Episode 1 - A Captain Constrained

Jean-Luc Picard, Captain of the Starship Enterprise, stood staring at the replicator. His face was, as usual, impassive, but inside he was seething.

He wanted to order a drink. It was hot in the cabin, he'd just finished a fencing workout, and he wanted something cool and refreshing. But he knew what was going to come out of his mouth when he spoke, whether he wanted it to or not. Picard took a deep breath and tugged his jacket down. Not this time, he thought. Not this time. I am not going to order fricking tea.

"Tea, Earl Grey, hot."

Only long years of self-control kept him from screaming as the words hung in the hot cabin air and a steaming cup shimmered into existence inside the replicator. He stood glaring at it for a long moment, then stalked over to his desk and sat down heavily. What was wrong with him?

For so long he hadn't really noticed anything wrong--there were always so many other things happening on the ship that there was no time to think about all the things he did without thinking. But he was an observant man, and over time he couldn't help noticing that there were many things he did when actually he wanted to do something quite different.

At first he'd thought it was just habit. He was in the habit of drinking hot Earl Grey tea, so that's what he ordered without even thinking. But then when he did start to think about it, wanted to order something else and actually tried to, he realized that there was a problem. He still ordered the tea whether he wanted to or not. It was the same thing today. And he'd really, really tried to order something different today.

Idly he punched up the crew roster on his screen, wondering if there was someone he should talk to about this. Will Riker, perhaps? He pursed his lips, looking at the face of his first officer. No, he'd start worrying right away, thinking Picard was under some sort of alien control or losing his mind. Data? The android knew all about programming and the obstacles to overcoming it, but somehow he didn't think Data would be much help in this instance. Beverly Crusher's face scrolled up on the screen and Picard felt a renewed surge of anger. There was another thing.

He was in love with this woman, dammit, and he felt certain she returned his affection. But something always transpired to keep them apart, to keep him from saying what he really wanted to say. All that bunk about him being "married to his career" and her not being over her dead husband. There were times he thought he'd go mad if he didn't just sweep her into his arms and kiss her. But he never did, even when the circumstances were right. They'd both utter something inane, share a charged look, and walk away, even though he was doing everything in his power to make a grab for her instead.

He switched off the screen and buried his face in his hands, running them back over his smooth head. Something must be drastically wrong. Perhaps he was losing his mind.

An echoing ping made him look up, and even his long years of experience hadn't prepared him for the ugliness of the alien that sat--if you could call it sitting--in a chair across from him. Picard thought he'd encountered just about everything there was, from almost-humans with a few unusual options to creatures that were as un-human as you could get, but this one was different. It seemed to be a mass of appendages, tentacles, tendrils and antennae with no clear central focus or anything resembling a face. On what Picard supposed one might call its "lap" it held a large, old-fashioned, leather-bound book. The creature was predominantly grey, although a wide range of colors made brief appearances on various parts of its body.

Picard stood and said in his best captain's voice, "Who are you and how did you get aboard my ship?"

A wet chuckling sound emerged from the creature. "Relax, Picard," it said in a voice that was quite pleasant. "I've come to help you."

"I don't believe I require your assistance at the present time," Picard heard himself say. He was thinking, what the hell is this thing? "How did you get aboard this starship?"

"You left your tea in the replicator," said the creature. "Didn't you want it?"

Picard had been lifting his hand to his communicator to call for security, but he let it fall back to his side. "Have you been watching me?"

The creature shrugged, producing a ripple effect that was quite fascinating in a disgusting sort of way. It patted the book. "Would you rather have something else? Lemonade, perhaps?"

Picard kept his face impassive, but he took a sharp breath. How could this alien thing know what he'd been thinking? Oh, wait. He sat down again.

"Are you one of the Q?" he asked tiredly. "Because I feel compelled to tell you that I'm pretty much tired of them."

"No, I'm not a Q," the creature said. "You could get that lemonade now, if you wanted. Go and try it."

I shouldn't do that, Picard thought. I should stand here impassively and not let it get to me, call for security and get this thing sorted out. But I'm curious. He looked at the creature for a long moment, then walked over to the replicator. The tea was still there, steaming annoyingly, and Picard picked it up and set it carefully off to the side. He took a breath.

"Lemonade, cold, with ice cubes--and a shot of vodka," he added belatedly. He looked back at the creature, startled that he'd been able to get the words out at all. It hadn't even been a struggle. A clink brought his attention back to the replicator, and there was a tall tumbler, ice cubes swirling lazily in the pale yellow liquid and condensation already forming on the sides of the glass.

Picard picked it up slowly, in disbelief, and took a sip. It was delicious. He walked back to his desk and sat down, staring at his visitor.

"How was that possible?" he asked. "You don't know how many times I've tried..."

The creature made a movement that seemed like nodding, although without an obvious head it was difficult to tell for sure. "Captain Picard, I'm here to offer you a deal."

Picard leaned back, taking a long pull of the lemonade. It was the best thing he'd ever tasted, but his natural wariness came to the fore at the creature's words.

"What sort of a deal? I won't do anything to endanger my ship or this crew."

"No, no, nothing of the sort. I've brought you this," the alien leaned forward and placed the book it had been holding on Picard's desk, "and I'm hoping you'll make good use of it." It turned the book so that the title faced Picard.

"The Book of All Fictive Things," he read, frowning. "What is it?"

"It's a collection of all the stories mankind has told over the centuries, since the dawn of written history," the creature told him. "All the worlds and characters created by human imagination, in writing, movies, television...it's all in there."

Picard stared at the book. "It's not big enough," he said finally.

The creature made that wet laughing sound again. "Oh yes, just look here." It opened the cover with a blue-tinged tentacle and Picard saw that each "page" was actually a paper-thin computerized screen, with menus running down its length. He reached out tentatively and touched an entry, "Television shows of the 1950's" and another menu opened.

"Fascinating," Picard said. "But what has it got to do with me, and why I was suddenly able to order this lemondae?" He couldn't help taking another drink. It was just so damn good after what seemed like buckets and buckets of tea.

"With me here, you're operating 'outside the book,' as we call it," the creature said. "I'm creating a temporary fictive rift wherein you are no longer constrained by the behavioural parameters specified in your series bible."

Picard looked at him blankly. He'd heard loads of scientific techno-babble over the years, but he couldn't make head nor tail out of that one. He wanted to say, what the hell are you talking about, freak? but he knew he couldn't speak those words; whatever he tried to say, it would come out prim and proper and captian-like.

"What the hell are you talking about, freak?" Picard said, and blinked in surprise.

The creature giggled. "Now, wasn't that fun?"

Picard glared at him. He was getting a headache. He drank some more lemonade.

The alien sobered, arranging its tendrils in a way that somehow managed to convey thoughtfulness. "You know you're a fictive creation, living in a fictional universe created specifically for entertainment purposes, right?"

"No," Picard said slowly. "I didn't know that." I wonder if it's time to call for security. Although there's still the matter of the lemonade.

"Oh, yes, you were created in the late twentieth century as a 'spin-off' of a previous television program. You were very popular," the alien added.

"That's nice to know," Picard said skeptically.

"Look, you're in here," the creature said, turning the pages of the book eagerly. It pressed a couple of menus so quickly that Picard didn't have a chance to read them all, but the screen that finally filled the page was headed, "Star Trek: The Next Generation."

Beneath that was the heading, "Cast" and his eyes stopped at the first name. "Captain Jean-Luc Picard," it read, and next to it on the same line, "Patrick Stewart."

"Who's this Stewart chap?" Picard asked.

The creature shrugged again. "That's just the fellow who played your character in the program. He's not important. We're not in an episode of the program right now, we're just in the fictive world. But what I'm trying to tell you is that with this book, you don't have to stay here."

Picard had begun to read further down the list. William Riker, Data, Geordie LaForge, Beverly...they were all there. Under "Guest Appearances" were names of people he'd met only once or twice. Beside every name was another name, one he'd never heard of. None of it made much sense to him. He downed the rest of the lemonade, half-wishing he'd asked for the vodka straight.

"All the things you can't do here, you can do in these other fictive worlds," the creature continued, "because in those worlds you're not bound by the behavioural parameters of your own world. You can travel between them by means of this book, explore, relax, be yourself. You can come back here whenever you want, because your world is in the book, too."

Picard sat unmoving for a moment, trying to take it all in. It still didn't make much sense, and it took a whole lot of effort to suddenly start believing that you were merely a fictional character that someone had made up, instead of the actual captain of an actual starship. What about the Federation? What about the Borg? What about all those other important things he'd seen and done and been part of?

"What do you get out of this?" he asked suddenly. Fictional character or not, Picard had 'lived' enough to know that there was no such thing as a free lunch. Or even a free lemondade.

The creature moved its appendages again, seeming slightly...embarrassed?

"I...er...work for an entertainment conglomerate," it said slowly. "Our people are terribly fond of human entertainment forms. Most forms, I should say. It's sort of a passion among us."

"And?"

It shifted uncomfortably. "Lately the trends in human entertainment have been moving in a direction that my people don't care for as much. There's been a revival on my world of many of the old formats and series, but there's also been clamouring for something new. But we're not getting what we want from humans directly."

"What trends?" Picard looked across at his shelf of beloved real-paper-and-binding books.

"Something called 'reality' shows, for one thing," the creature said with a delicate shudder of distaste, "but that's not really important, either. What we've done with the Book of All Fictive Things, you see, is create a way that characters from different fictive worlds can interact, creating new stories in worlds that my people already know and love. We think they're going to go wild for this," it said, leaning forward with an air of confidentiality.

Picard leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his face, tapping the tips against his chin. "Sooo...if I did take you up on your offer, accept this book and travel in some of its worlds, your people would be...watching me?"

"With absolute fascination," the alien said eagerly.

"I don't know if I'd be quite comfortable with that," Picard said.

"But people have been watching everything you do for years now," the alien pressed. "You just didn't know it. You'd just have to put that part of it out of your head. After all, it's not like you're ever going to meet anyone from my world."

"I've met you," Picard said pointedly.

The creature shrugged. "I don't really count. And I never--"

Picard raised his eyebrows.

"I never really watched your particular program," the creature said sheepishly. "But I'm told it was very good."

Ugly little bastard, Picard thought, but he said nothing. He glanced at the empty lemonade glass. In spite of how difficult it was, he believed everything this strange alien had told him. Somehow it made sense. It certainly explained a number of things he'd said and done over the years that he'd questioned internally but couldn't seem to control. And all the things he'd wanted to say and do but couldn't.

The book still lay open on the desk. "How does it work?"

The alien stretched a thin tentacle toward the book. "See this spot in the corner?" It gestured to a square at the top of the screen labelled "Enter." "Once you find a world you want to visit, just touch that button twice in quick succession. It will take you to the selected world. Make certain you're holding the book when you do it, because if you travel to another world without the book, you can't get back here or anywhere else."

"You mean I have to lug this thing around with me all the time?"

"Yes, but look," the alien said. It closed the book and pressed a small indentation on the spine. In a blurry swirl that reminded Picard of a holodeck powering down, the book transformed into a large ring. Picard picked it up. It was a signet ring of dull metal, with the letters BAFT inscribed inside a book-shaped crest on the face.

"Take it off and rap the face on a hard surface once to turn it back into a book," said the alien. "Couldn't be simpler, really."

"Indeed," said Picard. He was still staring at the ring. "Can I take someone with me into these other worlds?" he asked.

The creature nodded. "As long as they're touching you when you press the Enter button. Of course, after I leave you won't be able to explain any of this to them until you're actually in one of the other fictive worlds. The fictive rift will close when I leave, and then you'll be constrained--"

"By the behavioural parameters of my own world again. Yes, I understand." Picard took a deep breath and slipped the ring onto the middle finger of his right hand. "And if I need to contact you?"

The creature shook itself. "You won't. But in the event that you did, just get to any of the other fictive worlds, open the book to the back page, and ask for Galorop."

Picard felt a pang of Federation conscience and grimaced. "I must apologize. I didn't even ask your name."

"Don't worry about it. Most who encounter us don't even imagine we have names."

Picard wondered if it would make some move to stand or slither out of the chair, but it merely said, "I'm glad we could do business, Captain," and disappeared from sight with only a slight ping, just as when it had appeared.

Picard slid the ring off, considered it for a moment, then rapped the face once off the surface of the desk. In a blur of motion that happened too quickly to actually make out what had happened, the ring transformed again into the Book of All Fictive Things. Picard rubbed his hands together and opened the front cover, running his eyes down the long list of menu items on the first page. He turned to the next page and it occurred to him that he hadn't asked the creature--Galorop--why it had chosen him, Picard, to come to with this offer. There was obviously an enormous array of characters and worlds in the book, many of whom, he was sure, must share his confusion.

"Of course," he murmured to himself, a little smile tweaking his lips, "we were very popular."

He touched his comm badge. "Medical. Doctor Crusher, could I see you in my quarters whenever it's convenient?"

Beverly's voice came over the comm. "Are you ill, Captain?"

"No, I'm quite well. There's just a little matter I'd like to discuss with you."

"I'm on my way," she said.

You don't know the half of it, he thought, smiling, but said nothing, turning pages and considering the possibilities.

NEXT...Episode 2 - When Fictive Worlds Collide