Dear Arthur F. Weathersby:

I realize my error in giving you such little information. In my defense, you were glaring at me. As you've already assessed, I've kept your memories as Picard intact. I've simply slipped Arthur's in beside them. You're very smart, you'll figure it out. This is the fairest way; it eliminates the variable that you might very well be drawn to me. While that in itself would be a worthy experiment, we'll stay with this one, the one where you have a chance.

As far as I'm concerned, I've never met you in my life.

It would be simple for you to win by holing up in your office all evening, so I will impose a single rule. You must approach me. You must speak to me. And more than once, say, three times before the clock strikes twelve.

Judgment will commence following.

Q

PS. Burn this note, will you, before I notice it?


Picard stood in the room that had been his office of twenty-odd years. Burn the note. Burn it with what? The image of matches came to mind, books of them with the winery's emblem stamped on the front, tucked into the lower drawer of his solid oak desk. His oak desk. His office? Merde. It was overwhelming, to stand in this room and know nothing about it, and yet, at the same time, to know it as intimately as his ready room on the Enterprise.

Arthur F. Weathersby. That was his name. Born on a farm, he'd enjoyed an idyllic childhood of riding horses and memorizing poetry, followed with an adolescence of writing poetry, and then, at last, an adulthood of abandoning poetry to pursue his true passion: wine. He'd been married once, but there were foul memories associated with that, better off ignored. All that was left to him now was fifty acres of grapes and a wine bar. The Twin Grape, he'd named it, one of several buildings situated at the edge of the vineyard—one of which was his home—outside the town of Shookend, a population of about nine-thousand and known locally for its artisanal—

Too much.

Captain of the Enterprise. He was Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the Enterprise, and he was relieved to find his memories still there, as Q had said. His. Jean-Luc's. Not Arthur's. His own.

He found himself in a freckled mirror over the fireplace. Good. He still looked like himself. He was simply wearing another man's clothes. Green and navy, comfortable enough though not in his style. Once he had come home to find his closet empty. The bed was stacked high with flat white boxes which opened to reveal things of suede and corduroy and wool. He'd hurled a box of loafers across the room before flying down the stairs to demand the bitch tell him what she had done with his real clothes—

Stop.

Q had said he'd 'slipped the memories' beside his own, but Picard could write an essay disputing that terminology. More accurate to say Q had 'hurled,' had 'flooded,' had 'buried'… How was he supposed to play a game of interpersonal espionage when he couldn't keep his own thoughts straightened out? Even as he tried to focus his thoughts on the here, the now, objects in the here and now dragged him back to the past. The office reeked of sentiment. Cluttered and dusty, not at all like Picard's ready room on the Enterprise.

Picard made for the bar. On the way he passed two members of his staff, both dressed in black. Josh, his assistant manager, had been showing all the signs of working himself up to ask for a raise. Hannah was retiring next month, moving off-world to—

Picard focused on the bar. On its occupants. A few scattered silhouettes steeped in cones of light, but none of them were Q's. Unless Q looked differently now. No, that would defeat the point of Arthur, of Picard, retaining his old memories—his actual memories. Q be damned! Picard resisted the impulse to bark at one of his employees to let him know the instant the son of a bitch showed himself. He was used to barking at his employees. No one would question it.

Last season Agatha had forgotten to stock the refrigerator with port, something they had only discovered after going to all the trouble of building a Reyton chocolate dish for a customer, and so that was money out the door. He had cursed her out the door after it—

Picard turned away from the room, set his hands flat on the back bar and found his bearings while staring at a bottle of Cabernet half a meter from his nose. It might have been a bottle of anything. He needed somewhere neutral to rest his eyes. Was it possible to quiet the memories? Although he loathed to remember, he had experienced this once before, multiple memories and multiple thoughts swarming through a single mind, his own mind though he had not felt much ownership of it; but he had enjoyed that then; he hadn't wanted to resist; that was the true horror. He shouldn't conflate these situations: they were very different; besides he needed to focus. Now was not the time for a psychotic breakdown. He wasn't impotent here, he told himself. Neither was he in pain, he added. Neither had he lost his sense of self. All positive outcomes.

He could do this. He could focus.

Arthur F. Weathersby. An infantile name.

Being the owner of a winery was infantile too, if the point was for him to blend in with the scenery. Did Q even frequent this place? It seemed a little rustic, a little dirty for Q's tastes, though Picard had to admit he had no idea what Q's tastes actually were. Arthur F. Weathersby had never seen Q here before. Up came another irksome thought, the worst one yet: If Q was not already here, if Q truly had abandoned his memory of Picard, what reason would he have to show any urgency in appearing? Or to appear at all?

Picard polished and re-polished wine glasses to pass the time. It was a nervous tick the employees mocked Arthur for. His hands were pleasantly familiar with the motions. When that was done with, he began drinking the wine. It was good. Too good. He so rarely had the real thing aboard the Enterprise, and perhaps it wasn't smart, testing his tolerances this way, but he poured himself a second glass, and then a third.

He had arrived at 1600 hours. Days on Braetis lasted 21 hours, which left five hours until "the clock struck twelve." The time was 1820, the second sun was just dipping behind the eastern hills, when the door whined open and Q strode across the threshold.

Q scanned the room with an air of disinterest. His eyes fell on Picard's—and Picard felt a jolt of something in his stomach. Relief? Hope? He let out a breath he'd been holding for two hours. But Q's gaze passed over him with as much boredom as it had come, digesting the room and finding nothing worth changing his expression about. A woman slipped from behind him, tall, ashy-blonde, wearing jodhpurs and riding boots. Q kissed her forehead and nodded her toward a booth in the corner. After a moment of admiring her gate, he made for the bar.

Straight to Picard.

"You're the owner, aren't you? Wine, please, for the lady and myself. Nothing too sour, better make it your most expensive bottle."

How simply Picard might have won this game! Q wasn't even looking at him, was leaning sideways against the bar and pinching off a pair of suede leather riding gloves. When Picard replied with a firm "No," it earned a smirk from him but still nothing in the way of eye contact.

"I assure you we can pay," Q said.

"It isn't the money."

Now Q gave him the full brunt of his attention. Picard watched him work it out, why this Arthur F. Weathersby would be standing there, ready to serve and yet so belligerent—or so out-of-wine. Q's eyes fell to Picard's shirt pocket, and yes, good; Picard had forgotten it was there but it couldn't have gone better if he'd planned it. Picard pulled out the letter and dropped it on the bar between them.

"I'm not doing this, Q. I'm not sure what about forcing me was supposed to make me amenable to the proposition, but I'm as opposed to it as I was aboard the Enterprise, of course—and you have successfully wasted your time and mine." He could have gone on. He'd been cooking up a lecture for the past two hours, but his words' effect on Q was…

Well, it was fascinating.

If Picard had any doubt Q had actually removed his memories, they were gone now. At the word "Enterprise" the tendons in Q's neck had bulged and his face had drained of emotion. Then, after the initial shock had passed, fury reshaped him, his eyes solidifying, his jaw clenching tight. But if Q did not enjoy being shocked he enjoyed being angry even less, for his emotions made a third hard turn, settling upon something to which Picard was much more accustomed: an amused acceptance. Q set his gloves on the bar—so slowly, so carefully, as though they were made of shortbread and might crumble.

"Do you realize," Q began, forcing a smile into a grimace. "Do you realize how difficult it is for me to clear my mind like that?" He flicked the letter and it burst into dust, pelting Picard's shirt like flour. "You should lose by default. But you want that, don't you? This wasn't easy for me, making this completely fair."

"What about this is fair?" A few patrons glanced their way. Picard, out of habit not out of any real desire for decorum, lowered his voice. "No, Q, you will return me to the Enterprise, now. That is the only 'fair' I will accept."

"I shouldn't have offered some vague prize. The fact that I couldn't imagine a prize you would accept should have been clue enough."

"Now, Q."

"Why? What's so horrible about this?"

"Everything."

"The venue? I chose something you knew about. I gave you the memories so you wouldn't have to stutter through. That's most of the work done for you."

"I didn't agree to this. The venue is irrelevant."

"But you've not agreed before and changed your mind."

"That does not make it right."

"You've been glad about it. You've learned from it."

"Not this time, Q."

"Which is what you say every time."

"Not this time!"

Heads turned again. Even the mysterious woman in the jodhpurs glanced up from her book.

"Inside voices," Q said. "We're upsetting your guests."

Picard felt himself grow heavier, thicker, as though he were turning into stone. It wasn't Q but his own anger making it so. Repeating himself was becoming depressing. He retreated to the back bar where he thought of new arguments to hurl at Q. Though comforting to imagine, he eliminated them one after the other for their inadequacy.

Q clasped his hands on the bar. "Don't bother. It's pointless educating me in the nuances of consent. I'm aware of them, and I see their uses where lower life forms are concerned, where safety is an issue, but it isn't here. I'm not some flawed ape. I do know what's best for you. Now, I've tried positive reinforcement with the offer of the prize. I could offer punishment but you've never responded well to that. Frankly, Jean-Luc, I'm surprised you aren't curious. Tired of exploring already?"

"What exactly is there to explore?"

"Me, when I don't know you. How I'd be, what I'd say. I'm curious."

"Of course you are."

"I'm hurt you don't find me as fascinating as I do. There is another way of doing this. I can bring all the captains to us; we'll see if I don't pick you out in a crowd of them."

"No."

"Very well. But this is all that's left if we're not involving your captains or your crew. I ask you again: why have I found you so disgruntled?"

"If you truly have the power to remove your memories, you should try doing to yourself what you've done to me."

"But I can't forget I'm me."

It was like scaling a rock wall. One must reevaluate one's path with each advancement, or where there were no advancements, pursue some other way. "If the point is to remove my rank, to make me indistinguishable from any civilian here, it's absurd that I am in full command of the establishment of our meeting."

"Command isn't the word. A person of your age and intelligence would have some accomplishment, Jean-Luc. But you've overestimated yourself. This is one of thousands of vineyards on this continent alone. I am pleased we're discussing the game."

"One of thousands of its absurdities."

"Well don't be polite. Let's hear them."

"Return me to my ship."

Q turned away.

"You can't play this game without my involvement," Picard said.

Q turned back, his chin high. "Oh can't I?"

What was that supposed to mean? Exactly what he thought it meant, he realized. When Q closed his eyes and opened them again, the moment was over. Q had moved past it—though its aftertaste, like something burnt, would linger in Picard's mouth.

"You're worried," Q said. "Why? Besides my forcing you."

"That is not reason enough?"

"Ignore that one. Please."

"And what if I told you that was all there was?"

"Can you?"

Picard could not.

Oddly enough, he felt better. He had made his point. Lodged his complaint. If he wasn't getting out of this, at least he could proceed knowing he had done his full duty.

"You insist you'll win," Picard said.

"I'm adamant I'll win in exactly the same way you're adamant I won't."

Picard had been adamant he wouldn't play, but he supposed he did think he would win if it came to that. "The terms of your winning are that you will notice me. What if you noticing me involves you hurling me into a black hole and never realizing what you've done?"

Reaching over the counter, Q took the wine bottle Picard had opened. He emptied it into the glass. "You should have some more."

"After we agree on the prize."

Q snapped. The room froze, everyone in their motion; a holodeck program, paused. The flames in the fireplace were glowing, pulsing shards.

"Name your price," Q said, drinking the wine himself.

"It's only as good as your word, which you've broken before."

"When?"

"You once promised to keep away from the Enterprise."

"I kept that promise. You asked me back."

"You coerced me."

"Perfect. I have a feeling your prize concerns my use of coercion."

"You won't be allowed to do it. You'll have to receive a yes, every time. It's a courtesy you should extend to every life form, not only me. It's a moral principle applicable when any sentient species interacts, among themselves or with others, especially the more intelligent, the more capable species such as your Continuum. You have no one to enforce it, Q, but it matters all the more for that."

Q was in the middle of a long sip of wine and did not answer.

"And your prize?" Picard said.

Q set the glass down, empty. "Jean-Luc, this is my prize. I've claimed it advance."

In the corner, the woman's hand had paused in the act of turning the page. She had glanced their way more than once since she'd sat down. Q had not once glanced in hers.

"Who is she? That woman?"

In reply, Q looked amused.

"Three times, Picard. Maybe you'll find out. I'll come in again, shall I?"

As the front door shut, the room returned to life. That was not the only thing. The memories of Arthur F. Weathersby flooded Picard's mind once more. Q must have frozen their whirring like the flames in the fireplace. Now he was stuck with them.

It was disconcerting, remembering how to push them back. He should have asked Q to get rid of them—except maybe Q would sense their absence. Or maybe Q couldn't get rid of them; maybe they were as essential to Arthur as Picard's memories were to him. Picard chided himself for forgetting to inquire after the wellbeing of Arthur, though he doubted Q would have answered a question such as that.

Q came in again. He nodded to the woman in the corner before approaching Picard. This time Picard spoke first.

"So you're the lucky one that goes with her. Someone like that, she's been waiting longer than I would have guessed."

Q squinted at him. He pinched off his gloves finger by finger. "Do you have a wine to recommend? Red, smoky, nothing too acidic. I've come a long way."

"I'll send one over."

"Some accident in the kitchen?" Q denoted Picard's shirt with a downward glance.

The note. Picard laughed. "No, no, nothing like that." He wiped the powder from his shirt with his shining cloth. In his peripheral vision, he watched Q leave.

It was eerie, how simple this was.

One down, two to go.