Disclaimer: Paramount owns all things Star Trek, yippee for them.
A great many liberties have been taken with regards to historical accuracy. Hey, I'm messing around with Paramount's alleged canon, why shouldn't I mess around with history while I'm at it? I did do a bit of web surfing to get some of the details right; they just don't necessarily fall into the proper time frame. On the off chance that there are any medieval scholars or historians reading this, please accept my profound apologies in advance for any major mistakes.
Q is pretty much just a tool here, but I stuck with tradition and put his name in the title.
Mis-Q
By E. Wallace
2000
A crumpled wad of paper sailed across the room... it was followed in rapid succession by a green artist pencil, a sketch book and finally a data padd. The effort was only mildly satisfying, a moment ruined by the fact that the padd failed to break when it hit the bulkhead.
"Pointless," Beverly Crusher muttered as she raked a hand through her already tangled auburn hair and paced the length of her living area. She knew there was no way she was going to get the infernal play produced in the foreseeable future, so why was she wasting her time like this?
Because she didn't have anything else to do with her time but waste it.
The incident in the Briar Patch had disturbed everyone, given the less than above board behavior of Starfleet and the Federation Council. The confrontation they were headed for back on Earth promised to be quite dramatic -- and painful.
In the mean time, everyone had something -- or someone -- to do but her.
Data and Geordi were overseeing the repairs to the damage done during the battle with the Son'a. Worf was taking advantage of the opportunity to once again be on a starship. He had been temporarily assigned to the Enterprise until after the hearing on Earth and was filling in the odd shift at Security for injured crewmembers who had not yet returned to duty. Will and Deanna had moved into joint quarters and were only seen outside those rooms during their respective shifts.
As for Jean-Luc... he was mooning over Anij to the extent that Beverly had not even seen him for breakfast in the week since they left Ba'ku.
All that -- added to the fact that injuries had been amazingly few -- was why she was wasting her time attempting to create costumes for a play that would never be seen.
"Why am I bothering to try to decide between silk and damask?" she said, speaking aloud to fill the room with something other than silence. "No one is going to be interested in this ridiculous trifle... and they're right not to be interested."
Her Nana had told stories of many ages and many lands, and while Beverly had been enthralled by the ones about the clans of the Scottish highlands, her favorites had been of kings and queens, knights and ladies, of romance and derring-do.
All the wonderful things she was certain she had failed miserably to convey in her own attempt at a tale of medieval flirtation. While she had no delusions of being a 24th century Shakespeare, she had hoped to be entertaining at the very least.
"Data's 'Ode to Spot' has more plot twists than the drivel I've written," she sulked. Even if she had succeeded, now was not the time for fluff, no matter how picturesque and distracting.
Professionally, Beverly was well aware that her uncharacteristic restlessness was a result of the Ba'ku radiation. Personally, living through another reckless 'youth' did not appeal to her in the least. She had barely survived the first one.
An elongated groan of frustration burst from her as, exasperated with herself and the whole situation, she charged across the beige carpet into her bedroom. Flinging open the closet doors, she scrabbled among the shoes on the floor, occasionally tossing one over her shoulder in her search for the proper pair. She found them, and then did the same ransacking rummage through her dance wear. Latching onto a black leotard and tights to suit her mood, she stomped out the door, heading for a holodeck to dance herself into exhaustion.
The sensors noted her departure and gradually dimmed the lights until the only illumination came from the streaking stars.
Slowly, the dismissed wad of paper floated up from its resting place under the farthest viewport. Crackling eerily in the pallid glow, it uncrumpled itself until the sketch of the medieval dress was revealed. The data padd rose next, words scrolling across the screen almost too fast to be read.
A laugh so low that it melded with the hum of the engines, echoed through the empty rooms as Q materialized in the doctor's quarters, his conniving smile putting a Cheshire cat to shame.
*****
The next morning, Jean-Luc Picard watched the viewscreen disinterestedly, his mind on the planet they were leaving further and further behind them.
Dr. Crusher had been unable to estimate the long term influence of the Ba'ku radiation on the crew, given their relatively brief exposure, but so far as he could tell, the physical effects had not begun to fade. The youthful vigor was still with him.
Emotionally and mentally, however, he was wrung out.
He felt betrayed by the organization to which he had dedicated his life. The Prime Directive was the core of Starfleet philosophy, and that precept had been tossed aside in selfish hopes of discovering some form of immortality. The fact that they were willing to destroy an entire civilization to do so was more repugnant to him than the revenge that drove the Son'a.
Picard understood a small part of the Son'a's motivation. He could easily empathize with their generation's desire to reach beyond the world they had known from childhood. Labarre was home and always would be, but the stars had been in his blood from birth and no amount of pressure from his father and brother would dissuade him from the path he had been compelled to take. The explorer was stronger than the vintner, and yet the patience needed to make fine wine had stood him in good stead over the years.
Ba'ku was the sort of world his brother, Robert, would have enjoyed. He would have delighted in making a wine one year and being able to divine all its aged complexities one hundred years later.
Picard had known in the midst of his discussion with Anij about the artists' apprentices that he did not have the temperament to spend forty or fifty years learning anything before being allowed to do it. He had infinite patience for performing many of the more mundane tasks involved in his archeological studies, but that was because he was actually doing it.
The euphoria of rejuvenation and the exhilaration of defending an entire civilization had made him believe he was in love with Anij. He had been enthralled by her smile at his mention of having 318 days of leave available.
Time -- was it only a week? -- and distance had made him see the truth.
Her smile had not been one of encouragement or enthusiasm. She had been amused by his childlike pleasure at the prospect of using what he considered to be a large chunk of leave time. What were a few hundred days to someone who had lived over 300 years? While she might genuinely care for him, she saw him as a child, an adolescent compared to herself.
No, he would not be returning to Ba'ku -- and not just because of his realization about Anij.
Being able to slow time to enjoy a single moment had its advantages, but it could not silence the call of his beloved stars. Not even when he knew the stars were not enough.
He was reminded every morning as he ate a solitary breakfast that there was a gaping hole in his life, and Anij was not what he wanted to fill that void. What -- no, who -- he needed was...
"Crusher to bridge."
The CMO's voice cut through the silence, startling everyone on the bridge who was involved in the mundane tasks necessary to run a starship.
Picard had been absorbed in his thoughts and felt a trifle guilty at being 'caught' by the very person he had been contemplating. As a result, his response came out more sharply than necessary.
"Go ahead, Doctor."
"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Captain, but... um... have you seen Q up there?"
An audible groan sounded from every station, a groan that was quickly quelled under Picard's stern look.
"Can I hope that your question is more than a rhetorical one?" he inquired warily.
A brilliant flash of light was the very answer he had dreaded.
Dressed in the uniform of a Starfleet admiral as was his habit, the entity crossed his arms as his shoulders slumped and his face took on a sullen pout. "Your Dr. Crusher is becoming quite presumptuous. I don't know why you continue to tolerate her, mon Capitaine."
Slightly apprehensive at the sheer scope of possible forms for Q's displeasure to take, the captain said urgently, "Picard to Crusher."
Anger turned to concern when there was no response.
"What have you done with her, Q?"
"She's safe, Jean-Luc, but I don't like having my surprises spoiled. I've come for a nice, friendly visit, and I prefer to make my entrances in my own way."
"Then why give Dr. Crusher advance notice if you didn't want her to alert us?" Troi asked with the slightest touch of sarcasm.
Rolling a condescending glance in her direction, Q ignored the question.
"I was at loose ends, so I decided to come enliven your dreary lives."
"We don't need 'enlivening', Q," Riker snapped.
"Individually and as a group, you are in more desperate need of enlivening than I have ever seen. Consider it my gift to you."
That said, Q vanished, followed in quick succession by Picard, Riker, Troi, Data and Worf.
*****
The officers found themselves in the courtyard of a massive stone castle. Geordi La Forge had joined them, but Q was nowhere to be seen.
Their uniforms had been replaced to fit the setting.
Deanna was clothed in a floor-length garnet silk gown. Its low, square cut neckline set off the matching jeweled necklace and earrings, and the end of the dress's three-foot train was held up by loop around her right wrist.
The men were clad in a rainbow of brocaded silk and velvet doublets over white shirts with billowing sleeves. Dark, full-legged leather trousers were tucked into their knee-high leather boots. Each wore a plumed hat -- with the exception of Picard who had a circlet of gold on his head.
"A period piece," Picard noted dryly. "How original."
~tbc~