Shane Zeranski
Pine Mountain
1864
Riker giggled.
Which was funny.
Because of all the times in his life in which giggling might have seemed to be an appropriate response to a set of circumstances, all the moments when a slight titter or unassuming snicker might be expected, now was perhaps the most unlikely of those situations. Inappropriate, Riker reproved himself, very inappropriate.
Sooooo … what is appropriate? What do I do? Do I scream and holler? Oh … wait. I’ve been doing that, haven’t I? Do I wallow about on the ground like a wounded animal? Or just get up and dance around, ending it? Surely that would end it. A shot in the head, probably. Yes, dancing would do it. Eyes closed, maybe a bayonet thrust mirthlessly into the bowels, through the spine … or would I simply live through that?
Riker scowled down at his leg.
Amputation was not something that scared him much. Not the actual process, no. He could take pain, he could handle, albeit not gracefully, the sight of his own blood, he could deal with the horrific procedure. It was the threat of living (no, not living. Not really living) with a precious component of his body, his being, dead and gone. A part of him, a part of him, having died and rotted long ago. Having to look down at a grotesque, malformed stump every night as he bathed and admit that he was a cripple, that truth eating a hole in him, little by little, like a cancer slowly working away at the flesh. No, better off to die here. He would not, could not live with that. Not a Riker.
Dancing.
Riker giggled again. Now that was funny.
So Thaddius Riker did the only thing he could. He lay there. Trampled down by his own ignorance, in exactly the same position his body has assumed upon hitting the ground.
He had been on the front line, of course. Except now it could no longer be accurately called the front line. There was really nothing left of it. No front. No line.
He had been focusing too intently upon his enemy above that he had not seen his enemy below. Yes, focusing too intently—so intently, so drunk in the lustful stench of battle, so inebriated in the wine of overwhelming adrenaline, his sanity momentarily stolen from thoughts of careful footsteps or heeding the whisper of sobriety, to the horror being thrust in his direction—that he was simply oblivious to what should have been blatantly obvious.
Obviously oblivious to the obliviously obvious, was what Riker’s mind was tittering to itself now. He tried to say it because it sounded funny, but his tongue got twisted so he just kept thinking it instead. And he giggled again. He must be losing a significant amount of blood because everything was just so funny. Bloody funny … haha.
So Thaddius Riker, “Old Iron Boots” Riker had charged ahead, ferociously, crazily, drowning in the fury that was marching to the madding beat of blood pounding in his head and pulsing in his veins, utterly intent upon devouring his enemy with his bare hands if it came to that. So he had missed the Confederate below him. The one, of many, upon whom he was trampling over, barreling over. The one that, in a swift, blinding motion had sunk a small blade into his leg, instantly gouting blood and pain. The one that tore downward with the serrated blade, exposing muscle and flesh amidst the torrential outpouring of arterial fluid.
He went down instantly, his leg willingly betraying him, collapsing just beneath the knee, and as he fell, he knew, feeling the blade being swiftly extracted from his flesh, that another muscle-splitting bite would soon follow. So he did the only thing he could think to do. In midcollapse, his mind keenly aware that he was plummeting helplessly toward a waiting Confederate soldier, he plunged his bayonet downward, slightly below the source of pain.
He felt it make entry. Felt the puncture, the satisfying and yet horrifying sensation of impaling his enemy. He felt all this in the split second it took for the ground to rush up and meet him.
Riker landed forcefully upon his side, the wind violently escaping from his lungs, a sensation he did not fully perceive because he was already grasping wildly for anything near him, both to locate his attacker and to rise from vulnerability. In his blind panic to right himself, he repressed the awful urge to gasp for air, and quickly struggled to his left elbow to a position where he could attempt to fend off the next blow from his attacker.
Except his attacker was quite dead.
Riker’s aim was good, (not that he had actually been aiming for any specific area). His bayonet was thrust through the Confederate man’s throat, resulting in instant death, his head lolled against Riker’s leg. His bayonet still quivered slightly where it jutted pointedly up toward the sky, an echo of Riker’s resolute strike. Death had come with speed, without mercy.
Riker stared breathlessly for a moment upon the dead man at his feet whose face was still frozen in murderous rage, his mind racing wildly to process the events of the last few seconds. He blinked, the first physical movement of which he was actually aware and shortly after reality began to sink in. He realized he was holding his breath, and then he realized that holding his breath was causing him great pain. And then before he could understand any more an immense wave of crippling pain flooded over him, immersing itself throughout his entire left leg and burning lungs, simply overcoming any forbearance he might possess. He was vaguely aware of making the decision to collapse to the ground, except it was somewhat of a forced one, for the sweeping tides of agony were that of an ocean, batting him down, the swells sucking him under. And so he slammed back onto his side and in fiery spasms began to cough and wheeze, writhing upon the bloody grass, his face contorting at all levels of musculature, his conscious trying to separate the flames engulfing his lungs from the minuscule barbs probing his leg.
And when he was done he lay there. It had taken an eternity, but everything—the world, his mind—had gone mercifully numb.
And still he lay. He really had no idea of the amount of time that had passed, but he was fairly sure he had lost consciousness for a significant amount of time. For one thing, there was a lot more blood beneath his leg than he remembered just a short while ago. Or what he assumed was a short while ago. The grass under his wounded limb was now dark in a messy two-foot radius, tainted with his life liquid. So he was sure he had passed out. Shock trauma, probably. Was he still losing blood? He couldn’t be quite sure of that now, either, because faintness was not just a thing that came and went like the ebbing of the tide, but something that was inexorably constant.
Riker grunted and tried to shift his legs, to no avail. One sort of flopped around irregularly, like a fish flailing about out of water, while the other didn’t move at all. He tried to situate himself so that he would be able to grasp his wounded limb in his hands and actually move it to a more comfortable position, but only succeeded in falling back to the ground, frustrating himself, his arms able to reach the dead man anchoring his leg to the grassy field. The fact that he was weak was understandable and, aside from obvious drawbacks, didn’t bother him all that much. Blood loss was extensive. But the fact that he couldn’t manage to move particularly important parts of his body to even reach his legs was deeply disturbing.
Something else was wrong. Something serious.
So he thought, long and hard. All things considered, there were clearly no other options. To pass out again would be to give up completely. A state from which he would never awaken. And thinking resulted in somewhat of a respite from his constant misery. So … he thought, and then in doing so, Riker came to the conclusion that he wasn’t actually thinking at all, but rather that his life was flashing before his eyes, living each moment of his past in the blink of an eye, except … that wasn’t right either, was it? His life wasn’t flashing before his eyes. More of a slow rolling, really, like a snapshot was being pulled gradually across his field of vision.
Old Iron Boots.
That’s what they called him. That was his nickname. Got it during Sherman’s march on Atlanta. He was the commander of the 102nd New York. No, the brave commander of the 102nd, the tireless, the relentless commander, leading his troops valiantly and unyieldingly through the trenches of war. He remembered reading that somewhere.
Old Iron Boots.
The first time he heard that it was uttered from the lips of one of his own men, “Pinkie” wasn’t it (things were so hazy now)? “Pinkie” because he had plugged the hole in a man’s heart with his littlest finger, kept it there for an hour and a half before help came.
So Pinkie had looked hesitantly down at Riker as Riker sat battling to pull a boot up over a bandaged left foot, smiled his almost toothless grin and asked with obvious indecision, but with apparent admiration, “Those your old … iron boots … sir?” And when Colonel Thaddius Riker glanced up, undoubtedly with a questioning and doubtful look, Pinkie was already hurrying off as if embarrassed to have just asked an icon about his underwear. But it had been going around. Colonel Thaddius Iron Boots Riker. Tuffer’n Nails Riker.
Old Iron Boots.
Should’ve worn ’em today, huh Riker ’ol boy? he chided, unaware he actually mumbled the words.
Riker had grown from there, from that exact moment of watching Pinkie scurry off to disappear among the others of his regiment, grown to realize the extent that these men meant something to him, not just as fighters and warriors, but as men with souls and consciences, men who could cry as their comrades convulsed in the throes of death, men who could bleed at the hands of the Confederate enemy. Riker had realized for the first time as he looked down at his boot, his “old iron boot,” the affinity he possessed for this rugged and sorry-looking group of men.
And so separation became something that was not an option. Whether it would come through death or illness or transfer of command, separation was simply not an option.
Consequently, Thaddius Riker had refused various promotions, denied himself the opportunity to advance through the ranks of the Union Army, his own private army having advanced through the ranks of his heart, he supposed. The option of a higher, more glorious command, at least in title, was probably always an option, and yet … not an option. He was satisfied with second best. Second best was satisfied with him.
Second best.
Suddenly second best didn’t sound so grandiose. Not that it ever was. But it now crept into Riker’s mind that perhaps he never really was content with second rate. He certainly felt second rate. At least at this particular moment. And it wasn’t a great feeling.
The sun was beating down, harshly. It was getting hot. The stink of death around him was beginning to infiltrate his system, nauseating him. It felt as if his own leg were beginning to rot. Somehow, oddly, he felt a sense of renewed strength surge through him. Only briefly. Perhaps it was the thought of dying here, on the battlefield, resigning to death in the midst of those already dead around him. Perhaps it was the horrific and claustrophobic sensation that pulsed through him as he became sickeningly aware of the carcass that was draped upon his leg, razor still clutched in his decaying hand, his leering, evil face grinning up at him as if to say, “You next, Riker. You next, second best.” Or at least Riker assumed his face was leering and evil. He had never really seen it.
A fly buzzed around his face and landed on his cheek.
Or maybe it was the awful recognition that sparked that brief burst of life, the recognition that he could die here and still be second
(old iron boots)
best.
And that would be all.
He would cease to exist, but his legend would live on. Second-best Riker. Colonel Lukewarm. Unremarkable Iron Boots Riker. Mediocre.
Fair to Middlin’.
It was gone now, though. That resolute burst of vitality. Lasted a whole three seconds.
Must be losing a lot more blood. But it was only a simple cut … wasn’t it?
He would die here … without Diana.
The sun passed beneath a cloud, allowing for a small amount of relief to pass through Thaddius Riker, as the body-strewn battleground he lay upon came under the influence of the large shadow. Riker looked at the cloud. Thought it looked like a squirrel. Or perhaps he was just hallucinating.
The photograph began to pass before his eyes again.
He and Diana used to do that. They would race out to the fields of her Iowa homestead, Riker’s hand firmly clasping Diana’s. And as they ran all he could think about was how soft the flesh of her hand was, how wonderfully delicate her grasp. And they would collapse in a heap among the brush and grass, giggling like schoolchildren. The summer sun would beat down on them, while they were still holding hands, never willing to refrain from touch … and they would stare up at the sky, finding each other in the clouds, which swirled slowly, stirring themselves into rabbits and hats and faces that smile. They would laugh. Riker would prop himself up on one elbow and look at her face, her beautiful face. The way her eyes would flicker dazzlingly, igniting his insides. The way her dark hair cascaded perfectly down around her shoulders, unspeakably soft to the touch as he ran his hands gently through. Her lips, tender, moist, beautifully sculpted … her lips. And Riker would slowly lower his head and close his eyes and—
There were flies on his leg. On his open flesh. He could feel them. Buzzing, alighting, buzzing, alighting. His eyes bulged and his throat constricted and he thought he was going to explode. He hadn’t had any feeling in that leg for an hour, but he could feel the flies. With concentrated effort, he brought his other leg up from off the ground and let it drop recklessly atop the other. He gurgled through his clenched teeth as the added pressure forced his wounded leg harder upon the weedy ground, shoots of vegetation rubbing against the inside of his leg. Pain rifled through the left side of his body. But the flies left … for the moment.
He closed his eyes. He thought the bleeding had stopped because he was sure he wasn’t growing any fainter. He didn’t want to look to see, either.
Old Iron Boots.
Diana …
Riker had left her in Iowa when he had departed to “do his duty as a Starfleet officer” and she had been utterly—
Starfleet officer?
Where had that come from?
Riker laughed. He was going insane. He was going to die. It was that simple; he was going insane.
He should’ve married her. He’d had the opportunity. He’d had more than that, he’d had the ring. What he didn’t have was the willingness to commit.
Yet.
Because there was always later. He would do his duty as an American and serve his country, his half of it, anyway. He would become a fighter, learn how to protect and serve his rights. Learn how to protect and serve Diana. There was always later. He would do it then. He still had the ring, right?
There was always
(old iron boots)
later.
Thaddius Riker was dying. There was really no doubt. He was killing himself now, beating himself to a bloody pulp. To a bloody, bloody
(Should’ve married DIANA!)
pulp.
(Should’ve been PROMOTED!)
He was murdering himself as he lay there on the bloody ground. Wounded, but not mortally so. Down, but not for the count. Defeated, but most definitely not dead. But he was killing himself, nonetheless.
And now he simply exploded. Whatever balloon he had been inflating in reminiscence simply … popped … within him.
He pounded on the ground, actually rising to one elbow, his hands becoming round hammers, balls of anger, wielding fistfuls of frustration and despair each time he hammered the earth, like a drummer beating madly on a bongo drum.
Then he opened his mouth, not really aware why or even that it was happening and screamed.
“I am not second best, Diana. I am not second rate and I will marry you! I WILL!”
Tears welled up in his eyes and small rivers of pain quickly poured down his cheeks.
“I will marry you,” he shouted madly, his eyes now gazing toward the blistering sun that seemed to be completely indifferent to his tantrum. “I will …” He roughly grasped a handful of grass and weeds, tainted with his own blood and threw them ominously toward the dead man lying literally at his feet, he too appearing not to be concerned with Riker’s condition. The wisps of grass and root simply fluttered back in the breeze and alighted airily upon him. Funny, he couldn’t feel the breeze.
Riker went back to pounding and sobbing.
So he never saw the man approach him.
The man seeming to come out of nowhere didn’t find what was going on before him a bit peculiar, or if he did, didn’t allow even a hint of his surprise to surface. He stood there a moment, watching this madman claw at the air and scream promises of marriage and promotion. His Union uniform was neat and trim as was his beard. Not a scratch, not a smear of dirt, or single rip or tear seemed to be discernible. For all intents and purposes, his clothing looked to be utterly untainted. His eyes were bright, his hair was remarkably clean. There was no indication that this man had been involved with a war in any manner. Even the air about seemed cleaner. His demeanor was as wrinkle-free as his suit.
Still eyeing the raving Riker, he shook his head slowly and stepped forward. He approached from behind, so even if Riker was lying still, it was doubtful that he would have heard him. That was also unusual. Every step that the man made seemed to be absolutely soundless. Not even the cracking of a twig. That was probably the result of the twigs not even having the opportunity to be broken because in every place where the man stepped and then lifted his foot, nothing was disturbed. He left absolutely no footprints. Not even a blade of grass was out of place, not scrunched to the ground as it should have been.
As the man drew closer to Riker he muttered something almost indiscernible and if Riker would have been listening he might have heard it.
“I don’t know how Q expects this not to contaminate the timeline.”
Riker finally quit screaming and hollering, his voice scratchy and tired, the surge of adrenaline wearing down. His lower half quite dead, he had twisted himself from the torso up, reached out with his hands, clawing bloody handfuls of grass and was attempting to drag his body along. His head hung low, a mop of hair dangling over his face in a forlorn manner. Small, haphazard sobs could be heard, but more easily seen as his diminutive shoulders would perceptibly shudder with each meager cry.
The stranger, with almost a recriminating look on his face, closed the rest of the distance between himself and Riker, gently knelt down and placed a now filthy hand upon Riker’s shoulder. The soldier was expecting some sort of unpredictable, wild response and was completely prepared for a panicked retaliation, so he was somewhat surprised when nothing immediately happened. The muscles beneath his hand in Riker’s shoulder tensed slightly. Then Riker slowly turned his head, his eyes the last to materialize from under the hair curtaining his face. He wore no hint of surprise or of being taken unawares, no sign of fear or uncertainty. His eyes were simply glazed over, far away. He fixed them upon the kneeling man beside him, seemed to study him for a few moments, and said, “Well, you look how I feel.”
This was because the Union soldier, who had moments ago looked as though he had been spat upon and polished, was now a remnant of hell itself. What little of his uniform was left was ripped and torn, even singed at the edges, as though a small blaze had attacked him. Every portion of skin that shown through was scratched and bleeding. There was no part of him that was clean. Dirt was caked on his arms, his face and his clothing. The hand that was upon Riker’s shoulder was blistered and burned, three fingernails were missing. The transformation this individual had undergone in a mere matter of seconds was astoundingly complete and completely astounding.
Of course, Riker had no clue of this.
“Colonel Riker, you’re hurt.”
“No kidding and how the hell do you know my name?” Riker’s response was almost a whisper but not without wit.
The man gently turned Riker onto his back. “Oh, come on. Everyone knows who Old Iron Boots—”
Riker’s hand shot up like a bullet, something one would have thought impossible even if he were a well man, and grasped the soldier by the nape of the neck. His eyes became instantly clear. “You will not … call me that.”
As soon as he said it, the strength left his arm, his limb fell to his side, and awareness again drained from his eyes.
The man resumed what he was doing and tore a long shred from Riker’s shirt. “If that’s how you want it. OK.” He turned to Thaddius Riker’s legs, effortlessly rolled the Confederate carcass from off of them and began to apply the tourniquet just above the wound. “Just listen and listen close. There’s been a terrible mistake and now it’s up to me to fix it. We’re going to take you back—”
“What’s your name … ?”
“My name is Quinn. People call me Q for short and I would appreciate it if you would not interrupt me. We have to conserve your strength and besides it’s immensely annoying. Now stay quiet and listen very carefully—”
“No, you listen very carefully.” Riker’s grainy voice rose in volume, gaining a small amount of strength. “I think you know as well as I do I’m not going to make it out of here alive—”
“Believe me, you will.”
“No, listen to me, there’s no way you can get me back to camp. I’ve lost an immense amount of blood from my leg and there’s something else wrong with me.” He paused. “I can’t move most of my body. There’s something … wrong. I won’t make it.”
Quinn finished tying the knot around Riker’s leg and studied him for a moment. “Yes, you have managed to mangle yourself quite effectively, but you really have nothing to worry about, believe me. I know you don’t understand now and you probably won’t understand much more later … see, we can’t allow that. But, you will live and you will—”
“No.” Riker surprised even himself with the ferocity of his response. Through sheer force of will, he rose to one elbow; his eyes were on fire and his lower lip quivered. The madness within that made him Colonel Iron Boots Riker flared to life one last time. “Will you quit patronizing me. Will you stop trying to fill a dead man’s last moments with delusions of hope and security, because it is utterly disgusting. I … am … going … to die. There are no two ways about it. There is nothing you can do, so will you please cease your pathetic lamentations? And that is not a request. I have not the stomach for pity.”
And Riker slid back to the ground, every ounce of power and life suddenly vanished, any source of might or vitality was instantly and simply gone, as if those last few words so fervently spoken had contained all that Thaddius Riker had within him.
Quinn moved forward on his haunches to where Riker’s head lay awkwardly in the grass, eyes wearily staring up at him. “If only you knew …” Quinn mumbled and shook his head.
Thaddius Riker moved his hand from his side, blindly felt his way along Quinn’s leg until it met the man’s hand, and grasped it loosely. “I … have had a lot of time to think, here,” he whispered faintly, “and things tend to … come into … perspective when your thoughts are numbered. I have many regrets and no time to change things. So you have to … change them for me … I have one last request. You have to promise.” Riker’s dying eyes bore through, Quinn, the omnipotent being.
“You have to promise …”
Riker paused and for a minute Quinn thought that perhaps he had just allowed the man to die. He wasn’t sure. Come to think of it, he had actually never seen a human die up close before. Of natural causes, at least. Then he saw that Riker was, for some reason, holding a small breath, still gazing intensely up at him, as if waiting for him to respond …
And despite himself, for some reason of which he wasn’t quite sure, Quinn found himself grasping Riker’s hand just a little bit tighter. And promising …
2370
Commander William T. Riker of the Starship Enterprise was being serenaded by the senior staff.
He winced.
As Captain Picard, Commander Data and the rest of the crew were butchering the last line of “Happy Birthday to You,” Riker smiled, ran his hand over his chin, feeling his grisly whiskers and prepared to—
“Blow them out.” Deanna Troi laughed, clapping with the rest of the staff.
Out of the corner of his eye, Riker noticed Guinan gliding from behind the bar with a tray full of drinks, smiling, although her calm and always wise demeanor remained just that.
Amid the applause that ended the song, Riker paused where he sat surrounded by his friends, plucked his glass from the table and put on a show of gulping down its entire contents of prune juice. A gift from Worf.
The clapping from around the lounge grew louder as he slammed the last of it down. He held up the glass, smiled victoriously, and with the other hand, ran his sleeve in an un-Starfleet-officer-like manner across his chin.
“Come on, Will, blow out your candles,” he heard Beverly Crusher shout.
“If he can,” Geordi pitched in.
Riker looked at his giant, saxophone-shaped birthday cake with its unending array of candles, took in a deep breath and prepared to extinguish them.
“Wait!” It was Troi’s voice. “Make a wish.”
“But of course, Counselor.” Riker mocked a bow, closed his eyes for a brief moment as everyone waited, and opened them again.
“I’ve got it.” He smiled.
He turned again to his cake, took an incredibly deep breath …
And vanished.
The silence that pervaded the crowd as they waited for the commander to blow out his candles seemed to somehow grow deeper.
“What the hell!” Picard bellowed.
The silence remained. Troi looked at Geordi. Geordi looked at Crusher. Crusher looked at Data.
Data turned and said to no one in particular, “Perhaps he got his wish.”
* * *
Riker dropped his glass and it plummeted from his grasp.
And plummeted …
He watched it vanish eerily into the eternal fathoms of space, growing smaller and smaller below him.
Then he snapped his head up, let out the enormous lungful of air with which he had fully intended to demolish his birthday cake, and instantly sucked it back in again, as the full realization of where he was came to him.
Riker hung there in the cold depths of space, like a puppet suspended from its unseen strings, utterly unable to grasp, in any manner, what exactly was happening to him.
And then came the flash of light. And with that flash of light, understanding, and he felt an ungodly dread slowly surface within him. He realized at once who it was; realized it, thought it, and said it.
“Q.”
The brilliant flare of light swallowed itself as quickly as it appeared and now therein stood a human figure, hands clasped behind his back. “Good. I’m glad to see that introductions are out of the way.”
Riker had expected to see Q in his familiar old form, Q who had appeared on the Enterprise on her first mission, Q who had given his powers free and full to the commander upon his second visit, the same old Q who continually refused to leave the ship and crew alone. The Q he was used to.
He had never seen the being before him.
“Who are you?”
“Why, I thought you knew,” offered the man.
He wore a bright, red Starfleet uniform and a blazingly bright tuft of puffy, blond hair. His face was gentle, his features fine and somewhat aged, but behind his green eyes pulsed the unmistakable, limitless power of the Q.
Riker narrowed his eyes. “Is that you, Q?” He then looked up and around him, as if expecting to see someone else. “Or have you sent someone else this time,” he said to nothing.
The man suddenly snapped his fingers. “Oh, yes. I forgot.” He confidently strode closer to Riker, somehow treading upon the emptiness of space. “No, I’m not the Q you’ve been acquainted with. Allow me then to introduce myself.” He bowed. “My name is Q.”
“No kidding.”
“Q the Philosopher.”
“The what?”
“Never mind, it’s not important.”
Riker folded his arms defensively. “Look, I couldn’t really care less whether you’re Q the Philosopher or Q the Barber. I don’t have any interest in playing whatever games Q or the rest of the Continuum put you up to so I should let you know now that you’re wasting your time. Or perhaps you’re just trying to scare me by hanging me here out in space. Sorry, Q has done worse. But whatever it is, I don’t care and I repeat, I don’t have time for it.”
Q held up a finger. “Look, Commander. If anyone’s time is being wasted, it’s mine. Now that may come as somewhat of a surprise to you, since I, as an omnipotent being, a god if you will—”
“You are not a god.”
“—have literally all the time in the universe,” he continued. “I, however, have considerably less than that. Perhaps only a few billion years are all that lurks in my future. Maybe even a million, depending on the Continuum’s leniency in matters of suicide.”
“Suicide?”
“Which means,” Q continued, unabashed, “that the longer you pout and drivel, the longer you will prolong our encounter, which means that for both of us, time, as you inadequately expressed it, is being lost. I am here under obligation, merely because my conscience has forced the issue. So I suggest you cooperate here and this will go much quicker.”
“You know, you talk an awful lot for someone who doesn’t have time to waste.”
“Are we understood?”
Riker was quiet for a minute as he studied Q. Then he tapped his combadge. “Riker to Enterprise.”
Q’s hand flew up to his own combadge, rolling his eyes. “Enterprise here,” he said impatiently, so that his voice was heard not only in the vacuum of space (as only a Q could do), but also as it was piped through to Riker’s combadge. “This is Picard and I am ordering you to stop being an ass.”
Riker strode, by whatever means with which Q was providing him, across the short distance of literal space between them, and shoved his nose in Q’s face. “Where’s my ship?”
“Marry Deanna Troi and I’ll tell you.”
Riker froze. His face drained.
Q smiled warmly, and just as suddenly, deadpanned, and he dropped all pretense. He took a deep breath. “Call me Doctor Q, Riker, and I’ve just diagnosed you; you’re an idiot. That is characteristic of your race, but you particularly have mastered it. Here’s why: It’s a message from a friend. I’ll give you the short version. ‘Your pathetic career has alienated the woman that loves you. You have broken Deanna’s heart, only she hides it by courting that ugly Klingon specimen. So do something about it. And speaking of your pathetic career, it’s high time you quit hiding behind Picard and get your own command. Signed, Thaddius Riker.’ There, that’s it and it’s time for me to go.”
Q had uttered it all in one breath and wasted no time on a farewell address. He began to bring his hand up in a gesture that was to instigate his “vanishing” and—
Riker hit him.
His fist fired up with blinding speed and smashed Q in the face, human knuckle crushed against omnipotent bone. Q staggered back.
And then Riker plowed into him, his shoulder finding Q’s midsection and pile-driving into it, sending both he and Q, the immortal entity, flailing about awkwardly in what might be considered “up.”
Q, for his part, was taken utterly by surprise. Looking back he supposed he ultimately should have thanked Riker, because for a Q, moments of genuine surprise are few and far between. For a brief moment, Riker and Q appeared to be one. One incomprehensible and strangely disorganized unit of arms and legs floating comically through the void of space. This, of course, didn’t last long.
It had taken Q only an instant to lose his wits, only a millisecond to realize that his wits were actually missing, and then only slightly less than that to gather them again. In one giant blaze of light Q promptly separated himself from the raging Riker and the situation was utterly reversed. Riker was now as still as a statue, frozen upside-down (relative only to Q, of course) in space, not a muscle twitching, as if time was suddenly on hiatus. For all his petrified state of affairs, his expression was alive and well. His eyeballs simply bulged with forcibly contained rage, his face was transfixed in fury. Yet he was unable to utter a single sound.
Q was scowling down at his uniform, straightening it with both hands. “That was simply barbaric. What is wrong with you?” He continued tugging at his top and, upon hearing no immediate answer, glanced up at the immotive Riker. “Oh, yes.” He snapped his fingers.
“—stay the hell out of Deanna’s and my business and—”
Q snapped his fingers again. He slowly shook his head and looked up to where he kept Riker suspended and motionless and, once again, voiceless. Not simply muted, but wholly unable to move his mouth, his jaw, even his tongue. Q again appeared startled for a moment, and then, ponderous. He finally brought his hand to his forehead, wrinkled his brow as if in concentration, and remained positively silent. He continued that way for what seemed to Riker’s still-vivacious mind, a millennium.
Q then abruptly lowered his hands, sighed, and stepped up to the commander. He stopped just short of allowing their noses to touch. Q found himself staring up Riker’s midflare nostrils, for he had not bothered to turn the first officer right side up, so he took a single step back. He let the proximity of his presence sink in before he spoke, and when he did, it was in slow and measured tones.
“To say my experience with humans has been exhaustive would be an elaborate overstatement but it would certainly be understated to say that it has been limited. Read into that what you may, but the fact is simply this: I have severely miscalculated your overly … emotional response. I have obviously … hit a nerve, if you will. Something I have said has sent you reeling into a maddening state of delirium. Thus, my objective remains unsatisfied. So … I am going to do this once more.” Q paused a moment, looking Riker over. “Now, you have made it clear that I cannot yet free you completely, lest you again accost me, either verbally or physically, so I regret to say that I will be forced to keep you in limbo for a bit longer … however …” Q briefly appeared thoughtful, “Make yourself at home.” Instead of snapping this time, he gestured flippantly with his left hand and immediately afterward Riker vanished in a flash of light, at the same instant reappearing perhaps three feet from his original position. Except now he was lounging in a large, ridiculous, purple-colored couch, his feet stretched out before him, although he remained immobile.
Q began to speak again and the pacing began. “Let me see if I can put this together more appropriately for you. Since you cannot speak, you obviously cannot ask any questions, but I believe I possess the foresight to address any that your limited mind might conceive.
“You see, I have just come from the past, approximately five hundred years, to deliver you a message. Do not, however, let this bolster your ego, Riker. We Q travel through time as easily as we do from place to place. Consequently, we tend to exist everywhere at once. In fact,” Q gestured wildly in the general direction of nowhere, “I am out there at this very moment, somewhere else, doing something…” Q’s eyes widened unexpectedly, his voice lowering several degrees. “Or perhaps I am already dead. Wouldn’t that be a glorious thought.”
Q moved on. “The point is, do not think yourself particularly noteworthy because I have traveled a trite few centuries to find you. The simple fact is, I do not wish to be here any more than you wish it.” Q turned on his heels and began to pace behind the couch.
“I have come from a point in your history which your culture refers to as the Civil War. Why and how is not important. Suffice it to say I was fixing something that someone else screwed up. I was saving your ancestor’s life, Riker. You really ought to thank me, by the way. But as it was, I was doing this simply because he was not supposed to die. He was the butt of a cosmic joke, of sorts. The work of someone within the Continuum, undoubtedly. Of course, the prankster himself did not realize the immensity of the mistake he was making, and your ancestor, Colonel Thaddius Riker wound up being at the wrong place in the universe at the wrong moment in history. To make a long story short, I was dispatched by the Q to straighten things out. Understand, Riker, if I hadn’t, you wouldn’t even be here to witness the catastrophic events that would have resulted from his premature death. The cosmos would have been in utter chaos. You’d be surprised how the fate of the universe can sometimes hinge upon a single being at a single moment, Commander. You wouldn’t understand the logistics of it, of course, so I won’t bother. But the reason I am here is this:
“I wound up saving his life, as I said. He was as good as dead when I found him, but with me there, he was in no real danger at all. I could have restored him to full health if I so chose but that would have been far too suspicious. So I simply prevented death from running its course.”
Q was now fully behind the couch upon which Riker lay and leaned up against it, his back to Riker, gazing out at the stars, some of which were astoundingly near. “Thaddius obviously had no way of knowing that he was incapable of dying. As far as he was concerned, everything was over. So, in what I suppose was a moment of weakness, I found myself making a promise. You see, Riker,” Q turned around now, leaning his hands upon the back of the couch, “Thaddius was in much the same boat as you. He loved someone once, but was always afraid of what might not be. And like you, he was a commander, an authority … but always playing second fiddle, isn’t that how you say it? Always in the supporting role. Like you and Picard, forever standing in the shadows of his superiors, content with inferiority. A miserable manner in which to live, really. Only Thaddius didn’t fully realize this until it all began to slowly dissolve before him, vanish before his dying eyes. But … by that time it was simply too late. So, in a climactic effort to assuage his fears, or to at least bring a small measure of closure to his failed existence, he made me promise.
“He made me promise to warn his children, to never allow them to make the same mistakes he had. It was all just the ramblings of a dying man, really. He should have realized there was no way for me to fulfill such a promise. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was all for comfort’s sake. But what he didn’t realize was that I was Q and that I had every means at my disposal to keep such a vow.
“And so I am. I may be a lot of rotten things, but I am not a liar. Never a liar.” Q paused for dramatic effect. “… That is a human characteristic.”
He looked down to Riker, regarded him in an almost distasteful fashion. Riker, for his part, was considerably calmer now, but his eyes never left Q’s, his gaze virtually burrowing a hole in the omnipotent’s head.
“You’re the first, Riker. Five hundred years and you Rikers have managed to keep your heads on fairly straight. Only now you come along and wrinkle the sheets your great-grandparents have managed to keep neat for all this time. Congratulations, Commander”—Q reached down, grasped Riker’s hand and began furiously shaking it—“for successfully doddling things up.”
Q continued pumping the commander’s arm. “Perhaps I ought to thank you. For allowing me to fulfill my foolish vow. Oh, how it would have been weighing on my conscience through the eons, long after the human race had vanished from the specter of the universe … me, with the unbearable weight of eternal obligation. How very terrible.”
Q promptly dropped Riker’s arm, moved deliberately around the couch to the front, and knelt purposefully down. He brought his mouth to Riker’s ear, his voice almost a whisper. “You’re second in command on a ship that can’t love you. You’re first in the heart of a woman who can. Remember that.”
Then Q promptly stood and announced loudly, “Good-bye, Commander. My work here is done. Thaddius,” he looked up, “consider your message … delivered.” Then he smiled widely, made a sharp, upward gesture with his hand …
… and vanished in a blaze of light.
Riker lay there just as he had been all during Q’s soliloquy, simply unable to do anything else. To anyone who might have been passing by and bothered to glance out into space, the sight of a Starfleet officer simply lounging obviously on a purple sofa would undoubtedly have been more or less disturbing. None of this really occurred to Riker. The absence of Q was suddenly quite startling and the enormity and unmitigated silence of the universe seemed to loom around him.
The silence was then quite suddenly broken by the unmistakable voice of Q. Only now it was deep and booming, as though it were the voice of God, Himself.
“Oh, sorry.”
And Riker, sofa and all, simply vanished.
* * *
Q never bothered to check up on Riker. Truth be told, he just didn’t really care. He never expected to see the human again, so a few years later when they crossed paths ever so briefly on the starship called Voyager, Q was mildly surprised. He didn’t show it, of course, and didn’t allow Riker to even faintly recollect his existence, for that would have surely fouled matters up. There was really no point, Q mused, no point at all in meddling in the affairs of humanity any more than was necessary. Consequently, and quite by intention, Q remained impervious as to what the future held for Commander William T. Riker.
Although he did know that when Riker left his birthday party that night, Deanna Troi was wrapped firmly around his arm …