of it that way," Geordi said.

"After all, the Milky Way is one reck of a big nest."

"The biggest nest still hems you in, as the largest

cage is still a cage," Faal insisted with a trace of

bitterness in his voice. "Look at me. My mind is free

to explore the fundamental principles of the universe,

but it's trapped inside a fragile, dying body." He

looked up from his schematics to inspect Geordi.

"Excuse me for asking, Commander, but I'm in-

trigued by your eyes. Are those the new ocular im-

plants I've heard about, the ones they just developed

on Earth?"

The scientist's curiosity did not bother Geordi;

sometimes his new eyes still caught him by surprise,

especially when he looked in a mirror. "These are

them, all right. I didn't know you were interested in

rehabilitative medicine. Or is it the optics?"

"It's all about evolution," Faal explained. "Tech-

nology has usurped natural selection as the driving

force of evolution, so I'm fascinated by the ways in

which sentient organisms can improve upon their

own flawed biology. Prosthetics are one way, genetic

manipulation is another. So is breaking the barrier,

perhaps. It's about overcoming the inherent frailties

of our weak humanoid bodies, becoming superior

beings, just as you have used the latest in medical

technology to improve yourself."

Geordi wasn't sure quite how to respond. He didn't

exactly think of himself as "superior," just better

equipped to do his job. "If you say so, Professor," he

said, feeling a little uncomfortable. Lem Faal was

starting to sound a bit too much like a Borg. Maybe it

was only a trick of light, reflecting the glow of the

monitor, but an odd sort of gleam had crept into the

Betazoid's eyes as he spoke. I wonder if I would have

even noticed that a few years ago? Geordi thought. His

VISOR had done a number of things well, from

isolating hairline fractures in metal plating to tracking

neutrinos through a flowing plasma current, but pick-

ing up on subtle nuances of facial expressions hadn't

been one of them.

"Chief!" Geordi turned around to see Lieutenant

Reginald Barclay approaching the workstation. Bar-

clay was pushing before him an antigray carrier

supporting a device Geordi recognized from Profes-

sor Faal's blueprints. "Mr. DeCandido in Transporter

Room Five said you wanted this immediately."

The carrier was a black metal platform, hovering

above the floor at about waist level, which Barclay

steered by holding on to a horizontal handlebar in

front of his chest. Faal's invention sat atop the plat-

form, held securely in place by a stasis field. It con-

sisted of a shining steel cylinder, approximately a

meter and a half in height, surrounded by a transpar-

ent plastic sphere with metal connection plates at

both the top and the bottom poles of the globe. It

looked like it might be fairly heavy outside the

influence of the antigrav generator; Geordi automati-

cally estimated the device's mass with an eye toward

figuring out how it would affect the trajectory of a

standard quantum torpedo once it was installed with-

in the torpedo casing. Shouldn't be too hard to insert

the globe into a torpedo, he thought, assuming every-

thing is in working order inside the sphere.

"Thanks, Reg," he said. "Professor Faal, this is

Lieutenant Reginald Barclay. Reg, this is Professor

Faal."

"Pleased to meet you," Barclay stammered. "This

is a very daring experiment that I'm proud to be a

part--" He lifted a hand from the handlebar to offer

it to Faal, but then the platform started to tilt and he

hastily put both hands back on the handle. "Oops.

Sorry about that," he muttered.

Faal eyed Barclay skeptically, and Geordi had to

resist a temptation to roll his ocular implants. Barclay

always managed to make a poor first impression on

people, which was too bad since, at heart, he was a

dedicated and perfectly capable crew member. Unfor-

tunately, his competence fluctuated in direct relation-

ship to his confidence, which often left something to

be desired; the more insecure he got, the more he

tended to screw up, which just rattled him even more.

Geordi had taken Barclay on as a special project some

years back, and the nervous crewman was showing

definite signs of progress, although some days you

wouldn't know it. Just my luck, he thought, this had to

be one of Reg's off days.

"Please be careful, Lieutenant," Faal stressed to

Barclay. "You're carrying the very heart of my experi-

ment there. Inside that cylinder is a mononuclear

strand of quantum filament suspended in a proto-

matter matrix. Unless the filament is aligned precisely

when the torpedo releases the magneton pulse, there

will be no way to control the force and direction of the

protomatter reaction. We could end up with merely a

transitory subspace fissure that would have no impact

on the barrier at all."

"Understood, Professor," Barclay assured him.

"You can count on me. I'll guard this component like

a mother Horta guards her eggs. Even better, in fact,

because you won't have to feed me my weight in

silicon bricks." He stared at the Betazoid's increas-

ingly dubious expression. "Er, that was a joke. The

last part, I mean, not the part about guarding the

component, because that was completely serious even

if you didn't like the bit about the Hortas, cause I

understand that not everyone's fond of---"

"That will be fine," Geordi interrupted, coming to

Barelay's rescue. "Just put the sphere on that table

over there. Professor Faal and I need to make some

adjustments."

"Got it," Barclay said, avoiding eye contact with

Faal. He pushed the carrier over to an elevated shelf

strewn with delicate instruments. The antigrav plat-

form floated a few centimeters above the ledge of the

shelf. Barday's forehead wrinkled with anxiety as he

looked up and over the carrier to the controls on the

other side.

"Let me just scoot over there to even this out," he

said, smiling tightly as he began to walk around the

carrier to reach the controls.

As soon as Reg took his first step, time seemed to

slow down for La Forge. Geordi watched the rise and

fall of Reg's footsteps, the gangly engineer's legs

grazing the platform, which he didn't give a wide

enough berth. La Forge felt his mouth open and heard

his own voice utter the first word of a warning.

Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, Geordi watched with

horror as Lieutenant Reginald Barclay's left elbow

plowed into the corner of the platform. The delicate

equipment trembled. Reg jumped away. Geordi in-

stinctively covered his eyes. It was one of the few

times he wished that medical science had not restored

his sight quite so efficiently.

When he finally gathered the courage to look at the

equipment and assess the damage, La Forge thought

he might faint with relief. The platform had miracu-

lously righted itself. Time sped up to its normal pace

again. He dimly heard Barclay's apologies for the

near-disaster, but was more concerned for the Beta-

zoid scientist.

He glanced over at Professor Faal. The scientist's

face had gone completely white and his mouth hung

open in dumbfounded horror. Has his disease weak-

ened his heart? he worried. He hoped not, since Lem

Faal looked like he was about to drop dead on the spot.

He was shaking so hard that Geordi was afraid he'd

fall off his stool. I wonder if I should call Dr. Crusher?

"Urn," Barclay mumbled, staring fixedly at the

floor. "Will that be all, sir?"

Geordi offered a silent prayer of thanks to the

nameless gods of engineering. He had not been look-

ing forward to telling the captain how his team

managed to completely pulverize the central compo-

nent of the big experiment. He made a mental note to

have Barclay schedule a few extra sessions with Coun-

selor Troi. Some more self-confidence exercises were

definitely in order... as well as a good talking-to.

"Watch it, Lieutenant," he said, his utter embar-

rassment in front of Faal adding heat to his tone.

"This operation is too important for that kind of

carelessness." He disliked having to criticize one of

his officers in front of a visitor, but Barclay hadn't

given him any other choice. He had to put the fear of

god into Reg, and let Professor Faal know he had the

situation under control.

At least, that was the plan ....

"I don't believe it!" Faal exploded, hopping off his

stool to confront Barclay. His equipment might have

survived its near miss, but the professor's temper

clearly had not. Faal's ashen expression gave way to a

look of utter fury. His face darkened and his eyes

narrowed until his large Betazoid irises could barely

be seen. His entire body trembled. "Years of work, of

planning and sacrifice, almost ruined because of

this... this imbecile!"

Barclay looked absolutely stricken. Yep, Geordi

thought, Deanna is definitely going to have her work

cut out for her. Barclay tried to produce another

apology, but his shattered nerves left him tongue-tied

and inaudible.

"I'm sure that looked a lot worse than it actually

was," Geordi said, anxious to smooth things over and

calm Faal down before he had some kind of seizure.

"Good thing we planned on rechecking all the instru-

mentation anyway."

Faal wasn't listening. "If you only knew what was at

stake!" he shouted at Barclay. He drew back his arm

and might have struck Barclay across the face with the

back of his hand had not La Forge hastily stepped

between them.

"Hey!" Geordi protested. "Let's cool our phasers

here. It was just an accident." Faal lowered his arm

slowly, but still glowered murderously at Barclay.

Geordi decided the best thing to do was to get Reg out

of sight as fast as possible. "Lieutenant, report back to

the transporter room and see if DeCandido needs any

more help. You're off of this experiment as of now.

We'll speak more later."

With a sheepish nod, the mortified crewman made

a quick escape, leaving Geordi behind to deal with the

agitated Betazoid physicist. Fortunately, his violent

outburst, regrettable as it was, seemed to have dis-

pelled much of his anger. Faal's ruddy face faded a

shade or two and he breathed in and out deeply, like a

man trying to forcibly calm himself and succeeding to

a degree. "My apologies, Mr. La Forge," he said,

coughing into his fist. Now that his initial tantrum

was over, he seemed to be having trouble catching his

breath. He fumbled in his pocket for his hypospray,

then applied it to his arm. "I should not have lost

control like that." A few seconds later, after another

hacking cough, he walked over to the shelf and laid

his hand upon the sphere. "When I saw the equip-

ment begin to tip over... well, it was rather

alarming."

"I understand perfectly," Geordi answered, decid-

ing not to make an issue of the professor's lapse now

that he seemed to have cooled off. What with his

illness and all, Faal had to be under a lot of stress. "To

be honest, I wasn't feeling too great myself for a few

seconds there. I can just imagine what you must have

been going through."

"No, Commander," Faal answered gravely, "I don't

think you can."

Geordi made two more mental notes to himselfi 1)

to keep Barclay safely out of sight until the experi-

ment was completed, and 2) to remember also that

Professor Lem Faal of the University of Betazoid,

winner of some of the highest scientific honors that

the Federation could bestow, was more tightly wound

than he first appeared.

A lot more.

Interlude

LiKE MOST BETAZOIDS, Milo Faal was acutely aware of

his own emotions, and right now he was feeling bored

and frustrated, verging on resentful. Where was his

father anyway? Probably holed up in some lab, the

eleven-year-old thought, same as usual. He's forgotten

all about us. Again.

Their guest quarters aboard the Enterprise were

spacious and comfortable enough. The captain had

assigned the Faal family the best VIP suite available,

with three bedchambers, two bathrooms, a personal

replicator, and a spacious living area complete with a

desk, a couch, and several comfortable chairs. Milo

fidgeted restlessly upon the couch, already tired of the

same soothing blue walls he figured he'd be staring at

for the next several days.

So far, this trip was turning out to be just as boring

as he had anticipated. He had unpacked all their

luggage--with no help from his father, thank you

very muchmand put his little sister Kinya down for a

much-needed nap on one of the Jupiter-sized beds in

the next room. Monitoring her telepathically, he

sensed nothing but fatigue and contentment emanat-

ing from his slumbering sibling. With any luck, she

would sleep for hours, but what was he supposed to

do in the meantime? There probably wasn't another

kid his age around for a couple hundred light-years.

In the outer wall of the living room, opposite the

couch, a long horizontal window composed of rein-

forced transparent aluminum provided a panoramic

look at the stars zipping by outside the ship. It was a

pretty enough view, Milo granted, but right now it

only served to remind him how far away he was

traveling from his friends and home back on Betazed.

All he had to look forward to, it seemed, was a week

or two of constant babysitting while his father spent

every waking hour at his oh-so-important experi-

ments. These days he often felt more like a parent

than a brother to little Kinya.

If only Morn were here, he thought, taking care to

block his pitiful plea from his sibling's sleeping mind,

lest it disturb her childish dreams. It was a useless

hope; his mother had died over a year ago in a freak

transporter accident. Which was when everything

started going straight down the gravity well, he thought

bitterly.

Their father, for sure, had never been the same after

the accident. Where in the name of the Second House

are you, Dad? Milo glared at the dosed door that led

to the corridor outside and from there to the rest of

the ship. Sometimes it felt like they had lost both

parents when his mother died. Between his illness and

his experiments, Dad never seemed to have any time

or thought for them anymore. Even when he was with

them physically, which wasn't very often, his mind

was always somewhere else, somewhere he kept

locked up and out of reach from his own children.

What's so important about your experiments anyway?

You should be here, Dad.

Especially now, he thought. Milo knew his father

was sick, of course; in a telepathic society, you

couldn't hide something like that, particularly from

your own son. All the more reason why Lem Faal

should be spending as much time as possible with his

family... before something happened to him. If

something happened, Milo corrected himself. He

could not bring himself to accept his father's death as

inevitable, not yet. There was always a chance, he

thought. They still had time to turn things around.

But how much time?

Milo flopped sideways onto the couch, his bare feet

resting upon the elevated armrest at the far end. His

large brown eyes began to water and he felt a familiar

soreness at the back of his throat. No, he thought, I'm

notgoing toget all weepy. Not even when there was no

one around to see or hear him. Staring across the

living room at the streaks of starlight racing by

through the darkness of space, he forced his mind to

think more positively.

Flying across the galaxy in Starfleet's flagship had

its exciting side, he admitted. Every schoolkid in the

Federation had heard about the Enterprise; this was

the ship, or at least the crew, that had repelled the

Borg--twice. This wouldn't be such a bad trip, he

mused, if only Dad took the time to share it with us. He

could easily imagine them making a real vacation of

it, touring the entire ship together, inspecting the

engines, maybe even visiting the bridge. Sure, his

father would have to do a little work along the way,

supervising the most crucial stages of the project, but

surely Starfleet's finest engineers were capable of

handling the majority of the details, at least until they

reached the test site. They didn't need his father

looking over their shoulders all the time. Of course not.

The entrance to the guest suite chimed and Milo

jumped off the couch and ran toward the door, half-

convinced that his father would indeed be there,

ready to take him on a personal tour of the bridge

itself. About time, he thought, then pushed any trace

of irritation down deep into the back of his mind,

where his father couldn't possibly hear it. He wasn't

about to let his bruised feelings throw a shadow over

the future, not now that Dad had finally come looking

for him.

Then the door whished open and his father wasn't

there. Instead Milo saw a stranger in a Starfleet

uniform. An adult human, judging from the sound of

his thought patterns, maybe twenty or thirty years

old. It was hard to tell with grown-ups sometimes,

especially humans. "Hi," he said, glancing down at

the data padd in his hand, "you must be Milo. My

name's Ensign Whitman, but you can call me Percy."

Milo must have let his disappointment show on his

face, because he felt a pang of sympathy from the

crewman. "I'm afraid your father is quite busy right

now, but Counselor Troi thought you might enjoy a

trip to the holodeck." He stepped inside the guest

quarters and checked his padd again, then glanced

about the room. "Is your sister around?"

"She's sleeping," Milo explained, trying not to

sound as let down as he felt. Humans aren't very

empathic, he remembered, so I might as well pretend

to be grateful. Just to be polite. "Hang on, I'll go get

her."

I shouM have known, he thought, as he trudged into

Kinya's bedroom, where he found her already awake.

She must have heard Percy what's-his-name stumble

in, he thought. She started to cry and Milo lifted her

from the sheets and cradled her against his chest,

patting her gently on the back until she quieted. Dad

wouM never interrupt his work for us, he thought

bitterly, taking care to shield the toddler from his hurt

and anger, not when he can just dump us with some

crummy babysitter.

The holodeck. Big deal. If he wanted to kill time in

a holodeck, he could have just as easily stayed on

Betazed. And it wasn't even his father's idea; it was

the ship's counselor's! Thanks a lot, Dad, he thought

emphatically, hoping that his father could hear him

no matter where he was on this stupid starship.

Not that he's likely to care if he does ....

Chapter Three

THE DOOR TO THE CAPTAIN'S READY ROOM slid open and

Deanna stepped inside. "Thank you for joining us on

such short notice, Counselor," Picard said. He waited

patiently for her to sit down in one of the chairs in

front of his desk, next to Geordi. The door slid shut

behind her, granting the three of them a degree of

privacy. "Mr. La Forge has informed me of an un-

pleasant incident involving Leto Faal and I wanted

your input on the matter."

Geordi quickly described Faal's confrontation with

Lieutenant Barclay to Troi. "It's probably no big

deal," he concluded, shrugging his shoulders, "but I

thought the captain ought to know about it."

"Quite right," Picard assured him, feeling more

than a touch of indignation at the Betazoid scientist's

behavior. Granted, Mr. Barclay's awkward manner

could be disconcerting, but Picard was not about to

let Faal abuse any member of his crew, no matter how

prestigious his scientific reputation was. Had Faal

actually struck Barclay, he might well be looking at

the brig now. "I appreciate your effort to keep me

informed," he told La Forge. No doubt Geordi would

rather be attending to matters in Engineering, where

there was surely much to be done to prepare for the

experiment. Picard looked at Deanna. "Counselor,

what impression have you formed of Professor Faal?"

Troi hesitated, frowning, and Picard felt a twinge of

apprehension. Lem Faal had not struck him as partic-

ularly difficult or worrisome. What could Deanna

have sensed in the man? Some form of instability? If

so, he was concealing it well. "Is there a problem with

Professor Faal?" he pressed her.

Her flowing black mane rustled as she shook her

head and sighed. "I can't put my finger on anything,

but I keep getting a sense that he's hiding something."

"Hiding what precisely?" Picard asked, concerned.

"That's what, I can't tell. Unfortunately, Faal is a

full telepath, like most Betazoids, which makes him

harder to read. To be honest, sometimes I can half-

convince myself that I'm only imagining things, or

that I'm merely picking up on the normal anxiety any

scientist might feel on the verge of a possible failure."

She watched Picard carefully, intent on making her-

self clear. "Then I get another trace of... well,

something not quite right, something Faal wants to

conceal."

"Are you sure," Picard asked, "that you're not

simply sensing some deep-rooted anxieties Faal may

have about his medical condition? Iverson's disease is

a terrible affliction. It can't be easy living with a

terminal diagnosis."

"I've considered that as well," Deanna admitted.

"Certainly, he has to be troubled by his illness and

impending death, but there may be more to what I'm

feeling. When he admitted his condition during the

briefing, I didn't get the impression that he was letting

go of a deeply held secret. He may be concealing

something else, something that has nothing to do with

his condition."

"What about his family?" Picard asked. He had

been less than pleased to read, in his original mission

briefing, that Professor Faal was to be accompanied

on this voyage by his two children. The devastating

crash of the Enterprise-D, along with the heightened

tensions of the war with the Dominion, had inspired

Starfleet to rethink its policy regarding the presence of

children aboard certain high-profile starships engaged

in risky exploratory and military missions, much to

Picard's satisfaction. His own recommendation had

come as no surprise; although he had grudgingly

adapted to the family-friendly environment of the

previous Enterprise, he had never been entirely com-

fortable with the notion of small children taking up

permanent residence aboard his ship. Or even tempo-

rary residence, for that matter. "How are his children

faring on this voyage?"

"Professor Faal has children?" Geordi asked,

caught by surprise. "Aboard the Enterprise?"

"Yes," Troi said, both intrigued and concerned.

"Hasn't he mentioned them to you?"

"Not a word," Geordi insisted. He scratched his

chin as he mulled the matter over. "Granted, we've

been working awful hard to get the modified torpedo

ready, but he hasn't said a thing about his family."

A scowl crossed Picard's face. "The professor's

experiment is not without its dangers. To be quite

honest, it hardly strikes me as an ideal time to bring

one's children along."

"Any time is better than none at all," Troi ex-

plained. "At least that's what the family counselors

back on Betazed thought. According to Professor

Faal's personal file, which I reviewed after our meet-

ing in the conference room, the children's mother was

killed less than six months ago. Some sort of trans-

porter accident."

"The poor kids," La Forge said, wincing. Picard

recalled that Geordi's own mother had been missing

and presumed dead for only a few years now, ever

since the Hera disappeared along with everyone

aboard; it was none too surprising that the engineer

empathized with the children's loss.

"Anyway," Troi continued, "it was felt that now

was far too soon to separate them from their father as

well, especially since his time after the experiment is

completed is likely to be so brief."

"I see," Picard conceded reluctantly. He was no

expert on child psychology, but he granted that Faal's

terminal condition necessitated special consideration

where his children were concerned. "No doubt Faal's

illness, as well as the recent tragedy involving his

wife, imposes a terrible burden on the entire family.

Do you think you might be reacting to whatever

difficulties he might be having with his children?"

Troi shook her head. "I'm very familiar with

parent-child stresses, including my own," she added

with a rueful smile. Picard tried hard not to let his

own... unflattering... feelings toward Lwaxana

Troi seep over into Deanna's awareness. "Not to

mention helping Worf through all his difficulties with

Alexander ....No, I know what family problems feel

like. This is something different." She frowned again,

clearly wishing she could offer Picard advice more

specific. "All I can say, Captain, is that Faal is more

complicated than he appears, and might behave un-

predictably."

"By attempting, for example, to strike Lieutenant

Barclay?" Picard suggested. To be fair, he admitted

privately, it was Barclay, after all. While he could not

condone near-violence against a crew member, Bar-

clay was something of a special case; there were times

when Picard himself wondered if Reg Barclay might

not be happier in a less stressful environment. The

man had his talents, but perhaps not the correct

temperament for deep-space exploration.

"For example," Troi agreed. She turned toward La

Forge. "Geordi, you've worked more closely with

Professor Faal than the rest of us. What are your

impressions of him?"

"Gee, I'm not sure," Geordi waffled. "I mean, yeah,

he gets pretty intense at times--who wouldn't under

the circumstances?--but I don't think he's dangerous

or anything, just determined to get the job done while

his health is still up to the task. He doesn't talk about

it much, but I think his illness weighs on his mind a

lot. He's aware that he hasn't got much time left."

"I see," Picard nodded, his irritation at the scientist

fading. It was hard not to feel for a man who was

facing death just as his life's work neared completion.

"Perhaps we should make some allowances for dis-

plays of temperament, given the professor's condi-

tion." Picard stood up behind his desk and

straightened his jacket. Time to conclude this meet-

ing, he decided, and get back to the bridge.

"Faal's reputation is impeccable," he told Troi,

thinking aloud. "At the moment, all we can do is keep

an extra eye on the professor and try to be ready for

any unwelcome surprises." He glanced at the closed

door to the bridge. "Counselor, quietly inform both

Commander Riker and Lieutenant Leyoro of your

misgivings. Mr. La Forge, please keep a careful eye on

Professor Faal from now on. We may be worrying

unnecessarily, but it's always better to be prepared for

any problem that might arise."

"You can count on me, sir," Geordi promised.

"I always do," Picard said, stepping out from

behind his desk and gesturing toward the exit. The

door slid open and he strode onto the bridge. He

nodded a greeting to Commander Riker, who rose

from the captain's seat, surrendering it to Picard.

"Thank you, Number One," he said. "How goes the

voyage?"

"Smooth sailing so far, Captain," Riker reported.

He tipped his head at Deanna as she took her accus-

tomed seat beside Picard. Behind them, Geordi dis-

appeared into the nearest turbolift. Back to Engineer-

ing, Picard assumed.

He settled into his chair, resting his weight against

the brown vinyl cushions. All around him, the bridge

crew manned their stations; anticipating a straightfor-

ward cruise through safe territory, he had chosen to

give some of the newer crew members opportunities

for valuable bridge experience. On the main viewer at

the front of the bridge, stars zipped by at warp five,

the maximum speed recommended by Starfleet for

non-emergency situations. The familiar hum of ordi-

nary bridge operations soothed his ears. So far, it

appeared, their voyage to the edge of the galaxy held

few surprises. "No Borg, no Romulans, no space-time

anomalies," he commented. "A nice, quiet trip for a

change."

"Knock on wood," Riker said with a grin. He

glanced around the gleaming metallic bridge. "If you

can find any, that is."

"A bit on the dull side, if you ask me," Lieutenant

Baeta Leyoro said. The new security officer had

joined the ship at Auckland Station. She had previ-

ously served aboard the Jefferson and the Olympic

and came highly recommended. Picard had reviewed

her file thoroughly before approving her for the post

aboard the Enterprise; the imposing, dark-haired wom-

an had fought in the brutal Tarsian War in her youth,

enduring psychological and biochemical conditioning

to increase her fighting skills, before leaving Angosia

III and joining Starfleet. In theory, the victorious

Angosians had, rather tardily, reconditioned its veter-

ans to peacetime, but how effective that recondition-

ing was remained open to debate; cotfid any treatment

truly undo the hardening effects of years of bloody

conflict? Picard found Leyoro's personality slightly

abrasive, but that was often the case with the best

security officers. Aggressiveness, along with a manage-

able dose of paranoia, seemed to come with the job.

Just look at Worf he thought, or even the late Tasha

Yar.

"On the Enterprise," he replied to Leyoro, "one

learns to appreciate the occasional dull patch... as

long as they're not too long."

"If you say so, sir," she said, sounding uncon-

vinced. Her jet black hair was braided into a long

plait that hung halfway down her back. She patted the

type-1 phaser affixed to her hip. "I wouldn't want to

get too rusty."

"No danger of that, Lieutenant," Riker promised

her.

Indeed, Picard thought. On this mission alone, the

galactic barrier was nothing to take lightly. The real

danger would not begin until they arrived at their

destination. "Ensign Clarze," he addressed the pilot

at the conn station, a young Deltan officer fresh out of

the Academy. "How much longer to the edge of the

galaxy?"

Clarze consulted his display panel. Like all Del-

tans', his skull was completely hairless except for a

pair of light blond eyebrows. "Approximately seventy-

five hours," he reported promptly.

"Very good," Picard remarked. They were making

good time; with any luck, Geordi and Lem Faal

should be about ready to commence the experiment

by the time they arrived at the barrier. Picard contem-

plated the viewscreen before him, upon which the

Federation's outmost stars raced past the prow of the

Enterprise. The galactic barrier was still too far away

to be visible, of course, but he could readily imagine it

waiting for them, marking the outer boundaries of the

Milky Way and standing guard over perhaps the most

infinite horizon of all. He felt like Columbus or

Magellan, prepared to venture beyond the very edge

of explored space. Here there be dragons, he thought.

A sudden flash of white light, appearing without

warning at the front of the bridge, interrupted his

historical ruminations. Oh no, he thought, his heart

sinking. Not now!

He knew exactly what that brilliant radiance fore-

told, even before it blinked out of existence, leaving

behind a familiar personage in front of the main

viewer. "Q!" Picard blurted. Beside him, Will Riker

jumped to his feet while gasps of surprise and alarm

arose from the bridge crew, many of whom had never

personally encountered the infamous cosmic entity

before.

Standing stiffly at attention before them all, Q was

costumed even more colorfully than usual. For some

reason that Picard could only hope would become

evident, their unexpected visitor had assumed the

traditional garb of a Royal Guard at Buckingham

Palace, complete with a towering helmet of piled

black fur and a crisp red uniform adorned with golden

buttons and insignia. A white diagonal sash com-

pleted the outfit, along with a sturdy iron pike that he

grasped with both hands. He held the pike crosswise

before his chest, as though barring them from the

stars that streaked by on the screen behind him.

"Who goes there?" he intoned ominously.

Picard rose from his chair and confronted his

bizarrely attired adversary. "What is it, Q? What are

you up to this time?"

Q ignored his queries. He kept his expression fixed

and immobile, devoid of his customary smirk, like

one of the guards he emulated. "What is your name?"

he demanded in the same stentorian tone. "What is

your quest?"

Picard took a deep breath, determined not to let Q

get under his skin the way he invariably did. Even

though he had encountered Q on numerous occasions

m the past, he had never devised a truly satisfactory

strategy for dealing with the aggravating and unpre-

dictable superbeing. The sad fact of the matter, he

admitted silently, was that there was really no way to

cope with Q except to wait for him to tire of his latest

game and go away. No power the Federation pos-

sessed could make Q do anything he didn't want to.

Picard liked to think that he had scored a moral

victory or two against Q over the years, but here Q

was again, ready to try Picard's patience and torment

the Enterprise one more time. It's been over two

standard years since his last escapade, he thought,

remembering the disorienting trip through time that

Q had subjected him to the last time he intruded into

their lives. I should have known our luck was due to

run out.

"What is your quest?" Q repeated. He spun the

pike upward and rapped the bottom tip of the iron

spear against the duranium flooring, producing an

emphatic clang that hurt Picard's ears.

"You know full well who we are and why we're

here," he declared. "State your business."

Q's frozen features relaxed into a look of weary

annoyance. "Some people have no respect for the

classics," he sighed in something closer to his usual

voice. He clicked his tongue and the pike disappeared

in another blinding burst of light. "Really, Jean-Luc,

would it have killed you to play along?"

"No games, Q," Picard insisted. "What do you

want?"

Q clutched his hands to his heart, feigning a look of

aghast horror. "No games? Why, mon capitaine, you

might as well ask a sun not to blaze or a tribble not to

multiply." He glanced at ship's first officer, poised

beside his captain. "Oh, do sit down, Riker, you're

not impressing anyone with your manly posing. Ex-

cept maybe the counselor, that is, and even she can

see right through you." He snapped his fingers and

Riker was suddenly back in his chair, without having

moved a muscle himself. He glared at Q with a

ferocity that was nearly Klingon in its intensity, while

Troi looked like she would rather be anywhere else.

Why me? Picard thought. Q seemed to take peculiar

delight in afflicting him. "You don't need to show off

your powers to us," he said calmly, making what he

knew would be a futile attempt to reason with the

vainglorious demigod. "We are fully aware of your

capabilities." And then some, he added mentally. "I

am quite busy with other matters. For once, can't you

get straight to the point?"

Q looked back and forth before replying, as if

disinclined to be overheard. "Permit me to fill you in

on a little secret, my impatient friend. When you can

do anything, nothing is more boring than simply

doing it. Getting there isn't half the fun, it's the whole

enchilada." He winked at Picard and a drippy Mexi-

can entr6e appeared in the captain's hand. "Care for

one?"

Picard handed the enchilada back to Q and wiped

his greasy fingers on his trousers. He could feel his

blood pressure rising at a rate that would surely

distress Dr. Crusher. "No, thank you," he said coldly,

his temper ascending toward its boiling point. No

matter how many times it happened, he could never

get used to being made a fool of in front of his crew.

"Your loss," Q said with a shrug, taking a bite from

the snack. "Ah, hot and spicy. Reminds me of a

supernova I ignited once." Another thought appar-

ently occurred to him and his looming black hat went

away. He casually scratched a tuft of unruly brown

hair. "Enough of that. It was starting to itch like the

devil."

The greatest challenge in dealing with Q, Picard

reminded himself, was keeping in mind just how

dangerous he could be. Q's antics could be so ludi-

crous on the surface that it was easy to forget the very

real damage he could cause. Whenever Q appeared,

Picard made a point of remembering that Q's idea of

fun-and-games had already cost the lives of at least

eighteen crew members. Q hadn't killed those men

and women himself, of course, but he had been

perfectly willing to throw the entire ship into the path

of the Borg merely to make a point to Picard. Never

again, Picard vowed. He'd be damned if he'd let Q

sacrifice another human life on the altar of his omnip-

otent ego.

But how did you impose limits on a god?

Lieutenant Leyoro looked ready to try. She had

drawn her phaser on Q the moment he appeared, but,

to her credit, she had not attempted anything rash. No

doubt she was familiar with Q's history from the

ship's security logs. "Captain," she inquired, never

taking her eyes off Q, "shall I take the intruder into

custody?"

Picard shook his head. Why endanger Leyoro with

such a pointless exercise? "Thank you, Lieutenant,

but I'm afraid that Q is more like an unwanted guest,

at least for the time being."

"Your hospitality simply overwhelms me, Jean-

Luc," Q remarked sarcastically before turning his

gaze on Lieutenant Leyoro. "I see there have been

some improvements made." He sniffed the air.

"Could it be I no longer detect the barbaric aroma of

the ever-feral Mr. Woof?."

"Lieutenant Commander Worf," Picard corrected

him, "has accepted a position on Deep Space Nine."

"And good riddance, I say," Q said. A scale model

of Deep Space Nine appeared in front of him, floating

at just below eye level. Q stuck the soggy remains of

his enchilada onto one of the miniature docking

pylons. Tabasco sauce dripped onto the habitat ring.

"I visited that dreary place once. What a dump! I

couldn't wait to leave." He waved his hand and both

the station and the discarded meal vanished.

"That's not the way I heard it," Picard retorted.

Naturally, he had carefully studied all of Q's reported

appearances throughout the Federation. "According

to Captain Sisko's log, he punched you in the jaw and

you never came back." He contemplated his own

knuckles speculatively. "Hmmm, perhaps I should

have simply decked you years ago."

"I'd be happy to take a crack at it," Riker volun-

teered.

"Oh, please!" Q said, turning his eyes heavenward

but taking a few steps backward. "Really, Picard, with

all of creation within my reach, why would I ever

return to that woebegone sinkhole of a station? They

can't even get rid of the voles."

Despite a strong temptation to argue the point,

Picard refrained from defending Deep Space Nine. He

couldn't expect so flighty a creature as Q to under-

stand all that Benjamin Sisko and his officers had

accomplished there over the last several years. He felt

a stab of envy, though; Sisko had only the Dominion

and the Cardassians to deal with, not a nattering

narcissist whose delusions of godhood didn't even

have the decency to be delusions. I wonder if Sisko

wouM be willing to trade the Jem'Hadar for {2? he

thought. Picard would take that deal in a Scalosian

second.

"Still, I must congratulate you, Jean-Luc," Q per-

sisted, "in unloading that Klingon missing link. I'm

sure he'll fit in perfectly, in a depressingly 'honorable'

sort of way, with all the other malcontents and misfits

on that station." In the blink of an eye, he teleported

from the front of the bridge to the tactical station

behind Riker's chair. "Enchantd, mademoiselle," he

cooed at Baeta Leyoro, taking her hand and raising it

to his lips. "No doubt you have heard nothing but the

most extravagant praise of me."

Leyoro yanked her hand back in a hurry. "Listen,"

she snarled, "I don't care how powerful you're sup-

posed to be. Touch me again and I'll personally send a

quantum torpedo up yourre"

"Charmed," Q interrupted. He strolled away from

the tactical station, taking the long way around the

starboard side of the bridge. "Reminds me rather of

the late Natasha Yar. Do try to take better care of this

one, Jean-Luc."

Picard seethed inwardly. How dare Q make light of

Tasha's tragic death? What did an immortal being

even know about the pain and loss associated with

mortality? "That's enough, Q," he began, barely reining

in his anger.

But Q had already discovered another target. He

cocked his head in Data's direction. "What? Can it be

true? Did I actually detect a pang of genuine grief

from your positronic soul when I mentioned the

unfortunate Lieutenant Yar?" Q wandered over to

Ops and eyed the android quizzically. Data met his

frank curiosity with no visible signs of discomfort.

"Perhaps you are referring to the proper function-

ing of my emotion chip," he suggested helpfully.

"Indeed I am," Q affirmed, carefully inspecting

Data's skull. He crouched down and peered into one

of the android's synthetic ears. A beam like a penlight

shot from Q's index finger. For a second, Picard

feared that Q would simply take Data apart to inspect

the chip more closely, but then Q straightened up and

stepped away from Data's station. "So the Tin Man

finally found a heart... of a sort."

"That's enough, Q," Picard said forcefully, "and

this 'friendly' reunion has gone on long enough. If you

refuse to enlighten us as to the purpose of this

visitation, then I see no choice but to get on with our

business regardless of your presence." He returned to

his chair with every appearance of having dismissed

Q from his consciousness, then decided to check on

the status of Geordi and Lem Faal's efforts to prepare

for the experiment. He tapped his comm badge.

"Picard to Engineerre"

Q would not be so easily dismissed. Picard's badge

vanished from his chest, reappearing briefly between

Q's thumb and index finger before he popped the

stolen badge into his mouth and swallowed. "Deli-

cious," he remarked. "Not quite as filling as freshly

baked neutronium, but a tasty little morsel nonethe-

less."

"Q," Picard said ominously as Riker handed Pi-

card his own badge. "You are trying my patience."

"But, Jean-Luc, I haven't even remarked yet on

your spanking new Enterprise." He sauntered around

the bridge, running a white gloved finger along the

surface of the aft duty stations and checking it for

dust. "Did you think I wouldn't notice that you've

traded up?" He wandered over to the illuminated

schematic of the Enterprise-E on display at the back of

the bridge. "Very snazzy and streamlined, but some-

how it lacks the cozy, lived-in quality the old place

had. Whatever happened to that bucket of bolts

anyway? Don't tell me you actually let Troi take the

helm?"

Deanna gave Q a withering look, worthy of her

formidable and imperious mother, but otherwise de-

clined to rise to Q's bait. "Very well, Q," Picard said,

"it's obvious you've been keeping tabs on us. Now if

you don't mind, we have an urgent mission to com-

plete." He started to tap his badge once more, won-

dering if Q would let him complete his call to Geordi.

Of course not.

"Oh, that's right!" Q said, slapping his forehead.

"Your mission. However could I have forgotten?

That's why I'm here, to tell you to call the whole thing

off."

"What?" Picard hoped he hadn't heard Q correctly.

No such luck. "Your mission," Q repeated. "Your

big experiment. It's a bad idea, Jean-Luc, and, out of

the goodness of my heart, I've come to warn you."

With a flash of light, Q transported himself to directly

in front of the captain's chair. He leaned forward

until his face was only centimeters away from Pi-

card's. He spoke again, and this time his voice

sounded deadly serious. "Read my lips, Captain:

Don't even think about breaking the barrier."

Then he disappeared.

Interlude

I SMELL Q, he sniffed. Q smell I.

From behind the wall, across the ether, a familiar

odor tantalized his senses. Singular emanations,

nearly forgotten, impossible to mistake, aroused frag-

mented flashbacks of aeons past... and a personality

unlike any other.

Q, Q, that's who, he sang, Q is back, right on

cue.t

Musty memories, broken apart and reassembled

in a thousand kaleidoscopic combinations over the

ages, exploded again within his mind, sparking an

storm of stifled savagery and spite. It was atl Q's

fault after all, he recalled. False, faithless, forsaking

Q.

He wanted to reach out and wrap his claws around

the odor, wring it until it screamed, but he couldn't.

Not yet. It was still too far away, but getting closer and

closer, too. He flattened himself against the wall,

straining impatiently for each new omen of the apos-

tate's approach. A whiff on the cosmic winds. A ripple

in space-time. A shadow upon the wall. They all

pointed to precisely the same cataclysmic conclusion.

Q is coming. Coming is Q.

And he would be waiting ....

Chapter Four

How FAR COULD HE TRUST Q? That was the question,

wasn't it?

Picard brooded in his ready room, having turned

over the bridge to Riker so that he could wrestle with

the full implications of Q's warning in private. The

music of Carmen, the original French Radio record-

ings, played softly in the background. He sat pensively

at his desk as Escamillo sang his Toreador's Song, the

infectious melody decidingly at odds with his own

somber musings. Picard's weary eyes scanned the

dog-cared, leatherbound volumes that filled his book-

shelves, everything from Shakespeare to Dickens to

the collected poetry of Phineas Tarbolde of Canopus

Prime; precious though they were to him, none of the

books in his library seemed to offer any definitive

solution to the problem of establishing the veracity of

an erratic superbeing. At least, he reflected, Dante

could be confident that Virgil was telling him the

whole truth about the Divine Comedy; the possibility

of deceit was not an issue.

So could he believe Q when Q told him that

penetrating the barrier was a bad idea? The easy

answer was no. Q was nothing if not a trickster. Mon

Dieu, he had even posed as God Himself once. It was

very possible that Q had forbidden the Enterprise to

breach the barrier for the express reason of tricking

them into doing so; such reverse psychology was

certainly consistent with Q's convoluted ways. Nor

could Picard overlook Q's blatant disregard for the

immeasurable value of each human life. Part of me

will never forgive him for that first meeting with the

Borg.

On the other hand, Picard conceded a shade reluc-

tantly, Q's motives were not always malign. When he

had briefly lost his powers several years ago, Q had

surprised Picard by proving himself capable of both

gratitude and self-sacrifice. And every so often Q

hinted that he had Picard's best interests at heart.

But, he thought, with a friend like Q who needs

enemies? Picard still didn't entirely know what to

make of their last encounter; what had truly been the

point of that fragmented and disorienting excursion

through time? As was too often the case with Q, he

had seemed to be both thwarting and assisting Picard

simultaneously. The incident frustrated the captain to

this day; the more he turned that journey over in his

head, the less sense it seemed to make. Itg possible, I

suppose, that Q meant well that time around.

Even Q's most deadly prank, exposing them to the

Borg for the first time, had carried a bitter lesson for

the future; if not for Q, the Collective might have

caught the Federation totally unawares. But who

knew what Q's true purpose had been? He could have

as easily done so in a fit of pique. Or on a whim.

Whatever his personal feelings toward Q might be,

Picard knew he could not dismiss his advice out of

hand. He could not deny, as much as he would like to,

that Q was a highly advanced being in many respects,

privy to scientific knowledge far beyond the Federa-

tion's. There might well be some merit to his warning

regarding the barrier.

But was Starfleet willing to let the future of human-

oid exploration be dictated by a being like Q? That, it

seemed to him, was the real crux of the matter. Had

not Q himself once declared that the wonders of the

universe were not for the timid?

"So I did," Q confirmed, appearing without warn-

ing atop the surface of Picard's desk. "How stun-

ningly astute of you to remember, although, typically,

you've chosen the worst possible occasion to do so."

He shook his head sadly. "Wouldn't you know it? The

one time you choose to recall my words of wisdom,

it's to justify ignoring my most recent advice."

"I thought such paradoxes were your stock-in-

trade?" Picard said, unable to resist such an obvious

riposte.

"Touche," Q responded, "or rather I should say,

Old!" In fact, he had traded in his guardsman's

uniform for the more flamboyant costume of a tradi-

tional Spanish matador. A black felt montera rested

upon his scalp, above his glittering "coat of lights."

Golden rhinestones sparkled upon his collar, lapels,

and trousers. A thin green tie was knotted at his

throat, the chartreuse fabric matching the cummer-

bund around his waist. A scarlet cape was draped over

one arm, although Picard was relieved to see that this

would-be bullfighter had left his saber at home.

A strangely appropriate guise for Q, Picard ob-

served, doubtless inspired by my choice of music.

When he thought about it, Q had much in common

with an old-fashioned toreador. Both delighted in

teasing and provoking a so-called lesser species for

their own sadistic self-glorification. Bullfighting had

been banned on Earth since the latter part of the

twenty-first century, but Picard doubted that Q cared.

"What now?" he demanded. "Why are you here?"

"Votre toast je peux vous le rendre," Q sang in a

surprisingly strong baritone, "and one of these days

you might seriously think of offering me a drink, but,

anyway, it occurred to me that you might be more

likely to see reason in private, when you don't have to

strut and preen before your subordinates. Fine, I

appreciate your primitive human need to save face in

front of your crew. Now that we're alone, though, be a

good boy and turn this ship around. I have faith in

you, Picard. Who knows why. I'm sure you can think

of a suitably plausible excuse if you put your mind to

it."

Picard failed to appreciate Q's backhanded flattery.

He listened as patiently as he could, then spoke his

mind. "First, before you accuse anyone else of strut-

ting and preening, perhaps you should look in the

mirror. Second, I have no intention of abandoning my

mission unless you can provide me with a compelling

reason to do so. Third, get off my desk?

Q glanced down at his black rhinestone slippers,

located only a few centimeters below Picard's chin.

"Picky, picky," he clucked, transporting in a flash to

the floor facing the sturdy desk. "There, are you

happy now?"

"I am rarely happy when accosted by you," Picard

answered, holding up his hand to fend off another

volley of insults and repartee, "but I am willing to

listen to reason. Why, Q? I'm giving you a chance. Tell

me why we should stay within the barrier?"

"Well, why shouldn't you?" Q shot back, but his

heart didn't seem to be in it. He chewed on his lower

lip and fumbled awkwardly with the satin cape in his

hands while he appeared to wrestle with some inner

conflict. He opened his mouth, then hesitated, and for

a second Picard had an inkling that Q was actually on

the verge of saying something genuinely sincere and

heartfelt, perhaps ready for the first time to deal with

Picard as one equal to another. Pouring out his soul in

the background, Don Jos6, the tragic soldier of Bizet's

opera, found himself torn between his duty, his heart,

and his pride. Picard leaned forward, anxious to hear

what Q had to say.

Then the moment passed, and Q retreated to his

usual sarcastic demeanor. "Because I say so," he

added petulantly. "Really, Jean-Luc, for once in your

inconsequential blink of a lifetime, listen to me.

Don't let your bruised human ego blind you to my

superior wisdom."

"I thought I was about to listen to you," Picard

stated, more in sorrow than in anger, "and I don't

think it was my ego that got in the way." He decided

to tempt fate by pushing Q even harder. "If it's that

important, Q, why not simply send us home with a

wave of your hand? We both know you have the power

to do so."

"Forgive me, rnon capitaine,"Q groused, "but

perhaps I would prefer not to spend my immortality

standing guard over the barrier. I don't want Starfleet

sneaking back here every time I'm not looking. I

know how blindly stubborn and egomaniacal you

mortals are. You're not going to abandon your misbe-

gotten quest unless you think you have some say in

the matter."

"Then you must also understand," Picard an-

swered, "humanity's restless urge to explore, to see

beyond the next hill." He gestured toward the model

starships displayed behind glass on one side of the

room, each one a proud reminder of another starship

called Enterprise. "You're right about one thing. You

can turn us back if you want, even destroy this ship if

you deem it necessary, but we mortals, as you term

us, will not give up that easily. The starships will keep

coming, unless you can ccnavince me otherwise."

Q threw up his hands in mock despair. "You're

impossible, Picard, thoroughly impossible!" Music

soared in the background as the ecstatic citizens of

Seville celebrated the coming bullfight. "Well! I'm not

about to waste my time here while you're being so

pigheaded and primeval, but heed my words, Picard,

or you may not live to regret it." He swept his cape off

his arm and snapped it with a dramatic flourish.

"Ole!"

Q vanished, leaving Picard alone with his books

and Bizet. The problem with bullfights, he reflected

soberly, is that the bull usually ends up dead.

Chapter Five

DESPITE THE HOUR, the officers' lounge was quite busy.

Geordi La Forge spotted Sonya Gomez, Daniel Sut-

ter, Reg Barclay, and several other members of his

engineering team seated at various tables around the

ship's spacious lounge, trading rumors about Q's

most recent appearance, the upcoming assault on the

galactic barrier, and other hot topics of discussion.

The lights had been dimmed somewhat to give the

room more of a murky nightclub ambience, appropri-

ate to the approach of midnight.

Actually, it was a little too dark for his tastes,

Geordi decided, so he cybernetically adjusted the

light receptors of his optical implants, heightening the

visual contrast controls as well. Ah, that~ better, he

thought as Data's gleaming visage emerged from the

shadows. Not for the first time, Geordi regretted that

the Enterprise-D had been destroyed before he got his

implants. He would've liked to compare the old Ten-

Forward to this new place, yet the switch from his

VISOR to the implants made that more or less

impossible. The new lounge looked different, all right,

but was that because the ship had changed or because

his vision had? Probably a little bit of both, he guessed.

"It is quite puzzling," Data commented to Geordi.

"Spot now refuses to eat her cat food from anything

but round plates, even though she has eaten from both

round and square plates ever since she was a kitten."

"Cats are just like that," Geordi stated. "Where do

you think all those jokes about finicky felines came

from? I remember once Alexi, my old Circassian cat,

decided that he would only eat if I was eating.

Sometimes I'd have to fix myself an extra meal just to

get him to finish his dinner. Gained nearly seven

kilograms that summer. My parents had to buy me a

whole set of clothes for school."

"But it does not make sense, Geordi," Data per-

sisted. Clearly his pet's latest eccentricity was thor-

oughly baffling his positronic mind. "Why should

square plates suddenly become unacceptable for no

apparent reason? What if tomorrow she randomly

decides that she will only eat from round, blue

plates?"

Geordi chuckled. "Thank heaven for replicators

then." He felt a yawn coming on and didn't bother to

suppress it, knowing that the android would not be

offended. He and Professor Faal had only finished

their prep work less than an hour ago, and he really

needed to go to bed soon, but Geordi had learned

from experience that, after a day of strenuous mental

effort and technical challenges, his mind always

needed a little time to unwind before he even tried to

fall asleep, which is why he had dropped into the

lounge in the first place. Besides, he had been eager to

pump Data for details on Q's surprise visit to the

bridge.

He'd invited Lem Faal to join them, but the Beta-

zoid scientist had politely declined, pleading exhaus-

tion. Nothing too suspicious there, he thought, keeping

in mind what Deanna thought she had sensed about

Faal. No doubt the Iverson's had reduced the profes-

sor's stamina to some degree. He wished he had more

to report to the captain, either to confirm or refute the

counselor's suspicions, but, aside from that brief-but-

ugly tantrum after Barclay had almost wrecked his

equipment, Faal had been on his best behavior. Too

bad all big-name Federation scientists aren't so easy to

get along with. In his capacity as chief engineer

aboard the flagship of the fleet, Geordi had worked

alongside many of the most celebrated scientific

minds in the entire quadrant, and some of them, he

knew, could be real prima donnas. Like Paul Man-

heim, Bruce Maddox, or that jerk Kosinski. By com-

parison, Lem Faal struck him as normal enough, at

least for a genius dying of an incurable disease.

"Another round of drinks, gentlemen?"

Geordi looked up to see a cheerful, round-faced

Bolian carrying a tray of refreshments. His bright blue

cheeks were the exact color of Romulan ale.

"Thanks," Geordi answered. "Nothing too strong,

though. I've got a lot of work in the morning."

Neslo nodded knowingly. "Just as I anticipated.

One hot synthehol eider for you," he said, placing a

steaming translucent mug on the table, "and for Mr.

Data, a fresh glass of silicon lubricant." Complete

with a tiny paper umbrella, Geordi noted with amuse-

ment. I wonder whose idea that was, Neslo s or Data's?

He could never tell what his android friend was going

to come up with next, especially now that Data was

experimenting with genuine emotions.

The blue-skinned bartender was handing the drink

to Data when a flare of white light caught them all by

surprise. The rest of the drinks tumbled from Neslo's

tray, crashing upon the floor, but no one was watching

his mishap, not even Neslo. Every eye in the lounge

was drawn to the spot by the bar where the flash burst

into existence. Blinking against the sudden glare, and

wishing that he hadn't turned up his optical receptors

after all, Geordi reacted at once, tapping his comm

badge and barking, "La Forge to Security. Q is in the

officers' lounge!"

Or maybe not. When the light faded, he saw to his

surprise that the figure he had expected, Q in all his

perverse smugness, was not there. Instead he gazed

upon what appeared to be a humanoid woman and a

small child. "Fascinating," he heard Data remark.

The woman looked to be about thirtyish in age,

slender and tall, with pale skin and a confident air.

She was dressed for a safari, with a pith helmet, khaki

jacket and trousers, and knee-high brown boots. A

veil of mosquito netting hung from the brim of her

helmet and she held on to the child's tiny hand while

her free hand raised an ivory lorgnette before her

eyes. She peered through the mounted lenses and

looked about her, seemingly taking stock of her sur-

roundings. She did not appear either impressed or

intimidated.

"Well, at least it's a bit more spacious than that

other vessel," she commented to the child, quite

unconcerned about being overheard, "although what

your father sees in these creatures I still can't compre-

hend."

The toddler, a little boy clad in a spotless white

sailoffs suit with navy-blue trimming, held an orang-

ish ball against his chest as he searched the room with

wide, curious eyes. Geordi, remembering his own

little sister at roughly the same age, estimated that the

boy was no more than two or three years old. "Dad-

dy?" he inquired. "Daddy?"

Data, as the highest-ranking officer present, ap-

proached the strangers. "Greetings," he declared.

Geordi rose from his chair to follow behind the

android. Bits of glass crunched beneath his feet as he

accidentally stepped into a puddle of spilled synthe-

hol and lubricant gel. Yuck, he thought as the syrupy

mess clung to the soles of his boots.

The crackle of the shattered glasses attracted the

woman's attention. "Disgraceful," she said, staring

through the lorgnette at the remains of Neslo's metic-

ulously prepared drinks, "leaving sharp edges like

that lying around where any child might find them."

She lowered the lorgnette and there was another flash

of light at Geordi's feet. When he looked down again,

the entire mess, both the spilled liquids and the

fragments of glass, had completely disappeared. The

floor shone as if it had been freshly polished. Uh-oh,

he thought, I think I see where this is heading.

"Children are not customarily permitted in the

officer's lounge," Data explained evenly. "I am Lieu-

tenant Commander Data of the Federation starship

Enterprise. Whom do I have the privilege of ad-

dressing?"

Bet I can answer that one, Geordi thought. If the

lady was not in fact Q in disguise, then she had to be a

relation of some sort. That little trick with broken

glass cinched it as far as he was concerned.

The woman looked skeptically at Data, as though

noticing him for the first time. "A clockwork human-

oid," she observed. "How quaint."

"Robot? the child chirped happily. "Robot!"

"I am an android," Data volunteered. "And you

are?"

"Q," she replied haughtily.

The double doors at the entrance to the lounge

snapped open, faster than was usual, and Baeta Le-

yoro charged into the lounge, brandishing a type-3

phaser rife. Two more security officers followed hot

on her heels, each armed with an equally impressive

firearm. "Where is he?" she demanded, searching the

room with her eyes.

The security team's dramatic arrival startled the

little boy. His ball slipped from his hand, landing with

a surprisingly solid thunk and rolling across the floor.

Tears poured from his eyes and he let out an ear-

piercing wail that Geordi guessed could be heard all

over the ship. Lieutenant Leyoro, confronted by a

crying toddler rather than Q as she had expected,

looked a bit surprised as well. The muzzle of her rifle

dipped toward the floor.

"Now see what you've done," clucked the woman

who called herself Q. She waved her lorgnette like a

magic wand and all three phaser rifles disappeared.

Turning her back on Leyoro and the others, she knelt

to console the child. "There, there, baby. Those

naughty lower life-forms can't hurt you. Mornroy's

here."

The boy's frightened cries diminished, much to the

relief of Geordi's eardrums, replaced by a few quiet

sniffles and sobs. The woman's lorgnette transformed

instantly into a silk handkerchief and she wiped the

child's runny nose. Leyoro stared in amazement at

her suddenly empty hands, then eyed the woman with

a new wariness. Only Data appeared unfazed by the

most recent turn of events.

"Lieutenant Commander?" Leyoro asked the an-

droid, keeping her gaze on the woman.

"Permit me to introduce Q," Data replied, but

Leyoro did not look satisfied with his answer. The

skeptical expression on her face was that of a person

who thought someone else was trying to pull a fast

onewand was going to regret it if she had anything to

do about it.

"I've met Q," she said. "This doesn't look like

him."

"I believe," Data elaborated, "that we are encoun-

tering another representative of the Q Continuum."

"Well, of course," the woman stated. She lifted the

snuffling child and rested his head against her shoul-

der. "Even a bunch of unevolved primates such as

yourselves should be able to figure that out without

the help of a mechanical man." She patted the child

gently on his back while she glared at the crowd of

men and women surrounding her. "I am Q," she

insisted.

Another Q, Geordi thought in wonder, and a baby Q

as well! He hoped that this woman was less irresponsi-

ble and more congenial than the Q they were accus-

tomed to. So far we don't seem to have gotten off to a

very good start.

Hoping to salvage this first-contact scenario, he

scurried under a table to retrieve the child's ball. The

orange globe was about the size of a croquet ball and

heavier than he expected, like a ball of a concrete. It

also felt distinctly warm to the touch. Shifting to

infrared mode, he was surprised to discover that the

globe had a core of red-hot, molten ore. Wait a second,

he thought, increasing the magnification on his opti-

cal sensors. A cracked, rocky surface came into view,

with odd-looking craters and outcroppings: hills and

valleys, mesas and canals, riverbeds, plateaus, and

mountain ranges.

"Er, Data," he said, carrying the ball ever more

gingerly toward the woman and her child. "I'm not

sure, but I think this is a planet."

Even Data appeared a trifle nonplussed by Geordi's

announcement. He paused only a second before tap-

ping his comm badge. "Captain, I believe we need you

in the officers' lounge immediately."

"I'm on my way," Picard answered.

Interlude

Swift As IT WAS, the turbolift ride to the guest quarters

felt interminable to Lem Faal. His body was too

anxious to rest in the privacy of his own suite, while

his mind resented the loss of any of his precious time.

He had too much to do, and too little time to do it, to

waste precious seconds simply getting from one place

to another. The restrictions of mere physicality

chafed at him, filling him with bitter anger at the

sheer injustice of the universe. By the Fourth House,

he thought, I can't even depend on my own pathetic

body anymore.

In fact, his legs ached to shed the burden of

supporting his weight. Every day he felt the effects of

Iverson's more and more. It wasn't only in his lungs

anymore; now the creeping weakness and shortness of

his breath had undermined both his strength and his

stamina, leaving him ever slower to recover after each

new exertion. Working with Chief Engineer La Forge

all day had left him exhausted and badly in need of

rest. His breath wheezed in and out of his heaving

chest, bringing him little in the way of sustaining

oxygen. The experiment has to succeed, he mused as

the turbolift came to a stop. I can't endure this much

longer.

He staggered out of the lift into the corridor,

grateful that none of the Enterprise crew were present

to witness his debilitated state. The entrance to his

quarters was only a short walk away; Faal felt as

though he'd trudged across the scorched plains of

Vulcan's Forge, through as thin an atmosphere, by the

time he got to his door, which slid open at his

approach, concealed sensors confirming his identity.

Overhead lights came on automatically, illuminating

the chambers beyond.

Captain Picard had generously provided Faal and

his children with the best accommodations upon the

Enterprise. The generously appointed suite was a

contrast to the cramped Betazoid transports he had

traveled on in his youth, in which open space had

been at quite a premium. There were some advan-

tages, he reflected, to living in the latter part of the

twenty-fourth century. He could only hope that he

would somehow live to see the dawn of the twenty-

fifth, no matter how unlikely that seemed at this

moment.

Despising his own mortal frailty, he sank onto the

couch, a sigh of relief escaping his lips despite his

determination to defy the ravages of his disease. His

breathing remained labored, and his fingers toyed

with the hypospray in his pocket. He considered

giving himself another dose of medicine, but decided

against it; the polyadrenaline helped his breathing,

true, but it sometimes kept him awake as well. I might

as well sleep, he thought. There's nothing more I can

do until the ship nears the barrier.

He had faith in his technology, but the unexpected

arrival of this "Q" character troubled him. Although

he had not actually witnessed the mysterious entity's

manifestation upon the bridge, La Forge had in-

formed him of some of the ways Q had previously

harassed the crew of the Enterprise. The engineering

chief had taken care to emphasize that Q was more

mischievous than dangerous, although Faal suspected

La Forge of holding back many of the more alarming

details, but his appearance now, on the very brink of

the most important experiment of Faal's lifetime,

could not bode well. What if Q seriously tried to

obstruct the experiment? How could anyone stop

him? Faal had heard about creatures like Q before;

such supremely powerful energy beings had been

known to Federation science since at least the Or-

ganian Peace Treaty of 2267. And there were other

strange forces at work in the universe, he knew, forces

glimpsed only in prophecies and dreams ....

Faal felt the hand of destiny upon him. In a way,

Q's intervention only confirmed the ailing scientist's

conviction that he was on the verge of a breakthrough

of apocalyptic proportions. The inexorable tide of

evolution carried him forward and he would let no

one stop him, not even a godlike being like Q. He

shook his fist at the unseen entity, his entire frame

trembling with fervor. Do your worst, he defied Q.

Greater powers than you propel me and they will not be

denied.

Exhausted by this spontaneous outpouring of emo-

tion, Faal sagged forward, his chin dipping against his

chest. Milo and Kinya were away at the Enterprise's

child-care center, he recalled. He needed to collect

them eventually, of course, but not right away; he

didn't have the strength to cope with two demanding

youngsters, not the way he was currently feeling. The

children were in capable hands. He'd try to sleep a

few hours first.

It was a mistake bringing the children on this

mission in the first place. He had neither the strength

nor the time to look after youngsters and conduct his

experiment at the same time. He would have left them

behind on Betazed, but the counselors had been too

insistent, in their relentlessly compassionate way, to

resist. Perhaps I shouM have put up more of aright, he

thought. There was no room for the children in what

remained of his life. They would have to learn to get

by without him, one way or another. He had to keep

his mind and priorities focused on the larger picture;

ultimately, mere biological offspring were no substi-

tute for the sort of immortality he sought. Anyone

who thought otherwise had not stared into oblivion as

hard as he had been forced to.

Shozana would not agree, he suspected, a pang of

guilt going almost unnoticed amid his other constant

aches and pains, but, in a very real sense, it was his

late wife who had brought him to this critical junc-

ture. Her death in that transporter mishap was the

defining moment that taught him the true imperma-

nence of physical existence ....

There had been no warning at all. Shozana had

stepped lightly onto the transporter pad, then turned

to wave back at him, her russet hair gleaming in the

warm afternoon sunlight that poured through the

clear crystal skylights of the public transport station.

See you soon, she thought to him as a young trans-

operator, who looked like he ought to be in school, not

behind a control panel, prepared to beam her to a

xenobiology conference in the southern hemisphere.

Enjoy yourself he thought back. We'll be fine. There

had really been no reason why he had accompanied

her to the station that day--it wasn't as if she was

leaving on a starship or something--but he had done

so anyway. It was a ritual of theirs, one that had

always brought them luck before. Love you, they

thought to each other simultaneously.

Her body evaporated in the golden shimmer of the

transporter effect, and he started to leave--until he

saw the ashen look on the face of the operator. "What

is it? What's happening?" he called out, knowing at

once something was wrong, but the panicky youth

ignored his cries. His face pale and bloodless, the

operator frantically worked the controls while bab-

bling urgently to his counterpart at the other end of

the transmission about a "pulsar surge" and "losing

the pattern." Faal couldn't follow what the young fool

was saying, but the truth hit home with heartbreaking

clarity. Shozana was gone ....

In the end, there hadn't even been a body to bury.

Her signal lost, her flesh and spirit reduced to an

entropic stream of disordered particles, Shozana Faal

had ceased to exist in the space of a moment. Right

then and there, Leto Faal saw the shape of the future.

Physical existence was not enough; it was too brief

and insubstantial. His own body was disintegrating

much more slowly than Shozana's had, but just as

inevitably. Soon his pattern, too, would be lost.

An evolutionary breakthrough was required, a tran-

scendent leap to a higher level of being. The old,

onerous limitations of the past had to be overcome

once and for all. Breaking the galactic barrier was

only the first step ....

Fatigue overwhelmed his fervent ambitions. Un-

able to traverse the terrible gulf between the couch

and his bedroom, he closed his eyes and collapsed

into sleep beneath the bright overhead lights. He

twitched restlessly upon the couch, visions of apothe-

osis filling his dreams.

Chapter Six

ASIDE FROM THE TWO COMMAND OFFICERS, La Forge and

Data, and Lieutenant Leyoro's security team, the

lounge had been largely evacuated by the time Picard

arrived. A wise precaution, he decided. If this new

Q chose to start turning people into frogs right and

left, the fewer warm bodies around the better. He

took comfort in knowing that, should anything hap-

pen to him, Will Riker was safely in charge of the

bridge.

Data had brought him up to speed while he took

the turbolift from his ready room to the lounge, so he

was not surprised to see the woman and the child

waiting for him. The woman had a distinctly imperi-

ous air about her that reminded Picard far too much

of her infuriating male counterpart; he flattered

himself that he could have identified her as a Q even

if he hadn't been warned in advance. He took note of

her unusual costume as well. No doubt, he realized,

she thinks she's on an expedition among savages. The

child, whose scream he had indeed heard nine decks

away, he spotted sitting crosslegged on a tabletop

nearby, playing with his... planet?

Picard repressed a shudder at the thought of what

this small boy might be capable of. Dealing with

children of any sort was never one of his favorite

things to do, but an omnipotent child? Wesley was

difficult enough on occasion, and he had merely been

a prodigy.

Leyoro met him at the door and escorted him to the

woman, who scanned him from head to toe with an

appraising look. "You must be the one he talks about

all the time," she said, mostly to herself. "Luke John,

isn't it?"

"I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Starship

Enterprise, "he informed her. He had no doubt whom

the "he" she had mentioned referred to, and couldn't

help wondering what Q might have told her about

him. Nothing very complimentary, I'm sure. "May I

ask what brings you here?"

She removed her pith helmet and laid it down on an

empty chair. Auburn curls tumbled down to her

shoulders, framing her face. If nothing else, she was a

good deal more attractive than the usual Q. Her face

looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place where

he might have seen her before.

"I'm looking for my husband," she declared. "Be-

sides, I've always meant to find out why Q finds this

primitive vessel so interesting." She glanced around,

then shrugged her shoulders. "I must admit, I don't

see it yet, but now that we have a family I intend to

share more of his interests, however bizarre and

unappealing."

"Your husband," Picard repeated, momentarily

flummoxed. The only thing more disturbing than the

idea of Q married was the realization that he had

actually reproduced. Just what the universe needs, he

thought, a chip off the old block. He looked over at the

empty bar, wishing Guinan were there. She knew a lot

more about the Q Continuum than she usually let on.

He generally preferred to respect her privacy regard-

ing her sometimes mysterious past, but he could cer-

tainly have used her advice now. I wonder ifI should

contact Earth and have her put on a shuttle right away?

Probably a bit drastic, he decided. God knows I've

coped with the other Q on my own more times than I

care to remember.

"You are correct," he told the woman. "Q was here,

a few hours ago, but he has departed."

"Nonsense," she said, looking past him. "He's here,

all right. Q," she said firmly, placing her hands on her

hips. "Show yourself."

"You called, dearest?" an unmistakable voice rang

out, accompanied by a flash of light. Picard spun

around to see Q materialize atop the bar counter,

stretched out on his side like a model posing for a

portrait. He had traded in his anachronistic mata-

dor's garb for an up-to-date Starfleet uniform. "Hon-

ey, I'm home!"

"This is not your home," Pieard barked automati-

cally. Q disappeared in a flash, then reappeared next

to his alleged spouse. It briefly registered on Picard

that this was the first time he had seen Q in the new

plum-colored uniforms instituted shortly before the

Borg Queen's assault on the Earth. As usual, the sight

of Q in uniform seemed grossly inappropriate and

offensive.

"Oh, don't be such a sourpuss, Jean-Luc," Q re-

plied. "Allow me to introduce you to my better half,

Q." He teleported over to the adjacent table and

patted the child on the head. "And this, of course, is

little q."

"Daddy!" the boy said gleefully. In his excitement,

he forgot to hold on to his "ball," which rolled

inexorably toward the edge of the table. With a muted

cry of alarm, Geordi La Forge ran over and caught the

sphere right as it went over the brink. He let out a sigh

of relief and turned toward Picard.

"It doesn't look like an M-class planet," the engi-

neer informed his captain, "but who can be sure?"

"I can," Q stated flatly, taking back the globe from

Geordi, who hesitated for a heartbeat before surren-

dering it. Q grinned and gently shook his finger at the

child. "How many times have I told you to be more

careful with your toys? Let's put this back into its

solar system where it belongs." The orange sphere

vanished from sight. "That's a good boy."

This picture of Q as a doting and responsible parent

was almost more than Picard could stomach. He

didn't know whether to laugh or grimace, so he spoke

to the mother instead. "I am happy to meet you," he

said diplomatically. "I was unaware that Q had a

family."

"Oh, it's a new development," Q explained cheer-

fully. He snapped his fingers and a rain of white rice

descended on the lounge. "We're newlyweds. Isn't it

delightful?" The deluge of grain ceased and Q re-

joined his bride at her side. "Sorry we couldn't invite

you to the ceremony, Jean-Luc, but it was something

of a shotgun wedding." He winked at the female Q, as

if sharing a private joke with her. A generous assort-

ment of fragrant red roses appeared in the woman's

arms. "I'd offer to rethrow the bouquet, but I see that

neither the counselor nor Dr. Crusher is present." He

raised his hand in front of Picard's face and rubbed

his thumb and his index finger together. "Of course, I

can always remedy that situation."

"Leave Counselor Troi and the doctor where they

are," Picard said more quickly than his pride would

have preferred. He didn't know for sure that either

Beverly or Deanna was sleeping, but he knew that

neither woman would appreciate being yanked from

whatever she was doing merely to serve as the butt of

one of Q's puerile jokes. He angrily brushed the fallen

rice off his uniform while his fellow crew members

did the same. Curiously, not a grain appeared to have

stuck to either Q.

"Spoilsport," Q said with a scowl. He exchanged a

look with his wife. "See what I mean about him?"

The woman gave Picard another frank appraisal. "I

still don't understand," she admitted. "He doesn't

seem very amusing."

He gave her an affectionate peck on the cheek.

"That's because, darling, you've forgotten the an-

cient, primeval concept of the straight man."

Her eyes lit up. "Oh, now I see it." She blushed and

peered at Q through her lashes as if mildly scandal-

ized. "But, Q, that's so... carbon-based of you!"

"Isn't it just?" he said, preening. They both tittered

slyly at his apparent outrageousness. The child, seeing

his parents laughing, started giggling as well, although

Picard rather suspected the boy didn't get the joke.

He wasn't sure he wanted to either, although he

derived a degree of satisfaction and relief from this

confirmation that Q was considered something of a

reprobate and rascal even among his own kind. The

idea of an entire race of godlike beings just as mis-

chievous and troublesome as Q was enough to fill him

with utter dread. I suppose it's too much to hope, he

thought, that Q will settle down now that he's a

husband and a father.

As often happened with toddlers, the child's attack

of the giggles escalated to a full-scale bout of hysteri-

cal silliness. He began bouncing up and down on the

tabletop, shrieking at the top of his lungsmwhich

sounded like it was in the upper decibel range. Every-

one except Data and the elder Q's covered their ears

to keep out the deafening peals of laughter. The

android hurried toward the table, evidently con-

cerned that the boy might fall and hurt himself, but

the pint-sized entity Q had christened q slipped from

between Data's arms and hurled himself upward,

ricocheting off the ceiling and bouncing around the

lounge like a rubber ball flung with the force of a

particle accelerator. The child struck the floor only

centimeters from Picard's feet, then took off at an

angle toward Leyoro and the security team. They

yelped in unison and dropped to the floor only an

instant before q zipped by overhead. Chairs and

tables went flying in all directions as q collided with

them, and Geordi and Data took cover behind the

bar. A bottle shattered and the smell of Saurian

brandy filled the lounge, soon joined by the clashing

aromas of Gamzain wine and Trixian bubble juice. Q

and Q beamed at each other as their hyperactive

offspring wreaked havoc throughout the lounge. Pi-

card saw their lips move and, even though he couldn't

hear a thing over the child's wild laughter, felt sure

they were saying something like, "Isn't he adorable?

Picard knew he had lost control of the situation,

nothing new where any Q was concerned. "Q!" he

shouted, not caring which one heard him. "Stop this

at once!"

Q conferred with his spouse, who shrugged and

nodded her head. He surveyed the chaos, smiled

proudly, then clapped his hands. The silence was

immediate. Picard noticed the absence of the din a

second before he realized that he was no longer in

the lounge.

None of them were. Picard looked around in

amazement and discovered that he, Data and Geordi,

the security team, and all three Q's had been instanta-

neously transported to the bridge of the Enterprise. It

was a close call who was the most surprised, the

bridge crew or the new arrivals. Riker leaped from the

captain's chair, his eyes wide and his mouth open.

"Captain!" he exclaimed.

"At ease, Number One," Picard assured him. He

cocked his head toward the Q family, knowing that

was all the explanation that was required. The baby q

now rested securely within his father's arms, while

Picard found himself standing between the command

area and Ops. Baeta Leyoro rushed over to the

tactical console and stood guard over the weapons

controls.

Riker got it, untensing his aggressive stance only a

little. A newly replicated comm badge adorned his

chest. "I see," he said, glaring suspiciously at Q. "And

the woman and child?"

"Q's wife and heir." Riker's jaw dropped again, and

Picard shook his head to discourage any further

inquiries. "Don't ask. I'll explain later, if I can." He

turned and confronted the omnipotent trio. "Q?" he

demanded.

Q, the usual Q, lowered his child to the floor and

strolled toward Picard with a look of unapologetic

assurance on his face. "I felt it was time for a change

in venue," he said, loudly enough for all to hear. Q

glanced furtively at his mate, who was inspecting the

aft engineering station, and whispered in Picard's ear.

"To be honest, that other place reeked too much of

her."

"Guinan?" Picard asked aloud. He found it hard to

imagine that Q could truly be honest about anything.

"Don't say that name!" Q hissed, but it was too

late. The woman glowered at Q the second Picard

mentioned the former hostess of Ten-Forward, then

huftily turned her back on him. She took her son by

the hand and took him on a tour of the bridge.

"I'm going to pay for that," Q predicted mourn-

fully, "and so will you--someday."

Picard refused to waste a single brain cell worrying

about Q's domestic tranquillity. Perhaps Q had inad-

vertently done him a favor in returning them all to the

bridge. The best thing he could do now was ignore Q's

attempts to distract him and get on with the business

of running the Enterprise. He took his place in the

captain's chair and swiftly assessed the crew assign-

ments. "Mr. Data, please relieve Ensign Stefano at

Ops. Mr. La Forge, if you could arrange to send a

repair crew to the lounge."

"You needn't bother, Captain," the female Q com-

mented. "Any and all damage has been undone. Your

tribal watering hole has been restored to its pristine, if

woefully primitive, condition." As an afterthought,

she lifted a hand and retrieved her pith helmet from

the ether.

"Thank you," Picard said grudgingly. Despite her

condescending attitude, which seemed to go along

with being a Q, he entertained the hope that this new

entity might prove less immature than her mate.

Heaven help us if she s worse, he thought. "Never

mind, Mr. La Forge." He glanced at the chronometer,

which read 0105. "You're relieved from duty if you

wish."

"If it's all the same to you," Geordi said, crossing

the bridge to the engineering station, "I think I'd

rather stay here and keep an eye on things."

Picard didn't blame him. How often did they have

three omnipotent beings dropping by for a visit? He

considered summoning Counselor Troi to the bridge,

then rejected the notion; Deanna's empathic powers

had never worked on Q and his ilk.

"Besides," GeordJ added, "there's still plenty I can

do here to get ready for the experiment." He manipu-

lated the controls at his station. "Data, let's double-

check to see if the parameters for the subspace matrix

have been fully downloaded into the main computer."

"Yes, Com--" Data began to answer, but Q inter-

rupted, literally freezing the android in midsentence.

He laid his hand on the flight controls and shook his

head sadly.

"Jean-Luc, I'm very disappointed with you. I can't

help noticing that your little ship is still on course for

what you ignorantly call the galactic barrier." He

sighed loudly and instantly traded places with Ensign

Clarze at the conn. The displaced crewman stood in

front of the main viewer, blinking and befuddled.

"How about a little detour? I hear the Gamma Quad-

rant is lovely this time of year." His fingers danced

over the comm and the distant stars veered away on the

screen. "We could take the scenic route."

Picard didn't know what indignity to protest first.

Did Q really think he could cancel their mission just

by silencing Data? Riker appeared more worried

about the flight controls. He strode over to the corm

and dropped a heavy hand on Q's shoulder. "Get out

of that seat, Q!"

"Overdosing on testosterone again, Number One,"

he asked, not budging a centimeter, "or are you

merely picking up the slack now that everyone's

favorite atavism, the redoubtable Worf, is gone?"

"I'm warning you, Q," Riker said with emphasis.

Picard admired his first officer's nerve. Q had them

hopelessly outmatched in raw power, but maybe

Riker could prevail through sheer force of personality.

Stranger things had happened.

"Oh, very well," Q grumbled, rising from the chair.

Riker nodded at Ensign Clarze, who gulped once,

then resumed his place at the conn. "I hardly wanted

to steer this pokey hulk for the rest of eternity." He

gave Riker a disgusted look. "I can't believe I ever saw

fit to offer you the powers of a Q."

That piqued the other Q's interest. "This is the

one?" she asked, her mysterious grudge against Q and

Guinan forgotten for the moment. She walked over

and circled Riker, then placed her hand over her

mouth and tried, not very successfully, to keep from

laughing. The baby q mimicked his mother's merri-

ment. "Well, that would have certainly shaken up the

Continuum. Small wonder they stripped you of your

powers after that."

"Don't remind me," he said sullenly. Caught up in

their quarrel, neither Q seemed to notice as the

Enterprise returned to its previous heading. Picard

thanked providence for small favors, but his frown

deepened as his gaze fell upon the frozen form of

Data. The android officer remained immobile, his

mouth open in silent reply to his captain's inquiry.

"Q!" he barked, unwilling to let his first officer take

on all the risks of defying Q.

"Yes?" the two elder Q's replied simultaneously.

Picard felt a headache coming on. "You," he speci-

fied, pointing at his longtime nemesis. "Restore Mr.

Data immediately."

That Q glanced impatiently at the inert android, as

though Data were a minor annoyance already dis-

missed from his mind. "Priorities please, Jean-Luc.

We still haven't settled this matter of the barrier."

"Might I remind you, Q," Picard observed, "that

Mr. Data once saved your life, at considerable risk to

his own existence."

For once, Q looked vaguely taken aback. He gazed

back at the android with a chastened expression. "But

surely," he blustered, "I have repaid that debt many

times over with my invaluable services to this vessel."

"Reasonable people might dispute that point," Pi-

card said dryly. He lifted his eyes to espy the female Q

and her child. "Your family is here, Q. Is this really

the example you wish to set for them?"

Q peeked back over his shoulder at the woman and

the boy. His wife raised a curious eyebrow. The child

sucked on his thumb, watching Q with awe and

adoration.

"Fine!" he said indignantly. He pantomimed a

pistol with his thumb and index finger and pointed it

at Data's head. "Bang."

"--tenant," Data finished, coming back to life. He

paused and assumed a contemplative expression.

"How unusual. There appears to be a discrepancy

between my internal chronometer and the ship's

computer." He surveyed the bridge until his gaze fell

upon the party of Q's. "May I assume that one of our

visitors is responsible?"

"Precisely so," Picard confirmed, relieved that

Data appeared to be back to normal. "Now then, Mr.

Data, you were about to inform Mr. La Forge of the

status of a particular computer program."

"Really, Jean-Luc!" Q complained, storming up to

the command area. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear

you were beginning to take me for granted." He shook

a warning finger at Picard. "You really shouldn't do

that, you know. You're not the only Starfleet captain I

can bestow my attentions on, in this or any other

quadrant."

What does he mean by that? Picard wondered,

although he was far more concerned with the report

from Data that Q seemed so determined to postpone.

"I'm sure Captain Sisko would welcome a second

round of fisticuffs," he told Q, then turned his atten-

tion back to Data. "Please proceed with your report."

Data eyed Q curiously, waiting for a second to see if

the impertinent entity would interrupt him a third

time, but Q seemed to have given up for the present.

Q leaned sideways against a nonexistent pillar, look-

ing rather like a gravity-defying mime, and pouted

silently.

"It appears that the program is showing a degree of

calibration drift," Data stated. "It is possible that an

unknown fraction of the data may have been lost

during the start-up routine."

Picard paid little attention to the specifics of the

problem, which Data and Geordi were surely capable

of resolving, but found it eminently reassuring to hear

the business of the ship proceeding despite the pres-

ence of their unwanted visitors. Displaying a similar

hope that order had been restored, Riker took his

place at the starboard auxiliary command station.

"Well," Geordi replied to Data, "that explains the

eight percent falloff in AFR ratios I keep seeing." His

artificial eyes zeroed in on the engineering monitor as

he scratched his head. "There must be a problem in

the diagnostic subroutines. Maybe we need to com-

pletely recalibrate."

"Captain," Leyoro spoke up, her face grim, "I have

to protest any discussion of a top-secret mission in

front of these unauthorized civilians." She eyed the Q

trio dubiously. "All details of a technological nature

are strictly classified."

"As if we would have any interest in your pathetic

little scientific secrets," Q said scornfully. "You might

as well try to hide from us the secret of fire. Or maybe

the wheel."

"Wheel!" the baby q chirped, and began rotating

slowly above the floor until his mother set him

upright again. Thankfully, he was not inspired to

summon fire.

"Your point is well taken, Lieutenant," Picard said,

sympathizing with Leyoro's concerns; on one level, it

felt more than a little strange to be conducting this

discussion in front of a party of intruders. "But I'm

afraid that Q is correct in this instance. Realistically,

it is doubtful that the Federation possesses any tech-

nological secrets that the Q Continuum could possi-

bly covet." Besides, he admitted silently, there was

little point in concealing their efforts; Q had proved

time and time again that he was supremely capable of

spying on them regardless of the time or place. "You

may proceed with your work, gentlemen."

"Must they?" Q asked peevishly. "It's all academic

anyway. There isn't going to be an experiment."

Geordi did his best to ignore Q. "Now I'm getting a

drop-off in the triple-R output," he informed Data.

"We might have a bigger problem than the diagnostic

subroutines."

"Possibly," Data conceded, "but it could simply be

a transtator failure. That would also be consistent

with calibration errors of this nature."

"And so on and so on," Q broke in, his voice

dripping with boredom. He righted himself until he

was perpendicular to the floor once more. "Are you

done yet? We have infinitely more important matters

to get back to."

Q's offspring, Picard noted, no matter how young

he might actually be, seemed to possess a greater

reserve of patience than his egomaniacal father. "Mr.

Data," he said, "I do not pretend to be intimately

acquainted with the finer points of Professor Faal's

computer programs. Do you anticipate any difficulties

working out these problems prior to our arrival at the

barrier?"

"No, sir," Data said. Fortunately, the android did

not require sleep like the rest of them, although Data

often chose to simulate a dormant state in order to

further his exploration of humanity, so Picard had no

doubt that Data would work through the night if

necessary.

Q yawned, and not from fatigue. "Are we quite

through with this dreary business?" he inquired. A

nervous-looking Ensign Clarze, who was surely less

than eager to be teleported away from his post again,

kept his eyes determinedly focused on the screen

ahead of him even as Q ambled back to the conn.

"Then can I finally prevail upon you to abandon this

monumentally misguided exercise? Leave the barrier

alone. It is not for the likes of you to tamper with."

Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe it was simply that

he had reached his limit, but Picard had suddenly had

enough of Q's perpetual snideness and high-handed

pronouncements. "Get this straight, Q. I take my

orders from Starfleet and the United Federation of

Planets, not from the Q Continuum and most espe-

cially not from you!"

Q recoiled from Picard's vehemence. "Somebody

woke up on the wrong side of the Borg this morning,"

he sniffed. He raised his eyes unto heaven and struck a

martyred pose. "Forgive him, Q, for he knows not

what he says. I try to enlighten these poor mortals but

their eyes are blind and their ears are deaf to my

abundant wisdom." He shrugged his shoulders,

dropped his arms to his sides, and turned to his mate.

"Honeybunch, you talk to him. Tell him I know what

I'm talking about."

The female Q was busy wiping her son's nose, but

she looked up long enough to fix her brown eyes on

Picard and say, "He knows what he's talking about,

Captain." She returned to her son and muttered

under her breath, "If only he didn't."

"Big wall!" the toddler interjected, adding his own

two cents' worth. "Bad! Bad? He stamped his tiny

foot on the floor and the entire bridge lurched to

starboard. Picard grabbed on to his armrests to keep

from being thrown from the chair. Data padds and

other loose instruments clattered to the floor. Riker

stumbled forward, but managed to keep his footing.

Baeta Leyoro swore under her breath and shot a

murderous glare at Q and his family. Yellow alert

lights flashed on automatically all around the bridge.

An alarm sounded.

"Now, now," the female Q cooed to her son. "Be

gentle with the little spaceship. You don't want to

break it." She patted the child on the head and he

looked down at his feet sheepishly. Picard felt the

Enterprise's flight path stabilize.

He silenced the alarm and ended the yellow alert by

pressing a control on his armrest. Although the crisis

seemed to have passed, he was unnerved by this

demonstration of the baby's abilities. Suppose the

child threw a real tantrum? Not even the entire fleet

might be able to save them. "Q," he began, addressing

the male of the species, "perhaps there is a more

suitable location for your son? Children do not belong

on the bridge," he said quite sincerely.

"Really?" Q asked. "You gave that insufferable

Wesley the run of the place as I recall." He stood on

his tiptoes and peered over everyone's heads, as if

expecting to find young Wesley Crusher hidden be-

hind a console. Then he lowered his soles to the floor

and considered his son. Little q held on to his

mother's leg while watching the viewscreen through

droopy eyelids. "Still, you may have a point," Q told

Picard. "He is looking a trifle bored."

" ?" he said to his wife in a language that

bore no resemblance to any tongue Picard had ever

heard before, one so inhuman that even the Universal

Translator was stumped.

" ," she replied.

An instant later, the baby disappeared. Picard felt

an incalculable sense of danger averted until a new

suspicion entered his mind. "Q," he asked warily,

"where exactly did the child go?"

Q acted surprised by the question. "Why, Jean-Luc,

I understand the Enterprise has excellent child-care

facilities."

He and the other Q vanished from sight.

Chapter Seven

ALTHOUGH ENTIRE FAMILIES no longer lived perma-

nently on the Starship Enterprise, Holodeck B could

be converted into a children's center to accommodate

the offspring of the various diplomats, delegations,

and refugees who often traveled aboard the ship.

During such times, the holographic center was kept

open twenty-four hours a day, to handle the varying

circadian rhythms of each alien race as well as to

allow for emergency situations. Since alien encoun-

ters and other crises could hardly be expected to occur

only during school hours, there had to be some place

where any mothers and fathers aboard the ship could

safely stow their children during, say, a surprise

Romulan attack. The last thing anyone wanted was

visiting scientists or ambassadors who were unable to

assist in an emergency because they couldn't find a

babysitter.

Ensign Percy Whitman, age twenty-five, didn't

mind working the graveyard shift at the children's

center. The Faal children were still living on Betazed

time, according to which it was roughly the middle of

the afternoon, but they seemed well behaved and

remarkably quiet. That ~ the nice thing about telepath-

ic kids, he thought. They can talk among themselves

without disturbing anyone else. All of which gave him

more time to compose his work-in-progress, a holo-

novel about a sensitive young artist who works nights

at a kindergarten for nocturnal Heptarians until he is

recruited by Starfleet Intelligence to infiltrate the

Klingon High Command.

Tonight the writing was going unusually well. He

was already up to Chapter Seven, where the hero,

Whip Parsi, fights a duel to the death with the

treacherous heir to a hopelessly corrupt Klingon

household. "His mighty bat'leth sliced through the

sultry night air, keening a song of vengeance, as Whip

struck back with all the skill and fury of one born to

battle," he keyed into the padd on his desk. Yeah, he

thought, transfixed by his own output, that's great

stuff. He'd work out the holographic animation later.

A squeal of high-pitched laughter yanked him away

from his gripping saga. He looked up from the padd to

check on his charges. Everything seemed in order: the

two smaller children, roughly two years old in human

terms, played happily on the carpeted floor, stacking

sturdy durafoam blocks into lopsided piles that inevi-

tably toppled over, while their eleven-year-old brother

played a computer game in one of the cubicles at the

back of the room. Childish watercolor paintings of

stars and planets decorated the walls.

Another meter-high tower of multicolored blocks

collapsed into rubble and the toddlers squealed once

more. Nothing to be alarmed about here, Whitman

thought. He started to go back to his masterpiece-in-

the-making, then paused and scratched his head. Say,

hadn't there been only one little tyke before?

He put aside his personal padd and checked the

attendance display on the center's terminal. Let's

see... Kinya and Milo Faal. That was one all right, a

little Betazoid girl and her older brother. He stood up

behind the desk and checked out the smaller children

again.

The girl was easy to identify. Her blond curls and

striking Betazoid eyes distinguished her from the

other gleeful youngster. But where had that child, a

brown-haired boy in a white sailor's costume, come

from? Had someone dropped off another kid without

him noticing? He wasn't aware of any other children

visiting the ship, but he was only an ensign; no one

told him anything.

Could this be some sort of test or surprise inspec-

tion? Maybe the new kid wasn't really here at all but

was just a holographic image that had appeared from

nowhere while he wasn't looking. He checked out the

holographic control display embedded into his desk,

but found nothing out of the ordinary.

"Milo?" he called out. Perhaps the eleven-year-old

had noticed something. "Did you see anybody come

by in the last half hour or so?"

"Uh-uh," Milo grunted rather sullenly, never look-

ing away from his computer game. Whitman sus-

pected that Milo thought he was much too old for the

children's center and was taking it out on the baby-

sitter.

"Are you sure?" Whitman asked. It just didn't

make any sense. How could there be an extra kid?

"Uh-huh," Milo said, extremely uninterested in

anything any grown-up had to say. On the terminal

before him, several invading Tholian warships bit the

dust in a computer-generated blaze of glory.

Whitman closed his eyes and massaged his temples,

growing increasingly agitated by this uncrackable

dilemma. The way he saw it, there was no way he

could ask anyone for an explanation without looking

like a careless and incompetent idiot. His stomach

began to churn unhappily. Maybe if I just keep my

eyes shut, he thought desperately, and count to ten,

everything will go back to normal and I'll have the

right number of kids again.

It was a ridiculous, pathetic fantasy, but it made as

much sense as what had already happened so far. He

squeezed his eyes shut and counted slowly under his

breath. He swallowed hard, then opened his eyes.

Only one toddler sat on the carpet, staring up at the

ceiling with unrestrained wonder. Whitman couldn't

believe his luck, until he noticed the wobbly stack of

blocks rising up in front of him. He craned his neck

back and followed the tower of blocks to its top--

where he saw the other child, the one in the sailor suit,

teetering at the top of an impossibly tall block pile

that reached above Whitman's head. The boy's un-

ruly brown hair brushed the ceiling and he giggled

happily, completely unfrightened by his precarious

perch. The other child clapped her tiny hands togeth-

er, cheering him on.

"Oh... my... god," Whitman gasped, unable to

believe his eyes. Then he clapped his hands over his

mouth, afraid to exhale for fear of bringing down the

tower of brightly colored blocks. Across the room,

Milo, intent on his one-man war against the Tholian

marauders, was oblivious of the miracle.

The baby reached out his hand and two more

blocks lifted off the floor and drifted upward into his

waiting fingers. Whitman rubbed his eyes and strug-

gled to figure out what was happening. Could some-

thing have gone wrong with the artificial gravity?

Could this be some bizarre holographic malfunction?

Stranger things had been known to happen; he'd

heard a few horror stories about near-fatal accidents

within the old Enterprise's holodecks, like that time a

holographic Moriarty had almost taken over the ship.

Or when Counselor Troi was nearly gunned down

during a Western scenario.

Whitman picked up his padd and dropped it over

the desk. The padd fell straight down, just like it was

supposed to, so the gravity was working fine. But how

then had the little boy managed to erect such a

ridiculous structure?

He cautiously snuck out from behind the desk,

arms outstretched to catch the teetering toddler if and

when he plummeted to the floor. He had to fall soon,

Whitman told himself. The ramshackle pile of blocks

looked like an avalanche waiting to happen. It could

collapse at any second. When it did, would he be able

to grab the kid before he crashed to the ground? What

would Whip Parsi do at a time like this? He hit the

medical emergency alert button, summoning help in

advance of the ghastly plunge that was sure to come.

The child continued to stack his blocks. Having run

out of room between himself and the roof, the boy

blithely turned himself upside down and crawled out

onto the ceiling. He began lining up his new blocks in

a row across the length of the ceiling while he hung

there effortlessly like a fly upon a wall. "Choo-choo!"

he burbled.

Whitman suddenly felt very silly holding his arms

out. A gravity screwup, he thought. It has to be. Never

mind that he still didn't know how this kid got here in

the first place. He was about to contact Engineering

when the door whished open and Counselor Troi

rushed in. Her hair was disheveled and she looked like

she'd come straight from bed, pausing only to throw

on a fresh uniform.

"Gee, you're fast," Whitman said, remembering his

medical alert from mere moments ago.

"The captain sent me," she explained.

"No security team?" Baeta Leyoro asked, sounding

both incredulous and offended.

"That is correct, Lieutenant," Picard confirmed. "I

believe that Counselor Troi is better suited to handle

this situation." If the infant q had indeed been

deposited in the holographic children's center, then

Deanna's empathic skills and training were more

likely to keep the child under control than a squadron

of phaser-wielding security officers, assuming that any

of them had even a prayer of stopping q ~,om wreak-

ing havoc aboard the ship. This is all Q s fault, he

thought angrily. He simply can't resist making my life

di~cult.

Leyoro fumed visibly. The dark-haired security

chief abandoned her station at tactical and marched

into the command area to face Picard. "Permission to

speak frankly, sir?" she requested. Her eyes blazed

like a warp-core explosion.

"Go ahead, Lieutenant," he said. With Q and his

mate absent for the time being, there might be no

better time to hear what Leyoro had to say. Will Riker

paid close attention to the irate officer as well, while

the rest of the crew carried on with their work, no

doubt listening attentively.

She stood stiffly in front of him, her hands clasped

behind her back. "With all due respect, sir, I cannot

do my job effectively if you keep countermanding my

recommendations. If you have no faith in me as your

head of security, then perhaps you should find some-

one else."

Just for a second, Picard wished that Worf had

never accepted that post at Deep Space Nine. "Your

service record is exemplary," he told her, "and I have

a great deal of confidence in you. However, dealing

with Q, any Q, is a unique situation that calls for

unorthodox approaches, like sending a counselor in

place of a security team."

"I believe I am accustomed to coping with unex-

pected circumstances," she maintained. "In the past,

I have smuggled defectors across the Neutral Zone in

an uncloaked ship, rescued political prisoners from a

maximum-security TarsJan slave labor camp, and

even repelled a Maquis raid with nothing more than a

single shuttlecraft and a malfunctioning photon tor-

pedo."

Having thoroughly examined Leyoro's file before

granting her the post of security chief, Picard knew

that she was not exaggerating in the slightest. If

anything, she was understating her somewhat colorful

I/and faintly notorious) history. Not to mention rebel-

ng against her own government when the Angosian

soldiers escaped from that lunar prison colony, he

thought. Still.

"Despite your varied accomplishments," he in-

sisted, "a Q is unlike any threat that you could have

encountered before. Force and shows of force can

accomplish nothing where a Q is concerned." He

hoped Leyoro would understand what he was saying

and not take the matter personally. "This is not about

you or your capabilities, but about what a Q can do.

Namely, anything."

Leyoro appeared mollified. She relaxed her stance

and stopped radiating anger. The furnace in her eyes

cooled to a smolder. "So," she asked, "how do you

deal with an entity like Q?"

"Lieutenant," he answered, "I've been trying to

figure that out for a good ten years now."

Beverly Crusher arrived at Holodeck B only min-

utes after Troi. Not that any of them really needed to

have hurried. The baby q looked quite content to play

with his blocks up on the ceiling. Watching him was a

disorienting, vaguely vertiginous experience. Troi

kept glancing down at the floor to make sure that she

wasn't simply looking at a reflection in a mirrored

ceiling.

She wasn't.

"Now what do we do?" she asked aloud. "Send a

shuttle up there to fetch him?"

"I may have a better idea," Beverly answered, "but

first let's get the rest of these kids out of here." At the

doctor's suggestion, Percy Whitman began corralling

the little Faal girl and herding her toward the door.

Troi felt sorry for the poor ensign; she could sense his

anxiety and confusion. She had attempted to explain

to him quickly about Q and Q and q, but he remained

as rattled as before.

"Percy," she whispered as he passed by. "Feel free

to drop by my office later if you want to talk about

this."

He nodded weakly and gave the tiny Betazoid girl a

pat on the back to keep her moving. Enthralled by the

astounding spectacle of her peer's visit to the ceiling,

the other toddler was not very eager to leave. She

started crying, but Percy ssshed her effectively and led

her out the door. Sitting upside down above every-

one's heads, merrily stringing his blocks across the

ceiling, q did not notice his playmate being escorted

away. Troi breathed a little easier when the youngest

of Professor Faal's children disappeared into the

corridor. She had summoned Faal himself to the

holodeck, but the scientist could just as easily claim

the children outside the chamber, safely away from

the baby q's unpredictable activities.

That left only the eleven-year-old at the computer

terminal. Milo, she recalled from Lem Faal's personal

files. She began to inch her way along the edge of

the chamber, hoping to sneak the older boy out with-

out attracting q's attention. "Milo," she called in a

hushed tone. "Milo?"

Caught up in his game, he had not yet observed any

of the oddities taking place nearby, nor did he hear

her call his name. Troi admired the intensity of his

focus even as she wished that he would lift up his head

from the screen for just one moment. She had no idea

what the baby q might do to another child if pro-

voked, but she didn't want to find out.

The door to the holodeck was sliding shut behind

Ensign Whitman when Lem Faal stormed into the

simulated child-care center. His thinning hair was

disordered and a heavy Betazoid robe, made of thick,

quilted beige fabric, was belted at his waist. "What's

this all about?" he said irritably, sounding as if he had

been unpleasantly roused from sleep. "What's going

on with my children? First, I got an urgent call, then

that strange young man out there"--he gestured

toward the corridor--"said something about an

upside-down baby?" Beverly tried to shush Faal,

fearing he'd startle q, but the scientist spotted the

child upon the ceiling first. "By the Sacred Chalice,"

he whispered, taken aback. His red-rimmed eyes

widened. His mouth fell open and he gasped for

breath.

The situation was getting more complicated by the

moment, Troi realized. She had to get both Faal and

the remaining child out of here. "Milo?" she thought

urgently, hoping to reach the Betazoid child on a

telepathic level.

"Ha!" the boy shouted in triumph, leaning back in

his chair and pumping his fist in the air. "Eat hot

plasma, Tholian scum!"

His cry of victory startled q, who evidently forgot

about canceling gravity. Durafoam blocks rained

upon the floor while the surprised baby dropped like a

rock. "Oh no!" Beverly shouted.

Without thinking about it, Troi ran to the center of

the room and threw out her arms. Will had always

teased her about her total inability to play the ancient

Terran game of baseball, but now she relied on every

hour she had ever spent practicing in the holodeck to

wipe the grin from his face. Her heart pounded. Her

breath caught in her throat. Nothing else mattered.

There was only the falling baby and the hard metal

floor beneath the orange carpeting.

Ten kilograms of quite corporeal child landed in

her arms and she breathed once more. She hugged the

boy against her chest, taking care not to press her

comm badge by mistake. For the spawn of two

transcendental, highly evolved beings, little q felt

surprisingly substantial. Tears sprung from his eyes as

Troi shifted her load to make him more comfortable.

Memories of her own infant, Ian Andrew, and of

holding him much like this, came back to her with

unexpected force.

Beverly Crusher rushed to her side, a medical

tricorder in her hand.

"Is he all right?" Troi asked her urgently. It felt very

strange--and scarymnot to be able to sense the

baby's emotions. "Was he hurt by the fall?"

"I don't even know if it's possible for him to be

hurt," Beverly answered. She began to scan the child

with the peripheral unit of her tricorder, then re-

membered impatiently that conventional sensors

were useless where a Q was concerned. She put the

tricorder away and examined the boy with her hands.

"No swelling or broken bones," she announced af-

ter a moment. "I think he's more scared than in-

jured."

The baby's descent, and Troi's spectacular catch,

had seized the attention of both Professor Faal and

his son.

"Dad?" Milo said, spotting his father from across

the room. "What's happening? Where did that baby

come from?" Another thought occurred to him and

he looked around the simulated child-care facility.

"Hey, where's Kinya?"

But Faal was too intent upon the miraculous,

gravity-defying infant to answer his son's queries, or

even look away from the bawling child in Troi's arms.

"I don't understand," he protested, his gaze shifting

from q to the ceiling and back again. "Was that some

sort of trick?"

"It's a baby Q," Troi volunteered, trying to put a

little distance between Faal and Beverly so that the

doctor would have more room to work in.

"Q," he whispered, awestruck. Troi didn't like the

sound of his breathing, which was wet and labored.

She felt glad that Beverly was close by, and not only

for the baby's sake. "But it looks so... ordinary?"

Milo left his computer game behind and hurried to

join his father. He looked completely baffled, but Troi

sensed his happiness at his father's arrival. "Q?" he

asked. "What's a Q?"

"An advanced life-form," Faal intoned, more to

himself than to the boy. He remained intent on the

baby Q. "A higher stage of evolution, transcending

mere corporeal existence."

"That?" Milo said, incredulous. Troi detected a

spark of jealousy within him, no doubt ignited by his

father's absorption with the superhuman infant. "It's

just a stupid baby."

Did little q understand him? For whatever reason,

the baby started crying louder, approaching the ear-

splitting wail that had earlier resounded throughout

the entire ship. "Hush," Troi murmured, rocking him

gently, but the child kept crying.

"Hang on," Beverly said, "I bet I have a prescrip-

tion for that." She reached into the pocket of her blue

lab coat and pulled out a cherry-red lollipop. "Here,

try this."

The child's cries fell silent the moment he saw the

bright red sweet. His pudgy fingers wrapped around

the stick and he began sucking enthusiastically on the

candy. Troi didn't require any special gifts to sense q's

improved spirits.

"The oldest trick in pediatric medicine," Beverly

explained with a smile. "I never come to a children's

center, holographic or otherwise, without one. Once I

got here, I had planned to use it to lure him down off

the ceiling." She approached Troi to inspect the baby.

"You know, he actually looks a little like Q."

"Try not to hold that against him," Troi said. The

sucker had calmed q for a time, but she wondered

how long that could last. She didn't mind holding the

child for a while, even though she realized that wasn't

much of a long-term solution. He looks so angelic

now, it's easy to forget how dangerous he might be.

Troi hoped the doctor had brought some extra

lollipops for later. "You say his mother is much like

Q?" Crusher asked.

"So I'm told," Troi answered. She had to admit that

she was curious to meet Q's mate. I guess there really

is someone for everyone, she thought. "At least her ego

is supposed to be just as immense."

Professor Faal's interest in the child remained more

scientific. He scrutinized the baby like it was a speci-

men on a petri dish, squinting at the child the closer

he got to Troi and the baby Q. Troi was struck by the

intensity of his fascination with the child. Then again,

she recalled, maybe I've simply become too accus-

tomed to Q and his kind. She imagined that any

scientist would find a Q an irresistible puzzle. "Doc-

tor," Faal said to Crusher, noticing the equipment she

was carrying, "might I borrow your tricorder at

once."

"It won't do you any good," she warned him, but

handed him the instrument. He began scanning q

with the tricorder, then scowled in frustration at the

(non) readings it displayed. "Dammit, it's not work-

ing." At his side, Milo tried to see what his father was

reacting to, standing on his tiptoes to peer past his

father's arm. Frankly, Troi wished she could somehow

persuade Faal to return with Milo to his own quarters,

leaving them alone to deal with q, but she suspected it

would take wild horses to drag the scientist away from

such a unique specimen of advanced alien life.

Beverly considered the child thoughtfully. "It's

funny," she said eventually. "I'm kind of surprised

that his mother would be willing to leave him alone in

the care of a primitive species like us."

"Unless maybe she thought we couldn't possibly do

him any harm?" Deanna suggested. "Even if we tried,

that is."

"If he's like any other toddler," Beverly said, "then

he's perfectly capable of hurting himself by accident."

She frowned, disturbed by her own chain of reason-

ing. Troi could sense her concern growing. "It just

doesn't make sense. Why leave a precious child like

this with people who completely lack the ability to

look after him properly?"

A unexpected burst of light caught them all off

guard. "If you must know," said the woman who

suddenly appeared in their midst, "I had my eye on

him the whole time."

This had to be the female Q, Troi realized. She

looked much as the captain had described her, except

that now she had assumed the attire of a twentieth-

century American tourist on a summer vacation:

sandals, pink plastic sunglasses, a large-brimmed hat,

and a light cotton sundress with a Hawaiian print

design. She held a paper fan in one hand and a

flyswatter in the other, both rather gratuitous in the

controlled environment of the Enterprise. Where does

she think she is, Troi wondered, the Amazon rain

forest? She recognized a bit of baby q in his mother's

features, finding this evidence of a family resem-

blance vaguely reassuring in its similarity to a com-

mon, everyday aspect of humanoid parentage.

The woman noticed Troi inspecting her. "Well,"

she asked acidly, "is my ego as large as you antici-

pated?"

Troi blushed, recalling her remarks of a few mo-

ments ago. She hoped that the woman was equipped

with a sense of humor to go with her extraordinary

abilities; otherwise Troi might be in serious trouble.

"My apologies. I had no idea you were listening."

"Oh, never mind," the Q stated wearily, as if the

matter were far too trivial to waste her time upon. "I

suppose divinity must resemble egotism to evolution~

arily disadvantaged creatures such as yourself." She

swept the children's center with a withering stare. To

Troi's surprise, Professor Faal stepped backward ap-

prehensively. The Betazoid scientist remained hard to

read, but he almost seemed frightened of the female

Q. I guess a harmless baby is one thing, Troi thought,

but a full-grown Q in her prime is a good deal more

intimidating, even for one of the Federation's finest

minds. She reminded herself that Faal, not to mention

Milo, were nowhere near as used to encountering the

unknown as the crew of a starship. Especially when

she just appears out of nowhere.

Having surveyed her surroundings, the female Q

focused once more on Deanna. "Which one are you?"

she asked. "The headshrinker or the witch doctor?"

Any lingering embarrassment Troi might have felt

for inadvertently insulting this Q evaporated abrupt-

ly. "I am the ship's counselor, Lieutenant Com-

mander Deanna Troi," she declared, "and this is Dr.

Beverly Crusher."

"Whatever," Q replied, sounding faintly bored, but

her patrician manner softened a bit when her gaze fell

upon the child in Troi's arms. The fan and the

flyswatter popped out of existence, and she patted his

tiny nose with her finger. "Hello, little fellow, have

you been having fun among the silly primitives?"

The boy, who was obviously accustomed to his

mother appearing from out of nowhere, smiled and

showed her his lollipop. "Mama!" he gurgled, and

waved the half-eaten sucker in her face. "Yum-yum!"

Troi hoped that his mother approved of giving

candy to babies. "That's very yummy, I'm sure," Q

said to her child and lifted him from Troi's grasp. The

Betazoid counselor willingly surrendered q, her tired

arms grateful for the break. She had forgotten how

heavy babies could get after a while. Q gave q a tender

hug, then looked at the other two women with a

marginally more charitable expression on her face. "I

suppose I should thank you for tending to my baby as

diligently as you were able, not that you can be

expected to fully understand the unique needs of such

a special and profoundly gifted child, who is, after all,

the literal embodiment of the ultimate potential of

the Q."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Beverly challenged

her, understandably annoyed by the woman's atti-

tude. Troi both sensed and shared Beverly's irritation,

although Lem Faal, despite his anxiety, seemed to

hang on her every word. He couldn't take his eyes off

the female Q and her child. "My own son, Wesley, is

quite gifted."

"Well, by humanoid standards, perhaps," Q said,

distinctly less than impressed.

"Not necessarily," Beverly pointed out. "An entity

much like yourself, who called himself the Traveler,

judged Wesley worthy of his attention and tutelage."

"The Traveler?" Q asked, sounding intrigued de-

spite herself. She clearly recognized the name. "The

Traveler chose your son?"

"Exactly," Beverly informed her. Troi could feel

her friend's pride in her son, as well as the pain of

Wesley's long absence from the Enterprise. "I have

every reason to believe that he may be on the thresh-

old of entering a higher level of existence."

"For that matter," Troi added, unable to resist

joining this game of maternal one-upmanship, "my

own son, Ian Andrew, grew up to be a noncorporeal

life-form exploring the cosmos."

In fact, the full story was more complicated than

that; her son had been an alien entity who had

impregnated her with himself in order to learn more

about humanoid existence, but she saw no reason to

explain all that to this particular Q, who could

obviously use being taken down a peg or two. For her

own good, of course, Troi thought.

The female Q could not believe her ears. Professor

Faal looked equally surprised. "Your son," she ech-

oed, "transcending the inherent limitations of matter-

based biology? You must be joking."

"Not a bit," Troi stated. "If you doubt either me or

Dr. Crusher, you can always consult the ship's logs."

Her son's head resting contentedly on her shoulder,

Q subjected Troi and Crusher to more intensive

scrutiny than before. "Hmmm," she murmured,

mostly to herself, "I think I may be starting to see

what Q finds so compelling about you funny little

creatures. You may not be as primitive as you ap-

pear."

Mother and child both disappeared, leaving the

two women, along with Faal and his son, alone in the

holographic children's center at roughly three in the

morning. Both the holodeck and the ship had sur-

vived the visitation intact, although Faal looked as

though he had just undergone a religious experience.

"I can't believe it. How amazing," he murmured,

oblivious of Milo, who tugged on his father's arm but

failed to distract the older man from his preoccupa-

tion. "Pure energy and power in humanoid form,"

Faal rhapsodized. "The manifestation--and repro-

duction--of noncorporeal existence. Animate, an-

thropomorphized thought!" His breath was ragged,

but he didn't seem to notice. He stared inward,

poring over his memories for the secrets of the Q's

existence. "What did she mean," he asked, "that the

child was the embodiment of the Q's potential? Do

you think she was implying an even further develop-

ment in their evolution? Why, the implications are

astounding... !"

"I think it's getting very late," Troi said simply,

uncertain how to respond. Despite all the wondrous

events of the last hour, she found she could not ignore

the wounded look on Milo's face as his father theo-

rized about the scientific importance of the infant Q.

When the other parents, human and otherwise,

boasted of their children, she recalled, Faal had not

even mentioned his own. Troi could feel the boy's

pain. Why couldn't Faal? Is he unable to sense it

somehow, she wondered, or does he simply not care?

Chapter Eight

Captain's log, supplemental

As we approach the outer boundaries of the

galaxy, neither Q nor any member of his family

has been heard from for several hours. If nothing

else, this welcome respite has given both myself

and my officers a chance to get some much-

needed rest. I anticipate the commencement of

Professor Faal's ambitious experiment with re-

newed optimism and vigor, even as I remain

convinced that we have not heard the last of Q.

THE GALACTIC BARRIER shimmered on the viewscreen.

Red and purple energies coursed along its length,

charging the barrier with enough power to threaten

even a Sovereign-class starship. On this side of that

incandescent ribbon of light, the Milky Way galaxy as

they knew it, home to the Federation and the Domin-

ion and the Borg and millions of worlds and races as

yet unknown. On the other side, a vast and inconceiv-

able emptiness holding countless more galaxies as

large or larger than their own. This is truly the final

frontier, Picard mused, contemplating the galactic

barrier from his chair on the bridge, one boundless

enough to be explored forever.

"An awesome sight," he commented to Lem Faal.

The Betazoid physicist and Geordi La Forge had

joined them on the bridge to witness the barrier as it

came within visual range of their sensors. Faal stood

behind Data's station at Ops, regarding the radiant

barrier with open wonder. "I imagine you must be

eager to be under way with your experiment," Picard

said.

"More than you could ever comprehend," Faal

answered. His pale face held a mixture of reverence

and ill-disguised rapacity, like King Midas beholding

his hoard of gold. "Did you know that the energy that

composes the barrier is unlike anything we've ever

encountered, aside from the Great Barrier at the

galactic core? Why, at first it didn't even register on

any of the primitive sensors of the previous century."

"So I gathered," Picard said. He had taken the time

to review Starfleet's past encounters with the barrier,

particularly the daring voyages of Captain James T.

Kirk of the original Enterprise, who had braved the

barrier in his flimsy ship not once but three times.

Kirk had mentioned in his log that the barrier had

originally been invisible to every sensor except visual,

emitting no conventional forms of radiation nor

producing any measurable gravimetric effects. Picard

smiled sadly at the thought of Jim Kirk; meeting Kirk

himself in the Nexus remained one of the high points

of his career. Too bad he didn't live to see this day. This

was exactly the kind of pioneering expedition he loved

most.

"How soon until we're within firing range?" Faal

asked. A modified quantum torpedo, holding his

crucial apparatus, waited within one of the forward

torpedo launchers. Faced with the barrier in all its

immensity and enigmatic splendor, Picard found it

hard to visualize how any man-made object, no

matter how specialized, could hope to make a dent in

that heavenly wall. Then again, why would Q warn

them to leave the barrier alone unless he actually

thought Faal might succeed?

"Approximately three hours, forty-seven minutes,

and twelve seconds," Data answered helpfully. He

increased the magnification on the main viewer and

the image of the barrier expanded to fill the screen.

"Wow," Geordi said, from his seat at the engineer-

ing station. "That is impressive." Picard wondered

how the barrier appeared to Geordi's optical im-

plants.

"You can say that again," added Riker, who was

seated at the starboard auxiliary command station.

The first officer was as wide-eyed as the rest of them.

"I have to admit, Professor, I don't see any sign of

those weak spots you mentioned before."

Faal chuckled at Riker's remark. "Everything's

relative, Commander. The fractures are there, you

can be certain of it, but even the weakest point in the

barrier appears impregnable to the naked eye." He

never looked away from the screen, enraptured by the

magnified vision of the barrier in all its glory. "Three

hours, you say. Captain, could we possibly go a little

faster?"

"Only in an emergency," Picard stated. He sympa-

thized with the scientist's impatience, but he failed to

see a need to exceed Starfleet's recommended cruising

speed of warp five, imposed when it was discovered

that higher warp speeds caused ecological damage to

the very structure of space. "I'm sorry, Professor, but

we should be within range soon enough."

"I understand, Captain," Faal said, accepting the

verdict. His fingers toyed with his ever-present hypo-

spray. "I've waited years for this opportunity. I sup-

pose I can wait a few hours more."

Picard was grateful that the scientist did not press

the issue. Overall, Lem Faal had been fairly easy to

work with so far; could Deanna have been mistaken

when she detected some hidden dark side to the

man's temperament? He glanced to the left and was

reassured to see that the counselor was watching the

barrier and not Faal; he assumed this meant that the

.professor was not radiating any particularly disturb-

mg emotions at present. Let us hope that she misread

Faal initially, the captain thought. Q and his family

were enough of a headache for any voyage. He hardly

needed further problems.

"Captain," Data reported, "our external sensors

are detecting unusual tachyon emissions."

Picard leaned forward in his chair, responding to

Data's unexpected announcement. "From the bar-

rier?"

The golden-skinned android turned to face Picard.

"Negative, Captain. I was monitoring radiation levels

outside the ship when I noted an intriguing phenome-

non. In theory, the ambient radiation should decrease

steadily the farther we travel away from the galactic

center. However, peripheral sensors on the ship's hull

are recording a steadily rising number of subatomic

tachyon collisions, and not exclusively from the direc-

tion of the barrier."

"I see," Picard answered. He exchanged a quizzical

look with Riker. The captain had learned to rely on

Data's scientific expertise when dealing with unex-

pected interstellar phenomena; if the android thought

these microscopic collisions with faster-than-light

particles were worth mentioning, then they deserved

his full attention. "Do the tachyon emissions pose a

threat to the ship or the crew?"

"No, sir," Data stated. "The tachyon particles are

passing through our deflector shields, but the number

of particles would need to increase by approximately

1000.45 orders of magnitude before they constituted

a hazard to either organic or cybernetic systems. I was

merely calling to your attention an unexpected statis-

tical pattern."

Data didn't sound particularly concerned, Picard

noted, but the on-again, off-again nature of the an-

droid's emotions often made it hard to gauge his

reaction to any given development. When he wanted

to be, Data could be as unflappable as a Vulcan high

priest, no matter how dire the circumstances. Picard

didn't think this was one of those times, though; Data

was also capable of conveying a sense of urgency as

well, and Picard was not getting that impression from

the android officer.

"Is there anything that could account for all this

heightened tachyon activity?" Riker asked Data.

"There are only two possible explanations," the

android stated. His golden eyes carefully monitored

the readouts at the Ops console. "An unusual natural

phenomenon, such as a wormhole or quantum singu-

larity, or an artificial tachyon bombardment engi-

neered by parties unknown." "Artificial?" Leyoro asked.

Data elaborated calmly. "I cannot rule out the

possibility that the emissions are being deliberately

directed at the Enterprise."

"To what purpose?" Picard asked. He didn't like

the sound of this. In theory, only Starfleet Command

was aware of the Enterprise's present location.

"That I cannot yet determine," Data responded.

"Shall I devote more of the sensor array's resources

toward identifying the source of the emissions?"

Picard nodded gravely. "Make it so, and continue

to monitor the impact of the tachyons upon the ship."

He turned to address Geordi. "Mr. La Forge, is this

tachyon surge likely to interfere with your plans for

the experiment?"

"We may need to recalibrate our instruments,"

Geordi answered. "Some of the equipment is pretty

delicate." Professor Faal nodded in agreement, and

Geordi considered the barrier upon the screen. "Be-

fore we release the torpedo containing the magneton

generator, I want to launch a class-2 sensor probe into

the barrier first, just to see what kind of readings we

can get before the probe is destroyed. Then we can

fine-tune the settings in the torpedo before we send it

into the barrier."

"Professor Faal, is this acceptable to you?" Picard

asked.

The scientist sighed impatiently, but nodded his

head. "Yes, Captain," he said. "Naturally, I would

prefer to go straight to creating the wormhole, but,

under the circumstances, sending in a probe first

would be a wise precaution. The more accurate our

data on the barrier is, the better chance for success."

"Very well," Picard said. "Prepare to launch the

probe as soon as we're within range of the barrier."

Confident that Geordi could cope with this new

development, he considered Data's suggestion that

the tachyons were being purposely directed at the

ship. Could they constitute a signal of some sort?

"Mr. Data, is there any pattern to the emissions that

might suggest an attempt to communicate with us?"

"Negative, sir," the android replied. "I have, in

fact, run a statistical record of the tachyon emissions

through the Universal Translator without success. The

only discernible pattern is one of steady growth,

suggesting that the source of the emissions is either

growing in intensity and/or drawing nearer to the

ship."

"In other words," Riker said, "it could be growing

stronger and getting closer." He scowled through his

beard. "That could be trouble."

Lieutenant Leyoro seemed to feel likewise. "Per-

haps we should modify the deflector shields to keep

the tachyons out," she suggested. "Maybe by adding

more power to the subspace field distortion ampli-

fiers."

"That seems a bit premature," Picard decided after

a moment's consideration. Increasing the power of

the shields tended to reduce the effectiveness of their

scanners. "This doesn't feel like an attack and if it is,

it's a singularly ineffective one." He mulled over the

possibilities, his arms crossed atop his chest. "Coun-

selor," he asked Troi. "Do you sense anything un-

usual?"

"No, Captain," she answered. "Nothing from out-

side the ship. Of course, there are plenty of life-forms

out there who don't register on my radar, so to speak.

Luke the Ferengi, for instance."

"This can't be the Ferengi," Riker quipped. "There

hasn't been a price tag attached."

Picard smiled at Riker's joke. "Thank you, Coun-

selor," he said to Deanna. "I appreciate your efforts."

He leaned back into his chair and contemplated the

viewscreen. Could this have something to do with our

mission? he wondered. Is someone trying to sabotage

the experiment even before we come within range of

the galactic barrier? But why such a subtle approach,

employing carefully minute emissions, unless the sup-

posed saboteurs are truly determined to avoid detec-

tion? It seemed unlikely that the Cardassians or their

Jem'Hadar allies could get this far into Federation

space without someone raising the alarm, but either

the Klingons or the Romulans could have slipped a

cloaked ship past the borders. Granted, the Klingons

were supposedly the Federation's allies once more,

but Picard knew better than to trust Gowron too far,

especially when there was revolutionary new technol-

ogy at stake.

And then there were always the more unpredictable

factors, like the Tholians or the Gorns. They had been

keeping a fairly low profile for the last few decades,

but who knew what might draw them out of their

isolationist policies?

And, of course, there was Q ....

"Captain," Leyoro persisted, "with all due respect,

we have to assume hostile intention until we can

prove otherwise. Request permission to modulate the

shield harmonics to repel the tachyons."

Picard weighed the matter carefully before reaching

his decision. "No, Lieutenant, if we start to assume a

hostile intent behind every unusual phenomenon we

encounter, then our charter to explore the unknown

will be severely compromised. For all we know, these

harmless emissions may be the first overtures of an

entirely new species of being, or evidence of a previ-

ously unknown natural phenomenon, and we would

do ourselves and our mission a grave disservice if we

prematurely cut ourselves off from that evidence out

of fear and distrust."

Besides, he thought, sometimes a statistical blip

was just that. The universe was all about probabili-

ties, according to standard quantum theory, and if

there was one thing he had learned during his long

career in Starfleet, it was that the galaxy was big

enough and old enough that even the most unlikely

probabilities came to pass occasionally.

As if to prove the point, Q appeared upon the

bridge. "Scans. Probes. Deflectors," he mimicked.

"Don't you ever get fed up with those tired old

tricks?" He posed between the captain and Troi,

resting his left elbow on the back of the counselor's

chair. His standard-issue Starfleet uniform made him

almost inconspicuous upon the bridge. "I have an

idea. Why don't you simply turn around and go

home? That would sure catch those pesky tachyons by

surprise."

"Go home?" Lem Faal asked anxiously. "Captain,

you can't listen to this... being!" Picard assumed

that Q required no introduction, but noted that Faal

appeared more disturbed by Q's opposition to the

experiment than by Q's startling entrance. The Beta-

zoid was flushed and trembling at the prospect of

watching his plans unravel. Picard heard his weak-

ened lungs laboring strenuously. "You can't cancel the

experiment now!"

"I don't intend to," Picard informed the scientist

while looking Q firmly in the eye, "not unless our

visitor can provide me with a compelling and indis-

putable reason to do so."

"A reason... from this creature?" Faal exclaimed,

clearly aghast at the very notion of giving Q a say in

the matter. "You can't be serious, Picard. Are you out

of your mind?"

"I've often wondered the same thing," Q com-

mented. "You really should consider an insanity

defense, Jean-Luc, the next time humanity's on trial."

"This is ridiculous," Faal protested, scurrying to-

ward Picard, but Troi rose and placed a gentle but

restraining hand upon the scientist's arm, leaving the

captain to deal with the insouciant intruder.

A thought came to Picard and he stared at Q

through narrowed eyes. "Do either you or your fam-

ily, Q, have anything to do with the surge in tachyon

collisions we're experiencing?"

"Moi?" The interloper in the Starfleet uniform was

the very picture of astonished innocence.

"Vous," Picard insisted, making himself perfectly

clear. "Are you responsible for the excess tachyons?"

"Please," Q said, dismissing the notion with a wave

of his hand, "I haven't played with tachyons since I

was smaller than dear httle q. They're far too slow-

moving to occupy a mature Q's attention."

"I think you protest a bit too much," Picard said.

He remained unconvinced by Q's denials. He knew

from experience just how devious Q could be. Why,

this very creature had once tried to convince him that

Guinan was a deadly threat to the Enterprise. What

was that name again that Vash had told him that Q

had acquired in the Gamma Quadrant? Oh yes, "The

God of Lies." A more than suitable description, he

thought.

Q pursed his lips in mock amazement. "Ooh, a

graceful allusion to the mawkish scribblings of a

preindustrial mammal. Was that supposed to impress

me?" He stared balefully at the captain with a trace of

genuine menace in his tone. "Cross my heart, Picard,

neither me nor mine have sicced these zippy little

particles on you and your ship. You'll have to look

elsewhere for the answer to that particular conun-

drum."

Q vacated the bridge as abruptly as he had arrived,

leaving Picard with the unsettling realization that, for

once, he actually believed Q was telling the truth.

About the tachyons, at least.

Interlude

"PLEASE STATE THE NATURE of the medical emergency."

Beverly Crusher was working in her orifice, checking

the crew manifest against the annual vaccination

schedule for Rigelian fever while half-listening to the

musical score of the new Centauran production of

West Side Story, when she heard the holographic

doctor's voice. Who the devil turned that thing on? she

wondered. Although she liked to think of herself as

open to new ideas and equipment, she still had her

doubts about this particular innovation. While the

program's medical expertise seemed competent

enough, its bedside manner left a lot to be desired.

She found the hologram standing in Ward One,

beside a row of empty biobeds. She had given Nurse

Ogawa the day off, barring further emergencies.

Thankfully, there were currently no casualties recu-

perating in sickbay. "I'm sorry," he said, more snip-

pishly than Beverly liked, "please rephrase your

request."

At first, she couldn't see who he was speaking to.

Then she stepped to one side and lowered her gaze.

"Yum-yum?" asked the baby q, to the utter baffle-

ment of the emergency medical program. Beverly

couldn't help wondering how the child had managed

to activate the program in the first place.

"I'm sorry," he replied, "but I am afraid I am not

programmed to dispense... yum-yums."

"End program," Beverly said with a smirk, feeling

more than a little reassured regarding her job security.

The hologram vanished as quickly as a Q, and she

knelt down to look the child in the face. He wore a

miniature version of the Starfleet uniform his father

often adopted. "Hello there," she said warmly.

"Come for another treat, have we?"

"Yum-yum," he repeated, his current vocabulary

less infinite than his potential. He held out a small,

pudgy hand.

"Come on," she said, standing up and taking him

by the hand. "I think I can take care of this." She led

him around the comer to the ship's pediatric unit,

which featured a row of smaller biobeds as well as a

state-of-the-art intensive care incubator in the center

of the facility, beneath an overhead sensor cluster.

The room was as deserted as the adult ward. Although

no children resided permanently on the Enterprise-E,

as they had on the previous ship, the pediatric unit

was kept ready for any injured youngsters brought

aboard during rescue and evacuation efforts; only a

few weeks ago, the facility had been filled with the

pint-sized survivors of a deadly radiation storm on

Arcadia VI. Thankfully, Beverly recalled, all those

children had been safely delivered to relatives on

Deep Space Seven. The small q did not appear par-

ticularly dangerous, but she was glad she didn't have

to worry about any underage bystanders during this

encounter.

She kept a supply of replicated lollipops in a

container in one of the equipment cupboards. Fishing

a bright blue sucker from her depleted stock, she

offered it to q. "How's this?" she asked. "Do you like

uttaberry?"

"Yum!" he said gleefully, popping the candy into

his mouth. It occurred to Beverly that q could proba-

bly wish his own lollipops into existence, in whatever

flavor and quantity he desired, but who knew how the

mind of a baby superbeing worked? Probably just as

well that he associates me with sweets, she thought,

and not castor oil.

She looked q over; had he been truly as human as

he appeared, she would have guessed that he was

eighteen to twenty-four months old, but how did one

estimate the age of a Q? For all she knew, this

harmless-looking toddler could be as old as the pyra-

mids. "So how old are you?" she asked aloud. "One

century? Two?"

"Actually, he's only been alive for a couple of your

standard years," a voice volunteered from behind her.

Beverly jumped forward and clutched her chest,

then spun around to face the female Q, who had just

appeared in the nursery.

Something to remember, she told herself. When the

chiM is present, the mother is never very far away. The

Q's outfit was identical to the doctor's, right down to

an exact duplicate of Beverly's favorite blue lab coat.

When in Rome, I guess, Beverly thought. She waited

for a second to steady her breathing, then addressed

the woman. "You have to give people a little more

warning before popping in like that," she advised.

"It's not good for our hearts."

"Really?" the woman said. "I seem to have im-

proved your circulation."

In the best interests of diplomacy, Beverly refrained

from comment. "Can I help you?" Beverly asked the

female Q. She found it hard to think of her as just Q,

although it was probably technically correct to do so;

that "name" was all too vividly linked in her mind to

another face. Why couldn't this female entity just

make life easier for them all and pick another letter in

the alphabet?

The Q did not answer her immediately, preferring

to stroll around the nursery, running a languid hand

over the contours of the small beds and occasionally

peeking into the cupboards. The child trailed after

her, sucking away at his uttaberry lollipop. "You

appear to have a distinct talent for handling small

children," she commented to Beverly. The incubator

caught her attention and she contemplated it for

several seconds, looking quite lost in thought. "Are

there many children aboard this vessel?" she asked

finally.

"Not at present," Beverly answered. She rather

missed the children who had helped populate the old

Enterprise; it had been a point of pride that she'd

known all of them by name.

The female Q drew the little boy nearer and patted

him lovingly on his tousled head. "My own son is

quite unique: the first child born to the Continuum

since we transcended physicality untold aeons ago."

Beverly thought that over for a moment. "What

about Amanda Rogers?" she asked, recalling the

young Star fleet officer who had discovered that she

was actually a Q. "She was born on Earth only a few

decades back."

The woman sniffed disdainfully. "That creature

was conceived in a primitive, strictly humanoid fash-

ion." She shuddered at the very thought.

Don't knock it if you haven't tried it, Beverly

thought, but kept her remark to herself. Still, the Q

gave her a peculiar look, as if well aware of Beverly's

unspoken sentiments.

If she was, however, she chose to ignore them. "I've

observed the individual you mentioned," the Q con-

ceded. "It's a wonder she has any gifts at all, given her

atrocious origins. I suppose, however, that the poor

creature should not be blamed for the sordid activities

of her notorious progenitors. She's more to be pitied,

really. It was quite magnanimous of Q to take her

under his wing the way he did."

He threatened to kill her, Beverly recalled, wonder-

ing if the Q could read that in her mind as well.

Maybe it would be best to change the subject. "Your

son's quite charming," Beverly said. "You must be

very proud of him." That certainly seemed like safe

ground, she judged. Q or not, few mothers could

object to praise of their child.

"He is the future of the Continuum," the female Q

stated matter-of-factly. "The first of an entirely new

generation of immortals. A true mingling of two

divine essences, a future messiah, quite unlike that

ignorant urchin you called Amanda Rogers."

Better not let Professor Faal hear you talking like

that, Beverly thought. The Betazoid scientist had

seemed all too fascinated by the Q child to begin with.

She could readily imagine his interest in a genuine

"future messiah." He'd probably want to ship the

baby straight to his lab on Betazed. Somehow I don't

think his mother would approve of that kind of atten-

tion.

The female Q gazed down at the child, who was

content to suck quietly on his treat by his mother's

side. Her eyes narrowed and she chewed upon her

lower lip as if troubled. "I confess I find the, responsi-

bility ot motherhood rather... daunting.'

A-ha, Beverly thought. Now I get it. Faced with the

ancient concept of parenting, which no Q has reckoned

with for millions of years, why not come to us humble

primitives for our crude but simple wisdom? She

wondered whose idea it really was to drop in on

sickbay, the child's or the mother's?

"Don't we all," she confided sympathetically. She

couldn't blame the Q for her worries. Every new

mother had doubts about her ability to cope with

raising a child; how much harder it must be when

you're the first of your kind to face that prospect since

the dawn of time. Beverly had trouble imagining the

devious Q as an innocent Adam--he struck her as

more the serpent type--but her heart went out to this

nervous new Eve.

She circled around the incubator and took the Q by

the hand. The woman flinched at the intimacy, but

did not draw away. "You seem to be doing fine,"

Beverly said. "I know it's scary, but millions of

mothers have faced the same challenges and survived.

The trick is learning when to say no and when to let

them learn from their own mistakes."

"Exactly!" the Q responded, acting amazed and

grateful that another living creature understood what

she was going through. "Little q has all the power of a

Q, but he doesn't know how to use it responsibly."

Like father, like son, Beverly thought. "I know he

needs to explore his potential, but I'm afraid to let

him out of my sight for a fraction of a nanosecond."

"You'll get by somehow," she promised. "Just

remember to enjoy this time while you have it. I'll tell

you the honest truth: the hardest part of having

children is letting them go when they're grown. Of

course, for all I know, you might not have to worry

about that for millions of years."

"Only millions?" the Q said, apparently sincerely.

She tugged q nearer to her, sounding both sad and

surprisingly human.

"You'll be amazed how fast the time will fly,"

Beverly cautioned. Part of her still thought of Wesley

as the fragile, acutely vulnerable infant she and Jack

had brought home so many years ago. "Don't let this

time slip by you without taking a moment every now

and then to savor the experience. You might tell his

father the same thing," she added, feeling generous

toward Q for possibly the first time in her life.

Imagine having Q for a dad, she thought. The poor

kid.

She hoped he'd take after his mother instead.

"Thank you for your time," the woman said. Bey-

erly tried to remember whether the other Q had ever

thanked anyone for anything. The Q squeezed her

hand once, then released it. "You know, my darling

q's godmother is one of your kind."

A Q with a human godmother? Beverly was in-

trigued. "And who would that be?"

"Let me see," the woman began, her gaze turning

inward as she combed her memory for this apparently

insignificant piece of trivia, "I think her name was..."

Chapter Nine

Two HOURS, FORTY MINUTES, and only Data knew how

many seconds after the Enterprise came within sight

of the galaxy's edge, Professor Faal and Geordi pre-

pared to launch the sensor probe into the barrier.

Although Data had reduced the magnification on the

main viewer by several orders of magnitude, the

energy barrier filled the screen, bathing everyone on

the bridge in its ineffable radiance. There's something

almost mystical about it, thought Picard, who usually

resisted superstitious impulses. He felt much as Mo-

ses must have felt when he first beheld the burning

bush, or when Kahless drew the original bat'leth from

the lake of fire.

"Are we far enough away for safety's sake?" he

asked. The barrier looked as if it could sweep over

them in a matter of minutes, like the largest tsunami

in the galaxy.

"I believe so, Captain," Data reported. "As pre-

dicted, the barrier yields no harmful radiation or

gravitational disturbances. The surrounding space is

not affected by the barrier at this distance."

"No evidence of hostile action," Leyoro conceded,

looking only a trifle disappointed. "Deflectors at min-

imum strength."

"No unusual stresses on the hull," Geordi con-

eluded. He looked up in amazement from the engi-

neering monitors to confirm that there actually was a

glowing barrier looming before them. "It's like the

crazy thing isn't really there."

"Oh, it's most definitely there," Faal whispered

avidly, "and more real than any of us has ever been."

Turning away from Geordi's monitors, he looked over

at Picard, his eyes aglow with anticipation. Picard

noticed that he was breathing heavily. "Don't worry,

Captain, my artificial wormhole will carve us a safe

passage through the barrier, have no fear."

His voice had a fervid tinge that worried Picard.

The captain regarded Deanna Troi, who was watching

Faal carefully with an apprehensive eye. Faars out-

burst during Q's recent visit had given new life to her

earlier concerns about the dying scientist's emotional

state. Pieard frowned, uneasy even though everything

seemed to be under control. "How are we doing, Mr.

La Forge?" he asked.

"As well as can be expected," Geordi said, his

.fingers tapping upon the remote controls. Faal, stand-

ing behind Geordi, inspected his every move. "The

probe should give us the most up-to-date information

possible on wave amplitudes within the barrier so we

can adjust the shields on the torpedo appropriately. If

everything checks out, we should be able to launch the

torpedo itself within a few hours." He paused to wipe

the sweat from his forehead. "Those tachyon emis-

sions aren't making anything easier, but I think we

can work around them."

"There is no question," Faal emphasized, his voice

hoarse and strained. Picard was not surprised to see

Faal resort to his hypospray once more. Was it only

his imagination or was Faal requiring his medication

ever more often? "We will make it work," Faal

wheezed, "no matter what."

Geordi wandered over to the primary aft science

stations, consulting the displays there. "La Forge to

Engineering," he said, tapping his comm badge. "Be-

gin rerouting the pre-ignition plasma from the im-

pulse deck to the auxiliary intake. We're going to need

that extra power to generate the subspace matrix later

on." He placed his hands on the control panel.

"Permission to launch the probe, Captain?"

Picard held up his hand to delay Geordi. "Just a

minute, Mr. La Forge," he said. A nagging concern

preyed on his mind. "Mr. Data, has the tachyon

barrage continued to accelerate?"

"Slowly but surely," the android affirmed.

"Have you formed any theory concerning the

source of the emissions?" Picard asked. The inexpli-

cable nature of the tachyon surge troubled him to a

degree. Launching a simple probe was hardly a risky

matter, but he disliked doing so while any scientific

irregularities remained unaccounted for.

"Some intriguing possibilities have presented

themselves," Data stated, "but I am reluctant to

venture a hypothesis on such minimal evidence."

"Do so anyway, Mr. Data," Picard instructed,

hoping that the resourceful android could east some

light on the mystery. A tenuous explanation was

better than none at all. "Which of your working

theories present a cause for concern?"

"An interesting question, sir." Data cocked his

head as he considered the issue. "You may find one

hypothesis particularly intriguing, although I must

emphasize that the evidence supports approximately

75.823 other interpretations."

"Your caveats are duly noted," Pieard said. "Go on,

Mr. Data."

"Very well, Captain." He manipulated the controls

beneath his fingers at superhuman speed, summoning

up the relevant information. "Although profoundly

weaker in intensity, these persistent emissions are

gradually coming to resemble the tachyon probe used

by the Calamarain to scan the Enterprise on stardate

43539.1."

"The Calamarain?" Riker said, echoing Picard's

own reaction as he reealled a cloud of energetic

plasma, as large as the Enterprise-D or bigger, that

had seemed to house a community of gaseous beings

possessed of remarkable power. The Enterprise had

barel.y survived its first meeting with the Cala-

maram; if these mounting tachyon emissions had

anything to do with those enigmatic beings, then the

situation might be more serious than they had first

thought.

"Excuse me, Captain," Lem Faal asked, under-

standably concerned about the effect of Data's theory

on his experiment, "but who or what are the Cala-

marain?"

"An unusual life-form," Picard told him, "that we

encountered many years ago. They exist as swirls of

ionized gas within a huge cloud of plasma traveling

through open space. The Calamarain took hostile

action against the Enterprise, but their real target was

Q himself, who, at that point in time, had lost his

powers and taken refuge aboard the ship. Apparently,

Q made an enemy of the Calamarain sometime in the

past, and they intended to take advantage of his

temporary weakness to get their revenge once and for

all."

"Can hardly blame them for that," Riker com-

mented. Like most anyone who spent any length of

time with Q, the first officer had no great love for the

vexatious entity. Picard wondered if the female Q

ever felt the same way.

"Agreed, Number One," he said. "Ultimately, Q

regained his powers and repelled the Calamarain, and

that's the last we had heard of them until now."

Picard leaned forward in his chair as he considered all

the possibilities. "Data, how likely is it that this is the

work of the Calamarain?"

Data analyzed the readings on his console. "That is

difficult to say, Captain. Their initial scans in our

previous encounter consisted of very broad-based

emissions, registering seventy-five rems on the Berth-

old scale." Picard nodded, remembering vividly the

intensity of the alien scan they had experienced years

ago: a brilliant deluge of light that had seemed to blot

out everything in sight. The Calamarain's first few

scans had actually blinded everyone on board mo-

mentarily. "These new emissions are far less intense,

by several orders of magnitude, but it is a difference of

degree, not kind. They may simply be observing us in

a more subtle and surreptitious manner." Data swiv-

eled in his chair to address Picard directly. "On the

other hand, the tachyon surge could also be caused by

any number of unusual natural conditions. It may be

that the barrier itself has effects on the surrounding

space that we are unable to detect at present."

"Last time the Calamarain attacked us because Q

was aboard," Riker pointed out. "If the Calamarain

are spying on us, and I realize that's a fairly big 'if,' I

think we can safely assume that Q is involved

somehow."

"That is a plausible assumption," Data agreed.

"What I don't understand," Geordi said, "is why

would the Calamarain be interested in us now? This is

hardly the first time we've hosted Q since that time he

lost his powers."

Would that it were so, Picard thought privately. He

could've done without that vision of his future self

suffering from the effects of Irumodic syndrome.

"They've never come after us the last several times

Q showed up," Geordi continued, "and it sure

doesn't look like he's been turned into a mortal

again."

"Far from it," Baeta Leyoro added with obvious

regret. Picard suspected that she would love to get her

hands on a powerless and vulnerable Q. She could

probably sell tickets, he thought.

"We should not jump to assumptions," he stated

firmly. "The Calamarain have not been observed in

Federation space for over a decade, and our previous

encounter with them was several hundred light-years

from this vicinity." Picard rose from his chair and

looked over Data's shoulder at the readings on the

Ops console; a rising line charted the growth of the

tachyon effect as it approached a level established by

the Calamarain so many years ago. "Still, we should

be prepared for any possibility." He turned toward

the science station. "Mr. La Forge, when the Cala-

marain attacked us before, you managed to adjust the

harmonics of our deflector shields to provide us with

a measure of protection against their tachyon blasts.

Please program the ship's computer to do so again

should the need arise."

"Yes, sir," Geordi said. "I'll get on that right away."

Picard exchanged a look with Lieutenant Leyoro at

tactical. Her eyes gleamed and the corners of her lips

tipped upward in a look of much-delayed gratifica-

tion, but she resisted, with admirable restraint, what-

ever temptation she might have felt to say, "I told you

SO."

"Captain Picard," Faal said, "this is all very inter-

esting, but perhaps we should proceed with launching

the probe?" He fingered his hypospray anxiously. "I

cannot stress how eager I am to attempt the experi-

ment."

"Mr. La Forge?" Picard asked. "Do you require any

more time to reprogram the deflectors?"

"No, sir," Geordi reported with admirable efficien-

cy. "The adjusted settings are on call." Excellent,

Picard thought, glad that they were ready for even the

most unlikely of scenarios. Now it was simply a

matter of continuing with their mission before Qmor

the Calamarain, if they were truly close at hand--

could intervene. "You may launch the probe as

planned, Mr. La Forge," he stated.

Geordi reached for the launch controls, only to be

caught off guard by a blinding flash directly in front of

him. For a second, Picard feared that the science

station had exploded; then he realized what the flash

really entailed. Blast, he thought. Not again!

Q was back, sitting upon the launch controls, clad

in the unearned honors of a Starfleet uniform. Geordi

stepped backward involuntarily, and Q peered at him

with interest. He took a closer look at Geordi. "Are

those new eyes, Mr. Engineer? I can't say they're very

flattering, although I suppose it beats wearing a

chrome fender in front of your face."

He looked past Geordi and cast a dour eye on the

shimmering barrier upon the main viewer. "You

disappoint me so, Jean-Luc. I never thought suicide

missions were exactly your style." He hopped nimbly

off the science console and strolled toward Picard.

"Leave the galaxy? Why, you foolhardy humans

couldn't put one foot into the Gamma Quadrant

without starting a war with the Dominion. What

makes you think the rest of the universe is going to be

any better?"

"That's enough," Riker said. "The captain has

better things to do with his time than listen to you."

Q paid the first officer no heed. "Tell me, Jean-Luc,

I know you have a childish fondness for hard-boiled

detective yarns." He held out a palm on which a single

white egg now balanced upon its end. A caricature of

Picard's scowling face was painted on the shell of the

presumably hard-boiled egg. "Bit of a resemblance,

isn't there?" Q commented. He blew on his hand and

the egg wafted away like a mirage. "But haven't you

ever paid attention to some of your species' old

monster movies?" His voice dropped several octaves,

taking on a sepulchral tone. "There are some things

that insignificant, short-lived mortals are meant to

leave alone." He gave Picard what seemed, for Q, a

remarkably sober look, and when he spoke again his

voice sounded notably free of irony or sarcasm. "The

barrier is one of them, Picard. Trust me on this."

Trust? Q? Of the many surprising and exceptional

developments in this highly eventful mission, this

suggestion struck Picard as the most unlikely of all.

He wasn't sure Q could be direct and honest if his

own immortal existence depended on it. "That's not

enough," Picard told him. "You need to tell me more

than that."

"It's none of your business!" he said petulantly,

apparently unable to maintain a sincere appearance

for more than a moment or two. "You try to offer a

few helpful tips to an inferior organism, but do they

appreciate it? Of course not!" He paced back and

forth in front of the viewscreen, looking exasperated

beyond all measure. "Why can't you simply admit

that we Q are older and wiser than you are?"

"Older, certainly," Picard said, "but not necessar-

ily wiser. If you are at all typical of your kind, then the

fabled Q Continuum is not above mere pettiness and

spite." He rose from his chair and confronted Q. Let's

have this out here and now, he determined. "As you

might imagine, I've given the matter a great deal of

thought, and I've come to the conclusion that the

Continuum is more fallible and prone to error than

you care to admit. Let's look at what we mere mortals

have learned about their behavior," he said, ticking

his points off on his fingers.

"They put lesser life-forms on trial for the mere

crime of not rising to their exalted level, all the while

ignoring most of the conventions of due process

recognized by supposedly inferior societies. They

strip you of all your powers, placing you in mortal

jeopardy, after having failed to keep your mischie-

vous excesses under control. Then they reverse their

decision and let you run amok through the galaxy

again." Q harrumphed indignantly, but Picard showed

him no mercy. "According to your own admission, the

Continuum summarily executed Amanda Rogers's

parents for choosing to live as human beings, left the

orphaned child--one of their own--to be raised

among we so-called primitive humans, then had the

audacity to return years later and threaten Amanda

herself with death unless she relinquished her own

humanity." He shook his head slowly. "Banishment.

Executions. Threats of genocide against less gifted

races. These don't strike me as the actions of an

advanced and enlightened society. Indeed, I could

argue that the Klingons or the Cardassians have a

higher claim to social progress."

Q snorted in derision. "Now you're just being

ridiculous as well as insulting."

"Am I?" Picard asked, refusing to give any ground.

"At least the harsher aspects of their cultures arose

from, respectively, a demanding environment and

severe economic hardships." He recalled Gul Mad-

red's self-justifying evocations of the famine and

poverty that first brought the Cardassian military

regime to power generations ago. "Nor are those the

only comparisons I could make," he continued,

warming to his theme. "The tyranny of the Founders

is said to be a response to centuries of Changeling

persecution in the Gamma Quadrant, while the mili-

taristic Romulan Empire of the present evolved from

an arduous diaspora from ancient Vulcan millennia

ago. And who knows what terrible, inexorable forces

drove the Borg to first form their Collective?

"But even with the powers of the gods at your

disposal, having conquered all the material challenges

that trouble humanoid civilizations, the Q Continu-

um consistently behave in an arbitrary and draconian

manner, one better suited to Dark Age despots than

the evolved life-forms you claim to be." Picard re-

turned to his chair and faced the viewscreen, his

expression stony and resolute. The more he thought

about it, the more certain he became that he could not

permit Q to deter them from their mission.

"When you say to stay away from the barrier, you

are saying that the rest of the universe is not for us.

I'm sorry, but with all due respect to your self-

proclaimed omniscience, that's not your decision to

make." He nodded at Geordi, and when he spoke

again his voice was steely in its conviction. "Mr. La

Forge, launch the probe at once."

"Yes, sir!" Geordi responded. Keeping one eye on

Q, he reached out and pressed the launch controls.

Picard looked on as the class-2 probe, looking some-

thing like a duranium ice-cream cone, arced away

from the Enterprise, its trajectory carrying it toward

the nearest segment of the galactic barrier. He antici-

pated that the probe would pass into the barrier in

less than ten minutes, beaming back a full spectrum

of EM and subspace readings right up to the instant of

its destruction, which would probably occur within

nanoseconds of its initial contact with the barrier. He

heard Lem Faal inhale sharply in anticipation.

"Captain!" Data said emphatically. "Tachyon lev-

els are multiplying at a vastly accelerated rate." He

turned to face Picard. "It is the Calamarain, sir, and

they are approaching rapidly."

"Oh, them again," Q said without much enthusi-

asm. He had not been nearly so bias6, Picard recalled,

when he faced the wrath of the Calamarain without

his godlike powers. "Hail, hail, the gang's all here."

Lem Faal eyed Q with alarm, but Picard did his

best to ignore Q's inappropriate attempt at humor. Q

or no Q, he would not allow the Enterprise to be taken

by surprise by the Calamarain. "Red alert!" he

barked. "Shields up." Crimson warning lights flared

to life around the bridge. Lieutenant Leyoro kept her

hands poised above the weapons controls, while Riker

looked ready to tackle Q if he so much as tried to

interfere with Picard's ability to command the ship

during this moment of crisis.

Q couldn't have cared less. "Oh dear," he said

soufly, "I fear we're going to have to do this the hard

way." He stepped between Picard and the viewscreen.

"I'm sorry, Jean-Luc, but I can't allow you to be

distracted by this minor complication. Too much is at

stake, more than you can possibly imagine."

"Blast it, Q," Picard exploded, provoked beyond all

patience. This had gone on long enough, and, as far as

he was concerned, Q was the unwanted distraction

from more pressing matters. "Explain yourself once

and for allrathe whole truth and nothing butmor get

out of my way!"

"Fine!" Q replied indignantly, sounding almost as

if he were the injured party. "Just remember, you

asked for it."

What does he mean by that? Picard worried in-

stantly, his worst fears confirmed when a burst of light

erupted from Q, sweeping over Picard and carrying

him away. Blank whiteness filled his vision. His chair

seemed to dissolve beneath him. "Captain!" he heard

Troi call out, but it was too late.

Deanna and the Enterprise were gone.

Interlude

"I THINK HER NAME WAS..."

The red alert siren sounded, interrupting the fe.

male Q just as she was about to divulge the name of

baby q's human godmother. Beverly Crusher in-

stantly went into crisis mode. "Excuse me," she said

to her visitor as Beverly tapped her comm badge.

"Crusher to the bridge. What's happening?"

I was afraid of this, she thought instantly. After

their initial briefing on Professor Faal's project, Bev-

erly had reviewed the reports on the original experi-

ments at Deep Space Nine, and discovered that in one

of the early trials, the artificial wormhole had col-

lapsed prematurely and produced a massive graviton

wave. A plasma fire had broken out aboard the

Deftant and three people had nearly been killed. In

theory, the cause of the collapsewsome sort of unex-

pected reaction between the tetrion field and the

shielding on a probewhad been isolated and reme-

died since that near-disaster, but what if something

similar had happened again?

Dire possibilities raced through her mind in the

split second it took for the bridge to respond to her

page. "The captain has been abducted by Q," Lieu-

tenant Leyoro informed her succinctly; Beverly

guessed that Commander Riker was otherwise occu-

pied. "And the ship is about to engage the Cala-

marain."

"What!" Beverly was shocked by the news. The

Calamarain? But they hadn't been heard from in

years! Where had they come from all of a sudden?

This was the last thing she had expected to hear. And

Jean-Luc missing?

"I would prepare for casualties," Leyoro advised.

"Do you require any further information or assis-

tance, Doctor?"

Beverly contemplated the female Q and her child.

Unlike the doctor, Q's mate evinced no reaction to

the startling news. She occupied herself while Beverly

was busy by wiping a smear of blue uttaberry flavor-

ing off q's face with the sleeve of her imitation lab

coat. "No, I don't think so," Beverly told Leyoro. It

sounded like Will and the others had a lot on their

hands at the moment; she decided she could handle

the Q on her own. "Crusher out."

Her hand fell away from the badge and she con-

fronted the other woman. "Well?" she demanded.

"Well?" the Q echoed, blithe disregard upon her

features. She sopped up the last dab of blue from

around the child's lips, then lifted him into her arms.

So much for female bonding, Beverly thought.

Whatever warm feelings she might have harbored for

the Q were washed away by concern for Jean-Luc.

"You know what I mean. What has Q, the other Q,

done with the captain? Where has he taken him?"

"Am I my Q's keeper?" She gave Beverly what the

doctor supposed was intended to be a reassuring

smile. "Really, there's no need to be concerned, I'm

certain that wherever Q has taken your captain, he

has done so for a very good reason."

Beverly didn't find that terribly comforting. "But

we need the captain here now. We're on an important

mission, and we've just encountered an alien, possibly

hostile life-form." She tried a personal appeal. "As

one mother to another, can't you do something?"

"Why should I have to do anything?" the woman

answered. She took a moment to inspect her reflection

in the shining, silver surface of a sealed cupboard,

then tucked a few stray curls back into place. "My

child is perfectly safe."

"I'm glad to hear it," Beverly shot back, shouting to

be heard over the blaring alarm, "but how about the

rest of us?"

The female Q shrugged. "The way Q talks, you

people live this way every day. If it's not the Domin-

ion or the Borg, it's a temporal anomaly. If it's not an

anomaly, it's a warp-core breach or a separated sau-

cer." She smiled indulgently. "I wouldn't want to

interfere with your quaint and colorful way of life. It's

far more educational for q to see you in your natural

environment."

"This is not a field trip!" Beverly protested, despite

a growing sense of futility. The original Q had never

taken human lives seriously, so why should his mate

be any different?

"I beg to differ," the Q said, then she and her

beaming baby boy disappeared without so much as a

goodbye.

Beverly feared she knew where the omnipotent pair

were heading. Where else would they find a better

view of the developing crisis? Before she silenced the

alarm and summoned Ogawa and the rest of her

emergency personnel, she paused long enough to tap

her comm badge. "Crusher to the bridge. Expect

company."

Chapter Ten

WILLIAM RIKER SUDDENLY FOUND himself in command.

Before he could react, before he could even rise from

his seat, Q vanished from the bridge, taking Captain

Picard with him. "Captain!" Deanna called out, but

the captain's chair was empty.

For a fleeting second, Riker worried about what

might be happening to Captain Picard, but there was

nothing he could do for the captain now. The safety of

the crew and the ship had to be his number-one

priority. This isn t the first time Q has snatched the

captain, he recalled, and Q s always brought him back

before. He could only pray that this time would be no

exception.

"Scan for any nearby concentrations of ionized

plasma," Riker ordered Data. "I want to know the

instant the Calamarain come within sensor range."

He stood and walked to the center of the command

area, quickly considering the problem posed by the

Calamarain. They didn't know for sure that the alien

ciouo-creatures posed a threat to the ship, but he

didn't intend to be caught napping.

"Commander," Data stated. "The Calamarain are

coming into visual range now."

A great cloud of incandescent plasma drifted be-

tween the Enterprise and the barrier, obscuring

Riker's view of the shimmering wall of energy. The

lambent cloud had a prismatic effect, emitting a

rainbow's range of colors as it swirled slowly through

the vacuum of space. Although the gaseous phenome-

non, several times larger than the Sovereign-class

starship, bore little resemblance to sentient life as

Riker was accustomed to it, looking more like a

lifeless accumulation of chemical vapors, he knew

that this was the Calamarain all right, an entity or

collection of entities capable of inflicting serious

harm upon humanoid life if they chose to do so. Riker

had no way of knowing if these were precisely the

same beings who had menaced them before, but they

were clearly of the same breed. "Mr. La Forge," he

asked, "how are our shields?"

"They should stand up to them, Commander,"

Geordi reported. "I've set the shield harmonics to the

same settings that worked last time." He double-

checked the readouts at the engineering station and

nodded at Lieutenant Leyoro, who monitored the

shields from her own station at tactical. "Let's just

hope the Calamarain haven't changed their own pa-

rameters over the last few years."

"I don't understand," Leto Faal wheezed, slowly

coming to grips with a radically altered situation

upon the bridge. "Where is Captain Picard?" His

bloodshot gaze swung from the captain's empty chair

to the bizarre alien apparition upon the main viewer.

"Commander Riker!" he exclaimed, seizing upon the

first officer as his only hope. "You have to stop that

entity, drive it away. The probe... they could ruin

everything!"

"Mr. Mack," Riker barked to a young ensign sta-

tioned near the starboard aft turbolift. "Escort Pro-

fessor Faal to his quarters." He sympathized with the

unfortunate scientist, but the bridge was no place for

a civilian during a potential combat situation, and

Riker didn't need the distraction.

"Commander, you can't do this? Faal objected,

hacking painfully between every word. He looked

back at the screen as the young ensign took him by the

arm and led him toward the nearest turbolift en-

trance. "I have to know what's happening. My experi-

ment!"

Ensign Mack, an imposing Samoan officer, stood a

head above the stricken Betazoid researcher, and had

the advantages of youth and superior health besides,

so Riker had every confidence that the ensign would

be able to carry out his orders. Soon enough Faal's

gasping protests were carried away by the turbolift,

and Riker turned his attention to more critical mat-

ters: namely, the Calamarain.

He stared at the breathtaking spectacle of the

immense, luminescent cloud; under other circum-

stances he would have been thrilled to encounter such

an astounding life-form. If only there was a way to

communicate with them, he mused, knowing that

Captain Picard always preferred to exhaust every

diplomatic effort before resorting to force. Unfortu-

nately, the Universal Translator had proven useless

the last time they confronted the Calamarain, whose

unique nature was apparently too alien for even the

advanced and versatile language algorithms pro-

grammed into the Translator. "Counselor," he asked

Troi, "can you sense anything at all?"

"Aside from Professor Faal's distress?" She closed

her eyes to concentrate on the impressions she was

receiving. "The Calamarain are more difficult to read.

All I'm picking up from them is a sense of rigid

determination, a fixity of purpose and conviction.

Whatever they are about, they are committed to it

without doubt or hesitation."

He didn't like the sound of that. In his experience,

an utterly fixed viewpoint could be the hardest to

achieve a mutual understanding with. Fanatics were

seldom easy to accommodate. He could only hope

that the goal the Calamarain were so set upon did not

involve the Enterprise.

We shouM be so lucky, he thought doubtfully.

"Commander," Leyoro called out, "the Cala-

marain are pursuing the probe."

It was true. The scintillating cloud receded into the

distance as it abandoned the Enterprise in favor of

chasing the much smaller projectile. The speed and

accuracy of its flight belied any lingering doubts about

the cloud's sentience. Through the prismatic ripples

of the cloud, he saw the glitter of discharged energy

outlining the probe as its protective forcefield strug-

gled to shield it from the attack of the Calamarain.

Why are they doing this? Riker wondered. The probe

poses no threat to them.

"The readings from the probe are going berserk,"

Geordi said. "A massive overload of tachyon emis-

sions." He studied the output at the science station.

"Commander, if we could retrieve the probe at this

point, examine its hull, we might be able to learn a lot

more about the offensive capabilities of the Cala-

marain."

That may be for the best, Riker thought, taking his

place in the captain's chair. It was obvious that the

probe was not going to fulfill its original mission

within the barrier. "Bring us within transporter

range," he ordered. "Mr. La Forge, prepare to lock on

to the probe."

"Commander!" Lieutenant Leyoro exclaimed.

"That will mean lowering our shields. In my opinion,

sir, the probe's not worth risking the ship for."

"If we don't learn more about the Calamarain, we

may pay for it later on," he pointed out. "They don't

seem interested in us at the moment, only the probe."

Why is that, he wondered. The probe came nowhere

near them. Why did they go after it?

The starship soared toward the amorphous, living

fog that now held the probe in its grasp. Puzzled,

Riker witnessed the coruscating shield around the

probe growing weaker and less effective before his

eyes. The flaring bursts of power came ever more

sporadically while the targeted projectile rocked back

and forth beneath the force of the cloud's assault.

How much longer could the probe withstand the fury

of the Calamarain?

"Shields down," Leyoro reported unhappily.

"I'm trying to lock on to the probe," Geordi said,

having transferred the transporter controls to his

science station, "but the Calamarain are interfering."

"Deliberately?" Riker asked.

"Hard to say," Geordi answered. "All I know is

those tachyon emissions are making it hard to get a

solid lock on the probe."

"Do what you can," Riker instructed, "but be

prepared to abort the procedure at my command."

Leyoro was right to a degree; if the Calamarain

showed any interest in coming after the ship itself,

they would have to sacrifice the probe and its data.

His comm badge beeped, and he heard Dr.

Crusher's voice, but before he could respond a white

light flared at the comer of his eye. For a second Riker

hoped that maybe Q and the captain had returned,

then he spotted the female Q and her child sitting

behind him on a set of wooden bleachers that had

materialized at the aft section of the bridge, blocking

the entrances to both of the rear turbolifts. The child

now wore an antiquated Little League uniform and

baseball cap instead of the sailor suit that had clothed

him earlier. His mother wore a matching orange cap

and jersey, with a large capital Q printed in block type

upon the front of her uniform, as opposed to the

lower-case q upon the little boy's jersey. "See," she

told q, pointing toward the main viewer, "this is what

they call an emergency situation. Isn't it funny?"

The boy laughed merrily and pointed like his moth-

er. "'Mergencee!" he squealed, bouncing up and

down upon the bleachers so forcefully that the tim-

bers creaked.

Riker seldom resorted to profanity on the bridge,

but he bit down a pungent Anglo-Saxon expression as

he tore his gaze away from the grossly inappropriate

tableau that now occupied the bridge. He'd have to

deal with the two sightseeing Q's later; right now his

attention belonged on the sight of the endangered

probe, its shields flashing within the vaporous depths

of the Calamarain. Still, he felt less like the command-

er of a mighty starship than like the ringmaster of a

three-ring circus.

"Now, pay attention," the female Q instructed her

child. "This is supposed to be educational as well as

entertaining." She plucked a pair of red and black

pennants from out of the air and handed one flag to

little q, keeping the other one for herself as she sat

upon the bleachers. The pennants were made of stiff

red fabric with the word "Humanoids" embossed on

one side. "While your father is occupied elsewhere,

let's make an outing of it, assuming the funny human-

oids can keep their ship in one piece for that long."

"Pieces!" little q chirped. "Pieces!"

On the screen, a flash of crimson flame erupted

from the side of the probe as its hull crumpled

beneath the stresses exerted by the Calamarain. "Mr.

La Forge?" Riker asked, guessing that soon there

would be nothing left of the probe to salvage.

"I think I've got it," Geordi called out. "Energizing

now."

The golden flicker of the transporter effect raced

over the surface of the probe, supplanting the futile

sparking of its failing forcefield. The probe faded

away completely, leaving behind only the spectacular

sight of the Calamarain floating 'twixt the Enterprise

and the galactic barrier.

"One point to the lowly humans," the female Q

announced, writing a neon-yellow Arabic number one

in the air with her index finger. The fiery numeral

hung suspended above the floor for a breath before

evaporating. A silver whistle appeared on a cord

around her neck. She blew on it enthusiastically,

hurting Riker's ears with the shrill sound, before

declaring, "Game on!"

The great cloud that was the Calamarain drifted in

place for a moment, perhaps unaware at first that its

prey had escaped, but then it raced toward the screen,

growing larger by the instant. Smoky tendrils reached

out for the Enterprise. "It's coming after us," Leyoro

said.

"Estimate interception in one minute, thirty-two

seconds," Data stated.

Riker heard Troi gasp beside him. He wondered if

she was feeling the Calamarains' hostile emotions,

but there was no time to find out. "Mr. La Forge," he

called out. "Is the transport complete?"

"We have it, Commander," Geordi assured him.

"It was close, but we beamed it into Transporter

Room Five."

"Raise shields," he ordered Leyoro. The incandes-

cent cloud filled the screen before him. Unknown

vapors churned angrily, stirring up ripples of ionized

gas. He tried to distinguish individuals within the

mass of radiant fog, but it was impossible to single out

one strand of plasma among the whole. It's possible,

he thought, that each Calamarain does not exist as a

single entity the way we do. They may be closer to a

hive-mind mentality, like the Borg.

That comparison did nothing to reassure him.

"Already on it," Leyoro said promptly, with a fierce

gleam in her cold gray eyes. Riker suspected she was

never truly happy except when fighting for survival. A

dangerous attitude in the more civilized and peace-

able regions of the Federation, but possibly a valuable

trait on a starship probing the boundaries of known

space. You can take an Angosian out of the war, he

thought, but you can't always take the war of out an

Angosian. Not unlike a certain Lieutenant Command-

er Worf....

The plasma cloud surged over and around the

Enterprise. Riker felt the floor vibrate beneath his

boots as their deflectors absorbed and dispersed some

variety of powerful force. A low, steady hum joined

the background noise of the bridge, buzzing at the

back of his mind like a laser drill digging into solid

tritanium. He could practically feel the grating sound

chafing away at his nerve endings. That's going to get

real old real fast, he thought.

"Permission to open fire?" Leyoro asked, eager to

return fire. Her survival instincts could not be faulted,

Riker knew. They had kept her alive during both the

war and the veterans' revolt that came afterward.

He shook his head. "Not yet. Let's not rush into

battle before we even know what we're fighting

about." Their shields had fended off the Calamarain

before. He was confident that they would buy them a

little breathing space now.

A jolt shook the bridge, which rocked the floor from

starboard to port and back again before stabilizing a

moment later. Everyone on the bridge caught their

breath, except for the female Q, who cheerily turned

to her child and said, "Come to think of it, I believe

we may be rooting for the wrong team." The stiff cloth

pennants the pair clutched in their hands switched

from red fabric to something slick and, in its shifting

spectrum of colors, reminiscent of the Calamarain.

Riker noted that the lettering on the miniature flags

now read "Nonhuman life-forms."

"One point to the Calamarain," she said, blowing

sharply on her referee's whistle, "and the score is

tied."

Riker refused to be baited, not while his ship was

under attack. "Report," he instructed his crew.

"What caused that shock?"

"Really, Commander Riker," the female Q chided,

"who do you think caused it? The Calamarain, of

course. Do you see any other threatening aliens in the

vicinity?"

"Just you," Riker said curtly. "Mr. Data, please

define the nature of the attack."

"Yes, Commander," Data said, scanning the read-

outs at Ops. From the captain's chair, Riker could see

a string of numerals rushing across Data's console

faster than a human eye could follow. "The tachyon

barrage emitted by the Calamarain has increased by

several hundred orders of magnitude. The intensity of

the tachyon collisions is now more than sufficient to

fatally damage both the ship and its inhabitants if not

for the protection afforded by our deflectors."

"I see," Riker said, none too surprised. The Cala-

marain had demonstrated the potency of their offen-

sive capabilities the last time they ran afoul of the

Enterprise. "Mr. La Forge, are our shields holding?"

"For now," Geordi affirmed, "but we can't main-

tain the deflectors at this level forever."

"How long can we keep them up?" Riker asked. He

watched the luminous plasma coursing across the

screen, the iridescent hues swirling like a kaleido-

scope. It's strangely beautiful, Riker reflected, regret-

ting once more that humanity and the Calamarain

had to meet as adversaries.

"Exactly?" Geordi said. "That depends on what

they throw at us." The circuit patterns upon his

implants rotated as he focused on his engineering

display. "If they keep up the pressure at this intensity,

the shields should be able to withstand it for about

five hours. Four, if you want to play it safe."

Good, Riker thought. At least they had time to get

their bearings and decide on a strategy. He didn't

intend to stay a sitting duck much longer, but it might

be in this instance that a judicious retreat was the

better part of valor. There was too much unknown

about both the Calamarains' motives and their abili-

ties for him to feel comfortable committing the Enter-

prise to an all-out armed conflict. And as for their

mission, and Professor Faal's experiment... well,

that was looking more unlikely by the moment.

"I can do more from Engineering," Geordi offered.

"Permission to leave the bridge?"

"Go to it, Mr. La Forge," Riker said crisply as

Geordi headed for the turbolift. He looked at Troi and

saw that the counselor still had her eyes closed, a look

of intense, almost trancelike concentration upon her

face. "Deanna?" he asked quietly, not wanting to jar

her from her heightened state of sensitivity.

"They're all around us," Troi answered, slowly

opening her eyes. "Surrounding us, containing us,

confining us. I'm sensing great anger and frustration

from every direction, but that's not all. Beneath

everything, behind the rage, is a terrible fear. They're

desperately afraid of something I can't even begin to

guess at."

"How typically vague and ominous," the female Q

said from the bleachers, rolling her eyes, to the

amusement of her offspring. "Perhaps, young lady,

you'd get better results with tea leaves."

"Never mind her," Riker said to Troi. "Thank you,

Deanna." He tried to interpret her impressions, but

too much remained unknown. How could such pow-

erful entities, capable of thriving in the deadly vacu-

um of space, possibly be afraid of the Enterprise? The

very idea seemed laughable, especially when a much

more probable suspect sat only a few meters away.

He spun his chair around to confront the anachro-

nistic 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, un-

like 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 ridic-

ulous 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 ex-

panded to fit more comfortably. "I'm sure if my

husband wanted you to understand about the Cala-

marain 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 con-

cerned. 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 'embar-

rassing' 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 child-

ish grin crumpled into tears and sobs. The mother

fixed a chilly stare on Riker, who felt his life expectan-

cy 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, im-

mortal 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 sepa-

rate fumes clumping together in heavy, swollen ac-

cumulations 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. "De-

flectors?" he asked, wanting a status report.

"Shields holding," Leyoro informed him, "al-

though 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 in-

tently at the display at his console. "By placing

further pressure upon our shields, the amplified na-

ture of the Calamarain's attack reduces our safety

factor by 1.5 31 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 compel-

ling 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 Cala-

marain 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 DeRan 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. CouM 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 Cala-

marain on impulse alone. He glanced over his shoul-

der 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 function-

ing properly, but somehow the warp field coils are not

generating the necessary propulsive 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 corem 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, al-

though 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 main-

tain 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 re-

opened the line to La Forge. "Geordi, have an engi-

neering 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. 'III 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 cer-

tainly the man had come in useful when they had to

repair Zefram Cochrane's primitive warp vessel back

m 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

shouM never have doubted Geordi ~ 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 Cala-

marain. 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. "Counsel-

or 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 un-

wanted 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 deter-

mination to see his work completed before death

claimed him. First, though, there were still the Cala-

marain. "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 her-

self 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, wheth-

er 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 enter-

ing 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 manag-

ing to translate Deanna's subjective emotional read-

ings 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 taken,

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..4 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 bugs flitted. Bug and

smoke, he cursed, his mood darkening. He remem-

bered that smoke, oh yes he did, and remembering,

hated..4 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. Not 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 frustrationmand 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.

(I m here,) the voice said, (I'm almost with you).

WHEN? he pleaded, his own voice sounding like an

explosion compared to the other. WHEN?

(Soon. There are a few obstacles to overcome, but

soon. I give you my word.)

What did it mean by that? The message was too

vague, too indefinite, to curb his constant craving to

defeat the wall. The bug and the smoke tormented

him, teasing him with their pretended proximity. He

needed an answer now.

Let me in, he said. Let you out. Away, away, no

more decay. Let me in, again and again.

(Yes/) the voice affirmed. (I will make it happen, no

matter what.)

The voice droned on, but he grew bored and

stopped listening. The bug captured his attention

once more, so small and fragile, but not yet undone by

the suffocating smoke. Buzz, buzz, little bug, he whis-

pered. Flitter J~ee while you can. He assumed the

shape of an immense arachnid, stretching out his will

in all directions like eight clutching limbs.

A spider is coming to gobble you up ....

Chapter Eleven

HE WAS NO Longer on the bridge. A cool white mist

surrounded Picard on all sides, obscuring his vision,

but the familiar sounds and smells of the bridge were

gone, informing him unequivocally that he had left

the Enterprise. He looked around him quickly and

saw only the same featureless fog everywhere he

glanced. The Calamarain? he wondered briefly, but,

no, this empty mist was utterly unlike the luminescent

swirls of the living plasma cloud. This place, odorless,

soundless, textureless, was more like... limbo. He

stamped his feet upon whatever surface was support-

ing him, but the mist absorbed both the force and the

sound of his boots striking the ground so that not an

echo escaped to confirm the physicality of his own

existence. He was lost in a void, a sensation that he

remembered all too well.

I've been here before, he thought. That time ! almost

died in sickbay and Q offered me a chance to relive my

past. The memory did nothing to ease his concerns.

That incident had been a profoundly disturbing, if

ultimately illuminating, experience, one that he was

m no great hurry to endure again. More important,

what about the Enterprise? Only seconds before, or so

it seemed to him, he had placed the ship on red alert

in response to the approach of the Calamarain.

"Dammit," he cursed, punching a fist into his palm in

frustration. This was no time to be away from his ship!

"Q!" he shouted into the mist, unafraid of who or

what might hear him. "Show yourselfi"

"You needn't bellow, Jean-Luc," Q answered, step-

ping out of the fog less than two meters away from

Picard. His Starfleet uniform, proper in every respect,

hardly suited his sardonic tone. "Although I wish you

could have simply listened to me in the first place.

You have no idea how strenuously I regret that you

forced me to go to such lamentable lengths to con-

vince you."

"I forced you?" Picard responded indignantly.

"This is intolerable, Q. I demand that you return me

to the Enterprise at once."

Q tapped his foot impatiently. "Spare me, Picard.

Time is scarce. Just this once, can't we skip the

obligatory angry protestations and get on with busi-

ness?"

"Your business, you mean," Picard said. "My busi-

ness is on my ship!"

"That's what you think," Q replied. He crossed his

arms upon his chest, looking quite sure of himself.

"Take my word for this, Jean-Luc. You're not going

back to the Enterprise--E,F, or G--until we are

finished, one way or another. Or don't you trust Riker

to keep the ship in one piece that long?"

That's not the point, he thought, but part of him was

forced to concede the futility of talking Q out of

anything. If there was one thing he had learned since

their first meeting in Q's "courtroom" over a decade

ago, it was that attempting to reason with or intimi-

date Q was a waste of time. Perhaps the best and only

option was to let the charade play out as quickly as

possible, and hope that he could get back to his life

and duties soon enough. Not a very appealing strategy,

he thought, but there it is.

He took stock of their surroundings, ready to take

on Q's latest game. The empty mist offered no clue as

to what was yet to come. "What is this place, Q," he

asked, "and don't tell me it's the afterlife."

"Like you'd know it if you saw it," Q said. "You

wouldn't recognize the Pearly Gates if you had your

pathetic phasers locked on them." He paused and

scratched his chin reflectively. "Actually, they aren't

so much peafly as opalescent... but I digress. This

shapeless locale," he said, sweeping out his arms to

embrace the entire foggy landscape, "is merely a

starting point, a place between time, where time has

no sway."

"Between time?" Picard repeated, concentrating on

every word Q said. This duplicitous gamester played

by his own arcane rules, he knew, and sometimes

doled out a genuine hint or clue in his self-

aggrandizing blather. The trick was to extract that

nugget of truth from the rest of Q's folderol. "I

thought you said earlier that time was scarce."

"By the Continuum, you can be dim, Jean-Luc,"

Q groaned, wiping some imaginary sweat from his

brow. "Sometimes I feel like I'm teaching remedial

metaphysics to developmentally stunted primates.

Here, let me demonstrate."

Q grabbed hold of the drifting fog with both hands

and pulled it aside as though it were a heavy velvet

curtain. Picard glimpsed two figures through the gap

in the mist, standing several meters away. One was a

tall, balding man in a red-and-black Starfleet uniform

that was a few years out of style. A lethal-looking

scorch mark marred the front of his uniform, above

his heart. The other figure was clad in angelic white

robes that seemed composed of the very mist that

framed the scene. A heavenly light illuminated the

second figure from behind, casting a sublime radiance

that outlined the robed figure with a shimmering halo.

Looking on this tableau, one could be forgiven for

assuming that this auroral figure was a veritable

emissary from Heaven, if not the Almighty Himself.

Picard knew better. He recognized the figures, and

the occasion, instantly. They were himself and Q,

posed as they had been when he first confronted Q in

this very same mist, shortly after he "died" from a

malfunction in his artificial heart. Caught up in their

own fateful encounter, the other Picard and Q paid no

heed to the onlookers now witnessing themselves at

an earlier time. Picard could not hear what his

younger self was saying to the younger Q, but he

remembered the exchange well enough. There had

been a time, after he woke up in sickbay under

Beverly Crusher's ministrations, when he had half-

convinced himself that he had merely experienced an

unusually vivid and perceptive dream, but, in his

heart of hearts, which bore no relation to the steel and

plastic mechanism lodged in his chest, he had always

known that the entire episode had really happened.

Even still, it gave him a chill to watch the bizarre

occurrence unfold once more.

He was tempted to shout out a warning to his

earlier self, but what could he say? "Whatever you do,

don't let Q tempt you into changing your past"? No,

that would only defeat the entire purpose of that

unique, autobiographical odyssey and deprive his

other self of the hard-earned insights he had so

painfully achieved over the course of that unforgetta-

ble journey. He couldn't bring himself to say a word.

"Seen enough?" Q asked. He withdrew his hands

and the fog fell back into place, sealing away the

vision from the past. "I must say, I seemed particu-

larly celestial there. Divinity looks good on me."

"So you think," Picard retorted, but his heart was

not in the war of words. That flashback to his old,

near-death experience shook him more than he

wanted to admit. "Why show me that?" he asked. "I

have not forgotten what happened then."

"You still don't understand," Q said. "That didn't

happen before. It's happening now. Here, everything

happens now. But when we return to the boring,

linear reality you know, the clock hands will resume

their dogged, dreary rounds." He held his hands up in

front of his face. "Excuse me while I watch my

fingernails grow. Let me know when you're through

with your futile efforts to comprehend the ineffable."

Picard ignored Q's taunts. Figuring out the rules of

this game was the only way he was going to find his

way back to the Enterprise. "Is that what this is all

about? The same routine as before, you're going to

make me face up to another chapter of my past?" He

couldn't help trying to guess what heartrending trage-

dy he might be forced to relive. The death of Jack

Crusher? That nasty business back at the Academy?

His torture at the hands of Gul Madred? Dear god, he

prayed, don't let it be my time among the Borg. I

couldn't bear to be Locutus once again. He cast off his

fears, however, and faced his opponent defiantly.

"You must be getting old, Q," he said. "You're

starting to repeat yourself."

To his surprise, Q began to look more uncomfort-

able than Picard, as though the relentless puppeteer

was genuinely reluctant to proceed now that the

moment of departure had arrived. "Oh, Picard," he

sighed, "how I wish we were merely sightseeing in

your own insignificant existence, but I'm afraid it's

not your disreputable past we must examine, mon

capitaine, but my own." He took a deep breath,

quelling whatever trepidations he possessed, then

gave Picard a devil-may-care grin. "Starting now."

The mist converged on Picard, swallowing him up.

For what could have been an instant or an eternity he

found himself trapped in a realm of total, blank

sensory deprivation--until the universe returned.

Sort of.

Where am I? Picard wondered. What am I?

There was something wrong with his eyes, or, if not

wrong precisely, then different. He could see from

three distinct perspectives simultaneously, the dispa-

rate views blending to grant him a curiously all-

inclusive image that made ordinary binocular vision

seem flat by comparison. He searched his surround-

ings, finding himself seemingly adrift amid the black-

ness of space. An asteroid drifted by, its surface pitted

with craters and shadows, and he glimpsed a blazing

yellow sun in the distance, partially eclipsed by an

orbiting planet. I don't understand, he thought. How

can I be surviving in a vacuum? Am I wearing a

pressure suit, or did Q not bother with that? It was hard

to tell; he couldn't feel his arms or his legs. He tried to

look down at his body, but all he could see was a

bright white glare. What had Q done to him?

"Q!" he shouted, but what emerged from his throat

was a long, sibilant hiss. Make that throats, for, to his

utter shock, he felt the vibrato of the hiss in no less

than three separate throats. This is insane, he thought,

struggling not to panic. Over the years, he had almost

grown accustomed to being miraculously transported

here and there throughout the universe by Q's capri-

cious whims, but he had never been transported out

of his own body beforemand into something inhu-

man and strange. "Q?" he hissed again, desperate for

some sort of answer.

"Right behind you, Jean-Luc," Q answered. Picard

had never been so relieved to hear that voice in his

entire life. Somehow, merely by thinking about it, he

managed to turn around and was greeted by an

astounding yet oddly familiar sight:

A three-headed Aldebaran serpent floated in the

void only a few meters away. A trio of hooded,

serpentine bodies rose from a glowing silver sphere

about which smaller balls of light ceaselessly orbited.

The heads, which each resembled Earth's king cobra,

faced Picard. Strips of glittering emerald and crimson

scales alternated along all three of the snakelike

bodies. Three pairs of cold, reptilian eyes fixed Picard

with their mesmerizing stare. A threesome of forked

tongues flicked from the serpentine faces. "Wel-

come," the snakes said in Q's voice, "to the begin-

ning."

Of course, Picard thought. Not only did he recog-

nize the triple serpent, an ancient mythological sym-

bol dating back to well before the onset of human

civilization, but he recalled how Q had once assumed

this form before, at the onset of his second visit to the

Enterprise. But this time, it seemed, Q had done more

than merely transform himself into the fantastical,

hydra-headed creature; he had somehow mutated

Picard as well. Straining the unfamiliar muscles of his

outermost necks, Picard turned his eyes on himself.

Even though he had already guessed what he would

find, it still came as a terrible shock when he saw,

from two opposing points of view, two more serpen-

tine heads rising from the radiant globe that was now

his body. For a second, each of his outer heads looked

past the central serpent so that Picard found himself

staring directly into his own eyes--and back again.

The jolt was too much for his altered nervous system

to endure and he quickly looked away to see the other

hydra, Q, hovering nearby. "So what do you think of

your new body, Captain?" he asked. "Tell me, are

three heads truly better than one?"

"Good Lord, Q," Picard exclaimed, trying his best

to ignore the peculiar sensation of speaking through

three sets of jaws, "what have you done?" He had to

pray that his unearthly transformation was only a

temporary joke of Q's, or else he would surely go mad.

Good god, did he now have three separate brains,

three different minds to lose?

"Merely trying to inject a note of historical verisi-

militude into our scenic tour of my past," Q stated.

"Relatively speaking, that is. Understand this, Picard:

there is no way your primitive consciousness can truly

comprehend what it means to be part of the Q

Continuum, so everything I show you from here on

has been translated into a form that can be perceived

by your rudimentary five senses. It's a crude, vastly

inadequate approximation of my reality, but it is the

best your mind can cope with." Q drifted closer to

Picard, until the transformed starship captain could

see the individual scales overlapping each other along

the lengths of each extended throat. The flared hoods

behind each head puffed up even larger. "Anyway," Q

went on, "it seemed more appropriate, and more

accurate, to take these shapes during this stage of our

excursion, given that the evolution of the humanoid

form is still at least a billion years away at this point.

In fact, this was one of my favorite guises way back in

the good old days, before you overreaching human-

oids came down from the trees and started spreading

your DNA all over the galaxy."

"Billions of years?" Picard echoed, too stunned at

Q's revelations to even register the usual insults and

patronizing tone. "Where... when... are we?"

"Roughly five billion years ago, give or take a few

dozen millennia." Q's leftmost head nipped playfully

at the head next to it. "Ouch. You know, sometimes I

surprise even myself." The central head snapped back

while the head on the right continued speaking. "Tell

me the truth, Jean-Luc, don't you get tired of Data's

painfully precise measurements? How refreshing it

must be to deal with someone--like myself, say--

who is quite comfortable rounding things off to the

nearest million or so."

Picard watched his own heads nervously, unsure

when or how he might start turning on himselfi There

was something horribly claustrophobic about being

trapped in this inhuman form, deprived of his limbs

and hands and all the normal physical sensations he

was accustomed to after sixty-plus years of existence

as a human being. He felt a silent scream bubbling

just beneath the thin surface of his sanity. "Q, I find

this new form... very distracting."

It was possibly the greatest single understatement

in his life.

"Oh, Jean-Luc," Q sighed, sounding disappointed,

"I had hoped you were more flexible than that. After

all, you coped with being a Borg for a week or two. Is a

tri-headed serpent god all that much harder?"

"Q," Picard pleaded, too far from his own time and

his own reality to worry about his pride. "Please."

"If you insist," Q grumbled. "I have important

things to show you and I suppose it wouldn't do to

have you fretting about your trivial human body the

whole time. You might miss something." The triple

necks of the Q-serpent wrapped themselves around

each other until the three heads seemed to sprout from

a single coiled stalk. Picard was briefly reminded of

Quetzalcoatl, the serpent deity of the ancient Aztecs.

Quetzalcoatl. . . Q? Could there be a connection?

He might never know.

"Pity," the triune entity continued, "you hadn't

begun to scratch the possibilities of this identity." A

flash of light illuminated the darkness for a fraction of

a second, and then Q appeared before Picard in his

usual form, garbed in what looked like a simple Greek

chiton fastened over his left shoulder. A circlet of

laurel leaves adorned his brow. Simple leather sandals

rested upon nothing but empty space.

Picard's trifocal vision coalesced into a single point

of view. Gratefully, he looked down to see his human

body restored to him. So relieved was he to have arms

and legs again, he barely noted at first that he was now

attired in an ancient costume similar to the one Q

now wore. He remained floating in space, of course,

protected from the deadly vacuum only by Q's re-

markable powers, but that was a level of surreality

that he felt he could cope with. Just permit me to be

myself, he thought, and I'm ready for whatever Q has

up his sleeves.

"Happy now?" Q pouted. He wiggled his fingers in

front of his face and scowled at the sight. "I hope you

realize what a dreadful anachronism this is. Be it on

your head, and you a professed archaeologist!"

"I feel much better, thank you," Picard answered,

regaining his composure even while conversing in

open space. He glanced down at his own sandaled feet

and saw nothing but a gaping abyss extending beneath

him for as far as his eyes could see. He was not

experiencing a null-gravity state, though; he knew

what that felt like and this was quite different. Q was

somehow generating the sensation of gravity, so that

he felt squarely oriented despite his surroundings. Up

was up and down was down, at least for the moment.

He fingered the hem of his linen garment, noting the

delicate embroidering along the border of the cloth.

God is in the details, he thought, recalling an ancient

aphorism, or was that the devil? "What is this?" he

asked, indicating the chiton. "Another anachro-

nism?"

"A conceit," Q said with a shrug, "to give a feel of

antiquity. As I explained before, and I hope you were

paying close attention, this is nothing like what I

really looked like at this point in the galaxy's history,

but simply a concession to your limited human un-

derstanding."

"And the Aldebaran serpent?" Picard pressed.

"Was that your true form?"

Q shook his head, almost dislodging his crown of

leaves. "Merely another guise, one better suited to a

time before you mammals began putting on airs."

"If anyone can be accused of putting on airs,"

Picard replied, "it's you. You've done little but flaunt

your alleged superiority since the time we first en-

countered you. Frankly, I'm not convinced."

"Yes, I recall your little speech right before we

departed the bridge," Q said. "Would you be sur-

prised to know that I share some of your opinions

about the more... shall we say, heavy-handed...

tendencies of the Continuum?"

"I know that you've been on the outs with your own

kind at least once," Picard answered, "which gives me

some hope that the Continuum itself might be rather

more mature and responsible." It dawned on him, not

for the first time, that almost everything he knew

about the rest of the Q Continuum had come from

Q's own testimony, hardly the most reliable of

sources. He resolved to question Guinan more deeply

on the subject, if and when he ever had the opportuni-

ty. "Well?" he asked, surveying this desolate section

of space. On the horizon, the eclipsing planet no

longer passed between himself and the nearest sun,

permitting him an unobstructed view of the seething

golden orb, which he registered as a typical G-2 dwarf

star, much like Earth's own sun. It was a breathtaking

sight, especially viewed directly from space, but he

was not about to thank Q for letting him see it. "Why

are we here?" he demanded. "What is it you wish to

show me?"

"The beginning, as I said," Q stated. With a wave of

his arm, he and Picard began to soar through the void

toward the immense yellow sun. The hot solar wind

blew in his face as the star grew larger and larger in his

sight. It was a thrilling and not entirely unpleasant

experience, Picard admitted to himself. He felt like

some sort of interstellar Peter Pan, held aloft by

joyous spirits and a sprinkling of pixie dust.

"Picture yourself in my place," Q urged, "a young

and eager Q, newly born to my full powers and cosmic

awareness, exploring a shiny new galaxy for the first

time. Oh, Picard, those were the days! I felt like I

could do anything. And you know what? I was right?'

At that, they plunged into the heart of the roaring

sun. Picard flinched automatically, expecting to be

burnt to a crisp, but, as he should have known, Q's

omnipotence protected them from the unimaginable

heat and brilliance. He gaped in awe as they de-

scended first through the star's outer corona as it

hurled massive tongues of flame at the surrounding

void, not to mention, Picard knew, fatal amounts of

ultraviolet light and X-rays. Listening to the constant

crackle and sizzle of the flames, he could not help

recalling how the Enterprise had nearly been de-

stroyed when Beverly, in command while he and the

others were being held captive by Lore, had flown the

ship into another star's corona in a daring and ulti-

mately successful attempt to escape the Borg. Yet here

he was, without even the hull of a starship to shield

him against the unleashed fury of the sun's outer

atmosphere.

Next came the chromosphere, a thin layer of fiery

red plasma that washed over Picard like a sea of hot

blood, followed by the photosphere, the visible sur-

face of the sun. Picard had thoroughly studied the

structure of G-2 stars at the Academy, of course, and

subjected hundreds of stars to every variety of ad-

vanced sensor probe, but none of that had prepared

him for the reality of actually witnessing the surface

of a sun firsthand; he gawked in amazement at churn-

ing energies that should have been enough to inciner-

ate him a million times over. Not even the legendary

lake of fire within the Klingon homeworld's famed

Kri'stak Volcano compared to the raging inferno that

seemed to consume everything in sight except him

and Q.

Despite Q's protective aura, Picard felt as if he were

standing naked in a Vulcan desert at high noon. Sweat

dripped from his forehead while rivers of perspiration

ran down his back, soaking the simple linen garment

he wore. Humidity on the surface of a sun? It was

flagrantly impossible; he had to assume that Q had

inflicted this discomfort on him purely for the sake of

illusion. Picard was none too surprised to note that Q

himself looked perfectly cool and comfortable. "I get

the idea, Q," he said, wiping more sweat from his

brow and flinging it toward his companion. Tiny

droplets evaporated instantly before reaching their

target. "It's very hot here. Do you have anything less

obvious to teach me?"

"Patience," Q advised. "We've barely begun." He

dabbed his toe in the boiling gases beneath their feet

and Picard felt whatever was supporting him slip

away. He began to sink even deeper into the bright

yellow starstuff. A mental image of himself being

dipped into hot, melted butter leaped irresistibly to

the forefront of his consciousness. Reacting instinc-

tively, he held his breath as his head sank beneath the

turbulent plasma, but he needn't have bothered;

thanks to Q, oxygen found him even as he drowned in

the sun.

They dropped through the photosphere until they

were well within the convection zone beneath the

surface of the sun. Here rivers of ionized gas, not

unlike those that composed the Calamarain, surged

throughout the outer third of the sun's interior. Pi-

card knew the ambient temperature around him had

to be at least one million degrees Kelvin. They dived

headfirst into one of the solar rivers and let the

ferocious current carry them ever deeper until at last,

like salmon leaping from white water, they broke

through into the very heart of the star.

Now he found himself approaching the very center

of a stellar furnace that beggared description. Here

untold amounts of burning hydrogen atoms, trans-

formed into helium by a process of nuclear fusion,

produced a temperature of more than fifteen million

degrees Kelvin. Not even the warp core aboard the

Enterprise was capable of generating that much heat

and raw energy. The visual impression Picard re-

ceived was that of standing in the midst of a single

white-hot flame, and the heat he actually felt was

nearly unbearable. Every inch of exposed skin felt raw

and dry and sunburnt. Acrid chemical fumes stung

his eyes, nose, and throat. The crackle of the spurting

flames far above him gave way to a constant pounding

roar. Overall, the intense gravitation and radiation at

the solar core were so tremendous that they practi-

cally overwhelmed his senses, and yet somehow he

was still able to see Q, who looked rather bored until

his eyes lit on something really interesting. "Look,

there I am," he announced.

Brushing tears away from his eyes, Picard stared

where Q was pointing, but all he could see was a faint

black speck in the distance, almost imperceptible

against the dazzling spectacle of the core. They flew

closer to the point of darkness and soon he discerned

an individual figure sitting cross-legged in the middle

of the gigantic fusion reaction. He seemed to be

toying with a handful of burning plasma, letting the

ionized gas stream out between his fingers. "Another

golden afternoon," Q sighed nostalgically, seemingly

oblivious of Picard's intense discomfort. "How young

and inexperienced I was."

Picard coughed harshly, barely able to breathe

owing to the caustic fumes and searing heat. The

choking sounds jarred Q from his reminiscing and he

peered at Picard dubiously. "Hmm," he pronounced

eventually, "perhaps there is such a thing as too much

verisimilitude." He snapped his fingers, and Picard

felt the awful heat recede from him. He gulped down

several lungfuls of cool, untainted air. It still felt

warm all around him, but more like a sunny day at the

beach than the fires of perdition. "I hope you appreci-

ate the air-conditioning," Q said, "although it does

rather spoil the effect."

The effect be damned, Picard thought. He was here

as an abductee, not a tourist. He gave himself a

moment to recover from the debilitating effects of his

ordeal, then focused on the individual Q had appar-

ently brought him here to see. Jl young and inexperi-

enced Q? This he had to see.

Picard flew close enough to discover that the figure

did indeed resemble a more youthful version of Q,

one not yet emerged from adolescence. To his sur-

prise, something about the teen reminded Picard of

Wesley Crusher, another wide-eyed young prodigy,

although this boy already had a more mischievous

twinkle in his eye than Wesley had ever possessed.

"Portrait of the artist as a young Q," Picard's com-

panion whispered with a diabolical chuckle. "Be-

ware." As he and Picard looked on, the young man,

dressed as they were in the garb of ancient Greece,

isolated a ribbon of luminous plasma, stretching it

like taffy before imbuing it with his own supernatural

energies so that it shimmered with an eldfitch radi-

ance that transcended conventional physics. He

pulled his new creation taut, then flung it free. The

fiery ribbon shot like a rubber band toward the ceiling

of the core and soon passed out of sight. "I had

forgotten about that!" Q marveled. "I wonder what-

ever happened to that little energy band?"

With a start, Picard remembered the inexplicable

cosmic phenomenon that had driven Tolian Soran to

madnessmand, in more ways than one, claimed the

life of James T. Kirk. Surely Q couldn't be claiming to

have created it during an idle moment in his boyhood,

could he? "Q," he began, shocked and appalled at the

implications of what he suspected, "about this energy

band?"

"Oh, never mind that, Jean-Luc," Q said, dismiss-

ing the question with a wave of his hand. "Do try not

to get caught up in mere trivia."

Only Q could be so blas6, Picard thought, about the

genesis of a dangerous space-time anomaly, and so

negligent as to the possible consequences of his ac-

tions. He opened his mouth, prepared to read Q the

riot act, when the boy came up with a new trick that

rendered Picard momentarily speechless. Miniature

mushroom clouds sprouted from the teen Q's fingers

and he hurled them about with abandon, paying no

heed to either Picard or the older Q. A toy-sized

nuclear blast whizzed by Picard, missing his head by a

hair. "Can he see us?" Picard asked, ducking yet

another fireball.

"If he wanted to, of course," Q answered. A nuclear

spitwad passed through him harmlessly. "But he has

no reason to even suspect we are here, so he doesn't."

I suppose that makes sense, Picard thought. He

could readily accept that the older Q was more adept

at stealth and subterfuge than his youthful counter-

part. He wondered if Q felt the least bit uncomfort-

able about peeking in on his past like this. "Aren't you

at all tempted," Picard asked, "to speak to him? To

offer some timely advice, perhaps, in hopes of chang-

ing your own past?"

"If only I could," Q said in a surprisingly melan-

choly tone. Picard was disturbed to see what appeared

to be a genuine look of sorrow upon his captor/

companion's face. What kind oJ regrets, Picard

mused, can plague such as Q?

The moment passed, and Q regained his character-

istic smugness. "You're not the only species, Jean-

Luc, that worries incessantly about preserving the

sanctity of the timeline. If changing one human life

can start a historical chain reaction beyond any

mortal's powers to predict, imagine the sheer univer-

chaos that could be spawned by tampering with a

Q s lifetime." He shuddered, more for effect than

because of any actual chill. "Remind me to tell you

sometime about how your own Commander Riker

owes his very existence to a momentary act of charity

by one of my contemporaries. It's quite a story,

although completely irrelevant to our present pur-

poses."

Picard hoped that Q was exaggerating where Will

Riker was concerned, but he saw Q's point. Various

ancient theologians throughout the galaxy, he re-

called, had argued that even God could not undo the

past. It was comforting to know that Q recognized the

same limitation, at least where his own yesterdays

were concerned. Picard took a closer look at the

adolescent figure not too far away. "What is he...

you... doing now?"

Before their eyes, the teen Q rose to his feet, dusted

some stray solar matter from his bare knees, and

stretched out his arms. Suddenly he began to grow at

a catastrophic rate, expanding his slender frame until

he towered like a behemoth above his older self and

Picard. He seemed to grow immaterial as well, so that

his gargantuan form caused nary a ripple in the

ongoing thermonuclear processes of the star. Soon he

eclipsed the great golden sun itself, so that its blazing

corona crowned his head like a halo. His outstretched

hands grazed the orbits of distant solar systems.

"I don't understand," Picard said. "How can we be

seeing this? What is our frame of reference?" The

gigantic youth loomed over them, yet he was able to

witness the whole impossible scene in its entirety. He

tore his gaze away from the colossal figure to orient

himself, but all he could see was the sparkle of stars

glittering many light-years away. Somehow they had

departed from the sun completely without him even

noticing. "What is this place? Where are we now?"

"Shhh," Q said, raising a finger before his lips.

"You must be quite a pain at a concert or play, Picard.

Do you always insist on examining the stage and the

curtains and the lighting before taking in the show?"

He quietly applauded the boy's grandiose dimen-

sions. "Just go with it. That which is essential will

become clear."

I hope so, Picard thought, feeling more awestruck

than enlightened. There must be some point to this,

aside from demonstrating that Q was as flamboyant

and egotistic in his youth as he is in my own time.

The boy Q inspected his own star-spanning propor-

tions and laughed in delight. It was an exuberant

laugh, Picard noted, but not a particularly malevolent

one. Picard was reminded of the optimistic, idealistic,

young giants in H. G. Wells's The Food of the Gods, a

novel he had read several times in his own boyhood.

Most unexpectedly, he found himself liking the young

Q. Pity he had to grow into such a conceited pain-in-

the-backside.

"I was adorable, wasn't I?" Q commented.

Is that what he wants me to know? Picard thought.

Merely that he was once this carefree boy? "Even

Kodos the Executioner was once a child," he observed

dryly. "Colonel Green is said to have been a Boy

Scout."

"And Jean-Luc Picard built ships in bottles and

flew kites over the vineyards," Q shot back. *'Evi-

dence suggests that he may have briefly understood

the concept of fun, although some future historians

dispute this."

Picard bristled at Q's sarcasm. "If this is some

misguided attempt to reawaken my sense of fun," he

said indignantly, "might I suggest that your timing

could not be worse. Snatching me away while my ship

is in jeopardy is hardly conducive to an increased

appreciation of recreation. Perhaps you should post-

pone this little pantomime until my next scheduled

shore leave?"

Q rolled his eyes. "Don't be such a solipsist, Jean-

Luc. I told you before, this isn't about you. It's about

me." His head tilted back and he stared upward at the

Brobdinguagian figure of his younger self. "Look!" he

exclaimed. "Watch what I'm doing now!"

Without any other warning except Q's excited

outburst, the teen Q began to shrink as swiftly as he

had grown only moments before. His substance con-

tracted and soon he was even smaller than he had

been originally, less than half the height of either

Picard or the older Q. But his process of diminution

did not halt there, and he quickly became no larger

than a doll. Within seconds, Picard had to get down

on his knees, kneeling upon seemingly empty space,

and strain his eyes to see him. The boy Q was a speck

again, as he had been when Picard had first spied him

across the immeasurably long radius of the solar core.

A heartbeat later, he vanished from sight. Picard

looked up at the other Q, who had a devious smile on

his face. "Well?" Picard asked, frustrated by all this

pointless legerdemain. "He's gone."

"Au contraire, mon capitaine," Q said, waving a

finger at the puzzled human. "To Q, there is no zero,"

he added cryptically. "Let's go see."

In a blink, Pieard was somewhere else. It was a

strangely colorless realm, a shapeless world of stark

black and white without any shading in between. The

utter darkness of space had been supplanted by an

eerie white emptiness that seemed to extend forever,

holding nothing but flying black particles that zipped

about ceaselessly, tracing intricate patterns in the

nothingness. A slow-moving particle arced toward

Picard and he reached out to pluck it from its flight.

The black object streaked right through his out-

stretched hand, however, leaving not a mark or a

tingle behind, leaving Picard to wonder whether it

was he or the particle that was truly intangible.

He hoped it was the particle. Certainly, he thought,

patting himself for confirmation, he felt substantial

enough. He could hear his own breathing, feel his

heart beating in his chest. He felt as tangible, as real,

as he had ever been.

But where in all the universe was he now?

Total silence oppressed him. There were no sounds

to hear and no odors to smell. Not even the limbo

where Q had first transported him, with its swirling

white mists, had seemed quite this, well, vacant. For

as far as his eyes could see, there were only three

objects that seemed to possess any color or solidity:

himself, Q, and a now-familiar young man cavorting

among the orbiting particles. Picard watched as the

adolescent Q did what he had not been able to do and

caught on to one of the swooping particles with his

bare hands. Compared with the youth, it looked about

the size of a type-I phaser and completely two-

dimensional. It dangled like a limp piece of film from

his fingertips.

Picard looked impatiently at the Q he knew. "What

are you waiting for? Explain all this, or do you simply

enjoy seeing me confused and uncertain?"

"There is nothing simple about that joy at all, Jean-

Luc, but I suppose I do have to edify you eventually.

This," he said grandly, "is the domain of the infinites-

imal. What you see buzzing about you, smaller than

the very notion of sound or hue, are quarks, roesons,

gluons, and all manner of exotic subatomic beasties.

Or rather, to be more exact, they are the possibilities

of micro-micro-matter, discrete units of mathemati-

cal probabilities following along the courses of their

most likely speeds and directions. Whether they actu-

ally exist at any one specific time or place is open to

interpretation."

"Spare me the lecture on quantum theory," Picard

said, doing his best not to sound impressed. He hated

to give Q the satisfaction of watching him play the

dumbstruck mortal, but, if Q was in fact telling the

truth about their present location, if they were actu-

ally existing on a subatomic level, then it was hard not

to marvel at the sights presented to him. "Is that

really a quark?" he asked, pointing to the young Q's

immaterial plaything. The boy was peering into the

thin black object as if he saw something even smaller

inside it.

"Cross my heart," his older self said, "a honest-to-

goodness quark, not to be confused with that grasping

barkeep on you-know-where."

Picard had no idea whom Q was referring to, and

he didn't really care. Perhaps the greatest challenge

posed by Q, he reflected, was to see past his snideness

to the occasional tidbits of actual revelation. Picard

took a moment just to bask in the wonder of this

uncanny new environment, one never before

glimpsed by human eyes. It was sobering to think

that, ultimately, everything in existence was com-

posed of these phantom particles and their intricate

ballet.

"The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,

the solemn temples, the great globe itself," he recited,

recalling his precious Shakespeare. "Yea, all which it

inherit, shall dissolve; and like this insubstantial

pageant faded, leave not a rack behind. We are such

stuff as dreams are made on."

"My goodness, Picard," Q remarked, "are you

moved to poetry?"

"Sometimes poetry is the only suitable response to

what the universe holds for us," Picard answered. The

essential building blocks of matter darted around him

like flocks of birds on the wing. "This is fascinating, I

admit, but I fail to see the relevance to your earlier

warnings and prohibitions. What has this to do with

my mission to the galactic barrier?"

"More than you know," Q stated. An hourglass

materialized in his hands and he tipped it over, letting

the sands of time pour down inexorably. "Keep

watching. Here's where things start to get messy."

The boy Q held the quark up in front of him, like a

scrap of paper, then thrust his arm into the quark up

to his elbow. His hand and lower arm disappeared as

if into a pocket-sized wormhole. He dug around

inside the quark for a moment, the tip of his tongue

poking out of the corner of his mouth in his concen-

tration, until he seized hold of something and yanked

it back toward his body. It looked to Picard like he

was turning the quark inside-out.

Instantly, the entire submicroscopic realm changed

around them all, becoming a sort of photo-negative

version of its prior self; Picard looked about him to

see a dimension of total blackness, lightened only by

flying white particles. Black was white and white was

black and the young Q gazed goggle-eyed at what he

had wrought. "I don't understand," Picard said.

"What's happening?"

"Quiet," Q shushed him, his gaze fixed on his

younger self, who was whooping and hollering in

triumph. He appeared very pleased with himself,

unlike the curiously somber Q standing next to Pi-

card. Clearly, this memory held no joy for Q, al-

though Picard could not tell why that should be so.

Am I missing something? Picard wondered.

"Q!" a booming Voice exploded out of the dark-

ness, startling both Picard and the adolescent Q, but

not, conspicuously, the Q Picard was most accus-

tomed to. He knew exactly what was coming.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?" the Voice boomed

again.

The boy glanced about guiltily, dropping the now

snow-white quark like a hot potato. He struck Picard

as the very portrait of a child caught with his hand in

the proverbial cookie jar. The inverted quark flopped

like a dead thing at the boy's feet, and he tried to kick

it away casually, but it stuck to the sole of his sandal.

"Um, nothing in particular," he replied to the Voice,

trying unsuccessfully to shake the quark from his foot.

"Why do you ask?"

"YOU KNOW WHY. YOU ARE TOO YOUNG

TO TRIFLE WITH ANTIMATTER. WHY HAVE

YOU DEFIED THE EDICTS OF THE CON-

TINUUM?"

The Voice sounded familiar to Picard, although its

excessive volume made it hard to identify. Where

have I heard it before? he thought. And what was that

about antimatter? He surveyed his surroundings an-

other time; was all of this actually antimatter? He was

used to conceiving of antimatter as a fairly abstract

concept, something tucked away at the heart of warp

engines, safely swaddled behind layers of magnetic

constriction. It was difficult to accept that antimatter

was all around him, and that, contrary to the funda-

mental principles of physics, no explosive reaction

had resulted from his contact with this realm. Anti-

matter, in any form, was intrinsically dangerous.

Small wonder the rest of the Continuum frowned on

the young Q's impulsive experiments.

Sheepishness gave way to defiance as the teen Q

realized there was no way to escape the blame. "It's

not fair!" he declared. "I know what I'm doing. Look

at this? He snatched the telltale quark from his foot

and waved it like a flag. "Look all around! I did thism

me!aand nothing got hurt. Nothing important,

anyway."

"THE WILL OF THE CONTINUUM CANNOT

BE FLOUTED."

Without any fanfare, the quantum realm reversed

itself, returning to its original monochromatic sche-

ma. Once again, inky particles glided throughout a

blank and silent void. "I liked it better the other way,"

the boy Q muttered to himself. Picard glanced at his

companion and saw that the older Q was quietly

mouthing the same words.

"YOU MUST BE DISCIPLINED. YOU ARE RE-

QUIRED TO SPEND THE NEXT TEN MILLION

CYCLES IN SOLITARY MEDITATION."

"Ten million!" the boy protested. "You have to be

joking. That's practically forever!" He flashed an

ingratiating smile, attempting to charm his way out of

hot water. "Look, there's no harm done. How about I

just promise not to do it again?"

"THE JUDGMENT OF THE CONTINUUM

CANNOT BE QUESTIONED. TEN MILLION CY-

CLES."

"But I'll be ancient by then!" the young Q said.

"Ouch? his future self responded.

MAKE IT SO, the Voice declared, and Picard

suddenly realized whom the Voice reminded him of.

Me. The Voice sounds like me. Was that why Q had

always delighted in provoking him, he speculated, or

was the similarity merely an unusually subtle joke on

Q's part? Either way, it appeared obvious that Q had

developed a grudge against authority figures at a very

early age.

"Just you wait," the boy vowed bitterly, more to

himself than to his oppressor. "One of these days I'll

show you what I can really do, you wait and see."

"THE TEN MILLION CYCLES BEGIN NOW,"

the Voice stated, apparently unimpressed by the

youth's rebellious attitude. Do I really sound that

pompous? Picard had to wonder. Surely not.

Staring sullenly at his feet, the young Q vanished in

a twinkle of light. Picard could not tell if he had

transported himself willingly or if he had been yanked

away by the Continuum. He supposed it didn't matter

much.

"Believe me, Jean-Luc," Q said, gazing mournfully

at the spot his earlier self had occupied, "when I was

that young, ten million cycles really did feel like an

eternity."

Picard found it hard to sympathize, especially

when he was being held against his will while the

Enterprise faced unknown dangers. "Was this ex-

tended flashback.really necessary?" he asked. "It

comes as no surprise to learn that you started out as a

juvenile delinquent."

"Says the man who was nearly expelled from Star-

fleet Academymtwice," Q replied. "And we're not

done yet." He flipped over the hourglass once more,

reversing the flow of sand. "This was only the begin-

ning."

Therek more? Picard thought. How much longer

did Q intend to keep him away from his ship? "No

more," he began to protest, but his angry words were

swallowed up by another flash of supernatural light,

leaving the quarks to continue alone their endless and

invisible pavanes.

He was on his way againinto only Q knew where.

Interlude

LIEUTENANT Reginald Barkely did his best to ignore

the ceaseless hum of the Calamarain as he inspected

the battered probe, but that was easier said than done.

He was all too aware that the steady drone in the

background emanated from the same entities, called

the Calamarain according to Chief La Forge, that had

inflicted the damage he was now evaluating. If they

could do this to the molded duranium-tritanium

casing, what could they do to ordinary human flesh-

and-blood?

Barclay shuddered, glad that no one was present to

witness his attack of nerves. Sometimes his imagina-

tion was just a little too vivid for his own peace of

mind, even if Counselor Troi tried occasionally to

convince him that his rich imagination could be a

source of strength rather than a liability, provided he

managed to control it rather than the other way

around. Unfortunately, that was about the only even-

tuality he couldn't imagine.

And who wouldn't be worried, now that the captain

was missing, too? Abducted by Q, from what ChiefLa

Forge said. Barclay had a great deal of faith in

Captain Picard's ability to keep the ship intact despite

the numerous--too numerous, as far as Barclay was

concerned--hazards encountered in deep space, but

how could the captain extricate them from this crisis

if he wasn't even aboard? It was enough to make even

a Klingon nervous... maybe.

The probe, plucked from the Calamarain's grasp

moments before its imminent destruction, rested on

the floor of Transporter Room Five. Approximately

four meters in length, it was a conical, metallic object

with a bulbous, multifaceted head constructed of

triple-layered transparent aluminum. The matte black

finish of the probe was scorched and dented while the

once trans.parent head, resembling the eye of an

enormous insect, appeared to have been partially

melted by whatever forces had assailed the probe. The

formerly clear sensor windows had clouded over,

turning opaque and milky. A fissure along the right

side of the cone revealed a silver of charred circuitry

beneath the ruptured hull.

A full-color, three-dimensional picture of a similar

crevice opening up along the length of the Enterprise

itself forced its way into Barclay's mind, but he

pushed it away as fast as he could. That~ the way, he

told himself. Just focus on the job. He scanned the

probe with his tricorder, detecting no significant

residual radiation, before gingerly laying his hands on

the blasted surface of the mechanism. To his surprise,

it felt slightly warm to the touch, despite having been

beamed in straight from the cold of interstellar space.

He consulted his tricorder again and observed that

the metals composing the hull remained agitated at an

atomic level, although the degree of ionic activity was

swiftly falling off as the disrupted matter restabilized.

He recorded the data into the memory of the tricorder

and charted its progress for several seconds. The

forced acceleration of the atoms within the alloy,

along with the resulting stresses of its molecular

bonds, were consistent with the sort of tachyon over-

load La Forge had suggested he look out for. Tachyons

definitely seemed to be the Calamarain's weapons of

choice, but what kind of harm could they impose on

Federation technology, not to mention innocent Star-

fleet officers?

Convinced that he had learned as much as he could

from the torn and toasted exterior of the probe, he

proceeded to the next stage of the autopsy, wincing

slightly at the more alarming connotations of that

term. First, he confirmed that the deuterium micro-

fusion propulsion unit at the rear of the probe was

indeed deactivated; fortunately, class-2 sensor probes

were not equipped with warp capacity, so he didn't

have to worry about any loose particles of antimatter

poking a hole into reality as he knew it. Next, using a

delicate phaser scalpel, he peeled off a section of the

burnt outer casing, exposing the intricate navigational

and sensory apparatuses within.

The probe's innards did not look much better than

its supposedly protective sheath. Most of the circuitry

was fused and useless now. Still, he chipped the

carbon scoring away from one of the output ports and

plugged a palm-sized data-retrieval unit into the

central memory processor in hope of rescuing what-

ever scraps of information might have survived the

tachyon barrage. There's probably not much left, he

thought glumly, but here goes nothing.

Unexpectedly, the retrieval unit whirred to life at

once and began humming almost as loudly as the

Calamarain themselves. "Hey!" he said out loud to

the empty transporter room. Maybe the internal dam-

age wasn't as bad as it looked.

He waited until the unit had recorded all available

data onto an isolinear chip, then began dissecting the

entire mechanism, methodically extracting the copro-

cessors one at a time, scanning every component with

his tricorder to record the extent of the damage (if

any), then moving on to the next one. It was slow,

laborious work and Barclay soon found himself wish-

ing that Chief La Forge had been able to spare another

engineer to assist him at the task.

Not that he was all too eager to return to Engineer-

ing, not while there was still a chance he might run

into Leto Faal again. That distinguished and ever-so-

intimidating scientist still gave him dirty looks every

time Barclay had to come by Faal's temporary work-

station to check with Mr. La Forge about something

or another. I can't believe I almost wrecked the pulse

generator, he thought, reliving those awful, endless

seconds for the one thousandth time. His cheek still

burned where Faal almost hit him. Barclay knew that

he had completely thrown away any chance he had of

taking part in the historic experiment, even assuming

the Calamarain let the operation proceed as planned.

Another wasted opportunity, he thought, the latest in a

long string of self-administered wounds to his Star-

fleet aspirations. Counselor Troi insisted that his

reputation among his peers wasn't nearly as bad as he

feared, but sometimes he wondered if she was just

being nice.

At times like this, he thought, his mind wandering

somewhat, it was very tempting to sneak away to the

nearest holodeck and escape from the stress and

humiliations of the real world. Perhaps he could relive

some of his greatest holovictories, like defeating Bar-

on Diabolis in Chapter Twenty-Three of The Quest for

the Golden Throne or outwitting Commander Kruge

before the Genesis Planet completely self-destructed.

The latter was one of his proudest moments; after

seventy-three tries, he'd actually managed to save

Spock without sacrificing the original Enterprise,

which was even better than the real Kirk had been

able to do. Perhaps next time he could save David

Marcus, too ....

No, he thought, shaking his head to clear his mind

of past and future fantasies. He had worked too hard

to get a handle on his holodiction problem to back-

slide now, especially when Chief La Forge and the

others were depending on him. He refocussed all his

concentration on job at hand, using the phaser scalpel

to separate two fused coprocessors, then gently pulled

a melted chip out of its slot.

A glint of blue flame peeked out from beneath the

slot and Barclay scooted backward on his knees, half-

expecting the entire probe to explode in his face like a

defective torpedo. When nothing of the sort occurred,

he crept back toward the probe, his trioorder out-

stretched before him. Funny, he noted; the tricotder

wasn't reporting any excess heat or energy.

There was definitely something there, though: an

incandescent blue glow that seemed to come from

somewhere deeper within the inner workings of the

perhaps-not-totally lifeless probe. Not entirely trust-

ing his instruments, Barclay held up his open palm in

front of the mysterious radiance. His skin didn't

detect any heat either, but he thought he felt a

peculiar tingling along his nerve endings. He might be

imagining the sensations, he reminded himself, pain-

fully aware of his own tendency toward hypochon-

dria. He still remembered, with excruciating accu-

.racy, that time last month when he paged Dr. Crusher

m the middle of the graveyard shift, thoroughly

convinced that he was dying from an accidental

overdose of genetronic radiation and in immediate

need of massive hyronalyn treatments, only to discov-

er that there was nothing wrong with him except a

slight case of heartburn. Maybe it was best, he con-

cluded, to reserve judgment on the whole question of

whether he was really feeling something or not.

But what was causing that glow? It wasn't very

intense, more like the bioluminescent gleam of a

Rigelian firefly, but he couldn't account for what

might be producing the light. Wait a sec, he thought, a

hypothesis forming in his mind. Maybe biolumines-

cenee was precisely what he was looking at. Excite-

ment overcoming his trepidations, he reached down

with both hands and pried out an entire shelf of

singed isolinear coprocessors, then looked back ea-

gerly into the cavity he had exposed. There, beneath

the discarded rows of coprocessors, was the souwe of

the lambent blue sheen: the newfangled bio-gel packs

that were rapidly becoming the next generation of

Starfleet data-processing technology. The organic

memory cells, designed to accelerate the transfer and

storage of information from the probe's sensors,

looked surprisingly undamaged compared with the

rest of the probe's entrails; they were laid out in a

sequence of finger-sized sacs connected by semiper-

meable silicate membranes that appeared to have

remained intact despite the pummeling endured by

the probe. Now that the preceding layer of circuitry

had been removed, he could see that all of the gel

packs were imbued with the same strange, unaccount-

able incandescence that had first attracted his atten-

tion.

Even though the bio-organic technology was rela-

tively new, having been introduced on the ill-fated

U.S.S. Voyager before that ship ended up in the Delta

Quadrant, Barclay knew the packs didn't ordinarily

glow this way; they were intended to store informa-

tion, not energy. Something must have happened to

them during the probe's interrupted voyage to the

barrier. You know, he thought, the light from the packs

kind of looks like the glow of the galactic barrier.

Inspiration struck him like the blast of a holograph-

ic disruptor beam (set well within conventional safety

parameters). He quickly scanned the gel-filled sacs to

confirm that the curious glow was not an aftereffect of

a tachyon overload. This had nothing to do with the

Calamarain then, and perhaps everything to do with

the probe's brief proximity to the barrier itself.

According to the latest scientific theories, which

Barclay had studiously reviewed before getting kicked

off the wormhole project, the energies that composed

the galactic barrier were largely psychokinetic in

nature. He had not programmed his tricorder to scan

for any psionic traces before, but now he recalibrated

the sensor assemblies to detect emanations along the

known psychic frequencies and checked out the probe

again.

Voillt, he thought, feeling much as he had when he

found the (holographic) lost Orb of the Prophets;

there they were, distinct pockets of psionic energy

contained within the shining gel packs. Obviously, the

bio-neural material within the packs had somehow

absorbed small quantities of psionic energy from the

barrier. Is that why the Calamarain attacked the

probe, he wondered. It was even possible that the

borrowed psionic power had helped protect the or-

ganic components of the probe from the Calamarain's

tachyon bombardment.

This is amazing, he thought. Who knew what the

full implications of his discovery might be? He

couldn't wait to tell Mr. La Forge. Even the thought of

facing Professor Faal again didn't seem as daunting as

before, at least in the abstract. He double-checked his

tricotder readings one more time, then headed for the

exit. "Wow," he murmured to himself, proud of his

accomplishment and wondering if this heady feeling

was what Mr. La Forge or Commander Data felt

whenever they made some startling scientific break-

through. Reality, he discovered, could be even more

satisfying than a holodeck.

Who would have thought it?

Chapter Twelve

THE STORM WAS WELL and truly upon them.

The wrath of the Calamarain could be felt all over

the bridge, much more viscerally than before. The

unremitting hum of the plasma cloud had grown into

the rumble of angry thunder that battered the ears of

everyone aboard. On the main viewer, lightning arced

across the prow of the saucer section, striking vio-

lently against the forward deflector shields. Riker

gritted his teeth as the impact slammed him back into

his seat. Sparks flew from the tactical station behind

him, singeing the back of his neck, and he spun his

chair around in time to see Leyoro snuff out the

flames with her bare hands. "Shields down to fifty-one

PnerCent," she reported, rerouting the deflector read-

gs through the auxiliary circuitry even as she extin-

guished the last white-hot spark beneath the heel of

her palm.

Riker scowled at the news, the smell of burning

circuitry irritating his nostrils. Their defenses were

almost halfway down already, and they hadn't even

begun to fight back. Hell, they still didn't know why

they were under attack. "What in blazes did we do to

provoke this?" he asked out loud.

"I am afraid I cannot yet determine that, Com-

mander," Data answered from his station at Ops,

"although I believe I am making progress in adapting

the Universal Translator to the transmissions from

the Calamarain." Deanna stood at the android's side,

between Ops and the conn, her hands cupped over her

ears in a futile attempt to screen out the roar of the

thunder. How could she be expected to sense any-

thing, Riker thought, in the middle of a tempest like

this? "The counselor's impressions are proving quite

informative," Data stated nonetheless.

"How much more time do you need?" Riker asked.

Given a choice, he'd rather talk with the Calamarain

than engage them in battle, but the Enterprise

couldn't take this pummeling much longer. There was

only so long he was willing to turn the other cheek.

"That is difficult to estimate," Data confessed.

"The intensity of the barrage is now such that it is

extremely problematic to filter out what might be an

attempt at communication, much like trying to listen

to a whistled melody in the midst of a hurricane."

"Give me your best guess," Riker instructed.

Data cocked his head to one side as he pondered

the problem. "Approximately one-point-three-seven

hours," Data concluded after only a few seconds of

contemplation. "As a best guess," he added.

"Thank you, Mr. Data," Riker said, although he

would have preferred a significantly smaller figure. At

the rate the storm outside was eating away at their

shields, the Enterprise might not last another hour,

unless they started giving as good as they got. Who

knows? he thought. Maybe the Calamarain are like the

Klingons, and only respect aliens who fight back.

Then again, he reminded himself, it took the Feder-

ation close to a hundred years to come to terms with

the Klingon Empire ....

A new thunderbolt rocked the ship, tilting the

bridge starboard. Next to Data, Deanna staggered

and grabbed on to the conn station to maintain her

balance. Riker felt a shudder run along the length of

the bridge, and possibly the entire starship, before

their orientation stabilized. "We have damage to the

starboard warp nacelle," Ensign Schultz reported

from the aft engineering station.

"Casualties reported on Decks Twelve through

Fourteen," another officer, Lieutenant Jim Yang,

called out from the environmental station. "No fatali-

ties, though."

Not yet, Riker thought grimly.

"Commander," Leyoro spoke up, echoing his own

thoughts, "we can't wait any longer."

"Agreed," Riker said, hitting the alert switch on the

command console. He regretted that yet another first-

contact situation had to lead to a show of force, but

the Calamarain hadn't given them any other choice

except retreat. Let's see what happens when we bite

back, he thought. "All crew to battle stations."

Baeta Leyoro, for one, was rating to go. Her white

teeth gleamed wolfishly as she leaned over the tactical

controls. "All weapons systems primed and ready,"

she announced. "Awaiting your command."

"Start with a midrange phaser burst," he ordered.

"Maximum possible dispersal." The wide beams

would weaken the burst's total force, but Riker saw no

obvious alternative. How the hell, he thought, do you

target a cloud?

"Yes, sir!" Leyoro said, pressing down on the

controls. Phaser arrays mounted all along the ship's

surface fired at once, emitting a unified pulse that

spread out from the Enterprise in every possible

direction. On the screen, Riker saw the pulse emerge

as a wave of scarlet energy that disappeared into the

billowing, churning mass of the Calamarain. He

wasn't sure, but he thought the turbulent cloud be-

came even more agitated when and where it inter-

sected with the phaser burst. The roiling gases swirled

furiously, throwing off electrical discharges that

crackled against the Enterprise's shields. A clap of

thunder rattled Riker all the way through to his bones.

"I sure felt that," he said, raising his voice to be

heard over the din. "The question is: did they feel

us?" He peered over at Deanna, who had taken her

seat beside him the minute he sounded the battle

alert. "Any response from out there?"

Deanna shook her head. "I'm not sure. I don't

think so. They're already so upset, it's hard to tell."

He nodded. In for a penny, he thought, in for a

pound. "Another burst. Increase phaser intensity to

the next level." There was no turning back now. He

hoped he could avoid actually killing one or more of

the Calamarain, but their alien nature made it impos-

sible to gauge the ultimate effect of the phaser beams.

He had no intention of going to maximum strength

before he had to, but, one way or another, he was

going to make these strange, bodiless beings think

twice about attacking this ship.

"Here goes nothing," Leyoro muttered as she fired

again. A second burst of directed energy, even more

dazzling than before, met the fury of the Calamarain.

Once again, it was absorbed into the accumulated

plasma almost instantaneously.

The cloud's reaction was just as immediate.

With a howl even louder than any Riker or the

others had heard before, the Calamarain shook the

Enterprise savagely. Riker held on tightly to the ann-

rests of the captain's chair while keeping his jaw

firmly set to avoid biting down on his tongue. All

about the bridge, crew members bounced in their

seats, their minds and bodies jangled by the brutal

quaking. Even Data appeared distracted by the dis-

turbance; he looked up from his console with an

impatient expression upon his golden face, as if he

was anxious for the shaking to cease so he could

continue with his work. Riker knew just how he felt.

Mercifully, the worst of the battering subsided after

a few moments, although the sentient tempest still

raged upon the screen and the thunder reverberated

ominously behind every buzz and beep from the

bridge apparatus. Riker felt his temples begin to

pound in concert with every resounding peal. He

searched the bridge to make sure that no one had been

injured seriously, then looked back at Deanna. The

counselor's face was pale, her eyes wide with alarm.

"They felt that," she gasped. Obviously, she had

shared at least a part of the Calamarain's pain.

"I got that impression," he said.

Barclay had hoped that Mr. La Forge would be

alone when he reached Engineering, but no such luck.

The first thing Barclay saw as soon as he got off the

turbolift was the chief engrossed in a heated discus-

sion with Lem Faal, who was the last person Barclay

wanted to run into right now. The red alert signals

flashing all around the engineering section only added

to his trepidation, as did the all busy Starfleet officers

hard at work in response to the alert.

Engineering was abuzz with activity, much more so

than usual. Every duty station was manned, some-

times by more than one individual. His fellow engi-

neers shouted instructions and queries back and forth

to each other as they hastily adjusted and/or moni-

tored illuminated instrumentation panels all along

engineering. Yellow warning signals blinked upon the

tabletop master systems display, indicating problems

with at least half a dozen vital ship systems, while a

whole team of crew members, led by Sonya Gomez,

clustered around the towering warp engine core, care-

fully manipulating the enclosed matter/antimatter

reaction. Ordinarily, Barclay could have expected a

friendly greeting upon entering Engineering, but at

the moment his colleagues were too intent upon their

assigned tasks to take note of his arrival. Even Leto

Faal seemed too busy with Chief La Forge to spare

Barclay another dirty look.

Maybe this isn't the best time, Barclay thought, his

previous enthusiasm cooling in the face of the irate

Betazoid scientist. He wanted to talk to Mr. La Forge

about his discovery in Transporter Room Five, but

the chief looked like he had his hands full with the red

alert, not to mention Professor Faal. The visiting

scientist was obviously upset. He held on to a dura-

nium pylon for support while he argued with La

Forge. "I don't understand," he said. "We can't cancel

the experiment now. It's ridiculous."

"We're under attack," La Forge pointed out, look-

ing past Faal at the cutaway diagram of the Enterprise

on the master situation monitor, his attention clearly

divided between Faal and the ongoing crisis. "It's a

shame, but I'm sure Commander Riker knows what

he's doing." He started to turn away from the irate

physicist. "Now, you'll have to excuse me while I see

what's the matter with our warp engines. You should

go back to your quarters."

"This is more than a shame," Faal objected, a faint

whistle escaping his throat with every breath. La

Forge had discreetly briefed the engineering team on

the physicist's medical problems, and Barclay felt

sorry for the man despite the bad blood between

them. Iverson's disease, like all manner of illnesses

and medical threats, terrified Barclay. Even though he

knew Iverson's disease was caused by a genetic disor-

der and was by no means contagious, listening to

Faal's tortured breathing still gave him the creeps.

"I've devoted years to this project. It's my last hope

for... well, I suppose you'd call it immortality." His

knuckles whitened as he held on to the pylon with

what looked like all his strength. "Your Commander

Riker has no right to make this decision. I'm in charge

of this experiment. Starfleet specifically told your

captain to cooperate with my experiment!"

La Forge shrugged impatiently. "I don't know

much more than you do, but I know we can't pull this

off in the middle of a combat situation, especially

with the captain missing." He hurried over to the

master systems display, where Ensign Daniel Sutter

stepped aside to permit La Forge access to the pri-

mary workstation. La Forge continued to speak to

Faal as he simultaneously ran a diagnostic on the

graviton polarity generators. "Maybe the Calamarain

will go somewhere else and we can try again. Or

maybe you'll have to try another section of the

barrier."

"No," Faal said, following closely behind La Forge.

He sounded ever more sick and distraught. "This is

the ideal location. All our sensor readings and calcula-

tions prove that. We have to break through the barrier

now. I might not get another chance. I don't have

much time left .... "

Barclay was getting tense just listening to this

conversation. He seriously considered turning around

and coming back later. But what if the way the bio-gel

packs in the probe absorbed some of the barrier's

energy turns out to be important? He'd never forgive

himself if the Enterprise got destroyed and it was all

his fault; it was bad enough that he'd infected the

entire crew with that mutagenic virus a couple years

ago. Don't live in the past, Counselor Troi always told

him. Show people what you're capable of.

Mustering up all his courage, Barclay stepped closer

to the chief and Faal. The Betazoid genius spotted

him approaching and gave him a murderous look;

clearly, he hadn't forgotten the incident with pulse

generator. Or forgiven.

"Excuse me, sir," Barclay said to La Forge. He

could feel Lem Faal's baleful glare burning into the

back of his neck. "But when you've got a moment, I'd

like to talk to you about something I found in that

probe you asked me to look at."

La Forge sighed, as if the rescued probe was just one

more thing for him to worry about. Barclay immedi-

ately regretted bringing it up. "Can this wait, Reg?"

he asked with a slight edge of irritation in his tone.

"There's an emergency with the warp engines and the

deflectors."

"Yes. No," he answered. "I mean, I don't know."

Professor Faal lost his patience entirely. "What are

you doing, wasting time with this idiot?" Saliva

sprayed from his mouth as he gasped out the words.

"This is intolerable! I want to speak to Commander

Riker!"

Before La Forge could respond, a tremendous clap

of thunder echoed through Engineering, drowning out

even the constant thrum of the warp core. The floor

swayed beneath Barelay's feet and he found himself

stumbling down a sudden incline that hadn't existed

an instant before, bumping awkwardly into no less

than Professor Faal himself. Just kill me now, he

thought.

La Forge frowned as the floor gradually leveled out

again. "This isn't good," he said. Circuit patterns

rotated in his ocular implants as he concentrated on

the tabletop display, taking stock of the situation. "I

can't waste any more time with this. Reg, make sure

the professor gets back to his quarters okay, then head

back here. We'll talk about the probe later." Without

a backward glance, he stalked across Engineering

toward the warp core, issuing orders as he went.

"Sutter, divert impulse power to the subspace field

amplifiers. Ortega, keep an eye on the EPS flow .... "

Why me? Barclay thought, left alone with Lem Faal.

Couldn't someone else--anyone else--escort Faal? He

already hates me enough. But La Forge was in charge;

he had to keep his eyes on the big picture. "Yes, sir,"

Barclay said dutifully, if less than enthusiastically.

"Please come with me."

Faal ignored him entirely, chasing after Geordi.

"You can't do this, La Forge," he said, his wheezing

voice no more than a whisper. "The barrier is bigger

than some pointless military exercise. We can't lose

sight of that. The experiment is all that matters!"

But La Forge, determined to inspect the warp

engine power transfer conduits, would not be dis-

tracted. "Reg," he called out, exasperated, "if you

could take care of this?"

I can't let Mr. La Forge down, Reg thought, taking

Faal gently but firmly by the arm. "Please come along,

Professor." Part of him felt guilty about bullying a

sick man; another part was greatly relieved that Faal

wouldn't be able to put up much resistance.

Physically, that is. The scientist's vocal indignation

showed no sign of abating. "Let go of me, you

incompetent cretin! I insist on seeing Commander

Riker."

Barclay had no idea where Riker was. On the

bridge, he assumed, coping with the latest ghastly

emergency. There you go again, he chastised himself,

leaping to the worst possible conclusion. But he

couldn't help it. The flashing red alert signals and

blaring sirens ate away at his nerves like Tarcassian

piranha. A dozen nightmarish scenarios, ranging

from an uncontrolled plasma leak to a full-scale Q

invasion, raced through his mind. He tried to dismiss

his fears as irrational and unfounded, but with only

partial success. An angry Q couM do anything, he

thought, anything at all. Still, he somehow managed

to get the professor away from La Forge and into the

turbolift. Let me just get Faal stowed away safely.

Then ! can report my findings on the probe. "Which

deck are your quarters on?" he asked.

"Seven," Faal said grudgingly, still visibly in-

censed. Unable to stand upright on his own, he had to

lean back against the wall of the lift. Something wet

and clotted gurgled in his lungs. Barclay tried not to

stare at the silver hypospray Faal removed from his

pocket. It's not contagious, he kept reminding himself.

It's not.

The turbolift came to a stop and the doors

whooshed open, revealing an empty corridor leading

to the ship's deluxe guest quarters, the ones reserved

for visiting admirals and ambassadors. Nothing but

the best for the winner of the Daystrom Prize, Barclay

thought, wondering how much larger the suite was

than his own quarters on Level Eleven. "Here we

are," he announced, grateful that Faal had not raised

more of a fuss once they left Engineering. I'll just drop

him off, then hurry back to Mr. La Forge. He still

needed to tell the chief about the psionic energy the

probe had picked up.

"Just give me a minute, Lieutenant," Faal said. His

hypospray hissed for an instant, and the debilitated

scientist grabbed on to the handrail for support. His

chest rose and fell slowly as he choked back a rasping

cough. Barclay looked away so as not to embarrass the

professor.

The next thing he knew a pair of hands shoved him

out of the lift compartment into the hall. Surprised

and befuddled, he spun around in time to see the

doors sliding shut in front of his face. For one brief

instant, he glimpsed Faal through the disappearing

gap in the door. The Betazoid grinned maliciously at

him. The doors came together and the lift was on its

way.

Oh no! he thought. He immediately called for

another lift, which arrived seconds later, and he

jumped inside. I can't believe I let him do that. I can't

even keep track of one sickly Betazoid. He didn't know

how he was ever going to look Geordi La Forge in the

eyes again. Just when I thought I was really on to

something, what with the probe and all, I have to go

and do something like this/

"Destination?" the turbolift inquired when Barclay

didn't say anything at first. The prompt jogged his

mind. Where could Professor Faal have run off to?

Back to Engineering? Boy, was Chief La Forge going

to be annoyed when Faal showed up to pester him

again. "Engineering," he blurted, and the lift began to

descend. Maybe I can still stop him before he gets to

Mr. La Forge.

But, wait, he recalled. Hadn't Faal kept demanding

to see Commander Riker? Suddenly, he knew what

the professor's destination had to be. The bridge.

"Stop. Cancel previous order. Take me to the

bridge. Nonstop."

Please let me get there before Faal can bother the

commander too much.

"Fire phasers again," Commander Riker ordered.

"Take us up another notch, Lieutenant."

"With pleasure, sir," Leyoro said. A burst of high-

intensity phaser beams leaped from the emitter arrays

to sting the alien cloud-creatures enclosing the Enter-

prise. As before, the Calamarain reacted with a thun-

derous roar that caused the starship to rock like an

old-fashioned sailing vessel adrift on a stormy sea.

The floor of the command area rolled beneath

Riker's feet as yet another tremor jarred the bridge,

reminding him forcibly of the Great Alaskan Earth-

quake of 2349. Back on Earth, he thought, that wouM

ave been at least a five-point-two. Thank heavens the

Enterprise-E had been constructed as soundly as it

had; otherwise, he'd be expecting the roof to cave in at

any moment.

His mind swiftly reviewed the situation. They had

hurt the Calamarain with that last phaser burst, but

not enough, apparently, to make the vaporous aliens

let go of the ship; frothing, luminescent fog still filled

the screen of the main viewer. So far, it seemed, all

they had done was make the Calamarain even more

angry. That's progress, I guess, he thought, wondering

briefly what Jean-Luc Picard would do in these cir-

cumstances before pushing that thought out of his

mind. The captain was gone. Riker had to rely on his

judgment and experience, as he had many times

before. "Tactical status?" he inquired.

"Shields at forty-six percent," Leyoro briefed him.

"Phasers armed and ready. Quantum torpedoes

locked and loaded."

Riker acknowledged her report with a nod. He

wasn't sure what good the torpedoes would do against

a living cloud of plasma, especially one located at

such close quarters to the Enterprise, but it might be

worth finding out. "Ensign Berglund," he ordered the

officer at the primary aft science station, "locate the

area of maximum density within the Calamarain

cloud formation."

Ordinarily, he'd assign Data a task like that, but he

didn't want to divert the android's concentration

from his work with the Universal Translator. Sondra

Berglund, a blond Canadian officer with a specialty in

advanced stellar spectroscopy, could handle the job

just as well with the sensors assigned to her science

console. If we're going to target anywhere, he decided,

we might as well aim for the highest concentration of

Calamarain.

"Urn, I'm afraid that would be us," she reported

after a few seconds. "The plasma is most dense

around the Enterprise and diminishes in volume and

intensity the farther the distance from the ship."

That was no good then, Riker realized. He had a

vivid mental image of hundreds, if not thousands,

of gaseous Calamarain swarming over and around the

Sovereign-class starship. They're ganging up on us, all

right, he thought, and pounding on the walls. There

was no way he could detonate a quantum torpedo

against the Calamarain while the ship remained at

the heart of the cloud; they'd be caught within the

blast-hazard radius. For all they knew, the matter/

antimatter reaction set off by a standard torpedo

could harm the Enterprise more than the Calamarain.

He'd have to hold back on the torpedoes until he put

some distance between the ship and its noncorporeal

adversaries.

On the main viewer, riotous swells of ionized gas

convulsed between the ship and open space. Riker

didn't remember the cloud looking anywhere near

this stirred up the first time the Enterprise encoun-

tered the Calamarain several years ago. He still didn't

understand what they had done to agitate the amor-

phous entities. Q wasn't even aboard anymore!

His temples throbbed in time with the thunder

outside. His gaze darted over to Deanna, who looked

like she was having an even harder time. Her eyes

were shut, her face wan and drawn. He assumed she

was still in touch with the Calamarains' pain and

anger, and it tore at his heart to see her under such

strain. Between the tumult on the bridge and the

damage they had inflicted back on their foes, Deanna

was getting lambasted from both sides.

Hold on, imzadi, he thought. No matter what hap-

pens next, this can't go on much longer.

Her lids flickered upward and she met his eyes. A

thin smile lifted her lips. Riker knew that even if his

actual words hadn't gotten across to her, his message

definitely had. There was a Klingon term, he recalled,

for such an instance of wordless communication in

the midst of battle, but what exactly was the word

again? Tova'dok. That was it, he recalled. He and

Deanna were sharing a moment of Tova'dok.

Their private communion did not last long. With

renewed ferocity, the unleashed power of the Cala-

marain slammed into the ship, causing the bridge to

lurch to port. Behind him, at the engineering station,

Ensign Schultz lost his balance and tumbled to the

left, smacking his head into the archway over a

turbolift entrance. Berglund hurried to assist him.

"Everyone okay back there?" Riker called out over

the crashing thunder.

"I think so," Schultz answered. Riker glanced back

over his shoulder to see a nasty cut on the young

man's scalp. A trickle of blood leaked through his

fingers as he held his hand to his head. Undaunted,

Schultz headed back to his post. Riker admired his

spirit, but saw no reason to risk the ensign unneces-

sarily.

"Report to sickbay, mister," Riker ordered. "Berg-

lurid, take over at engineering." The overhead lights

dimmed momentarily, more evidence of the duress

imposed on the ship by the Calamarain; Ensign

Schultz wasn't the only resource on the Enterprise

that had been knocked out of commission.

"Shields at forty-one," Leyoro updated him as

Schultz took the turbolift from the bridge. Riker

wished he could have sent someone with the wounded

ensign to insure that he got to sickbay, but he couldn't

spare anyone from the bridge while they remained

besieged by the Calamarain.

"Understood," he said. No warp engines. Minimal

shields. And, so far, no significant damage to the

Calamarain. Their situation was getting worse by the

moment. "Data, how are you doing on that trans-

lator?"

Data looked up from his computations. "Signifi-

cant headway has been made; in fact, I believe I have

identified a specific wave pattern that translates to

something close to an expression of pain." His voice

acquired a regretful tone. "Unfortunately, I estimate

that I still require as much as one-point-two-zero

hours before I can reliably guarantee actual commu-

nication with the Calamarain."

That might not be good enough, Riker thought.

Before he could open his mouth, though, he heard

the turbolift whish open behind him. At first, he

thought it might be Robert Schultz, stubbornly refus-

ing to abandon his post, but then he heard the

impassioned voice of Professor Faal. "What's hap-

pening?" he asked frantically. "What are you doing?"

Damn, Riker thought. This was the last thing he

needed. Deanna looked distressed as well by the

Betazoid scientist's unexpected arrival. He peeked at

Deanna, recalling her concerns about the doctor's

stability and motives. She raised one hand before her

face, as if to fend off the disruptive emotions emanat-

ing from Faal. No surprise there, Riker thought. He

imagined that the professor was throwing off plenty of

negative feelings.

A moment later, the turbolift doors opened again,

revealing an abashed Reg Barclay. "I'm s-sorry, Com-

mander," he stammered, his Adam's apple bobbing

nervously, "but the professor insisted, sort of." His

eyes bulged and his jaw fell open as his gaze fell upon

the frothing plasma storm upon the main viewer.

"Yes," Faal seconded. His face was flushed, his wild

brown eyes crazed with anxiety. "I have to talk to you,

Commander. It's more important than you can possi-

bly realize."

"Commander?" Leyoro asked, still determined to

engage the enemy despite the lack of any tangible

results. The nonstop reverberations of the Cala-

marain rolled over the bridge like a series of sonic

booms. The red alert signals flashed like beacons in

the night.

Riker decided to get the confrontation over with;

Faal wasn't going to like what he had to say, but

perhaps he could be made to see reason. He rose from

the captain's chair to face the celebrated physicist.

Faal's body was trembling so hard that Riker feared

for his health. The man's breathing was shallow and

rapid, and he seemed to be having trouble standing;

Faal tottered unsteadily on shaky feet. Riker's hand

drifted over his comm badge, ready to summon Dr.

Crusher if necessary.

"I regret to inform you, Professor, that I've made

the decision to abandon the experiment due to hostile

activity on the part of the Calamarain." He saw no

reason to alarm the doctor by detailing the full

particulars of their danger; instead, he reached out to

brace up the ailing scientist. "I'm sorry, but that's the

only prudent choice under the circumstances."

Faal batted Riker's arm away. "You can't do that!"

he snapped. "It's completely unacceptable. I won't

hear of it. The captain's orders came straight from

Starfleet Command." A fit of coughing attacked Faal,

bending him all the way over. Faal dosed himself with

his ubiquitous hypospray, then staggered over to the

empty chair Riker usually occupied and collapsed

down onto it. "The barrier," he gasped. "That's all

that matters."

The floor beneath Riker's boots tilted sharply,

nearly knocking him off balance. Lightning flashed

through the storming plasma cloud upon the main

viewer, the glare of the thunderbolt so bright that it

overloaded the safety filters on the screen and made

him squint. "The Calamarain seem to disagree."

"Then destroy them!" Faal urged from the chair,

squinting at the control panel in front of him as if he

was determined to launch a volley of photo torpedoes

himself. Wet, mucous noises escaped from his lungs.

"Disintegrate them totally. This is a Federation star-

ship. You must be able to dispose of a pile of stinking

gases!"

Riker was shocked by the man's bloodthirsty rav-

ings. "That's not what we're here for," he said force-

fully, "and that's not what this ship is about." He

pitied Faal for his failing health and frustrated ambi-

tions, but that didn't condone advocating genocide.

"Mr. Barclay, return Professor Faal to his quarters."

"No!" Faal wheezed. He tried to stand up, but his

legs wouldn't support him. Barclay hurried around to

Faal's side, but Faal just glared at him before shouting

at Riker again. "I won't go! I demand to be heard!"

"Shields down to thirty-four percent," Leyoro in-

tempted. "Shall I call Security to remove the pro-

fessor?"

"Do it," Riker ordered. Lieutenant Barclay, wring-

ing his hands together, looked like he wanted to sink

through the floor. Riker turned his back on both the

irate scientist and the embarrassed crewman. He had

more important things to deal with.

Like saving the Enterprise.

Chapter Thirteen

COOL NIGHT AIR BLEW against Picard, chilling him. Far

beneath him, moonlight from no less than two orbit-

ing satellites reflected off the shimmering surface of a

great expanse of water. Where am I? he thought,

trying to orient himself.

He and Q were no longer in the subatomic realm

they had exited only a heartbeat before, that much

was certain. Without even knowing where he truly

was, he could tell that this was more like reality as he

knew it. The coolness of the breeze, the taste of the

air, the comforting tug of gravity at his feet, all these

sensations assured him that he was back in the real

world once more. But where and, perhaps more

important, when?

He quickly took stock of his surroundings. He,

along with Q, appeared to be standing on some sort of

balcony overlooking a precipitous cliff face that

dropped what looked like a kilometer or so to the still

black waters of an enormous lake or lagoon. The

balcony itself, as green and lustrous as polished jade,

seemed carved out of the very substance of the cliff.

As Picard leaned out over the edge of a waist-high

jade railing, intricately adorned with elaborate fili-

gree, he saw that similar outcroppings dotted the face

of the precipice, each one packed with humanoid

figures, some looking out over the edge as he was,

others dining comfortably at small tables as though at

some fashionable outdoor caf6. A sense of excitement

and anticipation, conveyed by the hubbub of a hun-

dred murmuring voices, permeated the atmosphere.

Picard got the distinct impression that he and Q had

arrived just in time for some special occasion.

Jade cliffs. Two moons. A gathering of hundreds in

caves dug out of the face of a great, green cliff The

pieces came together in his mind, forming a picture

whose implications left him reeling. "Mon dieu!" he

gasped. "This is Tagus III. The sacred ruins of the

ancient cliff dwellers!"

"Well, they're not exactly ruins at the moment,

Jean-Luc," Q said casually, "nor are they really all

that ancient." Picard's self-appointed tour guide sat a

few meters behind him at a circular table set for two.

Q sipped a bubbling orange liquid from a translucent

crystal goblet and gestured toward the empty seat

across from him. A second goblet rested on the jade-

inlaid tabletop, next to a large copper plate on which

were displayed strips of raw meat, swimming in a

shallow pool of blue liquid that could have been sauce

or gravy or blood for all Picard knew. He didn't

recognize the delicacy, nor did he expect to if this

alien time and place was truly what it appeared to be.

The jade pueblos of Tagus III, he marveled, as they

must have been nearly two billion years ago. He had

studied them for years, even delivered the keynote

speech at an archaeological conference devoted to the

topic, but he had never expected to witness them in

person, let alone in their original condition. The

Taguans of his own time had strictly forbidden any

outsiders to visit the ruins, keeping them off-limits to

archaeologists and other visitors ever since the Vul-

cans conducted their own ill-fated dig on the site over

a decade before. The ban had frustrated a generation

of scholars and historians, including Picard himself,

for whom the celebrated ruins remained one of the

foremost archaeological mysteries in the Alpha Quad-

rant. Possibly the oldest evidence of humanoid civili-

zation in the galaxy, at least prior to the ground-

breaking and still controversial work of the late

Professor Richard Galen, the ruins on Tagus III had

provoked literally millennia of debate and specula-

tion. Before the Taguans decided to deny the site to

offworlders, there had been at least 947 known exca-

vations, the first one dating back to 22,000 years ago,

almost 18,000 years before the rise of human civiliza-

tion on Earth. The legacy of the ancient beings who

first made their mark on this very cliff had puzzled

and intrigued the galaxy since before human history

began.

And here he was, visiting in the flesh a wonder of

immeasurable age that he had read about ever since

he was a small child in Labarre. Picard recalled that

once before Q had offered to show him the secrets of

Tagus III, the night before Picard was to speak at that

prestigious archaeological conference. Seldom had he

ever been so tempted by one of Q's insidious proposi-

tions, although he had ultimately found the strength

to reject Q's offer, both out of respect for the Taguans'

deeply held convictions and his own habitual suspi-

cions as to Q's true motives. He'd be lying to himself,

however, if he didn't admit just how enticing the

prospect of actually setting foot on the site had been.

Now that he really was here, he could not resist

trying to absorb as many sights and sounds as he was

able. No matter the circumstances of his arrival, and

despite his compelling desire to return to his ship as

expeditiously as possible, the archaeologist in him

could have no more turned away from this once-in-a-

lifetime opportunity than the starship captain could

have accepted a desk job at the bottom of a gravity

well. He had to witness all there was to see.

Besides, he rationalized, the Taguans' twenty-

fourth-century mandate against visiting aliens would

not go into effect for a couple of billion years or

SO ....

He took a closer look at the people crowding the

balconies beside and below him. Whether the Tag-

uans of his own time were actually descended from

those who had left their presence marked upon these

cliffs, as they steadfastly maintained, or whether they

represented a subsequent stage of immigration oI

evolution, as suggested by the findings of the Vulcan

expedition of 2351, was a question greatly debated in

the archaeological community. Indeed, it was this

very issue that had inspired the modern Taguans to

close off the ruins to outsiders, in an attempt to

protect their vaunted heritage from the "lies and

fallacies" of non-Taguan researchers.

Judging from what he saw now, it appeared that the

Vulcans were correct after all. The Taguans he knew

were characterized by turquoise skin and a heavy

layer of downy white fur. In contrast, the figures

populating this historical vista, clad in revealing silk

garments of diverse hues, looked quite hairless, with

smooth, uncovered flesh whose skin tones ranged

from a pale yellow to a deep, ruddy red. Their faces

were remarkably undifferentiated from each other,

bearing only the essential basics of humanoid fea-

tures, without much in the way of distinguishing

details. Two eyes, a nose, a mouth, a vague suggestion

of lips and ears. The vague, generalized visages looked

familiar to Picard, but it took him a moment to place

them.

Of course, he realized after a quick search through

his memory. The inhabitants of ancient Tagus bore a

distinct resemblance to the unnamed humanoids who

had first spread their genetic material throughout the

galaxy some four billion years before his own era. He

well remembered the holographic image of the origi-

nal, ur-humanoid who had grated him at the comple-

tion of his quest to finish the work of Professor Galen.

Could it be that the people of the jade cliffs were the

direct descendants of those ancient beings who had

indirectly contributed to the eventual evolution of the

human race, the Klingons, the Vulcans, the Cardas-

sians, and every other known form of humanoid life?

If so, then the ruins on modern-day Tagus were even

more important than he had ever believed.

A thought occurred to him, and he turned from the

railing tO address Q, who took another sip from his

goblet. "Why aren't they noticing us?" Picard asked.

He explored his own very human features with his

hand. They felt unchanged. Looking down, he felt

relieved to see that his Grecian garments had been

replaced by his familiar Starfleet uniform. "We must

stand out in the crowd. In theory, Homo sapiens has

not even evolved yet."

"To their eyes, we look as they do," Q explained.

He drained the last of his drink, then refilled the cup

Simply by looking at it. "Given your own limited

ability to adapt to new forms, I'm letting you stick

with the persona you're accustomed to. I hope you

appreciate my consideration."

"But this is what the ancient Taguans looked like?"

Picard asked, gesturing at the crowds swarming over

the cliff face.

"Actually, they called themselves the Imotru," Q

stated, "but, yes, this is no illusion or metaphor.

Aside from you and I, you're seeing things exactly as

they were." Q's face retooldeal itseft until he looked

like another Imotru. Only the mischievous glint in his

eyes remained the same. "See what I mean?" He

blinked, and his customary features returned.

The peal of an enormous gong rang across the night,

and a hush fell over the scene as the buzz of countless

conversations fell silent. Picard could feel a sense of

acute expectation come over the scene, drawing him

back to the rafting overlooking the great lake. Some-

thing was obviously about to happen; the teeming

throng of Imotru assembled along the cliff were

waiting eagerly for whatever was to come.

A spark of light way down upon the surface of the

lagoon caught his attention. Picard heard a hundred

mouths gasp in anticipation. A moment later, a string

of torches ignited above the black, moonlit water,

their flames reflected in a series of mirrors arranged

around the torches, which formed a hexagonal pat-

tern, cordoning off an open stretch of water, about

seventy meters across, in the direct center of the dark

lake. The polished mirrors reflected the light inward

so that this single swatch of rippling water was

illuminated as if by the afternoon sun, while the rest

of the lagoon remained cast in shadow. A single

swimmer, holding aloft the glowing brand she must

have used to light the torches, floated amid the

brightly lit pool she had created. With a dramatic

flourish, she doused the brand to a smattering of

cheers and stamping feet.

Was that it? Picard thought, peering down at the

lighted hexagon demarcated by the torches and mir-

rors. Based on the crowd's reaction, he suspected not.

There was still that keen sense of anticipation in the

air, an almost palpable atmosphere of mounting ex-

citement. Somehow he knew that what he had just

witnessed was merely a prelude, not the main event.

Most of the assembled Imotru, he observed, were

now looking upward, eagerly searching the moonlit

sky for... what? An image from an ancient jade bas-

relief, meticulously reproduced in the Federation

database, popped into his head just as a thrilling

possibility presented itself. No, he thought, disbeliev-

ing his own good fortune, surely we couldn't have

arrived in time for that!

A roar rose from the crowd. Dozens of seated

Imotru leaped to their feet, including Q, who joined

Picard by the railing. "Look up, Jean-Luc," he whis-

pered. "Here they come."

Picard needed no urging. He strained his eyes to

spot the sight that had electrified the assemblage, the

sight whose true nature he could scarcely bring him-

selfto believe. It must be them, he thought. It couldn't

be anything else, not here in this place and time.

Sure enough, his eyes soon discerned a flock of

winged figures on the horizon, soaring toward them.

The Imotru cheered and stomped their feet so heavily

that Picard feared for the safety of the jade balconies,

even though he knew that some of them had endured

even into the twenty-fourth century. He found him-

self stamping his own boots, caught up in the fervor of

the crowd. The winged figures drew ever nearer, much

to the delight of the onlookers upon the cliff. "They've

been gliding for two full days," Q commented, "since

taking flight from the peak of Mount T'kwll."

Picard no longer doubted what he was about to be-

hold. He could only marvel at the amazing twist of

fate that had granted him this unparalleled chance to

see a timeworn legend made flesh. "The fabled Sky

Divers of Tagus III," he whispered, his voice hushed.

If this was no mere trick of Q's, then he was about to

make the most astounding archaeological discovery

since Benjamin Sisko found the lost city of B'hala on

Bajor.

Within moments, the fliers were near enough that

he could see that, as he had hoped, they were in fact

dozens of youthful Imotru men and women, borne

aloft by artificial wings strapped to their outstretched

arms. Silver and gold metallic streamers trailed from

their wrists and ankles, sparkling in the moonlight.

Were the wings made of some unusual gravity-

resistant substance, Picard wondered, or were the

Imotru lighter than they appeared, perhaps gifted

with hollow bones like birds? Either way, they

presented a spectacular sight, silhouetted against the

twin moons or glittering in the night like humanoid

kites.

The Sky Divers soared overhead, swooping and

gliding in complex feats of aerial choreography. Each

flier, he saw, gripped a shining blade in one hand, just

as they did on the fragmentary bas-relief Picard now

recalled so well. Despite the graceful ballet taking

place above, his gaze was invariably drawn back to the

dark waters at the base of the cliff--and the lighted

regions within the radiance of the torches and mir-

rors. He felt his heart pounding, knowing what had to

come next. His eyes probed the rippling surface of the

lake, hunting for some sign of what lurked beneath.

Perhaps that part of the legend is just a myth, he

thought, unsure whether to feel disappointed or re-

lieved. Professor Galen, he recalled, had theorized

that the Sky Divers were no more than a symbolic

representation of cultural growth and entropy.

Then it began. A single flier, chosen through some

process Picard could only guess at, used his silver

blade to sever the straps binding him to his wings

while the crowd below bellowed its approval. The

shed wings drifted away aimlessly, slowly spiraling

down like falling leaves, as the young Imotru plunged

toward the water below with frightening speed.

Trailing golden ribbons behind him, the diver

splashed headfirst into the lake below, landing

squarely within the brightly lit boundaries of the

hexagon. On a hundred balconies, Imotru whooped

and stamped wildly. Things had clearly gotten off to a

good start as far the crowd was concerned. Down in

the hexagon, the triumphant diver kicked to the

surface and impulsively embraced the lone swimmer

who had waited there. His joy and exuberance were

obvious to Picard even from more than a kilometer

away.

One by one, following some prearranged signal or

sequence, more gliders fell from the sky. The second

diver used her arms and legs to guide her descent, also

landing safely within the torch-lit target zone. The

audience cheered again, although slightly less whole-

heartedly than they had before. Still, the woman

joined the other two Imotru in their celebration,

splashing happily within the golden glow of reflected

light.

The third diver looked less fortunate, his downward

trajectory carrying him away from the charmed hexa-

gon. 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, howev-

er, 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, sad-

dened 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. Look-

ing 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 splash-

ing of the defenseless bodies. Only within the illumi-

nated 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 riskmand 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 with-

in 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 himselfi "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 Ro-

man 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 time-lost sce-

nario, 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. "Rec-

ognize 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 famil-

iar 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 shin-

ing skull, but he appeared not to notice. His features

remolded themselves, becoming more human in ap-

pearance, 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~ own past, Picard real-

ized. 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, how-

ever 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 crum-

bled, the Imotrn 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 com-

pany of my friends: Marta, Conin, 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.

Interlude

THE 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 begin 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, fea-

turing 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.

Chapter Fourteen

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 con-

tinued 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 occu-

pied another balcony, one perched about ten or eleven

meters above their previous locale. "I don't under-

stand," 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." Al-

though noticeably younger than Picard recalled, the

other Q's companion was manifestly the same indi-

vidual 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 fin-

ished 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 unmistaka-

ble, although surprisingly sincere in tone. Picard

heard none of the self-satisfied smugness he associ-

ated 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, risk-

ing everything for one infinitesimal moment of glory.

Look, the snakes got another one! Bravo, bravo."

She (faintly scandalized): "But it's so very aborigi-

nal. You should be ashamed of yourself, Q. Some-

times 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 un-

disciplined, 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 frus-

trated 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 multi-

verse isn't enough for me. I want to do something

bold, something magnificent, maybe even something

a little bit dangerous. Like those foolish, fearless

humanolds out there, throwing themselves into grav-

ity's clutches. But ewery 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 remark-

able 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 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 wineglasses 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): "Urn, 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 cornmingling 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 travel-

ing 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 balco-

ny. "I must confess I find your own domestic situa-

tion, 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 liai-

sons 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 com-

panion. "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 ifI 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 that 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 �ash?"

"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, re-

membering. "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 sit-

ting opposite him, he felt a touch of sympathy for the

unhappy young Q. "No one understands," he mut-

tered into his cup, completely unaware that his pri-

vate 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 ob-

served, "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.

Chapter Fifteen

LEM FnnL WAS NOT ABOUT to leave the bridge quietly.

"I'm warning you, Commander Riker, you'll regret

interfering with this operation. My work is my life,

and I'm not going to let that go to waste because of a

coward who doesn't have guts enough to fight for our

one chance to break through the barrier."

"Perhaps," Riker answered, losing patience with

the Betazoid physicist despite his tragic illness, "you

should worry more about the safety of your children

and less about your sacred experiment."

Summoned by Lieutenant Leyoro, a pair of security

officers flanked Faal, but the scientist kept protesting

even as they forcibly led him toward a turbolift. Claps

of thunder from the Calamarain punctuated his

words. "Don't lecture me about my children, Riker.

Sometimes evolution is more important than mere

propagation."

What exactly does he mean by that, Riker won-

dered. Surely he couldn't be saying what Riker

thought he was implying? Faal's starting to make my

dad sound like father of the year. Even Kyle Riker,

hardly the most attentive of parents, never seemed

quite so eager to sacrifice his children's well-being on

the altar of his overweening ambition. Riker refused

to waste any further breath debating the man. If it

weren't for the failure of the warp engines, they would

have already been long gone by now, whether Faal

liked it or not.

The turbolift doors slid shut on Faal and his grim-

faced escorts. Riker breathed a sigh of relief. "Mr.

Barclay, please take over at the engineering station."

Riker wasn't sure what precisely Barclay had to do

with Faal's unexpected arrival on the bridge, but now

that Barclay was here he might as well replace the

injured Schultz.

Faal had no sooner left, however, when a blinding

flare at the prow of the bridge augured the sudden

return of the baby q. A second flare, instants later,

brought the child's mother as well. "Sir?" Barclay

asked uncertainly.

"You have your orders, Lieutenant," Riker said,

aggravated by yet more unwanted visitors. When had

the bridge of the Enterprise turned into the main

terminal at Spacedock? "Can I help you?" he asked

the woman in ,none too hospitable a tone. Blast it, I

was hoping we d seen the last of these two.

The toddler stared wide-eyed at the swirling colors

of the Calamarain as they were displayed on the main

viewer. "Frankly, I was in no hurry to revisit this

ramshackle conveyance," the woman said disdain-

fully, "but little q insisted. He simply adores fire-

works. Perhaps you could fire your energy weapons

again?"

"Our phasers are not here to entertain you!" Le-

yoro snapped, offended by the suggestion. She took

her weapons very seriously.

Riker didn't blame her. This was no laughing

matter, although he hardly expected a Q to appreciate

that. Things kept getting worse, no matter what they

tried. A crackle of lightning etched its way across the

screen, throwing off discharges of bright blue Ceren-

kov radiation wherever the electrical bursts inter-

sected with the ship's deflector shields. The rattle of

thunder was near-constant now; it almost seemed to

Riker that the persistent vibrations had been with

them forever. His determined gaze fell upon the

female Q and her child. Hmmm, he thought. Both

Barclay and Geordi seemed to find the malfunction in

the warp nacelles pretty inexplicable. Well, he could

think of few things more inexplicable than a Q.

He rose from his chair and strode toward the

woman. "There wouldn't be any fireworks at all if we

weren't dead in the water," he accused. "Is this your

doing?"

"You mean your petty mechanical problems?" she

replied. "Please, why would I want to go mucking

about with the nuts and bolts of this primitive con-

trivance?" A Calamarain-generated earthquake shook

the bridge, and q squealed merrily. "We're simply

here as spectators."

Riker considered the female Q. Since her previous

visit to the bridge, she had discarded her antique

sports attire for a standard Starfleet uniform, as had

the little boy. He wondered briefly what they had

done in the interim. Did infant Q's require naps?

More important, why would this Q want to prevent

the Enterprise from leaving? The other Q had done

nothing but encourage them to turn back.

"Maybe so," he conceded. It was entirely possible

that the Calamarain were responsible for the failure of

the Enterprise's warp drive, in which case it was even

more urgent that they find a way to communicate with

the cloud-beings. "But you must know something

about Captain Picard. What has your husband done

with him?"

"Oh, not that again!" she said in a voice filled with

exasperation. "First the doctor, now you. Really,

can't you silly humanolds do without your precious

captain for more than an interval or two? You'd think

that none of you had ever flown a starship on your

own."

"We don't want to do without the captain," Riker

insisted, ignoring the woman's ridicule. She was

sounding more like her mate every minute. "Wher-

ever Q has taken him, he belongs here, on this ship at

this moment."

The woman made a point of scanning the entire

bridge, as if looking for some sign of Captain Picard's

presence, then returned her attention to Riker. "That

doesn't seem to be the case," she said with a smirk.

"Shields down to twenty-seven percent," Leyoro

reported. A few meters away from Leyoro, a small

electrical fire erupted at the aft science station. Ensign

Berglund jumped back from the console just as the

automatic fire-suppression system activated. A ceiling-

mounted deflector cluster projected a discrete force-

field around the flickering blaze, simultaneously

protecting the surrounding systems from the flames

and cutting off the fire's oxygen supply. Within sec-

onds, the red and yellow flames were snuffed out and

Berglund cautiously inspected the damage.

At least something's working right, Riker thought,

grateful that the fire had been taken care of so

efficiently. Now if he could only get the warp nacelles

functioning again... ! Maybe if we shoot our way out

of here, he thought, without holding anything back?

"Lieutenant Leyoro, target the phaser beam directly

in front of us, maximum intensity." He had held back

long enough; the Calamarain needed to learn that

they could not threaten a Starfleet vessel without

risking serious repercussions. "If you can disengage

from contact with the enemy, Counselor, now would

be the time to do it."

She nodded back at him, acknowledging his warn-

ing. "Just give me a second," she said, closing her eyes

for a heartbeat or two, then opening them once more.

"Okay, I'm as prepared as I'll ever be."

"Fire when ready, Lieutenant," Riker ordered. He

glared at the turbulent vapors upon the viewer. "I

want to see the stars again."

"My feelings exactly," Leyoro agreed. A neon-red

phaser beam ploughed through the seething chaos of

the Calamarain, cutting an open swath through the

iridescent vapors. Riker winced inwardly, hoping he

was not burning through scores of Calamarain indi-

viduals. Am I killing separate entities, or merely

diminishing the mass of the whole? He would have to

ask Deanna later; right now he didn't want to know.

Beside him, Troi bit down on her lower lip as the

beam seared past swollen clouds filled with angry

lightning, and gripped her armrests until her knuckles

whitened; obviously, she had not been able to cut

herself off entirely from the emotions of the Cala-

marain.

"Ooh!" q exclaimed, pointing enthusiastically at

the screen. He stuck out his index fingers like gun

muzzles, as little boys have done since the invention

of firearms across the universe, and red-hot beams

leaped from his fingertips to sear two burning holes in

the visual display panel. Riker jumped out of his seat

to protest, terrified that the playful child would create

a hull breach beyond the screen. Blast it, he thought.

This is the last thing I need right now.

Thankfully the female Q was on top of things. With

a snap of her fingers, she squelched the child's imita-

tive phaser beams and repaired the damage to the

main viewer. "Now, now, darling," she cooed to the

boy, "what have I told you about pointing?" Thus

chastened, q meekly hid his tiny hands behind his

back.

Blast it, Riker thought angrily. The last thing he

needed right now were the two Q's and their antics,

even though he seemed to be stuck with them. He

sank back into the captain's chair and concentrated

on the Enterprise's efforts to carve out an escape

route. As he had requested, Riker soon saw the

welcoming darkness of open space at the far end of

the tunnel the phasers had cut through the Cala-

maraim Now ttlere's a sight for sore sensors, he

thought. "Straight ahead, Mr. Clarze. Full impulse."

"Yes, sir!" the pilot complied, sounding more than

anxious to leave the sentient thunderstorm behind.

Riker was gratified to see the distant stars grow

brighter as the unscratched viewscreen transmitted

images from the ship's forward optical scanners. Here

goes nothing, he thought, crossing his fingers. Once

they were clear of the clouds, perhaps their warp

engines would function again.

"Riker to Engineering," he barked, patting his

comm badge. "Prepare to engage the warp drive at my

signal."

"Acknowledged," Geordi responded. "We're ready

and willing."

But the Calamarain would not release them so

easily. Thick, viscous vapors flowed over and ahead of

the ship's saucer section, encroaching on the channel

before them. Lightning speared their shields repeat-

edly, giving them a rough and bumpy ride. To his

dismay, Riker saw their escape route narrowing

ahead, the gathering cloud front eating away at that

tantalizing glimpse of starlight. "Keep firing!" he

urged Leyoro, despite an almost inaudible whimper

of pain from Deanna. Hang on, he told her word-

lessly, lending her whatever support his own thoughts

could provide. We're almost out.

A single scarlet beam shot from the saucer's upper

dorsal array. Two hundred and fifty linked phaser

emitter segments contributed to the awesome force of

the beam, striking out at the enveloping throng of the

Calamarain. On the screen, heavy accumulations of

ionized plasma steamed away beneath the withering

heat of the phaser barrage.

And still the furious cloud kept coming. Despite the

unchecked power of the Enterprise's phasers, a roiling

flood of incandescent gas poured over them as fast as

Leyoro could boil it off with her phasers, if not faster.

Riker couldn't help being amazed by the sheer im-

mensity and/or quantity of the creature(s) pursuing

them; even on full impulse, it was taking several

moments to fly clear of them. He felt like he was

trying to outrace an animated nebula.

The choppiness of their headlong flight increased

every second. Riker was thrown from one side of the

chair to the other as he struggled to ride out the

violent squall. There was no way he could have

shouted out any additional orders even if he had

wanted to; it would have been like trying to converse

during the downward plunge of a roller coaster. His

stomach rushed up into his throat as the Enterprise

executed a full 360-degree barrel before stabilizing,

more or less, on an even keel.

Additional fires broke out around the bridge, more

than the automated system could cope with. Smoke

and the smell of burning plastic tickled Riker's nose.

At the operations console, Data dealt with a small

blaze swiftly and effectively by opening a flap in his

wrist and spraying the flames with some of his own

internal coolant. Other crew members followed his

example, more or less, by resorting to the handheld

fire extinguishers stored beneath each console. Riker

took pride in the bridge crew's performance; they had

coped with the outbreak of electrical fires without

even a single command from him. You can't beat

Starfleet training, he thought.

Through it all, the baby q appeared to be having the

time of his life. He squealed happily as the Enterprise

careered through the gap in the Calamarain at close to

the speed of light. Defying gravity, the boy turned

somersaults in the air, occasionally blocking Riker's

view of the screen. Enjoy this ride while you can, he

thought, because we're not doing this again.

The child's mother just shook her head in obvious

disdain. "Barbaric," she muttered. "Utterly bar-

baric."

Sorry we couldn't provide a smoother trip, Riker

thought sarcastically. Frankly, the female Q's low

opinion of the ship was the least of his concerns.

Instead, his attention was focused on the rapidly

shrinking opening ahead of them. He could barely see

the stars now, only a small black hole in the substance

of the Calamarain that looked scarcely large enough

for the Sovereign-class starship to squeeze through.

C'mon, he thought, faster, faster, spurring the Enter-

prise on with his mind even though he knew that they

could not possibly accelerate any further without

their warp capacity. Would they make it through the

gap before it closed entirely? It was going to be close.

Ultimately, the ship tore through the advancing

edges of the tunnel, leaving frayed tendrils of glowing

mist behind it. Staring at the main viewer, Riker saw a

vast expanse of interstellar space, bisected briefly by

their own crimson phaser beam before Leyoro ceased

fire. For the first time in hours, he could no longer

hear the discordant thunder of the Calamarain, al-

though that blessed silence would not last long unless

they left their gaseous foes far behind them. Riker

didn't need to see the input from the rear sensors to

know that the Calamarain had to be hot on their

heels.

"Riker to La Forge," he ordered, hoping that the

damping effect on their warp engines did not extend

beyond the boundaries of the Calamarain. "Give me

everything you've got."

Chapter Sixteen

YEARS OF SEaMtSO to and from the Enterprise had

accustomed Picard to instantaneous travel. Even so,

the ease and speed with which Q switched settings

remained disconcerting.

The jade cliffs were gone, replaced by crumbling

gray ruins that seemed to stretch to the horizon.

Toppled stone columns, cracked and fractured, leaned

against massive granite blocks that might once have

composed walls. Dry gray powder covered the

ground, intermixed with chips of broken glass or

crystal. Gusts of wind blew the powder about, tossing

it against the desolate landscape, while the breeze

keened mournfully, perhaps longing for the bygone

days when the ancient structures had stood tall and

proud. No sign of life, not even vermin, disturbed the

sere and lonely ruins.

What is this place? Picard wondered. That which he

saw about him reminded him of what was left of the

Greek Parthenon after the Eugenics Wars, except on a

vastly larger scale. Piles of stone debris blocked his

view in most every direction, but he could tell that the

original structure or structures had been huge indeed.

The ruins seemed to extend for kilometers. He looked

upward at an overcast sky, through which a cool,

twilight radiance faltered. If ever a ceiling had en-

closed any part of the ruins, no trace of it remained,

except perhaps in the hundreds of tiny crystal shards

that sparkled amid the dust.

Picard blinked against the wind as it cast the sand

into his face, and he stepped behind the shattered

stump of a colossal stone column for shelter from the

gritty powder. The climate felt different from Tagus

III: the air more dry, the temperature cooler, the

gravity slightly lighter. He suspected he wasn't even

on the same planet anymore, although his and Q's

latest destination seemed M-class at least. "Where are

we now?" he asked Q, who stood a few meters away,

heedless of the windblown powder. He was getting

damned tired of asking that question, but there

seemed to be no way around it. He was merely a

passenger on this tour, without even the benefit of a

printed itinerary. "And when?"

"Don't you recognize this place?" Q challenged

him. He kicked the gray powder at his feet, adding to

the airborne particulates. "Surely, a Starfleet officer of

your stature has been informed of its existence? We're

still a couple million years in the past, to be fair, but

this particular locale looks much the same in your

own tiny sliver of history."

Intrigued despite himself, Picard inspected his sur-

roundings, searching for some clue to his present

whereabouts. The sky above was no help; the heavy

cloud cover concealed whatever constellations might

have been visible from the surface. He contemplated

the truncated column before him, running his hand

over its classic Ionic contours and leaving a trail of

handprints in the dust. The wandering aliens who had

once posed as gods to the ancient Greeks had left

similar structures throughout the Alpha Quadrant;

this could be one of any of a dozen such sites

discovered since Kirk first encountered "Apollo"

close to a century ago, or another site as yet uncharted

by Starfleet. Was Q about to claim kinship to those

ancient Olympians who had visited Earth in the

distant past? Picard prayed that wasn't the case. The

last thing he wanted to do was give Q credit for any of

the foundations of human civilization. IfI had to pick

Q out of the Greco-Roman pantheon, though, he

thought, I'd bet a Ferengi's ransom that he was Bac-

chus or maybe Pan.

None of which gave him a clue where in the galaxy

he was.

"Stumped?" Q asked, savoring the mortal's per-

plexity. "Do let me know if this is too difficult a

puzzle for your limited human mind."

Picard opened his mouth to protest, to ask for more

time, then realized he had fallen into playing Q's

game. The fewer minutes we waste, the sooner I'll

return to my ship. "Yes, Q," he admitted freely. "I'm

at a complete loss. Why don't you illuminate me?"

And with all deliberate speed, he added silently.

Q scowled, as if irked by Picard's ready surrender,

but he wasn't ready to abandon the game just yet.

"Perhaps a slight alteration in perspective will refresh

your memory."

Picard felt an abrupt sense of dislocation. His

surroundings seemed to rush past him and, in the

space of a single heartbeat, he found himself standing

elsewhere within the same ruins. He staggered for-

ward, dizzy from the rush, and braced himself against

a fragment of a fallen wall. I think I like Q's usual

teleportation trick better, he thought, steadying him-

self until the vertigo passed. He lifted his gaze from

the gravel at his feet--and spotted it at once.

What from the side had appeared to be just more

jutting granite rubble was now revealed to be a

lopsided stone torus about three meters in diameter.

Its asymmetrical design looked out of place among

the scattered evidence of ancient architecture. Green

patches of corrosion mottled its brownish gray sur-

face, although the torus appeared more or less intact.

Q waved at him through the oblong opening at the

center of the torus, but Picard was too stunned to

respond. Suddenly, he knew exactly where he was.

"The Guardian," he breathed in awe. He had never

seen it in person, but, Q was correct, he was of course

familiar with its history. More precisely known as

"the Guardian of Forever," it was the oldest known

artifact in the universe, believed to date back at least

six billion years. Since its discovery by the crew of the

original Enterprise, the Guardian had been subject of

intensive study by Starfleet yet had remained largely

an enigma. Picard glanced about him at the dilapi-

dated stone ruins that surrounded the Guardian;

archaeological surveys conducted in his own century

had proven conclusively that the crumbling masonry

was little more than a million years old. The Guardi-

an predated the other ruins by countless aeons, hav-

ing already been incalculably ancient before the

temples or fortresses that rose up around it were even

conceived. Here, he thought, was antiquity enough to

daunt even Q. . . perhaps.

But its age was not its only claim to fame. The

Guardian, he recalled, was more than merely an

inanimate relic of the primordial past. Although it

appeared inactive now, it was supposedly capable of

opening up a doorway to any time in history, past or

future. Picard briefly wondered if he could use the

portal to return to his own era without Q's coopera-

tion, but, no, that was probably too risky. More likely

he would simply strand himself upon an unknown

shoal of time with no more appealing prospect than to

hope for rescue at Q's hands. Better to stay put for the

time being, he concluded. Matters had not grown that

desperate yet.

Brushing the clingy powder from his palms, Picard

shielded his eyes with one hand while he scanned the

vicinity. He and Q appeared to be the only beings

alive in the ruins, excluding the Guardian, which was

said to possess at least a pseudo-life of its own.

"Shouldn't we be expecting your younger self any

time now?" he asked Q. At this point, Picard felt he

had a fairly good idea of the nature, if not the

purpose, of their extended trek through time. "That is

why we're here, I assume."

"A brilliant deduction, Jean-Luc," Q said, his sar-

castic tone belying his words. "Even Wesley could

have figured that out by now." He strutted across the

rubble-strewn plain toward Picard, skirting around

the Guardian. "But I'm afraid you're mistaken. My

irrepressible earlier incarnation is not coming. He's

already here. He's been here all along, only not in any

form you can perceive." He pointed at a solitary

cornerstone that had survived beyond the edifice it

had once supported. "Cast your eyes over there while

I adjust the picture for the metaphysically impaired."

In a blink, another Q, looking not much older than

the one who had been so taken by the bloody specta-

cle at the jade cliffs, appeared, sitting cross-legged

atop the great granite block. His chin rested upon the

knuckles of his clasped hands as he stared moodily

into the empty space within the Guardian. Clad in a

stark black sackcloth robe that struck Picard as osten-

tatiously severe, he presented an almost archetypal

portrait of disaffected youth, trapped on the cusp

between adolescence and maturity. "A rebel without a

cosmos," the older Q recalled, climbing marble steps

that no longer led to anything recognizable. He swept

the top step free of dust and sat down a few meters

away from Picard. I really had no idea what to do

with myself back then."

Some of us still don't know what to do with you,

Picard thought, refraining from saying so aloud lest

he initiate another pointless war of words. The light-

ing itself had changed when the young Q became

visible, throwing deep red and purple shadows upon

the angst-ridden youth and his barren backdrop.

Tilting his head back, Pieard saw that the sky was now

filled with an astonishing display of surging colors

that put Earth's own aurora borealis to shame.

Flashes of vibrant red and violet burst like phaser fire

through what only moments before had been a dull

and lifeless canopy. The dazzling pyrotechnics re-

minded Picard of the legendary firefalls of Gal

Gath'thong on Romulus, but the pulsating, vivid hues

above him were, if anything, even more luminous.

"What's happening?" he asked Q. "Where did...

that... come from?"

"Now you're seeing as a Q sees," the other ex-

plained. "What you call the Guardian produces rip-

ples in space-time that extend far beyond this planet's

atmosphere. Think of them as fourth-dimensional

fireworks," he suggested breezily.

The young Q seemed unimpressed by the unparal-

leled light show unfolding overhead. His gaze fixed

straight ahead, he yawned loudly. A listless forefinger

traced the outline of the Guardian in the air, and a

miniature replica of the stone torus materialized out

of nothingness, hovering before his face. Q examined

his creation without much enthusiasm. "At least our

ancestors made things," he muttered sulkily.

Atop the immense cornerstone, young Q twirled his

index finger and the model Guardian rotated for his

inspection. He thrust the single digit into the tiny

orifice of his toy and watched sullenly as it disap-

peared up to the bottom knuckle. Apparently unsatis-

fied by this diversion, he retrieved his finger, then

dispatched the replica back into the ether with a wave

of his hand. Leaping impatiently to his feet, his

simple sandals kicking up a flurry of dust, he con-

fronted the genuine Guardian. "Show me some-

thing!" he demanded.

"WHAT DO YOU WISH TO BEHOLD?" the

Guardian asked, hundreds of centuries before it ever

spoke to Kirk or Spock, its sonorous voice echoing off

the accumulated wreckage of its former housing. An

inner light flashed with each syllable of its query,

rendering the weathered surface of the portal momen-

tarily translucent. Scientists still debated, Picard re-

called, whether the Guardian actually possessed

sentience or merely a highly sophisticated form of

interactive programming. Was it more or less alive, he

wondered, than his ship's computer, the fictional

characters that came to life in a holodeck, or even

Data? That was a question better suited to philoso-

phers, he decided, than a timelost Starfleet captain.

"Anything!" the young Q cried out in boredom.

"Show me anything. I don't care."

"AS YOU WISH," the Guardian replied. A pristine

white mist began to descend from the upper arch of

the great torus, filling the vortex at its center. Through

the falling vapor, Picard glimpsed images appearing,

rushing swiftly by like a holonovel on fast-forward.

Visions of the past, Picard wondered, or of untold

ages to come? Despite the haze produced by the mist,

the procession of images summoned up by the Guard-

ian looked more real and tangible than any he had

ever seen on a conventional viewscreen. Picard felt he

could reach out and touch the people and places

pictured therein, then remembered that he probably

could. Gaping in amazement, he tried to capture each

new vision as it played out before him:

A tremendous explosion cast immeasurable quanti-

ties of matter and energy throughout creation; vast

clouds of gas collapsed until they ignited into nuclear

fire; drifting elemental particles clumped together,

forming moons and planets, asteroids and comets;

single-celled organisms swam through seas of unimag-

inable breadth and purity; limbless creatures flopped

onto the land and almost instantly (or so it appeared

to Picard) evolved into a bewildering variety of

shapes and sizes; humanoids appeared, and non-

humanoids, too, creatures with tentacles and feelers

and antennae and wings and fins, covered with fur

and feathers and scales and slime. Civilizations rose

up and collapsed in a matter of seconds; for an

instant, Picard thought he spotted the ancient

D'Arsay in their ceremonial masks and rites, and then

the cascade of history rushed on, leaving them be-

hind. Machines were born, sometimes surpassing

their makers, and fragile life-forms dared the void

between worlds in vessels of every description, leav-

ing their tracks on a thousand systems before shed-

ding their physical forms entirely to become

numinous beings of pure thought. There were the

Organians, Picard realized, and the Metrons and the

Thasians and the Zalkonians and the Douwd...

"No, no," Q exclaimed, not content with the on-

going panorama of life and the universe. "I've seen all

this before! I want to see something else. I want to be

somewhere else."

"WHERE DO YOU WISH TO JOURNEY?" The

Guardian flashed its willingness to convey Q wher-

ever he desired.

The black-garbed youth stamped his foot impa-

tiently, sending yet another fissure through the mas-

sive block beneath him. "If I knew that, I wouldn't be

here in the first place, you pretentious doorframe."

He hopped off the stone, raising a cloud of gray

powder where he landed, and approached the Guardi-

an. "Show me more," he commanded. "Show me

what's new, what's different!"

"Here we go," his older self sighed. He rose to his

feet and took Picard by the elbow, leading him over to

just behind where young Q now stood. "Get ready,"

he warned Picard, his words unheard by the youth

only a few centimeters away, who quivered with

unfocused energy.

Again? Picard thought, readying himself for anoth-

er change of venue. He'd been on whirlwind tours of

the Klingon Empire that had moved at a more lei-

surely pace.

Within the Guardian, images zipped past so speed-

ily that he could barely keep up with them. He caught

only quick, almost subliminal fragments of random

events, of which only the smallest fraction could he

even begin to identify: a mighty sailing ship sinking

beneath the waves, a glistening Changeling dissolving

into a golden pool, a dozen Borg cubes converging on

a defenseless world, a shuttlecraft crashing into a

shimmering wall of light...

"What now?" Picard asked, unable to look away

from the rapid-fire parade of images. "What does he

intend to do?"

"Stick a pin in a map," his companion stated.

"Entrust his future to the fickle whims of chance." He

shrugged apologetically. "It seemed like the only

thing to do at the time."

The young Q glanced back over his shoulder, and,

for a second, Picard thought they had been exposed.

But the youth was merely giving the lifeless ruins one

last look before taking a deep breath, closing his eyes,

crossing his fingers, and hurling himself forward into

the mist-draped opening of the time portal. Picard

had only an instant to register the young Q's disap-

pearance before the other Q's hands shoved him

roughly from behind, propelling him straight into the

waiting maw of the Guardian of Forever.

Chapter Seventeen

ACCORDING TO STANDARD Starfleet guidelines, it took

zero-point-three-five seconds to go from impulse

flight to warp travel. According to Riker's chronome-

ter on the bridge, Geordi and his engineering crew did

it in zero-point-two.

It wasn't nearly fast enough.

Riker felt a momentary surge of acceleration that

trailed off almost immediately as the Calamarain hit

them from behind like the front of a hurricane. The

ship's inertial dampers were tested to the limit as its

propulsive warp field collapsed instantaneously, caus-

ing the vessel to skid to a halt through friction with

the cloud's billowing mass. The storm enveloped

them at once, much to the delight of little q, who

clapped his tiny hands in synch with the thunder.

Riker was considerably less amused. Dammir, he

thought. It's not fair/ He was no Betazoid, but he

could practically feel the distress and disappointment

permeating the bridge. Baeta Leyoro swore and

slammed a fist into her open palm. Lieutenant Bar-

clay poked at the engineering controls rather franti-

cally, as if hoping to reverse their readings. Only Data

appeared unaffected by the dashing of their hopes of

escape, looking preoccupied with his repairs to the

operations console. "Let me guess," Riker said bit-

terly. "No more warp drive."

Barclay swallowed nervously before confirming the

awful truth. "I'm afraid not, Commander. Some-

thing's interfering with the field coils again."

"If this is typical of your expeditions," the female Q

sniffed, "it's a wonder that you humans ever got out

of your own backwoods solar system."

If We'd known the likes of you were wattmg for us,

Riker mused, we might have had second thoughts.

Outwardly, he disregarded the Q's needling, prefer-

ring to address the problem of the Calamarain, who at

least refrained from waspish gibes. He was starting to

wonder, though, whether this was truly a new entity at

all, or if the original Q had simply had a sex change.

Granted, he had already seen both Q and his alleged

mate at the same time, but somehow he suspected

that materializing in two places simultaneously was

not beyond Q's powers.

"Shall I go to impulse, sir?" Ensign Clarze asked.

Riker gave the matter a moment's thought. Was

there any way they could outrace the Calamarain?

Given that they had previously encountered the

cloud-creatures in an entirely different sector several

years ago, he could only deduce that the Calamarain

were capable of faster-than-light travel on their own,

assuming that these were indeed the very same enti-

ties that had attacked Q aboard the Enterprise during

the third year of their ongoing mission. Certainly, the

storm had managed to keep pace with them at im-

pulse speed.

"No, Mr. Clarze," Riker declared evenly. They

were running low on options, but he was determined

to maintain a confident air for the sake of the crew's

morale. "Well, Mr. Data?" Riker asked, addressing

the android. "It's looking like you're our best hope at

the moment."

If all else failed, he thought, he would have to order

a saucer-separation maneuver, dividing the Enterprise

into two independent vessels. The Calamarain ap-

peared to clump together as one cohesive mass; possi-

bly they could not pursue two ships at the same time.

In theory, he could distract the sentient cloud with

the battle section while the majority of the crew

escaped in the saucer module. Naturally, he would

remain aboard the battle bridge until the bitter endm

and hope that Captain Picard eventually returned to

command the saucer.

Apparently tired of standing upon the bridge, the

female Q and her little boy had, without even think-

ing of asking anyone's permission, occupied Riker's

own accustomed seat, to the right of the captain's

chair. The child sat on his mother's lap, sucking his

thumb and watching the main viewer as if it were the

latest educational holotape from the Federated Chil-

dren's Workshop. Riker didn't waste any breath ob-

jecting to the woman's brazen disregard of bridge

etiquette and protocol. Why bother arguing decent

manners with a Q? I wonder how long they'll choose to

stick around if I have to separate the saucer, he

wondered. Would they transfer to the battle bridge as

well, and stay all the way to the ship's final annihila-

tion?

Before he sacrificed one half of the Enterprise,

however, along with the lives of the bridge and

engineering crew, Riker intended to exhaust every

other alternative, which was where Data came in.

And the Universal Translator.

"I believe I have," Data stated, "successfully devel-

oped a set of algorithms that may translate the Cala-

marain's tachyon emissions into verbal communi-

cation and vice versa, although the initial results may

be crude and rudimentary at best."

"We don't want to recite poetry to them," Riker

said, "just call a truce." He stared grimly at the

luminescent fog stretching across the main viewer.

Jagged bolts of electricity and incessant peals of

thunder rocked the ship. "Say hello, Mr. Data."

The android's fingers manipulated the controls at

Ops faster than Riker's eye could follow them. "I am

diverting power to the primary deflector dish," he

explained, "in order to produce a narrow wavelength

tachyon stream similar to those the Calamarain ap-

pear to use to communicate. If my calculations are

correct, our tachyon beam should translate as a sim-

ple greeting."

"I hope you're right, Data," Riker said. "It would

be a shame if we accidentally insulted them by

mistake."

"Indeed," Data replied, cocking his head as if the

possibility had not previously occurred to him, "al-

though it is difficult to imagine how we could conceiv-

ably make them more hostile than they already

appear to be."

You've got a point there, Riker admitted, given that

the Calamarain had spent the last several hours dead

set on shaking the Enterprise apart. The sharp decline

in the strength of the ship's deflector shields testified

to the force and severity of the Calamarain's assault.

Perhaps now we can finally learn why they attacked us

in the first place.

"Greeting transmitted," Data reported. The tach-

yon emission was invisible to the naked eye, yet Riker

peered at the viewer regardless, looking for some sign

that the Calamarain had received their message. All

he saw, though, were the same churning mists and

flashes of discharged energy that had besieged the

Enterprise since before the captain disappeared.

Troi abruptly sat up straight in her chair. "They

h r "

ead us, she confirmed, her empathm senses once

more linked to the Calamarain. "I feel surprise...

and confusion. They're not sure what to do."

"Good work, Mr. Data," Riker said, hope surging

inside him for the first time in nearly an hour, "and

you too, Deanna." Was he just deluding himself or

had the oppressive thunder actually subsided a degree

or two in the last few moments? They weren't out of

the woods yet, but maybe the Calamarain had

stopped hammering them long enough to contem-

plate Data's greeting. Go ahead, he thought to his

amorphous foes. Think it over some. Give us another

chance to make contact!

"Commander," Data alerted him, "short-range

sensors detect an incoming transmission from the

Calamarain, using the same narrow wavelength they

applied earlier."

Hope flared in Riker. Thanks to Data, they still had

a prayer of turning this thing around. Too bad Captain

Picard isn't here to speak with the Calamarain. He s

probably the best diplomat in Starfleet. "Put them

through, Mr. Data."

"Yes, Commander," Data said. "Our modified

translator is interpreting the transmission now."

A genderless, inhuman voice emerged from the

bridge's concealed loudspeakers. The voice lacked

any recognizable inflections and sounded as though it

were coming from someplace deep underwater.

"We/singular am/are the Calamarain," it stated.

"I apologize for the atonal quality of the transla-

tion," Data commented, "as well as any irregularities

in syntax or grammar. Insufficient time was available

to provide for nuance or aesthetics."

"This will be fine," Riker assured him. "Can the

computer translate what I say into terms the Cala-

marain can understand?"

"Affirmative, Commander," Data said. "You may

speak normally."

Riker nodded, then took a deep breath before

speaking. "This is Commander William T. Riker of

the Starship Enterprise, representing the United Feder-

ation of Planets." He resisted an urge to straighten his

uniform; the Calamarain were not likely to appre-

ciate any adjustment in his attire, even if they could

see him, which was unlikely. Their senses were surely

very different from his own. "Do I have the honor of

addressing the leader of the Calamarain?"

There was a lag of no more than a second while

Data's program translated his words into a series of

tachyon beams; then that chilling voice spoke again.

'.'We/singular speak from/for the Calamarain," it said

in its muffled, watery tones.

What precisely did it mean by that? Was more than

one individual addressing him at once, Riker won-

dered, or was it merely a verbal conceit, like the royal

"we" once employed by Earth's ancient monarchs?

Or could it be that the Calamarain genuinely pos-

sessed a collective consciousness like the Borg? He

repressed a shudder. Anything that reminded him of

the Borg was not good news. Riker decided to take the

speaker at its word, whoever it or they might be.

"We come in peace," he declared, going straight to

the heart of the matter. "Why have you attacked us?"

After another brief pause, the eerie voice returned.

"Mote abates/attenuates. No assistance/release per-

mitted. Stop/eliminate."

What? Riker gave Data a quizzical look, but the

android could do nothing but shrug. "I am sorry,

Commander, but that is the closest translation," he

said.

"Deanna?" Riker whispered, hoping she could de-

cipher the Calamarain's cryptic explanation.

"I sense no deception," she said. "They are quite

sincere, very much so. Whatever they're trying to tell

us, it's very important to them." She bowed her head

and massaged her brow with both hands, clearly

striving to achieve an even greater communion with

the enigmatic aliens. "Beneath their words, I'm pick-

ing up that same mixture of fear and anger."

Why wouM the Calamarain be afraid of us? Riker

couldn't figure it out. If the events of the last hour or

so had proved anything, it was that the Enterprise

could not inflict any lasting harm on the Calamarain.

If only I knew what they meant, he thought. "I don't

understand," he said, raising his voice. "What do you

want of us?"

"Preserve/defend mote," the Calamarain insisted

obscurely.

Interlude

WHAT IS THAT? the spider asked. That is what?

Something was there, on the other side, that he

could not quite identify, something at the center of it

all. The smoke surrounded the bug, and bug sur-

rounded It, but what was It, glowing within the

entraplped insect like a candle in a skull? Sparking like

a quark in the dark?

There was something Q-ish about it, but different,

too. Not the Q, nor a Q, but flavored much the same.

It is new, the spider realized with a shock. Newer than

new. Q-er than Q.

New... For the first time it occurred to the

spider to wonder how much might have changed,

there on the other side. But that would depend on

how long he'd been outside, wouldn't it, and that

would be... ? No/Not/No/His mind scuttled away

from the question, unable to face the answer that

loomed just past his awareness.

Change, change, he chanted, calming himself.

Change on the range into something quite strange.

Change could be good, especially his own. He could

make changes, too, and he would, yes indeed, just as

soon as he could.

Everything changes, and will change even more ....

Chapter Eighteen

SOMEONE WAS SINGING in the snow.

Picard had little time to orient himself. An in-

stant ago he had inhabited the arid ruins encircl-

ing the Guardian of Forever. Now he seemed to

be located amid a frozen wasteland, his boots

sinking into the icy crust, cold and distant stars

shining in the dark sky far above him. The rime-

covered plain stretched about him in all directions.

Like Cocytus, he thought, the ninth and lowest

level of hell. His breath misted before him, but he

did not feel in any danger of freezing to death.

Q's work, no doubt. The cold, dry air felt chill

against Picard's body, nothing more. Very well

then, he thought, disinclined to question his lack of

hypothermia. He had more important mysteries to

solve, like where was that infernal singing coming

from?

The voice, rich and resonant, carried through the

glacial cold:

"She was a kind-hearted girl, a lissome fair daughter,

Who always declined the gifts that I brought her .... "

Still unaware of his two humanoid observers, the

young Q looked similarly intrigued by the robust

voice crooning through the frigid air. Deterred not at

all by the forbidding landscape, he trudged across the

frosty tundra in search of the source of the melody.

Picard and the older Q followed closely behind him,

sometimes stepping in his sunken footprints. Starlight

trickled down through the endless night, but not

enough to truly light their way. Defying logic and

conventional means of combustion, Q whipped up a

torch, which he held out in front of him. Lambent red

flames flickered above his fist, casting an eerie crim-

son glow upon their frozen path. The sleeves of Q's

charcoal robe flapped slowly in the biting winter

wind, and Picard found himself wishing that Starfleet

uniforms came complete with gloves and a scarf.

Although no new snow fell from the cloudless sky, the

breeze tossed loosely packed white flakes into the air,

making vision difficult. The icy bits pelted his face,

melting against his reddened cheeks and brow.

"But pity's the thing, so I begged for cool water,

And then led her away like a lamb to a slaughter...."

They marched for several minutes, during which

time Picard observed the utter absence of any signs of

animation. Nothing moved upon or above the ice

except the windblown particles of snow. Picard won-

dered if any form of life existed beneath the perma-

frost, such as that found in Antarctica. Perhaps, if he

could place this planet by means of the constellations

overhead, it might be worth bringing the Enterprise

by to check? Then he recalled that all of this was

taking place millions of years in the past. Any life-

forms that might exist here and now would most

likely be long extinct when he returned to his own

time. For all I know, this entire planet and star system

may not even exist in the twenty-fourth century.

The soles of his boots crunched through the snow.

No, he knew instinctively, there was no life here. This

was a dead place, devoid of vitality, empty of possibil-

ity. Save for the singing voice, and the soft hiss of the

burning torch, the icy plain was locked in silence.

Much like the old Klingon penal colony on Rura

Penthe, he mused, known to history as the "aliens'

graveyard." Surely, that icebound planetoid could

have been no more bleak and inhospitable than this.

"Like a lamb to slaughter, yes, like a lamb to the

slaughter...."

The echoing refrain grew louder as they neared its

origin. Soon Picard spied the figure of a man, human

in appearance, sitting upon a granite boulder covered

by a thick veneer of frost. He appeared larger than

either Q, and his stout frame was draped in heavy

clothing that looked as though it had seen better days

yet nonetheless retained a semblance of faded glory.

His heavy fur coat was frayed around its sleeves and

along its hem while his high black boots were scuffed

and the heels worn down to the sole. Rags were

wrapped around his hands and boots to hold on to his

heat, and a ratty velvet scarf protected his throat. A

wide-brimmed hat, drooping over his brow, and tat-

tered trousers completed his outfit, giving him an

archaic and faintly dispossessed air.

"Who is this?" Picard asked. "I don't recognize

him."

"Of course not," Q retorted impatiently. "Your

ancestors weren't even a gleam in creation's eye yet."

It wasn't that foolish an observation, Picard

thought, considering the timelessness of Q and his

ilk. "Is this what he genuinely looked like," he asked

his guide, wanting to fully understand what he was

witnessing, "or are we dealing in metaphor again?"

"More or less," Q admitted. "In fact, he resembled

a being not unlike a Q, whose true form would be

patently incomprehensible to your limited human

senses."

So this is your interpretation of how he first appeared

to you, Picard thought. He must have made quite an

impression. Although worn and ragged, the stranger

presented an intriguing and evocative figure. Singing

to himself, he was engaged in what looked like a game

of three-dimensional solitaire. Oversized playing

cards were spread out on the snow before him, or

floated in fixed positions above the mud-slick ground,

arranged in a variety of horizontal, vertical, and

diagonal patterns. He looked engrossed in his game,

meticulously shifting cards from one position to an-

other, until the flickering, phosphorescent light of Q's

torch fell upon the outermost row of cards. He looked

up abruptly, fixing gleaming azure eyes on the young

Q, his face that of a human male in his mid-forties,

with weathered features and heavy, crinkly lines

around his eyes and mouth. "Say, who goes there?" he

said, sounding intrigued rather than alarmed.

Q faltered before the stranger's forthright gaze,

taking a few steps backward involuntarily. "I might

ask you the same," he retorted, his brash manner

failing to conceal a touch of obvious apprehension.

He thrust out his chest and chin to strike a less

nervous pose.

"You must understand," his older self whispered in

Picard's ear, "this was the first time since the dawn of

my omniscience that I had encountered anything I

didn't understand. A little healthy trepidation was

only natural under the circumstances."

Picard was too entranced by the unfolding scene to

respond to Q's excuses. "Well said!" the stranger

laughed lustily. "And you're more than welcome, too.

I was starting to think I was the only preternatural

deity stuck in the middle of this irksome Ice Age."

"W-who are you?" Q stammered. Fog streamed

from his lips; another artistic touch, Picard guessed,

courtesy of the other Q. "What are you?"

"Call me 0," he said, doffing his hat to reveal unruly

orange hair streaked with silver. "As to where I'm

from, it's no place you've ever heard of, I promise you

that."

"That's impossible," young Q said indignantly, his

pride stung. "I'm Q. I know everything and have been

everywhere."

"Then where are you now?" the stranger asked.

The simple question threw Q for a loop. He glanced

around, feigning nonchalance (badly), and seemed to

be searching his memory. Taking his own inventory

of their surroundings, Picard noted a trail of deep,

irregularly paced footprints stretching away in the

opposite direction from the way they had come. As far

as he could see, the tracks extended all the way to the

horizon. How long, he wondered, how the stranger

been wandering through this wintry Siberian waste-

land?

"Er, I'm not sure," Q confessed finally, "but I'm

quite certain it's no place worth remembering. Other-

wise, I would recognize it at once, as I would your

own plane of origin."

The individual who called himself 0 did not take

offense at this challenge to his veracity. He simply

chuckled to himself and shook his head incredu-

lously. "But there's always someplace else, no matter

how far you've been. Some unknown territory beyond

the horizon, across the gulf, or hidden beneath a

hundred familiar layers of what's real and everyday.

There has to someplace Other or why else do we

roam? We might as well just plant ourselves in one

cozy cosmos or another and never budge." He

clapped his gloved, rag-swaddled hands together, and

a curved glass bottle, filled with an unknown liquid of

pinkish tint, appeared in his grasp. He wrenched the

stopper from the spout and spit it onto the hoarfrost

at his feet. Roseate fumes poured from the mouth of

the bottle.

"For myself," he said, after taking a swig from the

carafe, "I don't much care whether you believe me or

not, but if I'm not from the parts you know, then

where did this come from? Answer that."

He offered the bottle to Q, who looked uncertain

what to do. "How do I know you aren't trying to

poison me?" he said, striving for a light, jokey tone.

0 grinned back at him. "You don't. That's the fun of

it." He shoved the bottle at Q. "Come now, eternity's

too short not to take a chance now and then. Caution

is for cowards, and for those who lack the gaze and

the guts to try something new."

"You really think so?" Q asked. Despite his earlier

misgivings, he was clearly curious about the rakish

stranger. It struck Picard that O's professed philoso-

phy was a far cry from the conservative limits im-

posed on the young Q by the Continuum.

"I know so," 0 declared. He wagged the bottle in

front of Q's face, then started to withdraw it. "But

maybe you don't agree. Perhaps you're one of those

timid, tentative types who never do anything

unexpected .... "

Impulsively, Q grabbed the carafe by its curved

spout and gulped down a sizable portion of the

bottle's contents. His eyes bugged out as the drink hit

his system like a quantum torpedo. He bent over

coughing and gasping. "By the Continuum!" he

swore. "Where did you find that stuff?."

0 slapped Q on the back while deftly retrieving the

bottle from Q's shaking hand. "Well, I'd tell you,

friend," he said, "but then you don't believe in places

you've never laid eyes on."

Next to Picard, across the ice from the young Q and

his new acquaintance, an older-but-arguably-wiser Q

confided in the starship captain. "It's true, you

know," he said, a wistful melancholy tingeing his

voice, "I've never tasted anything like it ever again.

I've even tried re-creating it from scratch, but the

flavor is never quite right."

Only Q, Picard thought, couM get nostalgic about

something that happened millions of years in the past.

Still, he thought he could identify with some of what

Q was experiencing. He felt much the same way about

the Stargazer, not to mention the Enterprise-D.

By now, the young Q had recovered from the effects

of the exotic concoction. "That was fantastic? he

blurted. "It was so... different." He said that last

word with a tone of total disbelief, then regarded the

stranger with new appreciation. "I don't understand.

How did you get here, wherever here is? And are there

others like you?"

0 held up his hand to quiet Q's unleashed curiosity.

"Whoa there, friend. I'm glad you liked the brew, but

it seems to me you have the advantage on me. Where

are you from, exactly?" His icy blue eyes narrowed as

he looked Q over. "And what's this Continuum you

mentioned a couple moments ago?"

"But surely you must have heard of the Q Continu-

um?" Q said, all his misgivings forgotten. "We're only

the apex of sentience throughout the entire... I

mean, the known... multiverse."

"You forget, I'm not from around your usual

haunts," 0 said. "Nor have I always been camped out

in this polar purgatory." He swept his arm to encom-

pass his Arctic domain. "A bit of a wrong turn there, I

admit, but that's what happens sometimes when you

strike out for parts unknown. You have to accept the

risks as well as the rewards." He regarded Q with a

calculating expression, brazenly assessing the juvenile

superbeing. Picard didn't like the avid gleam in the

stranger's eyes; 0 seemed more than simply curious

about Q. "Perhaps you'd care to show me just how

you got here?"

His game abandoned, 0 began to sweep his playing

cards together, combining them into a single stack.

Picard peeked at the exposed faces of the cards, and

was shocked to see what looked like living figures

moving about in the two-dimensional plane of the

cards. The suits and characters were unfamiliar to

him, bearing little resemblance to the cards used in

Enterprise's weekly poker games, but they were defi-

nitely animated. He spotted soldiers and sailors,

balladeers and falconers and dancing bears among the

many archetypes represented upon the metal cards,

and apparently crying out in fear as 0 shuffled them

together. Although no sounds escaped the deck, the

figures shared a common terror and state of alarm,

their eyes and mouths open wide, their arms reaching

out in panic. "What in heaven's name," Picard

started to ask Q, but 0 patted the cards into place,

then dispatched the deck to oblivion before Picard

could finish his question. Snow-flecked air rushed in

to fill the empty void the stack of cards had formerly

occupied.

Had the young Q noticed the unsettling nature of

the cards? Picard could not tell for certain, but he

thought he discerned a new wariness entering into the

immature Q's face and manner. Or maybe, he specu-

lated, 0 simply seemed a shade too eager to uncover

Q's secrets.

"How I got here?" young Q repeated slowly, dis-

playing some of his later selfs cunning and evasive-

ness. "Well, that's a terribly long and complicated

story."

"I've got time," 0 insisted. He clapped his hands

and another ice-coated boulder appeared next to his

own. He gestured for Q to take a seat there. "And

there's nothing I like better than a good yarn, particu-

larly if there's a trace of danger in it." He looked Q

over from head to toe. "Do you like danger, Q?"

"Actually, I think I should be going," Q stated,

taking a few steps backward. "I have an appointment

out by Antares Prime, you see? Q is expecting me, as

well as Q and Q."

His retreat was short-lived, for 0 simply rose from

his polished stone resting-place and advanced on Q,

dragging his left leg behind him. His infirmity caught

the young Q by surprise, freezing him in his tracks

upon the tundra; Picard guessed he'd never seen a

crippled god before. "Not so fast, friend," 0 said, his

voice holding just a trace of menace, a hint of a threat.

"As you can plainly see, I can't get around as quickly

as I used to." He leaned forward until his face was less

than a finger's length from Q, his hot breath fogging

the air between them. "Don't suppose you know an

easy exit out of this oversized ice cube, do you, boy?"

Picard struggled to translate what he was witness-

ing into its actual cosmic context. "His leg," he asked

Q. "What is the lameness a metaphor for?"

"Just what he said," Q answered impatiently, un-

heard by the figures they observed. "Must you be so

bloody analytical all the time? Can't you accept this

gripping drama at face value?"

"From you, never," Picard stated. He refused to

accept that an entity such as 0 appeared to be would

actually limp, at least not in a literal human sense.

Q resigned himself to Picard's queries. "If you must

know, he could no longer travel at what you would

consider superluminal speeds, at least in the sort of

normal space-time reality you're familiar with." He

directed Picard's gaze back to the long-ago meeting

upon the boreal plain. "Not that I fully understood all

that at the time."

"Can't you leave on your own?" the young Q asked,

apparently reluctant to divulge the existence of the

Guardian to the stranger. Picard admired his discre-

tion, even if he doubted it would last. He knew Q too

well.

"Sort of a personal question, isn't it?" 0 shot back

indignantly. "You're not making light of my handi-

cap, are you? I'll have you know I'm proud of every

scrape and scar I've picked up over the course of my

travels. I earned every one of them by taking my

chances and running by my own rules. I'd hate to

think you were the kind to think less of an entity

because he's a little worse for wear."

"Of course not. Not at all!" Q replied and his older

self groaned audibly. His perennial adversary, Picard

observed, was not enjoying this scene at all. He shook

his head and averted his eyes as his earlier incarnation

apologized to 0. "I meant no offense, not one bit."

"That's better," 0 said, his harsh tone softening

into something more amiable. "Then you won't mind

if I hitch a ride with you back to your corner of the

cosmos?" He flashed Q a toothy grin. "When do we

leave?"

"You want to come with me?" the young Q echoed,

uncertain. Events seemed to be proceeding far too

fast for him. "Er, I'm not sure that's wise. I don't

know anything about--I mean, you don't know any-

thing about where I come from?"

"True, but I'm looking to learn," 0 said. He tapped

the large rock behind him with the heel of his boot

and both boulders disappeared, leaving the frozen

plain devoid of any distinguishing features. "Trust

me, there's nothing more to be seen around here. We

might as well move on."

When did they become "we," Picard wondered,

and the young Q might have been asking himself the

same question. "I don't know," he murmured, lower-

ing his torch to create a little more space between him

and 0. "I hadn't really thought--"

"Nonsense," 0 retorted. His robust laughter pro-

duced a flurry of mist that wreathed his face like a

smoking beard. He threw his arm around Q's shoul-

ders, heedless of the youth's blazing torch. "Don't tell

me you're actually afraid of poor old me?"

"Of course not!" Q insisted, perhaps too quickly.

Picard recognized the tone immediately; it was the

same one the older Q used whenever Picard ques-

tioned his superiority. "Why should I be?"

Next to Picard, the older Q glowered at his past.

"You fool," he hissed. "Don't listen to him."

But his words fell upon literally deaf ears. Breaking

away from 0, the younger Q snuffed out his torch in

the snow; then, displaying the same supreme high-

handedness that Picard had come to associate with Q,

he traced in silver the oddly shaped outline of the

time portal. "Behold," he said grandly, as if deter-

mined to impress 0 with his accomplishment, "the

Guardian of Forever."

0 stared greedily at the beckoning aperture, and

Picard did not require any commentary from the

older Q to know that the younger was on the verge of

making a serious mistake. Picard had not reached his

advanced rank in Starfleet without learning to be a

quick judge of character, and this 0 character struck

him as a bold, and distinctly evasive, opportunist at

the very least. In fact, Picard realized, 0 reminded

him of no one so much as the older Q at his most

devious. "You should have trusted your own in-

stincts," he told his companion.

"Now you tell me," Q grumped.

Chapter Nineteen

PRESERVE THE MOTE? What the blazes did that mean?

Riker's fists clenched in frustration. This was like

trying to communicate with the Tamarians, before

Captain Picard figured out that their language was

based entirely on mythological allusions. We rely too

damn much on our almighty Universal Translator, he

thought, so we get thrown for a loop when it runs into

problems. He signaled Data to switch off the transla-

tion program while he conferred with the others.

"'Preserve/defend mote,'" he echoed aloud. "What

mote are they talking about? A speck of spacedust? A

solitary atom?" Could this refer to some primal

metaphor, such as the Tamarians employed? What

was that old quote about "a mote in your eye" or

something?

Or, looking at it from a different angle, couldn't

"mote" also be used as a verb? Yes, he recalled, an

archaic form of the word "might," as in "So mote it

be." Preserve might? Preserve possibilities? Riker's

spirit sagged as he considered all the diverse interpre-

tations that came to mind.

"Maybe they don't mean mote," Leyoro suggested,

"but moat, as in a circle of water protecting a for-

tress."

Spoken like a security officer, Riker thought, but

maybe Leyoro was on to something here. A moat, a

ring of defense... Of course, he realized. "The barri-

er. The Calamarain don't think in terms of solids, like

walls or fences. To them, the galactic barrier is a big

moat, circling the entire Milky Way!"

"That is a most logical conclusion," Data observed.

"As you will recall, they first attacked when the probe

attempted to enter the barrier."

"'Moat abates/attenuates,'" Troi said, repeating

the Calamarain's original pronouncement. "Perhaps

they're referring to the weaknesses in the barrier that

Professor Faal detected."

"That makes sense," Riker declared, convinced

they had found the answer. He would have to remem-

ber to commend Lieutenant Leyoro in his report,

assuming they all came out of this alive. "They're

protecting the barrier from us. 'No assistance/release

permitted.' Maybe that means they don't want us to

escape--or be 'released' from--the galaxy."

That sounds just presumptuous enough to be right,

he thought. Lord knows this wouldn't be the first time

some arrogant, "more advanced" life-form had tried

to enforce limits on Starfleet's exploration of the

universe. Just look at Q himself, for instance. It was

starting to seem like the Calamarain had a lot in

common with the Q Continuum. He glanced sideways

at the strange woman and child seated at his own

auxiliary command station. She appeared to be flip-

ping through a magazine titled simply Q, materialized

from who-knows-where, while q watched the tempest

visible on the viewscreen. The other Q, he recalled,

had warned the captain not to cross the barrier. Could

it be that Q and the Calamarain had been on the same

side all along?

"This might not be the most judicious occasion to

argue the point," Data stated with characteristic

understatement.

"Shields down to twenty-one percent," Leyoro con-

firmed.

Riker saw the wisdom in what they were saying. As

much as he resented being dictated to by a glorified

cloud of hot gas, he was perfectly willing to withdraw

from the field of battle this time, provided that the

Calamarain could be persuaded to release the Enter-

prise long enough to let them go home. "Put me

through to them again," he instructed Data.

"This is Commander Riker to the Calamarain," he

said in a firm and dignified manner. "We respect your

concerns regarding the... moat... and will not

tamper with the moat at this time. Please permit us to

return to our own space."

The entire bridge, he knew, waited anxiously for

the aliens' response. With any luck at all, they would

soon be able to abort their mission with no fatalities

and only minimal damage to the ship. That's good

enough for me, he thought. Any first-contact situation

where you could walk away without starting a war was

at least a partial success in his book. Besides, for all

they knew, the Calamarain had a legitimate interest

in the sanctity of the galactic barrier. That was

something for the scientists and the diplomats to

work out in the months to come, if the Calamarain

proved willing to negotiate.

Right now, he mused, I just want to bury the hatchet

so we can concentrate on finding the captain.

Then the voice of the Calamarain spoke again,

crushing all his hopes: "Enterprise is/was chaos-

haven. Deceit/disorder. No permit trust/mercy/es-

cape. Must preserve/enforce moat. Enterprise is/to

be dissipated."

"I do not think they believed you, Commander,"

Data said.

"I got that impression, Data," RAker affirmed.

There was no audible menace in that uninflected

voice, but the essence of its message was clear. The

Calamarain did not trust them enough to let the ship

go free. "Guilt by association," he realized. "All they

know about us is that we've harbored Q in the past,

shielding him from their retribution. That's what they

mean by 'chaos-haven.' They think we're accom-

plices."

Now, there's a bitter twist of fate, he thought. Will

the Enterprise end up paying the price for Q's crimes?

"I don't get it," Ensign Clarze said, scratching his

hairless dome. "What do they mean, dissipated?"

Baeta Leyoro translated for the younger, less exper-

ienced crewman. "Destroyed," she said flatly. "They

intend to destroy the entire ship."

"Touchy creatures," the female Q remarked, sound-

ing quite unconcerned about the starship's imminent

obliteration. "I never much cared for them."

Riker was inclined to agree.

Chapter Twenty

THE OBLONG PORTAL SHIMMERED beneath the ice-cold

sky. Young Q had not summoned the entire stone

framework of the Guardian to O's Arctic realm, but

merely the aperture itself, which hovered above the

frozen tundra like a mirage. The same white mist

began to seep from the portal, turning to frost as it

came into contact with the surface of the snow-

covered plain; through the fog, Picard glimpsed the

dusty ruins from which they had entered this glacial

waste.

"Come along, Picard," Q instructed, heading for

the spuming portal. "What transpires next is best

witnessed from the other side."

Picard followed without argument. In truth, he

would be happy to leave the barren ice behind; even

with Q's powers to protect him from the cold, he

found this frigid emptiness as desolate and dispiriting

as Dante must have found the frozen lake of sinners at

the bottom of the Inferno. Still, he had to wonder

what was yet to occur. Was the young Q actually going

to introduce 0 to Picard's own universe even with

everything they didn't know about the mysterious

entity? Picard, for one, would have liked to know a lot

more about what precisely 0 was--and how he came

to be stranded amid the drifting snow.

'Sipres vous," the older Q said to Picard, indicating

the frothing aperture. Holding his breath involuntar-

ily, Picard rushed through the fog, and found himself

back among the dusty wreckage of the ancient ruins

surrounding the Guardian of Forever, beneath a sky

transformed by luminous time ripples. Moments lat-

er, his all-powerful guide emerged from the gateway

as well. He joined Picard a few meters away from the

Guardian. Their uniforms, Picard noted with both

surprise and relief, were totally warm and dry despite

their recent exposure to snow and ice. "Now what?"

the captain asked.

"Now," Q said glumly, "you get a firsthand view of

one of my more dubious achievements."

"One of many, I imagine," Picard could not resist

remarking.

"Don't be ill-mannered, Jean-Luc," Q scolded.

"I'm reliving this for your benefit, don't forget."

So you say, Picard thought, although he had yet to

deduce what exactly Q's youthful exploits, millions of

years in the past, had to do with himself or the

Enterprise, unless 0 or his heirs somehow posed a

threat in his own time. That seemed unlikely given the

enormous stretches of time involved, but where Q

and his sort were concerned, anything was possible.

"Here I come," Q stated, as his younger self indeed

leaped out of the mist. The callow godling spun

around on his heels and looked back the way he had

come. Picard was unable to interpret the apprehen-

sive expression on his face. Was the young Q worried

that 0 would not be able to follow him through the

portal--or that he would?

"Couldn't you have simply closed the door behind

you?" Picard asked the other Q.

"Why, Captain," Q answered, looking aghast at the

very suggestion, "I'm shocked that you would even

propose such a cowardly ploy. That would have

hardly been honorable of me, and, as you should

know by now, I always play fair."

That's debatable, Picard thought, but saw no reason

to press that point right now. Peering past both Q's,

he spotted the silhouette of O's stocky frame appear-

ing within the foggy gateway. He held his breath,

anticipating the stranger's arrival, but then something

seemed to go wrong. Travel through the Guardian had

always been instantaneous before, but not for 0 appar-

ently. He strained against the opening as though held

back by some invisible membrane. Reality itself

seemed to resist his entrance. "Help me," he called

out to Q, a single arm stretching beyond the bound-

aries of the portal. "For mercy's sake, help me!"

The older Q shook his head dolefully, but his earlier

incarnation wavered uncertainly. He stepped forward

to grip O's outstretched hand, then hesitated, chewing

his lower lip and wringing his hands together. "I don't

know," he said aloud.

Perhaps responding to his indecision, the Guardian

itself weighed in with its own opinion. "CAUTION,"

it declared, "FOREIGN ENTITY DOES NOT CON-

FORM TO ESTABLISHED PARAMETERS FOR

THIS PLANE."

"Q?' 0 cried, his face pressed furiously against the

membrane, his voice distorted by the strain. "Help

me through, will you? I can't do it without you."

"CAUTION," the Guardian intoned. "THE ENTI-

TY DOES NOT BELONG. YOU CANNOT INTER-

FERE."

"Don't listen to it, Q," 0 urged. His words came

through the portal even if his physical form could not.

"You can make your own rules, take your own

chances. You and me, we're not the kind to play it

safe. What's the good of living forever if you never

take a risk?"

For a second, Picard entertained the hope that 0

would not be able to break through the unseen forces

that held him back. Unfortunately, the Guardian's

solemn warnings had exactly the opposite effect on

the young Q as intended. "No one tells me what to

do," the youthful Q muttered, and in his defiant tone

Picard heard uncounted centuries of resentment and

stifled enthusiasm, "not Q, not the Continuum, and

especially not some moldering keyhole with delusions

of grandeur."

Leaving all his doubts behind, he leapt forward and

grasped O's wrist with both hands. "Hold on!" he

shouted. "Just give me a second!"

"ENTRY IS DENIED," the Guardian proclaimed.

"INTERFERENCE IS NOT PERMITTED."

"Oh, be quiet," 0 urged him, eliciting a bark of

laughter from his young, would-be liberator. His face

flattened against the invisible barrier that barred his

way, 0 kept pushing forward, gaining a millimeter or

two. "You can do it, Q. I know you can!"

"You're quite right," Q said, grunting with effort. "I

can do anything. And I will." Digging his heels into

the dusty ground, he pulled on O's arm with all his

might. Perspiration speckled his brow and the veins

on his hands stood out like plasma conduits. Picard

tried to imagine the cosmic forces at work behind this

faqade of human exertion. Despite his better judg-

ment, he had to admire the young being's tenacity and

determination. Too bad they weren't being applied to

a less questionable purpose ....

Smoke poured from the Guardian as it sought to

restrain the stranger from beyond, defying the com-

bined strength of both Q and 0. For a few fleeting

instants, Picard could actually see the membrane,

stretched over O's thrusting head and shoulders like a

layer of adhesive glue and glowing with white-hot

energy so intense it made his eyes water. A network of

spidery black cracks spread rapidly over the lumines-

cent surface of the membrane and then, with a crash

that sounded like a thousand stained-glass windows

collapsing into broken shards, the barrier winked out

of existence and 0 came tumbling onto the rubble-

strewn ground, knocking Q onto his back.

"What was I thinking of?." the older Q said, looking

on mournfully. "Would you have ever guessed I could

be arrogant, so rash and presumptuous?"

Picard refrained from comment, more interested in

observing the ongoing saga than in engaging in more

fruitless banter with Q.

The young Q, exhilarated by his triumph, leaped to

his feet, the back of his robe thoroughly dusted with

gray powder. He looked no more frosted than Picard

or his older counterpart. "Let's hear it for Q," he

gloated, shaking his fist at the defeated Guardian,

"especially this Q."

0 rose more slowly. Panting and pale, he clambered

onto shaky legs and inspected his new surroundings,

scowling somewhat at the obvious evidence of age

and decay. "Looks like this locality has seen better

days," he said darkly. "Please tell me this seedy

cemetery is not the celebrated Q Continuum."

"What, this old place?" Q replied. He appeared

much more confident now that he was back on

familiar ground. "The Continuum exists on a much

higher level than this simple material level." He

laughed at the other's error. "You have a lot to learn

about this reality, old fellow."

"No doubt you'll be happy to show me around," 0

said slyly. He stretched his limbs experimentally,

looking mostly recovered from the duress of his

transition. His bones cracked like tommyguns in a

Dixon Hill mystery. "Ah, but it's good to breathe

warm air again, and see something beside that end-

less, infernal ice." He limped over to Q. "Where to

next, young man?"

"Next?" Q scratched his head. His plans had obvi-

ously not proceeded that far. Now that 0 had arrived

safely, Q looked uncertain what to do with him.

"Well, um, there's kind of an interesting spatial

anomaly a few systems away. Some entities find it

amusing." He pointed toward a distant patch of

turbulent, rippling sky. "See, over by those quasars

there, just past the nebula." He tugged on the fabric of

his robe to shake off some of the dust. "Race you

there?" he proposed.

"Sounds good to me," 0 agreed, "but I'm afraid it's

been a long time since I moved faster than a sunbeam,

at least through plain, ordinary space." He gave his

bad leg a rueful pat. "I don't suppose a bright young

blade like you knows any convenient shortcuts in this

vicinity?"

"A shortcut?" Q mulled the matter over while 0

looked on expectantly, far too keenly for Picard's

liking. Bad enough that Q had let this unknown

quantity into reality as he knew it, he didn't want

young Q to give 0 free rein throughout the physical

universe. Alas, inspiration struck Q, much to Picard's

dismay. "The Continuum itself is the ultimate short-

cut, linking every time and place in a state of con-

stant, ineffable unity. I'll bet you could use the

Continuum to go anywhere you pleased."

"There's an idea!" 0 crowed, slapping Q on the

back. "That's positively brilliant. I knew I could

count on you." Beneath the silent gaze of the Guardi-

an, 0 circled the young and relatively inexperienced Q

like a lion that had just separated an antelope from

the herd. "Now then," he said in an insinuating

manner, "about this Continuum? I can hardly wait to

lay my eyes on such an auspicious establishment." He

limped across the arid landscape, conspicuously fa-

voring his weaker leg. "If you don't mind giving me a

lift, that is."

"I suppose," Q answered absently, "although I

could as easily transport us straight to the anomaly."

"Time enough for that later," 0 assured him, an

edge in his voice belying the courteous phrasing. Was

the young Q aware, Picard wondered, of just how

intent the stranger was on his goal? O's single-

mindedness was obvious enough to Picard, even if his

full motives remained obscure. "The Continuum first,

I think."

"Oh yeah, right," Q mumbled, looking around the

forlorn ruins. "I suppose there's no reason to stick

around here anymore." He cast a guilty, sidelong

glance at the brooding edifice of the Guardian, per-

haps only now wondering if he really should have

heeded the ancient artifact's warnings. "Unless you'd

like to look around here some more? There's a nearly

intact temple over on the southern continent that was

built by some of my direct organic precursors."

"The Continuum will do just fine," 0 insisted. He

stopped limping around the other being and lowered

his head to look Q directly in the eye. "Now if you

please."

Q shrugged, apparently deciding not to cry over

spilled interdimensional membranes. "Why not?" he

declared, and Picard felt an unaccountable chill run

down his spine even though he knew that all of these

events had transpired millions of years before his own

time. "Get ready to feast your senses on possibly the

pinnacle of existence, a plane of reality never before

glimpsed by anyone but Q." He summoned an expec-

tant drumroll from the ether. "Q Continuum, here we

come!"

Picard saw a wily smile creep over O's weather-

beaten visage an instant before both Q and his new

friend departed the abandoned ruins in a single burst

of celestial light. He and the older Q were left alone

amid the crumbling pillars and shattered stones.

"Now what?" Picard asked his self-appointed travel

director, although he suspected he knew what was

coming next.

Q shrugged. "Whither they goest, we goest." He

smirked at Picard. "I'd tell you to hold on to your hat,

but I guess Starfleet doesn't go in for snappy head-

gear." He subjected Picard's new uniform to a wither-

ing appraisal. "Pity. One should never underestimate

the effectiveness of a stylish chapeau."

"Enough, Q," Picard barked. "You may be immor-

tal, but I am not. Let's get on with this, unless you're

afraid to show me just how big a fool you made of

yourself."

Q glared at him murderously, and for one or two

long moments Picard feared that perhaps he'd finally

pushed Q too far. His body tensed up, half-expecting

to be hurled into a supernova or transformed into

some particularly slimy bit of protoplasm. Just so long

as he leaves the Enterprise alone, Picard resolved,

prepared to meet his fate with whatever dignity he

could muster.

Then, to his surprise, the choler faded from Q's

face, replaced by what looked amazingly like a mo-

ment of sincere reflection. "Perhaps you're right," he

admitted after a time, "and I am stalling unnecessar-

ily." He shook his head sadly. "I'm not particularly

enjoying this trip down memory lane."

Picard almost sympathized with Q. With atypical

gentleness, at least where Q was concerned, he sug-

gested they continue their journey through the past.

"It's a truism with humanity that those who do not

learn from the past are doomed to repeat it. Perhaps,

in your case, reliving your history is the only way we

can both learn from it."

"Oh, that's profound, Picard," Q said, regaining

some of his usual hauteur. "Very well, let's be on our

way, if only to spare me any more of your pedantic

cliches."

Why do I even try to treat him like a sane and

reasonable being? Picard asked himself silently, but

his justifiable irritation could not derail his mixed

excitement and alarm at the prospect of actually

visiting the Q Continuum for the first time. What

could it possibly be like? He couldn't begin to imagine

it. Even translated into human analogues, as it would

surely have to be, he envisioned a wondrous, tran-

scendent realm surpassing the Xanadu of Kublai

Khan or fabled Sha Ka Ree of Vulcan myth and

legend. As Q swept them away from the decaying

rums with a wave of his hand, Picard closed his eyes

and braced himself for the awesome glory to come.

The reality was not what he expected. He opened

his eyes and looked upon... a customs station? He

and Q stood on a stretch of dusty blacktop that led

up to a simple gate consisting of a horizontal beam

that blocked further passage on the roadway. A rick-

ety wooden booth, apparently staffed by a single

guard, had been erected to the right side of the gate. A

barbed-wire fence extended to both the east and the

west, discouraging any unauthorized attempts to

evade the gate. A sign was mounted beneath the open

window of the booth, printed in heavy block lettering:

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING THE Q CONTINUUM. NO PEDDLERS,

VAGRANTS, OR ORGANIANS ALLOWED.

A golden sun was shining brightly overhead, al-

though it seemed to be reserving its warmest beams

for the other side of the fence. Picard lifted a hand to

shield his eyes from the glare and peered past the

barbed wire. As nearly as he could tell, the Q Contin-

uum looked like an enormous multi-lane freeway with

more loops, exits, and on-ramps than seemed physi-

cally possible. Elevated roadways doubled back on

each other, then branched off at dozens of incompati-

ble angles. Mass transit as designed by M. C. Escher,

Picard thought, astounded by the sight.

"What were you expecting, Shangri-La?" Q asked,

enjoying Picard's gawk-eyed befuddlement.

"Something like that," he admitted. I suppose this

imagery makes a certain amount of sense, given the

younger Q's description of the Continuum as a short-

cut that spanned the known universe. He could readily

believe that this stupendous tangle of thoroughfares

connected any conceivable location with everywhere

else.

Assuming you got past the gate, of course.

That appeared to be the challenge facing 0 and Q's

previous self at this moment. Not far away from

where Picard and Q now resided, the young Q and his

newfound acquaintance stood before the barricade as

the customs official emerged from his booth, clip-

board in hand. He was a stern, officious-looking

individual wearing a large copper badge upon his

khaki-colored uniform. A sturdy truncheon dangled

from his belt. Picard was irked but not too surprised

to note that this functionary bore a marked resem-

blance to himself. Come off it, Q, Picard thought.

Surely I don't look that humorless?

The guard scrutinized 0 with a scowl upon his face.

"You're not Q," he stated flatly.

"You can say that again," 0 proclaimed, unabashed,

"but I'd be grateful if you'd let me trod your fine road.

Young Q here tells me it's the swiftest way around

these whereabouts."

He clapped Q on the back, sending Q staggering

forward toward the guard. Looking on from less than

five meters away, Picard noted that the youth had

traded his monkish black robe for something closer to

what 0 wore, minus the rags and tatters, naturally. He

now wore boots, breeches, and a heavy fur coat. Just

what Q needed, Picard thought sarcastically, a disrep-

utable role model.

The guard gave Q a disapproving glance, then

inspected his clipboard. "State your name, species

identification, planet or plane of origin, and the

nature of your business in the Continuum."

0 rolled his eyes, seemingly unimpressed by this

display of authority. "Are you sure you don't want my

great-great-grandmother's genetic code as well?" he

asked dryly. Sighing theatrically, he launched into his

recitation. "O's the name, my species is special, my

origin is elsewhere, and my business is none of yours.

Is that good enough, or would you care to arm-wrestle

for it?" He shook off his shaggy greatcoat and rolled

up his sleeve. Right behind him, the young Q placed a

hand over his mouth to muffle an attack of giggles.

The guard looked considerably less amused by O's

flippancy. His scowl deepened and he lowered his

clipboard to his side. "Where are you from," he

asked, and Picard somehow sensed he was speaking

for the whole of the Q, "and why should we permit

you access to the Continuum?"

0 retrieved his coat from the pavement and threw it

over his shoulder. "Well, the where of it is a long story

that depends a lot on who's telling it. Let's just say I

was once quite a mover and shaker a good ways from

here, but I'm afraid that my able accomplishments

were not always appreciated by those that should have

known better, so it came to pass that the time was

right for me to set off for greener pastures." He leaned

forward and brushed some of the dust from his boots

before straightening his spine, adjusting his hat, and

addressing the guard. "As for why you should allow

me safe passage through your local stomping grounds,

aside from basic hospitality, that is... why, this

peerless young paragon will vouch for me."

"Is this true?" the guard demanded of Q. He didn't

seem to regard the young entity as much of a paragon.

Q gulped nervously, wilting under the guard's cen-

sorious stare. He looked to 0 for support and was

greeted by a conspiratorial wink. The newcomer's

boldness rubbed off on Q, who squared his shoulders

and glared back at the guard defiantly. "Certainly!"

he announced. "O's word is good enough for me.

What's with this siege mentality anyway? We could do

a lot worse than open our borders to new ideas and

exotic visitors from foreign lands."

0 beamed at him. "That's telling 'era, friend." He

poked the guard's badge with his finger. "You should

listen to this young fellow if you've got any sense

under that shiny, shorn scalp of yours."

That was uncalled for, Picard thought.

"So be it," the guard decreed. "This entity is

permitted within the Continuum--on the under-

standing that you, Q, take responsibility for him."

"They expected you to be the responsible one?"

Picard remarked, arching an ironic eyebrow. "Why

do I get the impression this was a horrendous mis-

take?"

The older Q averted his eyes from the scene before

them. "For a lower life-form, you can annoyingly

prophetic sometimes."

Caught up in his newfound bravado, the young Q

didn't hesitate a bit. "Agreed," he said grandly.

"Raise up the gate, my good man."

"Well done," 0 whispered. He doffed his wide-

brimmed hat and plopped it onto Q's head. Grabbing

his erstwhile sponsor by the elbow, he dragged his bad

leg toward the barricade and the vast interdimen-

sional highway beyond. Picard looked on as the guard

retreated to his booth. Moments later, the horizontal

beam tilted upward until it was perpendicular to the

road, and the newly united fellow travelers strode into

the future, embarking on the endless highway for

destinations unknown.

"So tell me, Q," 0 asked as his voice receded into

the distance, "have you ever considered the funda-

mental importance of testing lesser species... ?"

Interlude

WHERE IS Q, the spider hissed. Q is where?

His stench was all over the bug over there, but not

Q himself. Beneath the smelly smoke, it reeked of Q.

Q had been with it, or would be, or should be. What

did it matter when? Not at all, not for Q. Never for Q.

Damn you Q, you damn me, damn Q, damn met He

remembered it all now. Q was to blame, Q and all

those other Q, parading their pompous, prejudiced,

pitiless power throughout perpetuity. There were too

many Q to count, far too many to be allowed to exist,

but that could be remedied, given the chance. Hew the

Q. Hew Q too. Rue, Q rue! Your day is through!

The scent of Q set the spider salivating. Its avari-

cious arms scraped at the wall, greedy to grab, keen to

consume. Where are you now, Q, my oM Q. What have

you been doing all this time? What has time done to

you and to me and to we. Have you ever thought of me?

You shouM have, yes, you should.

The time was coming. The voice had promised.

Soon.

Q will pay. All the Q will pay. Q and Q and Q and Q

and Q and Q and Q and Q and Q and Q and O and Q

and Q and Q and Q and Q and Q and Q and O and Q

TO BE CONTINUED