Starfleet Academy. Still bright, still hot. A place to meet, to take stock... and count the cost.
T'Pia greets me with a nod, but I almost don't recognize the wasted figure shambling on elbow crutches next to her.
"'m all right," says Ronnie, crossly, as she drops onto a seat by a table, beneath the shadow of Building Four. "Jus' got problems with nerves 'n stuff." Her face works as if she's tasting something foul. Her hair has mostly grown back, but there are fresh scars on her face, and the Borg implant over her left eye is gone, replaced by a simple eye patch.
"Nerves?" I sit down, a little gingerly. I've pretty much recovered from the operations on my chest, the ones that set my ribs and repaired the damage to my lung. But I still get a twinge or two if I move incautiously.
"Cloned tissue replacements," says Ronnie. "For th' burned out implants. Oh, they work, but... takes time t' bed 'em in. Integrate 'em. With my body picture, in my brain. Brain stem doesn' know what t' do with all the inputs."
I can sympathize. It's why I've never had my face fixed. "What about the eye?" I ask.
Ronnie shrugs. "They grew it back. Might actually work, might not. Eyes 're complicated, they say."
"What of other factors?" T'Pia asks. "Two of Twelve, for instance?"
Ronnie shrugs again. "Don' know, really," she says, "how much of Two of Twelve was her, or th' entity. She's lots quieter, now. Might be just 'cause I've less Borg wiring now." She sighs. "All feels weird."
"I can imagine," I say. Then, "No, actually, I'm not so sure I can."
"Isn' easy t' describe," says Ronnie. "But, what th' hell, we won, didn' we? 'S all that matters."
I wonder about that. Yes, the Rift entity is gone - not destroyed, I suppose, simply thrown out of our universe into its original timeless state. You can't destroy something like that. But it's gone, and that is what matters... and, as far as we can tell, it will stay gone. The changes Ronnie made to the Rift, back in 2400, ensured that. Our best guess is that the entity allowed her to do that, maybe even helped her do it, so that no more - competitors - could come through.
So that it would have no rivals, when it became a god. Well. We stopped it becoming a god, and that's the thing that counts.
But not the only thing. There was a price to pay, for all of us. Ronnie paid the most, and we know that.
I'm still thinking that through, when there is a brilliant flash of light.
"Well!" says Q. "Isn't this nice?"
---
I'm on my feet, staring at her. T'Pia has stood, too. Ronnie is struggling with her crutches.
"Oh, please don't get up," says Q. She smiles brightly. This time, she's in Starfleet dress uniform, with an implausible number of rank bars on her collar. "No need to be formal! We're all friends together."
"Friends?" I step back warily. Q beams at me, and takes a seat opposite Ronnie, who glowers at her.
"Sit," says Q, "sit. We're all friends here. I just wanted to congratulate the three of you, in fact. You did very well, for such limited mortal people. Jolly good show."
I sit down, heavily. T'Pia takes her seat with smooth economy of movement. "Please explain," she says.
"Oh, dear, haven't you worked it out yet? Well, I suppose not. You are only mortals, after all."
"I gather you're not drunk, this time," I say.
"That was a teeny-tiny deception on my part, my dear. After all, since I was recruiting you three to deal with the Rift entity, I couldn't come out and say as much, could I? Not where it could hear me." She wags a finger at Ronnie, who stares.
"I took a risk, dropping even a few oblique hints," says Q. "Fortunately, it all worked out all right in the end. I suppose that shouldn't surprise me - I am perfect, after all."
"All worked out all right," says Ronnie, slowly, clearly and very distinctly. There is a dangerous gleam in her eye.
"Absolutely!" says Q. "My little three-handed game. We needed someone to take care of the Rift entities, obviously, we just couldn't have things like that running loose in normal space-time. The one at Tiaza Zephora was, well, a bit dim, to be perfectly frank, but the other - Sebreac Tharr, whatever it chose to call itself - well, it needed careful handling. Fortunately, being perfect, I was entirely up to the task."
She points a finger at Ronnie. "Naturally, we needed you, as the focal point of the infection. And we had someone in mind -" she turns and points to T'Pia "- who had the minimal technical competence to deal with it. But, oh dear, Vulcan minds are so meticulous and literal and plodding, I simply had to have a third person -" and she rounds on me "- to add that one little spark of inspiration that would set her mind working on the right lines."
"Waitaminute, what?" says Ronnie. I just look at Q's pointing finger and gape.
"That funny thing you have about Gustav Holst. Silly little man, if you ask me. But at least he turned out to be useful, didn't he? It took some management, keeping you alive and steering you in the right direction. But it all paid off in the end."
"Just - just a minute." I find my voice. "You saved me from the Nausicaan hit squad, that time, so I could talk about Holst's time signatures to T'Pia?"
"And it worked. Jolly well done."
"But how could you possibly have known I'd do that? Or that T'Pia would remember it, when she needed to?"
"I'm sure I mentioned that I'm perfect," says Q with a haughty sniff.
Ronnie leans forward, across the table. "'f you're so damn' perfect," she says, with menace, "why didn' you jus' deal with th' damn' entity yourself?"
Q makes a great show of examining her fingernails. "Because," she says eventually, "there is a crystal flower that grows in a secluded cove, on a world in the Sombrero Galaxy, and when the dawn light catches it just so, it sparkles and shines in a really wonderfully pretty way. And I thought it would be a shame if that flower, and everything else in a billion light year radius, got destroyed in a direct clash between the Q Continuum and the Rift entity." She heaves a dramatic sigh. "Honestly, you mortals. You think that, just because I'm omnipotent, it means I can do anything."
"Technically," says T'Pia, "the definition of the word -"
"Oh, spare me," says Q. "Anyway, there it is. You three fitted together, and you did it, and, well, I suppose there was a price, of course, but it was heaps less expensive than the next best option, so, all in all, I think we did very nicely, didn't we? I say we, but it was mostly me, of course."
"Mostly you," says Ronnie in a dead calm voice.
"Oh, dear, I'm getting the sensation that the feeling of the meeting is against me." There is a flash, and Q is wearing a counsellor's informal suit, and has black Betazoid eyes. "I'm... sensing hostility," she says in low, thrilling tones. Another flash, and she is back to normal. She stands up. "Anyway, there we are. Now, must dash, you know how it is -" And she is gone.
Ronnie and I exchange stunned looks. Even T'Pia is gaping.
Then there is yet another flash, and Q is back. "Actually," she says, "you three did do well. And so, I am permitted to give you a gift. Some would say, in fact, that it is the greatest gift in the Continuum's power to bestow."
A feeling of nameless dread rises within me. "What gift?"
Q grins wickedly. "We're done with you. You're on your own from now on."
And she is gone, again.
---
"Well," says T'Pia. She blinks. "So. I suppose... that constitutes an explanation, then."
Ronnie and I exchange looks. "All we're getting, anyway," I mutter.
"More than we might have expected, from Q." T'Pia stands up. "I must go. There is a survey assignment waiting for Tapiola and her support group. Apparently," she adds, with a hint of asperity that would be a towering rage in anyone but a Vulcan, "there is need of my minimal technical competence."
"Don' knock it," says Ronnie. "'S a compliment by Q's standards."
"Quite." T'Pia looks at us. "I am glad to see you are both recovering. I - would look forward to working with you again, in less trying circumstances." Before either of us can answer, she touches her combadge. "T'Pia to Tapiola. One to beam up."
And she sparkles and is gone. Ronnie and I exchange looks again. "Vulcans," says Ronnie.
"Too right," I say.
Ronnie stands up, sits down again in the seat to my left. "You were in m' blind spot," she says. "Never had a blind spot before... don' like it much."
"I don't blame you." I sigh. "At least she's got minimal technical competence. Seems like the only meaningful thing I've ever done in this world... is have a chat about Holst."
"Yeah, well," says Ronnie, "you could be worse off, kiddo. All I was... was th' focal point. Patient zero." Her pale face is taut and drawn. "I made th' firs' stupid mistake. I went into the Rift and let th' damned thing loose. Ev'ry death, ev'ry piece of destruction, ev'ry damn Siohonin atrocity... all comes down t' me, in the end. Stupid old woman made a stupid mistake, and ev'rybody paid. Ev'rybody."
I reach out and squeeze her cold, pale hand. "You didn't know," I say.
"'S not an excuse."
"If it hadn't been you," I say, "the Rift was still there. It would have been someone else. Maybe someone who would have done a lot worse than you."
"Or better."
I know what she means. I've beaten myself up over my own decisions, time and time again... maybe too many times. "You can't know that. We did what we did, and we did all we could. That's what counts. The past is the past."
"Yeah," says Ronnie, "yeah. 'cept maybe for some bits of the past that still hang around in the present." She sighs noisily.
Eventually, I say, "So, what are you going to do now?"
"Don' know. Wait t' be medically cleared, I guess, an' then... don' know." She sighs again. "They're talking 'bout kicking me upstairs. Poor ol' Gref didn' make it out of the Siohonin POW camp... 'nother item on the bill. Poor Gref. Wasn' th' wors' boss I ever had, not by a long way."
"So you'll be taking over Sixth Fleet?"
"Don' know. Maybe. Maybe not. Long way t' go on th' medical front... anyway, don' know if I want it. Or if I'd be good for it."
"You're probably the best tactician I know, if that helps you any," I say. Ronnie just grunts.
I try to think of something else to say, something to encourage her, to bring her back to herself. Then my combadge chirps at me. I slap it irritably. "Shohl here."
"Sir." Cordul's voice. I miss F'hon's cheery "Skipper" already. "We've got a bit of a situation with the repairs to King Estmere."
"What's the problem?" Dyssa got the ship back to ESD under her own power, after ages being towed by the Tapiola - but with the spacedock's facilities, the repairs should be well in hand by now.
"Um, the repairs are on hold, sir. Vice Admiral Collinsworth has put in a formal query -"
"What? And who the hell's Vice Admiral Collinsworth?"
"Starfleet Logistics, Accounting Division, sir. He's querying whether repairs to the King Estmere would be cost-effective."
"Cost-effective? What is this, the dark ages?"
"I'm just repeating Vice Admiral Collinsworth's query, sir. He'd like to speak to you whenever it's convenient -"
"Oh, he would, would he?" I'm on my feet, now. "Give me a location for this Collinsworth, and I'll speak to him all right. Enteskilen Mur couldn't decommission my ship, I'm damned if I'm letting some eunuch from Accounting do it!"
"Vice Admiral Collinsworth is at the Academy now, sir. Taking a postgraduate class in depreciation assessment in Building Two. Um, I don't think he's a eunuch, sir -"
"Not yet, maybe. All right. Present my compliments and tell him I'm on my way. Shohl out." I turn and look at Ronnie. She is huddled on her seat, her head hanging, her crutches lying beside her. She looks very old, and very alone. "Are you going to be all right?" I ask her.
"Sure I am." Ronnie waves one pale hand. "Give 'em hell, kiddo. Sounds like they need a dose."
"All right," I say. "I'll... speak to you soon." And with one more backwards glance, I start off across the Academy courtyard. Ronnie worries me, to be honest... but this Collinsworth needs sorting out, right now.
Then, as I cross towards Building Two, I hear the sound of a disturbance. It's one of Professor Meyer's training days, and he is doing that exercise where he releases simulated particles for tricorder scanning. Some of them - to keep the students on their toes - generate holograms of hostile Klingon warriors when scanned, and it seems as though some luckless cadet has activated one.
And over the sounds of combat, I can hear a querulous voice shouting, "No! Dammit, no! Kid, this is a live combat sim, you don't fight Queensberry Rules with the Klinks! You've got to hit them where it counts! Go for the goolies, kid! Go for the goolies!"
And somehow, I think Ronnie is going to be all right after all.
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