Strange New Worlds 2016 (5 page)

She glanced up at the holographic display in the middle of the room and felt her heart
sink into her stomach. Not only had the torpedo launched, it had already performed
a slingshot maneuver around a star, which had sent it hurtling back through time six
hundred thousand years. The cavern was still receiving telemetry from the torpedo,
probably through subspace communication waves being slingshotted back around the same
star. That being the case, perhaps she could disrupt its flight path or even destroy
it from here.

Unfortunately, this technology was unknown to her. She supposed she could start indiscriminately
blasting pieces of equipment and hope she hit something like a guidance computer.
If the phaser beam performed the strange acrobatics it had performed outside, she
could set it to overload and take out the entire cavern.

“You can’t stop it,” a voice close behind her said.

Eve gasped and spun around to find Portal there, unarmed for a change. She quickly
recomposed herself. “I have to try.” Her words sounded so forceful and confident,
they surprised even her. She gripped the phaser around its nozzle and twisted. It
began humming in a way that would grow louder as the energy built to a forced chamber
explosion.

Portal smiled. “You’re a worthy adversary, Eve McHuron. I admire your conviction.
However, before you destroy this cavern and yourself along with it, you should keep
watching the holodisplay.” He made his way to the display, forcing her to follow him
there with her eyes. He adjusted the controls on the projector, and additional data
displays popped up, translated into Standard for her benefit. One of the displays
provided information about the target star.

Her eyes quickly scanned the data. “Impossible,” she said over the ever-growing hum.
She was no stellar cartographer or astrophysicist, but if the displays were correct,
the torpedo wasn’t approaching the remnants of a nova explosion. It was speeding at
high warp toward a perfectly healthy star.

“As you know, Genesis can revitalize a dying system. Or it can destroy a healthy one.
Our star is perfectly healthy, but it won’t be once the torpedo hits it. If you want
to preserve your history, the torpedo must complete its mission.”

Eve shook her head. “No, I don’t buy it. This is a trick.” The hum of her phaser had
grown into a deafening whine.

Harry rushed out into the main room, his hands clasped over his ears. “What the devil
is that sound?” His eyes widened with fear once he realized the noise was coming from
the weapon in Eve’s hand. “Evey, what are you doing?”

She backed away quickly as Harry moved to grab the phaser.

“I promise you it’s no trick, but it’s your choice,” Portal said. “You can think I’m
lying and die, or trust me and live.”

The noise told her she had thirty seconds at most. So many conflicting thoughts, so
many conflicting feelings. Which ones was she supposed to trust? Out of all the noise
inside and outside her brain, one thought elevated itself above all others: Whatever
Portal may have been, he was first and foremost the guardian of a proud and respected
empire. He was a protector of its knowledge and customs. He was no liar. She gripped
the phaser nozzle, which had become unbearably hot, and twisted as hard as she could.
Through the searing pain, the nozzle eventually gave. She kept twisting until the
whine began diminishing.

“Thank God,” Harry said airily once the noise had died down completely. His knees
were shaking, and his clothes were soaked in sweat.

Eve watched the holodisplay in silence. It wasn’t long before the Genesis torpedo
reached the surface of the target star. That’s where the telemetry went dead. Eve
had no visual evidence to confirm the star going nova. She had only her continued
existence here, which seemed to be a good indication the Federation still existed
and nothing had changed in the past.

“I don’t understand,” Eve said to Portal.

“It was Genesis that caused the Tkon star to go nova six hundred thousand years ago.
The Tkon Empire vanquished virtually all of its enemies. It was a misbegotten attempt
to save it that caused its destruction.” He gave her a smile, but it couldn’t hide
the pain behind his eyes.

“Why didn’t you try to stop it just now?”

“I came to realize how long I’d been asleep and how much the galaxy had changed in
my absence. I didn’t have the right to undo six hundred thousand years of history.
It would be selfish, and selfishness is not the Tkon way.”

Eve wanted to thank him, but she knew no words were sufficient for the sacrifice he’d
just made. “What would you have us do with you and this place?”

“I have only one request.”

“Where will you take me?” The question hung in the air, thick as the Phocis Harju
fog. Ruth was standing at the top of the landing ramp, staring down at Eve. The engines
whined as Harry started the launch cycle.

Eve laughed. “I’m not turning you in to Starfleet, if that’s what you’re asking. You
can stay with me until we figure something out.”

“Seems odd you’d let me walk away scot-free after what I tried to do.”

“Maybe.” Eve looked out at the gloomy landscape one final time. “But then we’d have
to tell Federation about this place, and I’m not going to do that. I have a promise
to keep. Portal needs to sleep.”

S
TAR
T
REK
:

T
HE
N
EXT
G
ENERATION
®

A C
HRISTMAS
Q
AROL

Gary Piserchio & Frank Tagader

Stave One

Q
LOOKED INSIDE
the ancient but painstakingly restored Millennium Dome in London, watching Captain
Jean-Luc Picard stand before nearly three thousand inferior races from across the
Federation. Q had little interest in them, but Jean-Luc always managed to pique his
curiosity. The starship captain spoke on a topic to which the human was uncomfortably
close. Q felt the tension in Jean-Luc’s body.

“To date, there is no known antidote,” he said, looking out at the somber gathering.
His right eye twitched. Q was amazed that the man still felt the prosthetic, now a
phantom long past, adhered to the right side of his face. Picard tensed and started
to lift a hand to his face, but the captain of the
U.S.S. Enterprise
was stronger than that, and he resisted the urge. Q nodded, feeling something akin
to human respect for the man. But, no, that was far too strong a word. Q wondered
what the word was for when a human feels that his pet has performed admirably. Ah,
well, that wasn’t important at the moment.

Picard smiled and moved toward a fairly young human child sitting in a propulsion
chair. Deanna Troi, ship’s counselor for the
U.S.S.
Enterprise
, stood behind the chair and rested her hands lightly on Timothy’s shoulders. The
child was debilitated, which was odd in this age. But Q knew why the child was stricken.
Just as he knew the next words the starship captain was going to speak.

“There is no antidote,” repeated Picard, “but sometimes there is a cure.” The child
smiled up at him. “The crew of the
U.S.S.
Enterprise
rescued Timothy from the Borg nearly six months ago. He’d been part of the Collective
for over three years. Doctor Beverly Crusher managed to remove the Borg nanites and
began the process of mending his body, replacing the heinous prosthetics of the Borg”—the
captain’s eye twitched again—“with prosthetics that Timothy can control and enjoy
in his day-to-day life.

“Of course, it’s not his body that concerns us most, but rather his mind and spirit.”
Picard began to reach for the boy, intending to put his hand on Timothy’s shoulder,
but he stopped. The child leaned slightly toward the starship captain. No one else
noticed, except for the Vulcan contingent, but Q saw Jean-Luc move a few millimeters
away when the boy leaned in. Captain Jean-Luc Picard, commander of the flagship of
the Federation, a human who had faced countless perils, many of them life-threatening.
In fact, because of his knowledge of the Borg, he had led the away team that rescued
the young boy. The man threw himself into the face of danger for the greater good
time and time again—blah blah
yawn
. Yet he was uncomfortable around children.

Q smiled, an idea springing to his prodigious mind. He looked up from the Millennium
Dome at the snow swirling through the city and coating the rooftops and trees along
the avenues. It reminded Q of an ancient Earth toy composed of a heavy lead-glass
sphere filled with water, a ceramic Earth scene of banal inconsequence, and bits of
porcelain that roiled in the water when shaken. A snow globule or some such nonsense.
And according to the ancient calendar called Gregorian, it
was
December on Earth. It was almost too perfect.

Picard continued. “It’s up to us to mend him wholly. Completely. In a few moments,
when we’ve finished here, we’ll take Timothy to the
U.S.S.
Pasteur
, where the finest medical staff, aside from the
Enterprise
’s, of course”—there was polite laughter from the attendees, except from the Vulcan
contingent—“ will take personal responsibility for this young man’s reintroduction
to humanity.”

“Will you be there too?” said Timothy, his voice anxious.

Jean-Luc Picard’s had been the first human face the boy had seen when coming out of
the medically induced coma after his first operations on the
Enterprise
. Q could feel Picard squirm on the inside while he remained as composed as ever on
the outside. “Well, you see, Timothy. As a starship captain I have certain responsibilities
that—”

Troi knelt next to the boy on the other side of the chair from Picard. “Timothy,”
she said in soft tones, “Captain Picard would very much like to be with you for your
rehabilitation, but he has important work to do for the Federation. I’m sure he’ll
visit you as often as he can.”

“Yes! Yes, of course I’ll visit. Often!” Timothy looked hurt, but he didn’t say anything.
Picard looked back to the audience and cleared his throat before saying, “As we take
this bold step toward Timothy’s future—”

Q stood up in the front row and clapped slowly. Picard looked in his direction and
anger flashed in his eyes. It would be no fun at all if he didn’t get that rise out
of the human.

“Q, what are you doing here?”

“Why,
mon capitaine
, I’ve come to delight in the holiday festivities of Earth. The holly, the ivy, the
plum pudding, and, let us never forget, the wassail. I was feeling especially altruistic
and thought I would share the bounty of Q with humanity at this special time of year.”

Q felt Picard seething, but the human’s demeanor remained relatively calm.

“Ah, I see someone is lacking in the Christmas spirit,” Q said with a smirk. “Yes,
perhaps that’s what we need around here.”

“Q, I haven’t the patience to deal with your frivolous ploys right now.”

“ ‘Frivolous ploys’? I seek to bring enlightenment, love, and redemption to humanity.”
Q sniffed as though smelling something distasteful.

“Redemption? You don’t know the first thing about redemption.”

“Perhaps the concept is beneath my vastly superior intellect. But it is not beneath
yours. And so, like Father Hanukkah—” Q paused. “That doesn’t sound right. Is that
right? Well, it doesn’t matter. I am here to bring joy and happiness to the masses.
How about we start with this little one?” Q disappeared from the front row and reappeared
next to Timothy. Before Picard could react, Q snapped his fingers. The clumsy prosthetics
and grafts disappeared instantly to reveal whole limbs and flesh. Timothy’s eyes lit
up, and a grin sprang to his face as he straightened first one leg and then the other.

“See, Jean-Luc? I’m already spreading cheer. Now, Timothy, why don’t you go out and
play in the snow like a good lad.”

Not quite sure of his new limbs, Timothy stood slowly. Troi helped him up, but he
was able to stand on his own. He turned around and beamed at Q. An anxious murmur
rose from the attendees, except from the Vulcan contingent.

“Stop meddling, Q,” said Picard, his voice low and full of threat. Q found it childish
and delightful.

“Now, Jean-Luc, was that not the more compassionate answer for the boy? Instead of
years of painful surgery, rehabilitation, and physical therapy, I give him but a small
gift of Q. One should learn to not look a gift Q in the mouth, dear captain. Where
is your compassion?”

“Another concept I find hard to believe you understand. Stay out of the affairs of
humanity.”

“Exactly right, Jean-Luc, because humanity should be
your
business.”

Captain Picard closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. “Now I understand. You’ve
discovered Dickens.”

“Discovered?” Q practically yelled. “If it wasn’t for me, I’ll have you know, that
insignificant human would never have been published, let alone remembered.”

Picard opened his eyes. “You want me to believe you influenced Charles Dickens?”

“Influenced? I practically wrote all of his works. Your naiveté astounds me at times,
Jean-Luc. Do you honestly believe a human could have written so many pieces that have
survived the ages?”

Picard looked up toward the ceiling. “What are you doing?” Darkness descended, obscuring
all except Q, who commanded his own spotlight.

Instead of seeing the inside of the Millennium Dome, Picard saw stars. For a moment,
it looked like the dome had turned to glass. Snowflakes fell, but they didn’t look
real at first until one touched his face and melted. The captain looked back at the
stage—Troi and Timothy were gone. Turning, he saw the audience and seats replaced
with people bustling along narrow streets and alleys. Their clothing changed from
utilitarian temperature-regulating jumpsuits and uniforms to waistcoats, petticoats,
top hats, scarves, and gloves.

Gone was the refurbished late-twentieth-century arena. Instead, there was the sudden
cacophony of a busy thoroughfare with the interaction of street vendors and their
customers, the raucous conversations of friends. Horses pulling wagons and hansom
cabs clickety-clopped across cobblestones. From somewhere a choir sang a Christmas
carol. The air was cold, and Picard tasted and smelled the soot of burning wood and
coal mixed with the festive odors of fresh pine boughs and cooking food.

Beside him, Q said, “Strange, isn’t it? Seeing your beloved home so changed like this?
But what better setting for a ghost story.”

Picard sighed. “Don’t tell me. I’ll be visited by three spirits.”

“Four, actually. Don’t forget about poor Marley. I thought he was a rather smart invention
of mine.”

“And if I refuse to go along with your bizarre antics?”

“Antics, Jean-Luc? You disappoint me. You have so much still to learn. You should
be honored that I am gracious enough to bestow more knowledge upon you, whether or
not you’re capable of actually understanding any of it.”

“The story is about compassion and redemption. I hardly think you are the one to teach
anyone about those ideas.” There was anger in Picard’s voice. He took a step toward
Q, who smiled and snapped his fingers.

Stave Two

Q found himself at a wooden desk, sitting in a very uncomfortable wooden chair. Before
him were several stacks of English coins and a giant black-leather-bound ledger with
columns of figures written in tiny, careful strokes. In his right hand was a pen recently
dipped in ink. His fingertips were stained black from dabbing and cleaning the nib.

“Excuse me, sir.” The growl of the voice was all too familiar. Q looked up slowly
from the ledger. Worf, looking ridiculous in Victorian pants, waistcoat, jacket, and
scarf, stood before Q. “After all, it is Christmas Eve, sir. And begging your pardon,
sir, if it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience.”

“Who are you talking to?” Q said to Worf.

The Klingon looked confused for a moment. “Well, I’m talking to you, Mister Scrooge,”
he said, his voice gruff with modest good cheer—for a Klingon.

Q blinked a few times. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t right at all. He felt, not fear,
that was impossible, but something that almost approximated disquiet. But before he
had time to consider his situation, the front door of the counting-house banged open.
It was Riker, dressed in a finer raiment of Victorian clothing.

“A Merry Christmas, Uncle! God save you!”

Q stared at the first officer of the
U.S.S.
Enterprise
. What was going on? He looked around the counting-house. Everything was as it should
be: Worf working by candlelight, cold from the lack of coal; Riker as Scrooge’s cheerful
and addlepated nephew. But where was Jean-Luc? He was supposed to be Ebenezer Scrooge.
Q didn’t know what had gone wrong, but it was easily remedied. He snapped his fingers.

Riker, still with that dim-witted grin on his face, looked to Worf. “Merry Christmas,
Mister Cratchit.”

“And a very Merry Christmas to you, good sir,” said the Klingon, baring his fang-like
teeth in a grotesque smile, sickeningly full of Christmas spirit.

Q slowly looked down at himself. As he suspected, he was dressed in Victorian garb
as well—the same ensemble as he had picked out for Jean-Luc. Everything in the counting-house
was exactly as he had planned, down to the smallest detail. The only problem was that
he seemed to be stuck in the starring role. Not that he minded being the center of
attention, but not like this. The disquieted feeling grew. He had to get out of here.
Find someplace to himself to think.