Episode 2 - When Fictive Worlds Collide

Jean-Luc Picard grew steadily more nervous as he waited for Doctor Crusher to arrive. He flipped through the computerized pages of the Book of All Fictive Things, barely taking time to read an entry before turning to the next one. What had he been thinking, telling Beverly to come up right away? He hadn't given himself time to peruse the book, to find the absolutely perfect place to whisk her off to and proclaim his love.

Sweat broke out on his palms, something which rarely happened to Picard. He hadn't broken a sweat when Tasha Yar had been senselessly killed on Vagra II. He'd barely flinched when Q showed up for the umpteenth time. But now his heart was racing. I'm going to blow this.

It was not a thought he was accustomed to entertaining. Feverishly his eyes swept down the endless lists. A phrase leapt out at him.

Desert island.

He quickly scanned the rest of the entry. The island was practically uninhabited except for seven castaways, whom Picard guessed they could easily avoid. The program had been a comedy, so there shouldn't be any lurking dangers to speak of. It sounded perfect. Picard had a sudden vision of Beverly, out of that enveloping doctor's smock and into a skimpy bathing suit, with tropical flowers in her hair.

Perfect.

The door of his cabin signaled, and Picard said "Come." His voice emerged in a nervous croak, and he cleared his throat and repeated the command.

The door slid open and Beverly Crusher strode in, her auburn hair swinging loose around her shoulders. "You wanted to see me, Captain?"

Picard stood, smiling. "Thank you, Doctor." He couldn't exactly hide the book, but he closed the cover, keeping one finger inside to mark his place. His heart was racing so fast he was glad that the doctor wasn't scanning him with her medical tricorder just now.

"What's that?" Beverly was looking curiously at the book in his hand.

Picard licked his lips. He knew he'd never be able to speak the words to explain it to her, not in this world. He had to stay within his normal behavioral parameters. "Doctor...Beverly. Do you trust me?"

A slight frown puckered her brow. "Why...Jean-Luc. Of course I trust you. I've never known a captain--or a man--with more integrity."

He took a deep breath and walked around the desk to stand beside her. "Then would you mind placing your hand on my arm for a moment, and not taking it away until I tell you?"

Her frown deepened, but it was tempered by the amusement in her eyes. She looked as if she'd like to say something else, but merely placed her hand as he'd asked and said, "Of course."

Picard lifted the book, letting the pages fall open to the place he'd marked. Fighting off the last of his trepidation, he raised his other hand and pressed the small rectangle marked "Enter."

And the Enterprise fell away.

A crackling like static electricity amplified through loudspeakers surrounded Picard for a moment, and vision pixellated into a blizzard that left him blinded. He still felt the book in his hands, Beverly's hand on his arm, but that was all. He thought he heard her gasp, and instinctively moved his free hand to cover hers, to make certain that she didn't lose contact with him. There was little danger of that, however; her hand gripped his arm like a vise.

Within another heartbeat their passage was complete, and sensory input flooded back. Picard blinked in the sudden bright sunlight. The air was heady and moist with the smells of sea and sand and lush foliage. Beverly stood blinking beside him, her hand still holding his arm.

He drew a breath that was more like a groan, dropped the Book, and pulled her into his arms for the crushing kiss they'd both wanted for so long.

He was so caught up in the bliss of their embrace that it took him a moment to realize that Beverly was not...responding quite as he'd hoped. Her hands were against his chest, not gripping his uniform in delight but...pushing at him? The sounds that fell upon his ears were not murmurs of ecstacy but...squeals of protest? Picard came suddenly to his senses and realized that Beverly was actually struggling.

He released her as suddenly as he'd embraced her and she stumbled back a step, face and eyes flaming. When she regained her balance she stepped forward and slapped him resoundingly on the cheek.

"What the hell are you doing, you little French pig?" she hissed, then looked shocked at the words.

Picard massaged his cheek, working his jaw to assure himself that it was not broken. "Kissing you. I didn't think," he said wryly, "that you'd mind."

"I can't believe I said that!"

"Neither can I."

"I mean, I can usually think things like that, but I can't say them..." Beverly glanced around. "Where are we? That was no transporter. And we weren't in range of any planets, anyway." She eyed him suspiciously. "Are we on the holodeck?"

Before Picard could begin to formulate an answer they heard a crashing in the thick jungle off to one side. Instinctively Picard scooped up the Book and moved to place himself between Beverly and whatever was approaching, wishing belatedly that he'd taken his phaser along just in case. Although it probably wouldn't work here, anyway, he realized.

A young man emerged from the underbrush at a stumbling run. He wore a white bucket-style hat, a red shirt, and a goofy look. He pulled up short at the sight of the two strangers and yelled, "Skipper!"

"Ah, it's 'Captain,' actually," Picard began with a self-deprecating smile, but the man wasn't looking at him any longer. He'd turned back to the jungle and cupped his hands around his mouth.

"They're over here, Skipper!" He swung back to face Picard and Beverly. "I knew I heard someone talking! Are you here to rescue us?"

"Er...no. Sorry," said Picard. "We didn't mean to bother you, so if you'll excuse us," he reached for Beverly's arm and took a step away from the young man.

"I'm Gilligan," the young man said. "The Skipper's right behind me. Did you get shipwrecked here, too? Although," he continued, frowning, "there haven't been any storms lately. And why are you wearing those weird clothes?"

Picard could feel the sweat trickling under his 'weird clothes' and it wasn't just the heat from the tropical sun overhead. Beverly jerked her arm out of his grasp. What the devil was wrong with her, anyway? And why hadn't he thought this whole plan through a little better? He tried again. "We're sorry to have intruded, er, Mr. Gilligan, so we'll just leave you--"

"Are you from space?" the young man asked suddenly. "Because those look like some kind of space clothes to me. Hey, Skipper," he yelled, "I think these folks are from outer space!"

Picard heard Beverly stifle a giggle behind him and ground his teeth. He wasn't used to things going this badly. Before he could say anything else, however, another man emerged from the jungle. This man was older and heavier than the first, wearing a old-Earth style captain's hat and blue shirt.

He stopped, sizing up the newcomers, then suddenly seemed to realize what the younger man had said.

"Space?" he snorted. "What are you talking about?"

The younger man gestured at Picard and Beverly. "Look at their clothes! I said I think they might be from outer space. They couldn't have been wrecked, since we haven't had a storm, and where else could they come from?"

The older man shook his head dismissively. "Space. You don't know anything about space."

"I do know one thing, Skipper," the younger man said, grinning. "You take up more of it than I do."

The Skipper glared at the younger man and Picard cleared his throat, about to make another attempt to extricate himself and Beverly from the pair. He really didn't want to simply use the Book to return to the Enterprise until he'd had a chance to talk to Beverly...alone. He sighed. This couldn't have gone more wrong.

"Gentlemen," Beverly said suddenly, stepping forward a little.

Both men turned to look at her, and Picard could see them stand a little straighter, trying to smooth out their clothes. The younger one whispered to the Skipper, although his voice carried clearly in the heavy air. "Another redhead! Wonder what Ginger'll think of that?"

"Gentlemen," she said again, smiling sweetly at them. "I wonder if you'd excuse us for a moment?

The Skipper doffed his cap. "Certainly, Ma'am," he said. And then behind his hand, to the younger man, "Watch them, Gilligan. I'm going to get the Professor."

Beverly walked a few feet away and then turned to Picard. "Are you going to tell me what's going on here?" she demanded in a low voice, trying to maintain a facade of pleasantness for the young man watching them.

Picard sighed and gestured with the book, unused to feeling this off-balance. "I had a chance to get us away from the Enterprise and I took it. I apologize. I've thought, for a long time, that you--returned my feelings. I can see I was wrong."

Beverly looked puzzled. "I know...I always acted as if I were in love with you, but actually I wasn't. I could never figure out why I behaved that way, to tell you the truth. It was as if I didn't have a choice. Now, Worf, there's a guy I could really--"

"You were just written that way," Picard said absently, glancing back at the man named Gilligan. "I didn't consider that possibility..."

She poked him in the chest. "Written what way? What are you talking about?"

"I suppose I could just press the button to take us back," Picard continued to muse, ignoring her. "But it doesn't seem fair to them, somehow. Although Galorop didn't really give me any guidelines for interacting with the natives...still it doesn't seem right..." Picard grimaced. He was used to knowing exactly how to handle any situation, however complex. He was a man of action. He was a Starfleet Captain. This waffling on important decisions was a feature of freedom that he wasn't sure he liked.

Beverly waved a hand in front of his face. "Jean-Luc, are you listening to me? I demand to be told what's going on! Who's Galorop? I've never seen you act like this before."

"Never mind. I'll explain later. Right now we have to get out of here before the other six of them turn up. It really isn't fair to complicate things for them any more than we already have."

"Six of them? How do you know there are six of them? You're not making any sense!" Beverly said, but Picard had already turned away and strode toward Gilligan.

"I imagine you're wondering if we have a ship," he said brightly to the young man.

"A ship! Do you really have a ship? Wait 'till the Skipper hears this!" He turned back to the jungle. "Skipper!"

"No! No, wait, er...Gilligan. You were right, you know. We are from outer space. You're obviously a very observant young man."

Gilligan's face lit up, and Picard continued hurriedly, "But unfortunately we can't help you and your friends. Our ship is very small, and we couldn't rescue all of you. I think we'd better go before the others come back. They might not be as...understanding as you. We'll...we'll try to send help if we can."

Gilligan nodded. "Yeah, Mr. Howell would be pretty mad, and Mary Anne would be sad...The Professor's going to be sorry he missed, you, though."

Picard smiled. "Well, I'm sorry to have missed him, too." He extended his hand, and Gilligan shook it eagerly. "I'm pleased to have met you, Gilligan. Can you delay the others for a moment if they try to come after us?"

Gilligan nodded, and Picard felt a pang of guilt for tricking him so easily. I shouldn't feel that way, he told himself. That's just the way he's written.

Hefting the Book and taking Beverly's arm, he pushed into the jungle until they reached a small clearing well out of Gilligan's sight. Quickly he rifled through the pages until he found the one that would take them home.

He looked up to find Beverly's eyes on him. She stood with her hands on her hips. "I'm still waiting for an explanation, Jean-Luc," she said.

There wasn't time, and if he was honest with himself, Picard knew he was still smarting from her rejection. She hadn't even apologized for hurting his feelings!

"I'll tell you all about it back on the ship," he lied easily, knowing full well that he wouldn't be able to speak the words, and she wouldn't be able to ask the question. He'd see it there in her eyes, but she'd just have to wonder. He felt a spark of faintly malicious glee that was completely foreign to him, but strangely satisfying.

She rolled her eyes and put her hand on his arm. "Hurry up, then. We have a lot to talk about."

We certainly do, he thought, but it will be when I decide. He pressed the "Enter" button for home, already starting to wonder where he might go to sample a little freedom next. And who he'd take with him next time.

NEXT...Episode 3 - Everybody Needs A Vacation

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