Star Trek: The Q Continuum (54 page)

Picard gave Data a wry smile. “I would not put too much credence, Lieutenant Commander, in any of Q’s more acerbic remarks.”

“I see, Captain. Thank you.” Data returned his attention to the console before him. Suddenly, he assumed a more alert posture. “Captain. Commander Riker. I am detecting a dramatic surge in tachyon collisions against the ship’s hull.”

Tachyons!
Picard knew exactly what that foretold, and his fears were confirmed when an iridescent cloud of vapor washed across the screen of the main viewer, accompanied by a thunderous roar that set the entire ship vibrating. The gaseous mass, so very like the conglomeration of vaporous entities Picard had encountered one hundred million years in the past, blotted out the streaking stars upon the screen, even as Picard felt the
Enterprise
drop out of warp.

“It’s the Calamarain,” Riker stated, speaking aloud what they all understood.

“They’re back.”

Pollen tickled the nostrils of his humanoid guise and Q fought against a compelling urge to sneeze, convinced that 0 would hear any nasal outburst from a dozen decks away. Perhaps the hydroponics bay was not such an ingenious hiding place after all.

Flora from all over the Alpha Quadrant and beyond filled the spacious nursery, growing from trays filled with a moist inert medium whose organic content Q preferred not to think about. The shallow trays were stacked one atop the other in parallel rows that permitted an individual to wander, if he was so inclined, between lush assortments of greenery that positively reeked of chlorophyll. It was Q’s hope that the sheer abundance of life force would help mask his own energies from 0. He had briefly considered the ship’s arboretum instead, but hiding in the woods struck him as just a little too obvious.

Q crouched behind a tray of venomous foliage ranging from the mildly toxic Borgia plant to the lethal cove palm of Ogus III; he found the deadly nature of these particular sprouts uniquely soothing and reassuring. Behind him, samples of Cyprion cactus grew beside a Folner jewel plant and a spray of blooming orange and yellow crystilia. The air was thick with the aroma of flowering vegetation.

His nose tickled again and Q was tempted to materialize a silk handkerchief, but he was afraid that even the most inconsequential use of his powers would register on 0’s otherworldly senses.
One more thing to thank 0 for,
he thought resentfully; why, he had even been forced to go to the enormous physical inconvenience of actually
traveling
through the Jefferies tubes to the hydroponics bay, located quite unhelpfully on Deck 11, instead of simply willing himself there. Even though he sensed that he could still teleport within the confines of the ship, despite the burdensome fetters about his legs, there was no way he could bypass three-dimensional distances without producing subspace ripples that would call down 0 upon him like a Vulcan
sehlat.

How ever did Picard and his sort ever cope with the tedious necessity of physically transporting themselves from place to place? The sheer monotony of it, Q thought, would surely drive him to suicide within days.

Breaking off a ten-centimeter spine from the cactus behind him, Q tried to use it to jimmy the lock on his leg irons. Unfortunately, he was an all-powerful superbeing, not a safecracker, and it seemed hardly likely that there were any veteran criminals aboard the
Enterprise
to whom he could turn for tips. What had been the name of that cutpurse and sneak thief with whom he had consorted three or four millennia ago? The one who stole all those cattle from Sisyphus? Now, there had been a rogue after Q’s own heart; too bad he couldn’t risk plucking him out of history for a quick refresher course in lock-picking.

At least he had succeeded in contacting Picard via the ship’s primitive communications technology. Now it was up to the captain and his dauntless crew to snatch victory from the gaping maw of obliteration as they had so many times before. Q had tremendous faith in Picard; after all, hadn’t the somewhat dour humanoid managed to surmount some of Q’s most inventive puzzles? Q did feel a tad bit guilty about dumping 0 in Picard’s lap, though. Despite what he had implied to Jean-Luc a few minutes before, he had to admit to some small responsibility for the present contretemps. In retrospect, he probably should have leveled with Picard earlier about the true purpose of the barrier, but he could hardly be expected to willingly divulge the imperfections of his youth, especially to so judgmental and self-righteous a lesser life-form as Jean-Luc Picard.

The tip of the cactus spine broke off in the lock, and Q tossed the remainder of the spine away in disgust. That was no good; he would have to think of something else.
What would Jean-Luc do in a fix like this?
he wondered, slightly embarrassed to have to resort to such a demeaning comparison.
How the almighty have fallen,
he brooded, indulging in a few moments of richly deserved self-pity.

A machete slicing through stalks of
Draebidium calimus
interrupted his introspection, raining violet petals upon his head. Q scooted back on his rear, impaling his dorsal region upon the sharp spines of the cactus. He let out a shocked and indignant yowl of pain before mentally expelling the stinging barbs from his back.

“Tag, you’re dead!” 0 leered at him over the decapitated flower stems in the upper tray. “Dead you are.” He took aim with his phaser, which was almost certainly set to kill. “I always suspected you were nothing more than a hothouse flower, Q, unable to cope with cold, cruel choices outside the Continuum.” He laughed maniacally, exposing chipped and corroded teeth. “Prepare to be pruned, petunia!”

Exposed and unarmed, Q grabbed a nearby hypo-atomizer and squirted 0 in the face with concentrated bacillus spray. The madman rubbed frantically at his eyes with his upper tentacles while firing wildly with his phaser. The crimson beam went astray, disintegrating a garlanic seedling and setting a patch of Diomedian scarlet moss ablaze. Then the beam swung in an arc, incinerating some bristly
mutok
cuttings from Lwaxana Troi’s private garden on Betazed before barely missing the top of Q’s head. He felt the searing heat of the beam radiate down through his scalp.

With nothing more to lose, Q teleported away from the hydroponics bay, arriving in a flash in a half-filled cargo bay on Deck 21. Molybdenum storage bins were stacked four high along the opposite wall. Clear and meticulous labeling identified their contents as, respectively, thermoconcrete, inertial dampers, driver coil assemblies, and self-sealing stem bolts. Nothing he could possibly have any use for, in other words.

He hurried toward the wide exit doors as quickly as his shackles would permit. He could not afford to linger at this site much longer; that bacillus spray was not going to detain 0 for more than a second or two, and he would surely be able to follow Q’s fifth-dimensional trail to the cargo bay. Q loped down the corridor outside, scanning his new surroundings for the best possible escape route or hiding place. As he ran, he cursed the fateful moment he first heard 0’s ingratiating voice singing through the snow of that frozen limbo outside reality. His close call with the phaser and the machete had shaken him more than he wanted to admit, even to himself.

Must get away,
he thought, taking a sharp left at the next intersection. He passed a pair of Starfleet technicians at work repairing a power conduit behind a displaceable wall panel; they stared wide-eyed at his shackled state, but he did not waste a single breath to respond to their shouted inquiries and offers of assistance. There was nothing they could do to help him, not against 0. He had no doubt that 0 had created the cumbersome fetters to be phaser-proof.

Find someplace to hide,
he urged himself,
someplace 0 will never suspect.
At any moment, he expected to hear the sound of limping footsteps behind him. He trembled just imagining it. The sensation of genuine fear was not something he had ever had the opportunity to become accustomed to; he hadn’t felt so vulnerable and at risk since that time the Calamarain had hunted him after he lost his Q-ish abilities. How was he supposed to concentrate on outwitting 0 when he had to fret about being murdered at the same time? It just wasn’t fair!

His self-made combadge beeped, and for a moment Q expected to hear Picard explaining the details of some cunning, Starfleet-style plan. Instead his immortal ichor went cold as 0’s raspy, singsong voice came over the communications device:

“Say, Q, O Q, whatever happened to that fine, fancy filly you were fiancéed to, once upon a time? She wouldn’t happen to be aboard this sleek, shiny ship, would she? Perhaps looking out for some wondrous whelp or another?”

Q,
he thought in alarm,
and little q, too…!
What could this unscrupulous monster want with them?
Aside from revenge on me, that is.
This was absolutely intolerable; he couldn’t allow 0 to turn his perverse attentions to Q’s family, no matter what was required.

“Don’t tell me you’ve stooped to picking on women and children, 0?” Q squeezed all the scorn and sarcasm he could muster, which was quite a considerable amount, into every syllable he uttered. “What’s the matter,
mon ami?
Hide-and-seek proving too much to handle? Finally find an opponent you can’t cheat or bully into submission?” He tsk-tsked into the badge. “What a disappointment. Here I was looking forward to a good, challenging game, but I guess that’s not to be. Pity. Why, even these insignificant humanoids have given me better competition than this.”

“Run, Q, run!” 0 barked via the badge. Q prayed to the highest power he knew, himself, that his barbs had indeed hit a nerve within 0’s chaotic consciousness, enough to make the insane expatriate forget all about Q and q. “You can’t fool me,” 0 insisted, dashing Q’s hopes. “You’re as transparent as Time, Q, as obvious as ozone. You think if I go chasing you-Q-you, this wily old wanderer will leave your tart and your tyke alone.” A bone-chilling cackle emerged from the badge. “But you’re wrong, Q, wrong as Reason. I have them already, or part of me does….”

0 appeared in a flash, only five meters away. The three-sided
kligat
whizzed past Q’s ear, lopping off a lock of his hair. “Hide, Q, hide!” he hollered, his husky voice echoing down the corridor. “This game’s not over until I say so, unless I kill you by mistake!”

The standoff between Lem Faal and the female Q had drawn a crowd. Nurse Ogawa lingered in the doorway to the pediatric unit, flanked by two security officers summoned to the scene. Their phasers were raised and ready, although they held their fire for fear of hitting the hostage q. Behind them, the EMH stood on his toes, trying to peek over the shoulders of the security personnel. “This is highly irregular,” he protested. “Why won’t anyone listen to me?”

This is my fault,
Crusher thought, staring helplessly at the tranquilized child under Faal’s arms.
I should have given q to his mother the moment she appeared, but instead I stalled her in hopes of finding out more about some trouble on the bridge.
Now she still didn’t know much more about what was happening elsewhere on the ship, but an innocent child had been taken captive by an insane and potentially dangerous individual who had somehow attained enough power to keep q from his mother.

“I know you,” the female Q said cryptically, glaring at Faal with anger and contempt in her eyes. “At least I recognize the part that’s pulling the strings behind this pathetic puppet show. The Continuum should have annihilated you, and all your loathsome comrades, when we had the chance. Eternal exile was too good for you.”

Crusher had no idea what she was talking about, nor, from the looks of him, did Lem Faal. “You’re just trying to confuse me,” he accused. Beverly shuddered at his eerie white eyes. “I have a duty to science to study this child, to record his development, test his abilities to the utmost.”

Even as he ranted like a mad scientist from some gothic holodeck program, Faal’s telekinetic abilities began to reshape the pediatric unit into a laboratory of sorts. The supply cupboards turned into visual display monitors, charting the Q equivalent of brain waves and metabolic functions. The elevated incubator at the center of the ward morphed into a transparent dome about a meter high and another meter in diameter.
Did he intend to cage q inside there?
Crusher wondered.
For how long?
Faal was acting like he intended to experiment upon the Q child for as long as q lived, which was probably forever. Her heart ached at the prospect of an innocent child, immortal or otherwise, treated like a guinea pig, while his mother watched helplessly.
There must be some way to stop Faal without endangering q, but how?

“Deanna,” she whispered to the counselor, who had retreated to the back of the chamber, “take Kinya and go. I don’t think he’ll stop you.” Crusher refused to leave the pediatric unit while the Q child was in jeopardy—this was her sickbay, after all—but there was no reason to risk either Troi or the sobbing little girl. She took care not to refer to Kinya by her full name, lest the female Q get the idea to retaliate against Faal by taking his own daughter hostage.
I hope she’s not reading my mind right now,
Crusher thought. Fortunately, the mother Q only had eyes for her child while Troi scooped up the frightened girl and edged toward the exit cautiously, watching Faal with wary eyes.

As Crusher had anticipated, the scientist couldn’t have cared less about Troi or even his daughter, paying no attention as the security officers stepped aside to let them pass. She exhaled a sigh of relief. That was two fewer individuals she had to worry about, at least in the short term.

Then, just to make matters worse, the ship underwent another tremendous jolt. Crusher hoped for an instant that the unexpected turbulence would cause Faal to lose his grip on baby q, but he held on to the sedated child as if that were all that mattered to him. Beverly herself had to grab for the incubator to keep from falling, only to yank her hands back as she felt the solid transparent aluminum move beneath her palms like a living thing.

Stepping back from the shapeshifting incubator, while keeping close to the female Q to offer whatever moral support she could provide, Crusher saw one of the security officers speaking hurriedly into his combadge.
Good,
she thought. No doubt he was updating the bridge on the ongoing hostage crisis in sickbay. Crusher wasn’t sure what Jean-Luc or Data could do that the female Q couldn’t, but she didn’t feel quite as trapped and alone anymore.

Then, to her surprise, she heard the unmistakable voice of Captain Picard responding personally to the officer’s report. That was good news, no matter how dire things were here, since it suggested that the crisis on the bridge had calmed down for the moment. Had the mysterious intruder been dealt with, perhaps by Q? Beverly was surprised to find herself counting on Q of all people, but she couldn’t imagine that Q would permit his own son to be threatened much longer. Between the two of them, surely Q and his mate could overpower Lem Faal, despite whatever uncanny attributes he had mysteriously acquired.
Where are you, Q?
she thought silently.
Do you even know what’s happening to your child?

“Under attack by the Calamarain,” Picard’s voice explained tersely, “plus an alien intruder of incredible power is loose aboard the ship. Keep on your guard, and do whatever is necessary to protect the children. Commander Riker is en route to take charge of the situation. Picard out.”

Then the intruder has left the bridge and could be anywhere,
Crusher realized. She knew that Jean-Luc could not possibly be referring to Lem Faal, whose identity was well known, so that meant there were now two highly dangerous individuals at large aboard the
Enterprise.
She couldn’t imagine that was a coincidence. Plus the Calamarain had returned as well? Her spirits sank, taken aback by all the threats facing them. Only her faith in Jean-Luc Picard and her fellow crew members kept her hopeful that they would come through these multiplying hazards as they always had before.
We beat the Borg twice,
she remembered.

The incubator had completed its evolution into a high-tech cage. Faal nodded approvingly and his eyes flared even more brightly for an instant. Suddenly, q was no longer under Faal’s arm but deposited within the transparent dome. The female Q rushed to free him, arms outstretched, but flashes of crackling purple energy repelled her eager fingers as soon as they came within a centimeter of the dome. The enclosure was obviously protected by a forcefield, Crusher realized, one capable of withstanding the female Q’s maternal might. She pounded on the forcefield with her bare hands, determined to shatter the obstacles between her and her son. Her fists smashed against the forcefield, sparking more flashes of energy, whose violet hue reminded Beverly of the galactic barrier itself, yet both forcefield and dome remained intact. “My q!” the distraught mother cried out. “Give me back my child!”

Faal ignored her heart-tugging plea. “Initiate experimental log,” he coolly instructed the surrounding equipment. “File: Faal/hyperevolution. Title: Preliminary Notes on the Onset of Trans-Transcendental Consciousness in the Offspring of Advanced, Multidimensional Life-Forms….”

No longer shielded by the proximity of the unconscious child, he presented a tempting target to the two security officers, who immediately fired their phasers at the seemingly defenseless scientist. Twin beams converged on Faal, who just kept dictating his notes.

“…subject remains under sedation in observation chamber. In appearance, resembles humanoid infant of Terran ancestry, approximately two years in age. Observation: The population of
Starship Enterprise
is predominately of Terran descent, suggesting that subject’s current appearance is a direct response to his recent environment, perhaps even a form of protective coloration….”

The crimson rays bounced off Faal, rebounding back to their points of origin. Phaser beams struck the security team squarely in their chests, dropping them to the floor. Crusher thanked standard Starfleet procedure that weapons had been set on stun; in theory, the downed officers had not been permanently injured. Showing laudable initiative, the EMH began to drag the inert bodies out of the doorway into the primary ward, assisted by Ogawa. She knew she could count on the nurse and the hologram to tend to the fallen crew members as much as was necessary.

Faal appeared oblivious of the incident and its aftermath. “…exact chronological age of the subject has yet to be determined,” he continued. “Further study is required….” The biobeds along the portside wall of the children’s ward started reassembling themselves into an array of scanners and probes whose precise functions Crusher couldn’t begin to guess at. What kind of tests could you perform on a baby god? And could any of them actually harm little q? Metal and synthetic polymers flowed like liquid mercury while sophisticated electronic circuitry established new links and configurations.

The pounding and the phaser fire combined to rouse the toddler from his drugged slumber. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, then looked around wildly as he became aware of his surroundings. The density of the transparent dome muffled his high-pitched wails, but there was no mistaking the panic in his eyes as he pounded at the interior of the cage with tiny fists. “Out!” he shouted. “Out! Out!”

“It’s all right, sweetie,” his mother tried to comfort him, placing her face so close to the forcefield that purple traceries flickered along her profile. “Mommy is here. Mommy’s not going to leave you.”

Claustrophobia must be especially terrifying to a child who is accustomed to teleporting wherever he wishes, Crusher thought. Her heart went out to the mother as well, their past differences forgotten. Beverly vividly remembered how anguished she’d felt when Wesley had been taken captive on Rubicun III. How could she not sympathize with what the female Q had to be going through?

Baby q spotted Lem Faal and drew back in fear. Somehow he seemed to know that the Betazoid scientist, with his luminous eyes and unfeeling expression, was responsible for his captivity. As small children have done throughout galactic history, q covered his eyes with his hands, evidently hoping that if he couldn’t see Faal, then Faal couldn’t find him.
Wesley used to do the same thing,
Crusher remembered.

The childish ploy appeared to touch some vestige of mortality within Faal. His expression softened, as if recalling similar behavior on the part of his own children. Beverly hoped desperately for a change of heart as abrupt and comprehensive as the alterations he was imposing upon the pediatric unit. But her hopes for a peaceful resolution to the crisis faded as Faal’s lean face froze back into the impassive mask of a detached observer. “Subject’s infantile attempt at concealment reveals perceptual errors arising from the immature nature of the developing superconsciousness. Confusion between objective/subjective criteria resembles comparable phenomena in the development of preadolescent primates and equivalent species.”

That’s one way of putting it,
Crusher thought bitterly, both disturbed and offended by Faal’s clinical description of a child in distress. Unable to watch q’s torment any further, she glanced around the chamber, barely recognizing what had only minutes ago been a state-of-the-art medical facility. The mutated pediatric unit now bore little resemblance to its former self, as transformed in form and function as so much of the ship had been during the Borg occupation several months ago. Illuminated screens presented close-ups of q taken from every possible angle and in a wide variety of formats. Newly created scanners, reminiscent of the docking pylons at Deep Space Nine, loomed over the domed observation chamber like vultures intent on some dying prey. At the center of this intimidating array of technology, the trembling child in his miniature Starfleet uniform looked both out of place and vulnerable.

“Future areas of research,” Faal droned on, completely unaware of how horrific the situation looked, “include physiological and behavioral responses to changes in environmental stimuli, including extremes of heat and cold, as well as conditions of absolute vacuum. Also to be explored: the long-term psychological impact of sleep and/or sensory deprivation….”

Beverly couldn’t believe what she was hearing. This was like some sort of inhuman medical experiment from the age of Khan Noonien Singh. Less than a meter away, the female Q looked like she wanted to personally dissect Faal himself. Crusher didn’t blame her one bit.

“Dad? What are you doing?”

The voice caught them all off guard, even halting Faal’s compulsive dictation. Crusher looked to the open doorway, where young Milo Faal stood unsteadily, holding on to the doorframe for support. “Dad?”

His eyes glowed just like his father’s.

Sickbay? How in blazes did I get to sickbay?

Lieutenant Baeta Leyoro awoke groggily upon a biobed, a surgical support frame pinning her down. Her head felt as if a Tarsian dreadnought had landed on it and her eyes throbbed like a photon grenade. She just hoped whoever zapped her felt a whole lot worse.

The last thing she remembered was being on the bridge. Her head had hurt then, because of that plasma-sucking barrier, but not as badly as it did now. Commander Riker had just ordered her to sickbay, over her vehement objections, and she had been making her way toward the turbolift about as slowly as she could without courting charges of insubordination. Then a white-hot light had exploded behind her eyes…and here she was, flat on her back like a damn fatality.

And this was supposed to be a peaceful scientific mission,
she recalled.
Hah!
If there was one thing she had learned from a lifetime spent fighting, first for Angosia and then for Starfleet, it was that danger could strike at any moment. The rehabilitative counselors back at Lunar V would call that paranoia, she suspected, and tell her that she needed to overcome such “antisocial” tendencies, but what did any of them know about the life of a soldier? None of them ever had to worry about a Tarsian sneak attack, or be responsible for the security of a starship at the literal edge of the galaxy.

A sickeningly recognizable clap of thunder shook the sickbay, causing miniature warp-core breaches inside her aching skull.
The Calamarain,
she realized, feeling a savage sense of vindication through the pain, which now seemed to extend all the way down to her toes.
I knew we hadn’t seen the last of those BOVs,
she thought, using a bit of Angosian army slang. Better Off Vaporized, it meant, although that had proved maddeningly redundant where the gaseous Calamarain were concerned. Still, barrier or no barrier, it was obvious the
Enterprise
was under attack once more.