Work Text:
Ugh, humans.
Well, an actual human and an Illyrain who had pretended to be human for so long that she had adopted one of the species’ more ridiculous traits of refusing well-meaning assistance.
Q watched the interactions yet again, his arms crossing in frustration, sleeves wrinkling on his twenty-fourth century captain’s uniform.
“No,” Una Chin-Riley told Captain Christopher Pike. “Don’t help me. Talking to Neera is a lost cause. I’ll be fine here.”
“No,” Tom Paris told Captain Kathryn Janeway. “Find someone else to help you search for the Maquis in the Badlands. I’m busy here.”
Ah, yes, fine and busy in prison. A place that would be any sane person’s more disdained option. There they stood, though, in their hideously drab jumpsuits, Ms. Chin-Riley and Mr. Paris, each lying to a Starfleet captain as if the crumpling wasn’t happening inside, the disappointed yearning to get back onto a starship, into space, the place where they could make a difference.
“Ugh,” Q said out loud this time, his arms uncrossing, irritation rising. He was wasting his time. So what if Ms. Chin-Riley didn’t gain the asylum that would allow her to rejoin Starfleet, her heroism and image on an ensuing recruitment poster inspiring a surge in academy applications that would lead Starfleet to a near-renaissance of quality officers that would save the Federation time and time again? And so what if Mr. Paris didn’t join the ill-fated Voyager mission and, with him at the helm, keep Species 8472 from taking over the Delta Quadrant and eventually the galaxy, not to mention his innovations that would keep the crew sane and alive on the little ship that would carry home technology and personnel essential to Starfleet’s continued existence?
Q needed someone to talk with, someone wise and courageous and handsome who could give him helpful advice to try to reach these two genius-level dumb-dumbs.
A snap of his fingers, a flash of light, and an identical Q stood next to Q and similarly surveyed the two prisoners in their separate moments of refusal that would lead to the egregious unravelings of Starfleet and the United Federation of Planets.
“They don’t deserve your care for them,” the identical Q informed Q, four pips shining at his collar, shoulders wide, chest proud, a handsome devil, indeed.
“Oh, I know it,” Q replied, the chance to talk with someone sensible lifting his spirits. “But I’ve tried reasoning with each of them in every way I can imagine: corporeally, in a dream state, implanted memories. Nothing works. They don’t believe me. Mr. Paris is all false bravado and inner turmoil. And the lovely Ms. Chin-Riley? Well, you know Illyrians. All that mucking around with genetics and they’ve never once even tried to crack the code for ‘easygoing.’”
The identical Q hummed in agreement and thoughtfulness, his eyebrows furrowing, the knuckle of his thumb resting on his teeth.
Then, his chuckle lifted in utter confidence.
“You’re brilliant, you know that?” The identical Q’s question was rhetorical, of course. And he was right. But why? “They won’t listen to you, but you created me to have someone reasonable to talk with. They’re irrational, but if they could talk with each other immediately following their blunders …”
“Yes!” Oh, Q was a genius. “Disgraced officer to disgraced officer, our two onetime pilots evading sensible assistance can relate to each other as they both enable a necessary course correction to their lives. A little empathy. A little guidance. A little, as the French say, je ne sais quoi. Or, in this case, je ne sais Q.”
Another snap of Q’s fingers and the identical Q disappeared in a flash of light. In his place, with Q invisible to watch the upcoming proceedings, was a white room with a large window that displayed the vineyard at Château Picard—a spot chosen by happenstance, not Q futilely wishing that Jean-Luc could be in on the fun. Centered horizontally along the window was a small, white-tableclothed table with two hard-backed chairs facing each other to offer a view of the vines below. And, standing behind each chair, drab jumpsuit and all, was a very confused prisoner.
***
“Hi.” Tom’s eyes widened from his squint. He had just been in the sunshine with Captain Janeway, her mention of his father ensuring that Tom wanted nothing more to do with whatever offer the captain had for him. But this new woman standing behind the other chair, Tom had already seen her … somewhere. A textbook? A lecture at the academy? A museum exhibit? It was as if a force beyond his control was blocking aspects of Tom’s memory. “I’m Tom. Do you know where we are … or how we got here?”
Una’s hand twitched as if she could open a tricorder to scan their environment. But, of course, she couldn’t. She had just been talking with Chris through a screen, his ready room on the Enterprise seeming to hum with life and the rhythms of work, while her prison cell was soulless, stagnant, stifling. Declining Chris’ offer meant Una might never touch a Starfleet tricorder ever again, the likely loss of her commission her penance to pay that shouldn’t involve Chris. Though Una could at least visually examine this new room that prickled her skin with artificiality. White walls. A vineyard through a window. Chairs. A blond man who seemed real and just as confused as she was, and between them an empty table just large enough for two people to sit comfortably. Why was the table empty?
Ah, now that was a Q cue if Q had ever heard one.
“Good day,” Q made himself visible with a flash of light, his attire that of a tuxedoed waiter, a circular tray held aloft in his hand. “You’re both here for Comfort Food Temporal Snacktime.”
Two sets of blue eyes blinked at Q, two sets of limited minds not comprehending the tremendous opportunity he had given them. Q’s sigh was heavy, as his kindness to humanity was once again not appreciated. He would have to explain.
“Temporal snacktime means I’ve pulled each of you from different times—different centuries, to be precise. But you’re not here to learn about changes to phasers or transporters or how your loved ones may have fared in days gone by or yet to come. No, no, no. You’re here for something much more important. You’re here to talk with each other and to let your similar stupidities and stubbornnesses guide you both to better choices before you each rot away in the prisons you’ve made as surely with your own minds as with the Federation’s physical limitations upon your movements. In an effort to expedite your inspirational assistance, I’ll allow that among your not-preposterous commonalities is a tendency toward comfort food. Therefore, I’ve supplied some for each of you,” Q said, his flourish perfect for his placement of a bowl of plump, red strawberries in front of Ms. Chin-Riley. And Q’s brandishment of the bowl of hot, plain tomato soup for Mr. Paris was similarly impressive, plus a metal spoon to allow the once-favored son of Starfleet to partake of his comfort food in a well-mannered fashion. “Eat, enjoy some life-changing chit-chat, and I’ll come fetch you both when it’s time to return you to a few moments before I whisked you away for this marvelous opportunity.”
Creases along Mr. Paris’ forehead proved his effort to remember who Q was from Starfleet records of Q’s visits to the Enterprise-D. But Ms, Chin-Riley didn’t need to know about the Enterprise-D or quite a bit else about a future that would be a hassle for Q to later remove from her memory. So Q would continue to monitor their minds and prohibit or temporarily remove access to what they didn’t need to know. In the meantime, with a snap of his fingers and a flash of light, the humanoids could easily believe they were the only two people in the room.
Curls of steam rose temptingly from the tomato soup.
“Look, I know this situation is weird, but do you mind if I eat this?” Tom motioned toward his soup, his stomach nearly groaning with excitement for something different from the usual options at the prison commissary.
Who did he remind Una of? Something about his eyes was similar to … someone … Commodore Paris? No. Una must be mistaken. Her recollection of whatever she had been thinking about had become muddled, as if the memory had been blocked.
“Go ahead,” Una said, her shoulders rising and falling in a shrug. “Weird is another day at the office.”
Damn. Her choice of words had reflected who she had been, not who she was. No, Una wouldn’t let herself dwell on Starfleet, on the bizarre joys of duty and life aboard ship, her yearning to be known in direct conflict with the service that gave her life purpose until the conflict was too much and she had made a dire mistake.
A scrape of Tom’s chair and he sat, spoon dipping into his soup, a stormcloud seeming to settle across his face. “Weird is normal to you, and you don’t seem even a little bit surprised by time travel or a waiter with unusual powers who went out of his way to insult us. So you’re not just a Federation prisoner, you’re a Starfleet prisoner?”
So much for not dwelling on Starfleet.
The waiter’s instructions had been to talk, though, so Una may as well talk.
“Yes. For now. They’re trying to kick me out,” she said, disgust for the plea deal and the likelihood of losing her court martial almost enough to sour her stomach. But the perfectly red strawberries looked better than prison food, and were likely safe to eat despite the artificial environment. If the waiter had intended harm, there were more sensible ways than food poisoning. Una remained standing, though, and didn’t reach for a strawberry just yet. “What about you?”
“Oh, I’m a few steps ahead of you. I’ve already been kicked out,” Tom said, his fake smile of nonchalance not fooling her any more than it did himself. But his first spoonful of tomato soup was warm and hearty, too good to be replicated, a just-right blend of tangy and sweet to loosen up his tongue to talk more. “There was an accident. Pilot error. I was the pilot.”
Another scrape of a chair and Una sat, her lean toward Tom evidence that, as usual, concern for someone else was easier than concern for herself. “No matter what century you’re from, I have trouble believing Starfleet would revoke a pilot’s commission for a reasonable mistake.”
Steam from the tomato soup didn’t help the heat spreading across Tom’s face, the warmth of another spoonful only somewhat relaxing his belly. “Yeah, well, that’s not what got me kicked out. I lied about the accident. Then I came forward and told the truth. Starfleet doesn’t like having been fooled, even with a heartfelt confession, so I had to go. Got into a few scrapes after that and ended up in Federation prison. What’s your story?”
Oh.
Well, the waiter had said there were similarities to what she and Tom were going through.
And, of course, Una would also have to explain herself. Conversation meant both participants exchanging honest information. She just needed a little courage first.
A strawberry. The top one from the pile in the bowl, the skin of the fruit soft and bumpy. A bite was a burst of sweetness that loosened her tongue enough to tell Tom the most essential parts of what he should know.
“Pretty much the same as yours. I lied to Starfleet after I did something wrong that they probably wouldn’t have figured out except I told the truth and turned myself in,” Una said, the strawberry too good to be synthesized, another bite helping fortify the bravery necessary to share the part of her story that might lead Tom to hate her. “I was genetically modified before I was born.”
When he was an ensign, Tom had visited the Darwin Genetic Research Station on Gagarin Four, a Federation lab that modified human genetics to achieve things like telekinesis, telepathy, and outwardly effective immune systems. That was at a high level, though. Any properly equipped Federation medical facility could offer basic fetal procedures such as suppressing genes for disorders like Sensory Tremens or modifying genes for disabilities like deviated spines in Klingons. Opinion could be divided after birth, but pre-birth genetic modification had become commonplace enough that for this officer to feel the need to confess a fetal procedure to Starfleet, she must be from the past.
Long, dark hair.
Pale skin.
Thoughtful chewing of her strawberry, as if she was mulling the very nature of the universe when she was probably just enjoying food that was an improvement from whatever she had been fed in prison … Starfleet prison … Starfleet prison for genetic modification …
It was as if a neuron in Tom’s brain was a stuck door, budging more and more as he slammed into it. Genetic modification. Starfleet history. The person sitting in front of him had something to do with genetic modification and Starfleet history.
His mind cleared, the tomato soup in front of him warm and tempting.
“Why did you turn yourself in?” Tom asked, another spoonful of soup a reminder of eating in his room at home, alone, he was meant to be alone so he had better enjoy having someone to talk with right now.
“Why did you?” Una’s back straightened against her chair. She hadn’t meant to be prickly, and relief that Tom didn’t seem prejudiced was certainly welcome. But the need to converse with an out-of-time person Una barely knew was still an odd situation even if it wouldn’t raise a blip on the Starfleet scale of weirdness.
Tom’s spoon faltered, a slow dip into his bowl of soup. His empty hands rose and raked his hair, the stress of having to state an answer that would make his father both proud and ashamed an extra embarrassment to have to say out loud.
“It was the right thing to do. Ugh.” Tom’s chair scraped away from the table, and Tom was pacing, the need to be in motion overwhelming anything else. “It sounds so corny, right? Good ol’ Starfleet values of truth and integrity, accountability, dignity, compassion. All that stuff. I believed in it. I even talked about it at the hearing when I confessed to lying. As if I was gunning for the Christopher Pike Medal of Valor or something when I just wanted to set the record straight.”
The … the Christopher Pike Medal of Valor? Starfleet named a medal after Chris? A gasp of delight and approval escaped from Una’s throat, and Tom spun at the sound, his squint toward her as if he was fighting to recall something just beyond his comprehension.
Time seemed to stutter and slacken, even the steam rising from the tomato soup slowing in further proof of the environment’s artificial nature.
Tom’s head shook with defeat. He couldn’t reach whatever he was trying to grasp within his mind.
The steam rose normally.
“Anyway, Starfleet wasn’t a choice for me,” Tom resumed his pacing, “but I guess I bought into it all the same. Stupid to think the ideals would match the board of inquiry’s decision.”
Starfleet not a choice. That was unusual. Could there be a draft in the future? Some sort of mandatory service due to a war?
Tom kept pacing, his footfalls heavy with frustration.
Another bite of strawberry, another burst of sweetness to help Una tell more bitter truth. “Well, I fought like hell to get into Starfleet. It was all I ever wanted since the first time I saw the stars, and I bought into the ideals, too. Ad astra per aspera.”
At her recitation of the old Starfleet motto, the neuron in Tom’s brain practically trembled, the stuck door developing cracks that even a vastly superior intellect could only keep patched for so long before they would break.
Mr. Paris just had to have an interest in history, didn’t he?
The neuron settled. Quiet. The stuck door remained closed. For now.
“If you fought like hell to get in,” Tom’s chair scraped as he sat again, “why are you going to let them kick you out?”
“Because …” How could Una explain? The bowl of strawberries hadn’t changed size, but seemed to loom large. Under her fingernail, a seed from the side of a strawberry pulled away easily and Una placed the tiny seed on her fingertip and held it out for Tom to see. “This isn’t important. It’s just a seed. The crew is important. Work is important. If this seed goes to prison, the strawberry is still good. Nobody misses one seed, even if all the seed ever wanted to do was be part of the strawberry. The strawberry is Starfleet, by the way, if you’re following my meaning.”
“I’m following your meaning.” Tom wouldn’t roll his eyes at the underestimation of his intelligence. Lots of people did that, at least at first. But he did take the strawberry and turn it so she could see the side with the unnatural gap formed by the missing seed. “I think what you’re forgetting, though, is that the strawberry may not miss one seed, but the crew—all the other seeds on the side of the strawberry—just aren’t the same if they lose one of their own. Starfleet can be big and stupid and forget its own ideals. But I’m guessing you know as well as I do that a crew of a starship can be worth just about everything to each other, and that’s something I think you should fight like hell to keep.”
Memory echoes of faces hovered in front of the strawberry, the missing seed a blemish overlaying La’an.
Joseph.
Spock and Christine and Erica.
Chris.
An ache formed in Una’s throat. She should have agreed to let Chris take time away from his work to talk to Neera. Yes, captaining the Enterprise was more important than Una’s problems … but what if Chris actually could convince Neera to represent Una at the court martial, Una’s best friend recruiting her ex-best friend to help Una serve openly as an Illyrian in Starfleet, no more lying, just the chance to be her true self with the crew, a seed in her proper place without pretense?
That would be … wonderful.
The waiter had said he would return Una to slightly earlier in her own time period. Una could let Chris try to contact Neera, which could lead to Una being able to testify in court about the ideals and importance of Starfleet service—for all species, including Illyrians. Una could make sure everyone knew why she cared so much about the Enterprise crew and Starfleet, even if Starfleet had its flaws.
Una’s chest rose in righteousness.
Tom was still talking, though, unaware he had convinced Una to allow Chris to help her. Light glinted off the spoon grasped in his hand as it moved to punctuate a speech that had shifted from strawberries to the evidently soupy mess of Tom’s relationship with his father.
“If someone was going to help me, I know they would really be helping my dad. ‘The admiral must be so ashamed of his son.’ Not that anyone would say that out loud. But it would be the general idea. And they would be right.” Embarrassment threatened to fill the area of Tom’s stomach that hungered for more soup, the memory of Captain Janeway’s recitation of her service with his father just before Tom was taken to this place an extra curdle of humiliation. “I don’t have a crew anymore. God, I miss being part of a crew. It’s just me now, though, and I know I wouldn’t accept help from someone who was there to clean up my dad’s mess, not give me an actual second chance. Well, maybe it would be a third chance. Fourth chance, tops. Anyway, what I’m saying is my family name can be—”
The metal of Tom’s spoon became cool in Una’s hand. A quick perpendicular toss and the window shattered with a high-pitched reverberation, pieces of glass falling as the spoon tumbled downward to the vineyard below.
Definitely an artificial environment. Breaking the window didn’t pull the oxygen from the room and shouldn’t cause any other problems.
And, more importantly, that bit of dramatics got Tom’s attention.
His chair scraped yet again, anger and confusion evident in tight-limbed movement as he stood. “What the hell did you do that for?”
“Oops,” Una said, her lean backward in her chair extravagant, her put-on air of luxury purposeful and precise. “I guess the soup is ruined. You couldn’t possibly eat it without the silver spoon you were born into.”
Sarcasm. And deployment of an Earth idiom Una had learned in preparation to pass as human—to be born with a silver spoon meant to be born into high status and privilege.
Wait. Status. Starfleet. Could Tom be related to Commodore Paris? Something about the way he stood was similar in the shoulders, and the family could have been in Starfleet beyond only one admiral father, which made sense for Tom feeling as if Starfleet wasn’t a choice for him and there was pressure from his family name. That would mean the commodore …
Una’s thought lost cohesion and floated away in the breeze from the broken window.
“I worked hard to get into Starfleet,” Tom said, his protest truthful, yet weakened by uncertainty as he flopped back into his chair. “And I liked that soup.”
Across from Tom, there was an expectant look on a face that had become both familiar and unplaceable. Her eyes dipped to gaze at the soup, then at Tom, then back at the soup, then back at Tom.
Her suggestion was clear.
“Oh, no.” Tom’s hands waved, palms out in what was intended as a negative but probably came off as the defeat he was increasingly accepting. “I’m not going to just tip the bowl and drink the soup.”
She didn’t say anything, just waited.
There was no replicator, no way to make another spoon.
And the soup was cooling even faster with wafts of cool air from the hole in the window, no steam rising anymore, the heartiness not as delicious cold.
“You’re trying to get me to recognize that the easy way to do something—like use a spoon to eat soup or let connections to my admiral father get me out of prison—isn’t the only way,” Tom said, his fingers twitching with temptation to grab the side of the soup bowl and tilt it so he could drink what was left. “And that even if someone mentions my father that I can still accomplish things with him or without him.”
She bit off a chunk of strawberry, a smile tugging at her lips as she spoke with her mouth full. “And that there’s a time for manners and a time to just do what needs to be done.”
Tom … Tom could handle that. He could politely let Captain Janeway talk about his father, then find out if the captain’s visit had anything to do with Tom’s worth, Tom’s ability to contribute, Tom’s chances to ever fly a Starfleet ship again.
Maybe there was a chance. Maybe Tom could prove himself, not despite his father, not because of his father, but as Tom, his own person.
The soup bowl was warm in his hands.
Yes, he was going to do this.
Tom slowly inclined the bowl toward himself.
Careful, careful, don’t want to spill.
And the soup tasted even better than before, surety relaxing Tom’s stomach. He had lost the method of eating provided to him and instead chose a less common path. Somehow, Tom would find his way back into Starfleet.
From the other side of the table, his snacktime companion’s smile was pleased and proud.
And very, very pretty.
“Thanks for the help,” Tom said, his voice lowering as he put the soup bowl on the table again. “And I was thinking, we don’t know how long we’ll be in this room. Maybe we should … get to know each other even more.”
Una’s nose crinkled.
Not in disgust for the pass Tom had made at her.
In annoyance.
“You’re human, right?” Una asked, already reasonably sure of the answer but Tom’s nod was confirmation. “Well, there are certain indications when a human is actually attracted to someone. Lingering eye contact. Glances toward the lips or the chest. Dilated eyes. You don’t have any of those things. What you’re attracted to is a challenge. You like piloting and Starfleet and being part of a crew. You’re also smarter than people think you are, so you get antsy and try to get people to like you because otherwise you’d be bored and you don’t like to be bored. Well, guess what? You’re better than that. Stop wasting your time with the thrill of the chase and start learning to actually apply your mind and value the people in your life—and treat them accordingly.”
The dressing down was thorough, incisive, and correct. An exact right mix of disparaging and encouraging, it was as if she could understand Tom’s hopes and dreams even better than he could himself.
Someone … someone in Starfleet history was known for many accomplishments, including unusual prowess for the personnel management duties that rested with a starship’s first officer.
“Oh my God.” The neuron in Tom’s brain trembled, the door giving way, unable to withstand another barrage of realization. His spine straightened in triumph and respect as he stood from his chair. “You’re Una Chin-Riley.”
Had Una forgotten to introduce herself?
“Yes,” Una said, also rising to stand, then Tom’s hand extended toward her so she reached out, clasped his hand, a handshake of camaraderie and mutual appreciation. And Tom’s grip was identical to Commodore Paris, an uncommon juxtaposition of surety and tentativeness. “And you must be Tom Paris.”
“Yes, ma’am. Uh, Number One. Ma’am. It’s an honor to meet you.” Tom was in the presence of a Starfleet legend. Wow, she must have been pulled to this place just before her court martial. What were Tom’s responsibilities under the Temporal Prime Directive? Could he at least tell her that everything would be all right? And, sure, Tom’s ancestors were in Starfleet in her timeframe, but how had she figured out his last name and why didn’t it feel like a burden the way she said it?
“I guess it’s an honor to meet you, too, then,” Una said, the white walls of the room seeming to spin with implications. A Paris from the future had heard of her, thought highly of her. That had to mean her court martial would go well. That had to mean Starfleet, at the highest levels, would find a way to appreciate an Illyrian officer. That had to mean—
There was a flash of light.
The soup and strawberries were gone, along with the table and chairs. The window glass was mended, and the waiter had reappeared, his chest proud like the parent of a child who had finally accomplished a necessary task.
“You’ve done splendidly, both of you.” Q surveyed the lovely—and feisty—Ms. Chin-Riley as well as the smarter-than-people-usually-realized Mr. Paris. Q had, indeed, been brilliant to put them together. “I’ll return you to a few moments earlier in your discussions with your respective captains. You won’t remember your Comfort Food Temporal Snacktime beyond a vague sense of renewed purpose, but you may rest assured that you’ve helped each other—and your precious Starfleet—more than you could possibly imagine.”
“Thank …” Ms. Chin-Riley began to say, but Mr. Paris’ recognition was faster than her ability to finish her gratitude.
“Q!” Mr. Paris said, accusatory even after everything Q had done for them. What in the world had Jean-Luc told Starfleet about Q for Q to receive such suspicion?
Oh well, a combined “thank Q” would have to do, and Q snapped his fingers.
***
Viewscreen in front of her, her captain insisting that she not give up, Ms. Chin-Riley didn’t quite say “yes,” but her previous “no” to allowing Christopher Pike to seek out competent legal counsel in Neera Ketoul became bleating teasing about him being a Boy Scout, as well as sarcastic references to his time off and the likelihood of his plan working even as Ms. Chin-Riley allowed that very plan to begin to fall into place.
As Q watched the exchange in his twenty-fourth century captain’s uniform, curiosity unfolded from the weak arguments and minor complaints that were Ms. Chin-Riley’s version of agreeing to be helped. A snap of his fingers and a thick book appeared in Q’s hands—an Illyrian dictionary. Pages turned, and it was just as Q had expected. Not a single word translated to a concept even remotely adjacent to “easygoing.”
Oh well, at least the strawberry seed would continue to grow, nourishing her own era of Starfleet and many more that would follow. Perhaps Q would have secured the recruitment poster to his own wall if he’d had a wall. The Q Continuum was beyond such things, of course.
One down, one to go.
Ah, Mr. Paris. The scion of Starfleet politely allowed his future captain to blunder through her introduction—Kathy really should have known better than to bring up Owen Paris so quickly—then offer the observer position that, if accepted, would lead to Mr. Paris serving a crew in ways Ms. Chin-Riley could only dream of: lifesaving piloting skills that would eventually bring Voyager home, contributions in sickbay and as a field medic, a highly dangerous undercover mission, elaborate holoprograms to boost morale, and designing and building a new kind of shuttlecraft that would become an object of admiration for generations of Starfleet engineers.
His silver spoon left behind in more ways than one, Mr. Paris, like Ms. Chin-Riley, couldn’t quite muster a “yes,” but he did agree to his captain’s proposal with a weary, “The story of my life,” as, indeed, the story of Mr. Paris’ life, and so many more lives, improved immeasurably with his place on Voyager secure.
Two onetime and future pilots back on course, drab prison jumpsuits traded for Starfleet uniforms once more, their memories mostly cleared of their time together and Q had helped save humanity yet again.
His doppelgänger appeared in a flash of light. One good Q, of course, deserved another.
“Do you miss them?” the identical Q prodded Q. “After all the frustrations they caused you?”
“Of course not,” Q said, an obvious lie, his attempt to match his usual bluster sinking under the weight of fond memories of Ms. Chin-Riley picking the seed from her strawberry and Mr. Paris watching his spoon shatter the window. “They enjoyed and benefitted from their time together, as has the rest of humanity, and I’m off to my next adventure.”
Yet something was missing.
“Oh, just say it.” The identical Q held out his hands, palms up, a miniature version of Ms. Chin-Riley in one hand and a miniature version of Mr. Paris in the other. These were hologram-like projections, not real people, but the identical Q’s idea was good anyway.
“Fine. I bid you …” The ache in Q’s throat prevented him from bidding them adieu with his usual flourish. So he tried again, his murmur to the miniatures his gratitude for the opportunity to have given the real versions their Comfort Food Temporal Snacktime, “My dears, my fools, my paragons of Starfleet, my ridiculous creatures I have come to appreciate … until we meet again, I fondly bid you adiQ.”