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I took one final look at the carnage and, as sirens sounded in the
distance and the looters began making their rounds, I vanished.
So you see, I come by my antipathy of crowds rather honestly.
This is all by way of explaining how "put off" I was when, arriving at
the Q Continuum, I was met with a mob of "well-oiled" Qs. I couldn't
help but wonder where this group of devout teetotalers had been hiding
the stuff all these years.
Picard, Data, and I had materialized in a burst of golden haze. (I
like "golden," it has a celestial feel about it--very dramatic.) What I
beheld when I landed was barely controlled chaos.
Everywhere, my fellow members of the Q were in a state of physical
refraction, indicating their high level of excitement. The sub ether
was in massive quantum flux as it responded to both the conscious and
subconscious over stimulation of the eternal beings collectively
referred to as the Continuum. This must sound like a lot of techno
babble to you. In layman's terms: The shit had hit the fan. It was
difficult for me to know where to look first. Below me, eternity
stretched out; above me, infinity yawned. To the right of me was
endlessness; to the left of me was pointlessness; and it was all
shimmering and throbbing with an intensity all its own. Usually the
Continuum was regulated by the combined
will of the Q, but in this case, there seemed to be nothing coherent
holding it together.." and yet, I was seeing more enthusiasm more
spontaneity than I had in eons. I tried to catch the attention of one
of the passing Q, but was unable to do so--so great was his excitement.
"Hey, you!" I shouted, but still got no reaction.
That was when I heard a rather loud thud. I turned and saw that Data
had passed out.
"Passed out" is actually a depressingly human term, and I should know
better than to use it. "Shut down" is more like it. "Crashed" might
be an even better word. Picard knelt next to him, calling out his
name. It struck me as a little ridiculous, kind of like addressing a
broken platter after it's hit the floor. Data's golden eyes remained
open and unblinking, as if he were going to snap back into active mode
at any moment
"What's happened to him?" said Picard.
"I should have known," I said.
Picard looked up at me, still not comprehending. "What? What should
you have known?"
"Data has no human perceptions. His positronic brain tried to process
the Q Continuum as it truly is, rather than filtering it through some
reference he could grasp." I stood over Data, arms folded, making no
attempt to hide my annoyance with the situation. "It was too much for
him."
"What?" Picard stared around himself.
It was at that point I remembered what should have been painfully
obvious, and indeed would have been if I hadn't been so distracted by
the dire situation facing my family. The simple fact was that Picard
also wasn't seeing the Q Continuum in the way that it actually existed.
This was, of course, fortunate, for if he had, he would have suffered
the same fate as Data. Data, aside from his occasional dabbling with
dreams, was still a stranger to the concept of imagination. He was
far too literal-minded. Picard's mind, however, was fully capable of
automatically guarding his sanity by the simple expedient of preventing
him from truly seeing what surrounded him. It was a bit impressive;
other humans would have needed my help in shifting perceptions. It was
an indicator of the strength of Picard's brain.
It was no more than a simple mental adjustment, really, for me to see
the Continuum in the same way Picard was seeing it. By giving us a
common frame of reference, I hoped to simplify further communication
between us. And since bringing him up to my level was clearly
impossible, the only other choice was to bring myself down to his. I
stooped to conquer.
In an instant, Picard had on a trench coat, black slacks, and polished
shoes. He sported an old-style fedora on his head, tilted rakishly.
Some people's delusions about themselves are boundless, and at this
moment I was happy to support that delusion. As for Data, although he
was still in "crash mode," he was attired in a pin-stripe suit with a
pale blue tie knotted nattily around his throat. Picard crouched at
his side, waving his fedora in Data's face as if hoping the breeze
would somehow revive him. A twelve-volt battery and a good set of
jumper cables would have been more effective.
Not wanting these two gallants to think that they were the only
"trick-or-treaters" dressed up for the occasion, I too wore a trench
coat, with what appeared to be some sort of gold badge attached to the
outer lapel. I was standing in what was clearly a street, and the rude
honking of an automobile horn prompted me to step onto the curb and out
of the way. Another Q hurtled past in a car, waving to me and whooping
his joy. What he was joyful over, I couldn't say.
The car was a roadster, circa Earth's early twentieth century.
We were in Times Square again, but it was a different era. The women
wore thick fur coats over long, elegant shimmering gowns cut high on
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