What Are the Odds?
Author's Note: Written in the Star Trek TNG universe. This is dedicated to the inimitable Thyme, who may at times relate to the plight of the irritated Capt. Picard and wish she could escape also.
*****
“Captain, I must go over these crew physical schedules with you some time today or I ....”
“Captain, a level two diagnostic is recommended before we .....”
“If we are going to be ready for the delegation from Arcturus Seven, Captain, it is imperative that....”
“The security briefings were completed as you requested, Captain, but I would like to....”
“Damn it, would you all just be quiet and cease this endless chatter!”
Silence reigned as the bridge officers stared at Jean Luc Picard, Captain of the Federation Starship Enterprise in shock. The Captain rarely raised his voice, much less used profanity. To no one’s surprise, it was Deanna Troi, Ship’s Counselor, who was the first to regain her composure and feel comfortable breaching the Captain’s command.
“Captain, I sense that you are feeling overwhelmed.” The Counselor thought she heard a snicker from somewhere on the bridge but when she whirled her head around to look in the direction of the sound, all she saw was Commander Data, who most certainly was not one to laugh at anyone. As he would be the first to point out, he lacked a sense of humor. Some would claim the same about her but they would be wrong. Of course they would. She frowned, but then forced her mind back to the matter at hand, although not before looking toward Will Riker just to be sure it hadn’t been him, but he was busy staring at the ridiculously short skirt – that couldn’t be regulation – of the new ensign, to be paying any attention to what she was saying. She turned her limpid gaze back to the Captain.
“As I was saying, Captain....”
“No, Counselor, there is no need for you to say anything further,” Captain Picard interrupted her gently but firmly. “I believe you are quite right. I am feeling a bit stressed, and yes, overwhelmed even, by the number of people speaking to me at one time. I believe it is time for me to delegate some of these tasks to my excellent senior staff and take advantage of this down time in our schedule to seek some recreation.”
Deanna beamed happily. She so loved to help people. “Wonderful! May I suggest a visit to the Holodeck? That always seems to put you back in a relaxed frame of mind.”
“Oh, Jean Luc? Are you going to be playing your private eye character? What is his name? Dick Mountain?” Beverly Crusher had that certain light in her eye that always spelled trouble.
“The name is Dixon Hill and, uh…” Captain Picard searched his mind for a suitable excuse to keep the good doctor far away from his relaxation when fortunately, Lt. Worf cleared his throat to draw their attention.
The Captain looked over at the large Klingon with hope, asking, “Yes, Mr. Worf, do you need the doctor?”
“Well, I would like to confer with Dr. Crusher, Captain, but I would not presume to interfere if you have plans, I can wait....”
“No, no, wouldn’t dream of it,” Captain Picard said in his most jovial tone. “Beverly, I am sure you agree with me that Mr. Worf’s needs precede any inclination to recreate. Another time, perhaps?”
Dr. Crusher looked far from agreeing but was left without any room to maneuver so she gave in gracefully. Jean Luc made a speedy departure, giving the bridge to his “Number One” and hoping that Data would keep everything running smoothly while Riker cavorted with that young ensign. He hoped this one didn’t fall in love with Will, only to be heart-broken when he failed to remember her name the next time he saw her in Ten Forward.
They went through so many ensigns that way.
Quickly, the Captain dressed in the period clothes suitable for his character’s time and culture and left with all possible haste to get from his quarters to the Holodecks without being seen by any of his crew. He breathed a sigh of relief as he entered the computer simulated San Francisco of Earth in the 1930s. He went directly to his office, picking up a pile of mail at the door.
“Hey, Dix. Sure am glad to see you, you got a client waitin’, says ‘e’s a wanted man.”
“He does, does he? Why am I not surprised?” He dropped the mail on the secretary’s desk, wondering not for the first time, what her name was, but deeming it of insufficient moment to find out. He walked into the inner office, poised for...excitement.
He was not disappointed. The “client” began to narrate the action in a melodic, rich voice as soon as the door closed behind Jean Luc.
“The man, the client was a man, naturally, was sitting at Dixon’s own desk, in his not very plush chair, he had his back to him, but Dixon knew in a second that this was no ordinary man. Indeed, it was the man he had been waiting for....” The chair spun around, revealing Q, also dressed in 1930s finery. For all that he tried to look exasperated, Jean Luc admitted to himself that the clothing suited the omnipotent being to a...well, to a Q.
“All his life,” Q finished, his voice dropping to the merest whisper.
“Hardly,” Jean Luc replied dryly, dropping down into one of the two guest chairs that faced the desk.
“And I do so like you hard,” Q purred, suddenly appearing in the chair next to Jean Luc, and leaning close in order to nip lightly at his ear. The Captain shifted a bit in his chair, grateful that 1930s menswear left more to the imagination that Federation issued uniforms. “Are you surprised, mon Capitaine?”
“I suspected your hand at work when Deanna was distracted by that unseemly laughter. You came close to being discovered, you know.”
Q made a very un-godlike noise through his nose. “That so-called telepath of yours. ‘I sense that you are stressed.’ What do you think it was that tipped her off? Your cursing or your shouting at the bevy of buffoons? Call her Counselor Obvious. My favorite is when she announces that Worf is feeling angry. The creature only has one emotion and it is not cheery.”
Jean Luc refrained from smiling in amused agreement but it was close. Q, always quick to press his advantage, continued, “I am sure there is a need for a starship to have a counselor, but surely it isn’t to announce that a person who is throwing furniture around the room is angry, or one who is crying copious tears is sad, or...” He stopped when Jean Luc held up a slim hand.
“I get the point,” Jean Luc said with a sigh. Q changed tactics.
“You’re tired. They have been too demanding of you. Let me take you away for a real holiday.”
“I cannot leave my ship, much as I might like to. And yes,” Jean Luc gave Q a half smile. “I am admitting it. I would like it.”
Q’s face lit up with delight. “Captain, my Captain! Nothing could be easier! A snap of my fingers and you and I are....”
“Wait!” Jean Luc grabbed Q’s hand before he could snap those all-powerful fingers of his. “I said I would like to. But the reality is, I cannot. I have duties here, responsibilities. I cannot just hop off with the first omnipotent being who catches my fancy....”
“Am I? The first? You make me feel so special,” Q cooed. He was now lounging on the desktop, his garb no longer a man’s business suit from 1930s Earth, but something more in an F. Scott Fitzgerald mode. His long, lean form looked particularly fetching, Jean Luc thought wistfully.
“Q, let me just enjoy an hour or two as Dixon. You can even play too if you would like, so long as you abide by the rules, but that is all the time I can spare from running the ship.”
“What if I told you your ship is guaranteed to be in perfect hands and nothing will happen that your feisty crew cannot handle for, oh, say the next seventy-two hours.”
Jean Luc thought he now knew what it felt like to have an entire army of geese walk over his grave.
“What did you do, Q?” He slumped lower in his chair. Q assumed a hurt expression. Picard raised one eyebrow. Q grinned and sat up on the desk, and swung his legs energetically as he explained.
“You’re going to love this. I know I do. You know how last time we needed a little play time, and that shrill quack Crusher was away, but the ever so charming Pulaski was here in her place, so we needed a really good distraction for the crew not to notice you gone?”
Picard nodded, not quite sure to which episode he was referring. Q waved his hand impatiently.
“You know, I got the whole gaggle of bridge officers engrossed by getting Troi knocked up by a piece of space jizz. She went through gestation, birth, motherhood and her child’s whole life during our rather intense rendezvous and all you had to do was pop your shiny head in once in a while and look fatherly. Or rather, grandfatherly. Not that I think of you in that elderly way. Fine figure of a humanoid, I’ve always thought.” Q leered most convincingly.
Picard brought him back on point. “Tell me you haven’t made Deanna pregnant again!”
Q looked insulted. “Moi? Repeat myself? I would be insulted but I know that it is difficult for you to comprehend the infinite capacity for...”
“For mischief that you possess. Believe me, Q, I do comprehend it. What did you do to my crew?”
Q knew that Jean Luc meant business when he spoke in that command tone of voice. And besides, he was dying to tell him anyway.
“This time, it’s Cro Magnon Man who is going to experience the miracle of birth!”
“Q! You didn’t!” Picard leaned forward in his chair, looking ready to leap to his feet.
“Of course I didn’t!” Q looked insulted.
“Thank goodness.” Picard sat back in relief.
“I used another piece of space jizz. I don’t want to father a half-Klingon child! Even with the Q component the child would be bound to be, at best, of only human level intelligence.”
Jean Luc rolled his eyes. “So you are doing the same thing you did to Deanna, only to Worf.”
“But with some key differences, mon Capitaine! The mere fact that it is a male makes it very different. That fact that it is a Klingon male – well, that just makes it deliciously ironic. I can imagine the discussion going on in the war room now. With Data trying to calculate the odds and Deanna wanting to discuss Worf’s feelings while Riker tries to figure out how he missed out on a potential sex partner.”
A reluctant smile tugged at Jean Luc’s lips. “What are the odds?”
“Less than one in a million,” Q assured him. “Now, with this little blessed event keeping your crew busy, can we head off on our little jaunt?” He widened his eyes and looked at Jean Luc hopefully.
The Captain was looking troubled, however, and Q sighed. “What is it now?”
“That child last time...it was quite sad when it died in Deanna’s arms. Now I know you assured me that Deanna enjoyed the totality of the experience and she did seem quite joyful when it was all said and done. But...will this child have to die so quickly also?”
Q twisted his mouth as he considered the question. “No,” he answered quite decisively. “The child will age very rapidly to about ten, and then the aging process will slow – Crusher will come up with some nonsensical reason for this – and Worf will ship the child off to his parents on Earth who will be thrilled to raise it. They are thrilled about everything, those two. Never met two more easily thrilled people in my entire existence. Worf will soon forget he gave birth, much as he forgot he fathered that other spawn of his, and all will return to normal. Work for you?”
Jean Luc nodded, smiling slyly. “Where are we going?”
“I’ve got two tickets to Stonehenge.” Jean Luc looked slightly disappointed, until Q added, “The raising of Stonehenge, that is.” With a wave of his hand, they were both garbed in rough robes suitable for wear some three thousand years B.C.
“Feel like erecting anything else, Jean Luc, you go right ahead,” Q murmured coming around the chair to stand directly behind the Captain. Jean Luc leaned back against the strong chest, thinking that it did feel nice to be held up by someone else once in a while.
“Wiltshire, England, next stop, Q,” he murmured, making no objection to the lips that were exploring his neck.
“Your wish is my command, oh Capitaine.”
A docile Q, Jean Luc thought, as he found himself a moment later, enjoying the crisp cool air of ancient England, as he rested between the legs of one of the universe’s most powerful beings.
Rolling over, Jean Luc murmured,
“I always wondered what a druid wore under these robes....I trust you’ve garbed us in historically accurate clothing, Q?”
“Only one way to find out, Jean Luc. Now is your time to explore strange new ....ah, yes....”
A way to shut Q up, Jean Luc’s last conscious thought was. What were the odds of that?
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