Chapter 1: That's Your Q!
Lieutenant Reginald Barclay wrung his hands, heart pounding with anticipation. He could hear the people crowding the converted Ten-Forward lounge, moving to their seats in the temporary theater. Great. He hated crowds. Next to the transporter and germs, crowds—especially crowds that came to see him perform—practically gave him hives.
Last time Barclay had been asked to take part in Dr. Beverly Crusher's theater workshop he had been hesitant, but had agreed to go though with it. His peers and associates knew he had always been fascinated in holodecks and fantasy worlds, so they had encouraged him to try acting. But, like most events that put him under a spotlight, Barclay had been terrified to the degree of being practically crippled.
What had made him agree to that insanity, he did not know. His lead performance in Cyrano de Bergerac had been a little better than the effects of splitting an atom, to be exact. As soon as his booted feet had touched the stage, his stomach had churned and his heart had pounded mercilessly, to the point of breathlessness. How was he supposed to say his lines if his mind was blank and he couldn't take a breath to speak even one word?
But, he had pushed through and finished the play to applause. No, the applause had not had the sound of an encore ringing through it, but he hadn't expected that. If anything, Barclay had expected to do better. He had known his lines inside and out. He was so very comfortable with playing roles, being someone else instead of plain old Starfleet Lieutenant junior grade Reginald Barlclay. But, as soon as he got in front of an audience, all his passion made way to the overwhelming rapids of fear that ran through his body in gushes so crippling he couldn't keep his hands steady, his lips from trembling. Oh, why am I such a coward? he had asked himself many times. Why can't I just do what everyone else can do, for once?
Despite the fact that he had not been satisfied with his performance in Cyrano, the lovely Deanna Troi had told him he had been very brave for doing that—for putting himself out there. Barclay had understood her words, understood her praise, but had not felt it. No, Barclay knew when he deserved praise, and his performance in Cyrano had not been worthy.
Despite this, that one day Barclay had gone to Dr. Crusher to get a worrying mark on his right arm checked for disease, she had actually asked him back—had asked him to act the lead in the next play, The Beggar's Opera, by John Gay. She had explained how it was actually a ballad opera, but they were just going to perform it as a play. Barclay remembered how he had leaned against a biobed, shaking his head vehemently at the thought, insisting he was no good.
"Reg," the Chief Medical Officer had said while scanning his arm for the fatal, alien infection that was undoubtedly eating him alive as they spoke, "with each play you will only get more confident." At these words, Barclay had stopped in mid-protest, thinking her words through. Maybe she was right. Maybe he just needed more time to get accustomed to this.
After being told the mark on his arm was just a freckle, Barclay had blushed bright red, rubbed his freckle, and stumbled out of sickbay, muttering all the while.
And, in the midst of those mumbles, some evil turn of the fates had made his tongue speak those dreaded words: "I will take the role."
As soon as Barclay was in the corridor outside of sickbay, he wished with all his heart and soul he could storm back in there and take those words back. But, he had said them, and he would keep to his word.
"Oh, I wish I had no fear on the stage!" he had yelled out to the heavens, lifting his head and crying out with the passion that was usually too shy to leave the confines of his heart. His eyes were closed as he said these imploring words, so he didn't see the flash of bright white light that encompassed the hall with his pleas. And, with the words that would bring him more than he expected, Lieutenant Barclay had strode down the hall, shoulders slumped with the burden of new stresses upon them.
Now, Barclay stood in the back, bedecked in eighteenth century clothing, an expression of anxiety shadowing his features. He peeked out at the growing number of people coming in to see the show, and his heart dropped to his feet at the sight. There was Commander Riker—oh, no—Counselor Troi, and—great—Captain Picard. He would embarrass himself again in front of all of his peers and superiors.
Barclay turned his head away and leaned against the wall, eyes closed in panic. His stomach turned and he thought he was going to be sick. Wait—if he was sick, they wouldn't let him perform! He could be off the hook!
He ran over to a corner, adrenaline pressing him on. He held his stomach and wondered if he could actually make himself throw up in the corner. He didn't think for one instant he would be more embarrassed by this than by going on stage and surely making a fool of himself.
"Reginald." Barclay wrenched himself up from clutching his stomach at the sound of his name. "Don't do this to yourself. Bulimia is not becoming of you."
Whose voice was that? It sounded almost familiar—like maybe he's heard it before. Whosever's voice it was, it sounded…benevolent? Or, maybe, sarcastic benevolence? Barclay wasn't good enough at reading vocal inflections to really know.
"Who's there?" he asked, voice quivering. He looked around, seeing no one. Maybe I'm just imagining things again, he thought, dismissing the mysterious words.
Well, there was one thing he was sure about, and that was that his stomach was suddenly feeling at least bearable, and he was sure Dr. Crusher was looking for him right about now. Either, he run away and hide on a ship that would be impossible to hide on, given the amount of technology that could find him, or he grit his teeth and bear it. Glancing at the doors to the corridor that symbolized freedom and noticing all the people coming through them, Barclay knew he had no choice but to bear it.
Barclay hesitantly strode back over to all the backstage commotion—commotion that only heightened his nervous emotions.
"Reg, where were you?" the frantic voice of Dr. Crusher said through his whirling thoughts. She rushed up to him, her dress swishing with the movement.
"Oh, just over there," Barclay answered lamely, pointing over in the general vicinity of his hiding spot.
Beverly gave him a brief questioning look but didn't press him. "You missed your cue!" She turned him around and gave him a small shove in the direction of the stage.
"Uh…" Barclay stammered. It was more of just a feeble sound coming out of his mouth than a stammer. A sound that would have been a scream for mercy if he had had the breath.
Something in the last thing that Dr. Crusher had said to him rang a bell. You missed your cue…
Just then, Barclay realized to his horror that his feet were moving toward the stage without his consent.
What? No, I'm not ready for this! he cried to himself. His arms flailed about as he tried to grab onto the backdrops, pulling himself away from the awful scrutiny the stage allowed the audience.
But, with a clatter and a bang, Barclay was on the stage, staring out into the group of people all staring at him expectantly.
After freezing in front of everybody like that old saying, "a deer in the headlights"—whatever that was supposed to mean—he made his way to the table he was supposed to be sitting at. His mind whirled and froze in a jerking, cacophonous motion. He thought to himself for the umpteenth time that he would rather be anywhere else but here.
The words Ensign Caldwell, the officer who was playing the Old Woman, droned on as Barclay tried to control the pounding of his heart.
What are my lines, what are my lines? he thought desperately, praying his cue to speak would never come.
"'…so as to bring her off.'" Lieutenant Irinap, an Andorian playing the role of Filch, finished.
Barclay stared blankly out at the audience.
"Um," he heard Irinap clear his throat.
Silence.
"'And she hopes you will order matters so as to bring her off!'" Irinap said again, hoping this repetition would bring Barclay out of his paralyzed state.
"'As—'" Barclay started, then stopped. He just couldn't think of the lines he was supposed to speak past the thunderous pounding of his heart.
In the audience, Commander Riker watched on in pain, already willing this play to end soon. He looked at his boots, he rubbed his beard and stared at the ceiling, he shifted around, uncomfortable as hell. As soon as he had heard Lieutenant Barclay would be starring in anther play, he had tried to get out of watching, but Captain Picard had insisted. Riker didn't know how his captain could order him to sit through this torture. He was so embarrassed for the man, it was almost unbearable.
It didn't help that Deanna sat right beside him, her half-Betazoid abilities sensing waves of embarrassment and pain coming from Will Riker. She already had her own feelings of discomfiture, so, for once, she wished she could either turn off her empathic abilities or tell Riker to turn off his emotions. She didn't think either solution would do much good, and began to seriously consider getting up and moving to sit next to Data, creating a wall of nothingness between her and Will. If there was one person who could keep her from drowning in the combined discomfort of both her and Will, it was the emotionless android, sitting there with his own look of pain on his pale features. At least he didn't have the waves of emotions to go with it.
Of course, Deanna couldn't leave Barclay, and she was so genuinely proud of him for doing all this. She knew it was so hard for him, and she encouraged the anxious man with all of her heart. If he could do this, she could sit through it for him.
That is, if he could do it.
Suddenly, Deanna noticed Data start to look around, a confused expression on his face.
Riker noticed, too, because he leaned over and asked, warily, "What are you doing, Data?"
"Do you not hear that?" Data asked, peering around the converted Ten-Forward lounge.
"No," Riker whispered. "What?" He knew Data's superior hearing could pick up even the slightest of sounds.
"It seems to be the sound of…crickets."
This last word made Riker furrow his brow. "Crickets?" Riker asked. "Like the insect from Earth?"
Data nodded. "It is certainly the sound of crickets, and it is raising in decibel."
Riker peered around the room, listening.
"What's going on?" Deanna whispered. She could sense the new—almost refreshing—feeling of curiosity coming from Riker.
"Crickets," was all Riker whispered, continuing to look around.
"Crickets?" Troi asked. "Oh," she said, suddenly hearing the sound. "Oh, no."
There was no reason whatsoever for there to be crickets on the ship, or anything that sounded even remotely like crickets. So the only way something impossible could happen was if…
Deanna Troi's dark eyes searched out the large, vibrant hat of Guinan, whom she found sitting only a couple rows in front of her. Right as Deanna laid eyes on the bartender, she noticed Guinan tense. And, with this action, and the rising volume of the humming crickets in the silence that Barclay maintained, things started to fall into place for the counselor.
Someone had come to see the play whether he had a ticket or not.
