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Only Human

Part III: Yamato

This is the revised version of Part III, as I discovered I've been
posting an older version all along.  There have been minor changes made
throughout, and Section 7 has new material at the end.  As I begin
reposting Part III, it is as of yet incomplete.  I don't know
how many pieces it's going to end up being, total.

ONLY HUMAN (for those who haven't caught the story thus far) is an
alternate universe, based on the premise that Q lost his powers for
good in "Deja Q."  In exchange for protection, he offered the
Federation the benefit of his advanced knowledge, and was transferred
to Starbase 56.  Three years later, miserable beyond endurance, Q
attempted to kill himself.

Dr. T'Laren, Vulcan xenopsychologist and former Starfleet counselor,
turned up at this point, claiming that Starfleet had hired her as Q's
therapist.  In fact, it turned out that she was really hired by the Q
Continuum, in the person of the Q who got Q thrown out, whom T'Laren
refers to as Lhoviri.  T'Laren persuaded Q to accept her help and allow
her to counsel him through his depression.  To that end, they left
Starbase 56 on T'Laren's ship Ketaya-- a gift from Lhoviri, with some
surprising capabilities-- and headed for the starship Yamato, which was
currently hosting a physics conference.

Over the course of the past weeks of travel, Q has come to trust
T'Laren, more or less, though they've had some knock-down-drag-out
fights in the process.  At the end of Part II, Q decided that he no
longer wanted to die.  As Part III begins, they are just docking with
Yamato.

Parts I and II are available through ftp from ftp.netcom.com, /pub
/al/aleph/trek, human1.zip and human2.zip.  They are also available
from ftp.cis.ksu.edu in /pub/alt.startrek.creative/incomplete.  Part
III, which is as yet unfinished, is available to the extent that it
exists in the Netcom ftp site mentioned above.  Send requests,
comments, praise and flames to [e-mail] or [e-mail].

Only Human

Part III: Yamato

    If Commander Derek Wilde had been called on to compare his
headache with Commodore Eleanor Anderson's, or with anyone's at all, he
was sure his would win.
    Captain Okita had smiled when he said it. "I think it would be
good practice for you to have primary responsibility for the
conference, Mr. Wilde," he'd said cheerfully. "Hone your diplomatic
skills. Give you a wider range of command experience." What he meant
was, "I don't want to be bothered babysitting these people, so I'm
sticking you with it, Derek." Thank you *so* much, kindly mentor Okita.
    It was, he was sure, a recipe for sure disaster. Take 40 of the
most brilliant-- and most temperamental-- minds in the Federation.
Bring them together on a single Galaxy-class starship for a scientific
conference regarding a singularity sitting squatly just out of range to
suck Yamato into itself. Oh, and add that the science officer for that
Galaxy-class starship, Lieutenant Commander Shahrazad Dhawan, was
herself one of the most brilliant and temperamental minds in the
Federation, that she had very strong opinions on the nature of the
singularity and resented the hell out of the need for a scientific
conference. Further stipulate that because of the science officer's
passionate and highly undiplomatic nature, most of the science
department's liaison duties to the conference were being carried out by
a naive young Vulcan, who would have been described as an airhead had
she not been a phenomenal genius, since her innocence of other species'
ways was as great as her intellect. All in all, Wilde was convinced
that the conference was a disaster waiting to happen.
    He was now attempting to convince himself that Yamato's science
officer was not totally insane. "You *pulled a knife* on Dr. Morakh."
    Dhawan nodded, completely unapologetic. "You ever been to a
Klingon scientific conference, Commander? That's an accepted part of
scientific debate."
    "You are not a Klingon, Dhawan! You're a Starfleet officer!"
    "Yes, but I was debating with a Klingon. You have to speak to
people in a language they understand."
    "So speak to him in Klingon. *Don't* pull a *knife* on him! My
God, what if he'd attacked you and you'd killed him? Or he'd killed
you?"
    "I'm good enough not to get killed in a debate. And he'd never
have achieved his current level of pre-eminence in the scientific world
if he was careless enough to get killed by a human woman with a
pocketknife."
    "That *thing* was hardly a pocketknife, mister."
    Lieutenant Sovaz, watching the debate with interest, piped up.
"Actually, it was a ceremonial dagger of the Cianni, used for combats
in their mating and political rituals. Commander Dhawan received it
from the Cianni when she defeated--"
    "Enough, Sovaz," Dhawan snapped. The young Vulcan woman quieted
instantly.
    "Do you understand the diplomatic ramifications of this? A
Starfleet officer attacked a Klingon scientist with a ceremonial
dagger?"
    "I didn't attack him," Dhawan protested. "I pulled it out and told
him I'd cut off his balls if he insulted my methodology one more time.
And you should have heard his insults, Commander. I would have lost
face if I hadn't threatened him."
    "I don't care about your lost face! This is a Starfleet vessel,
one of the premier vessels of the fleet. We have an example--"
    "We also have an obligation to honor other people's cultures,
don't we?"
    Dhawan smiled innocently. Wilde controlled the urge to punch her.
"We are hosting a multi-species conference of highly touchy and
incompatible people. We have a Klingon and his retinue. We have a
Tellarite. We have two Andorians and a Nausicaan. We have a Cardassian-
- on a ship where the Counselor we're relying on to help mediate is
Bajoran. We have a large number of very volatile human personalities.
Scheduled to come aboard still, we have a Romulan woman, a former
energy being who specialized in harassing people for several million
years, and a woman from god only knows what species with god only knows
what problems. The only way we're going to keep control of this
madhouse is to follow Starfleet diplomatic guidelines. And that means
that *you* are going to control your temper, is that understood,
mister?"
    "Understood, Commander," Dhawan said calmly. Meaning, most likely,
"I'll say whatever you want and then do what I like, Commander."
    Wilde felt he hadn't made his point, and opened his mouth to start
again, when his communicator went off. "Wilde here."
    "Sir, Ketaya is docking. Q will be coming aboard in a few
minutes."
    "My favorite," Wilde muttered. "Acknowledged." He turned toward
the door. "Mr. Sovaz, meet me in the main transporter room in ten
minutes."
    "Aye, sir."

    Lieutenant Sovaz often found humans hopelessly confusing.
    This was hardly a surprise. Sovaz often found Vulcans hopelessly
confusing as well. She had long ago accepted that she simply didn't
live in the same universe as most people, whatever their species, and
yet she still persisted in the belief that on some level, others must
be fundamentally like her. She was puzzled by Commander Dhawan's
unwillingness to meet the scientists as they came aboard-- Sovaz
herself couldn't wait until they were all aboard. "We're going to meet
some of the greatest minds in the Federation," Sovaz had said three
days ago. "I would think that a human would be excited by the
opportunity."
    Dhawan had grinned. "Does that mean that you're excited, Sovaz?"
    It was not very Vulcan to admit to a human that one was excited.
"I confess I'm looking forward to this with great anticipation," Sovaz
said instead.
    "Well, I'm glad someone is," Dhawan had said, and had never
explained to Sovaz why she didn't feel the excitement Sovaz would
expect a human to feel. Or why no one else on the ship seemed to feel
such excitement, either.
    Earlier today, when Sovaz had been told that Q was expected to
arrive today, she *had*, in fact, felt excitement. She had performed a
calming exercise, but had to admit that it had not been entirely
successful. Everyone else who was coming aboard was brilliant, a
scientific luminary, someone Sovaz looked up to and respected. But all
of them had acquired their knowledge from more or less the same places
Sovaz had acquired hers. Q had millions of years of experience in
practical physics, and had once known literally everything there was to
know about the physical universe. Even now, if her understanding of his
situation was correct, he knew more or less everything it was possible
for a human being to comprehend. Q could answer any question Sovaz had-
- all she had to do was think of the right questions to ask. It was
quite a thrilling notion, and not entirely illogical that she *should*
feel excitement at such a prospect. Curiosity was an accepted emotion,
after all. If anyone had asked Sovaz if she were excited, she would
have in all honesty had to answer "yes."
    And yet...
    She heard Tanai, the comm officer, say to Wilde, "Ketaya is
docking," and it blotted out the pleasure she'd expected to feel at the
prospect of meeting Q. The word Ketaya was a reminder of a grief she
had never entirely been able to overcome. Sovaz held her face as still
as she could as she acknowledged Wilde's order. But she walked to the
transporter room more slowly than usual, and fought for mastery of
feelings she had never truly been able to deny.
    To most Vulcans, a ketaya was a nuisance, flying in windows left
open and stealing shiny objects, or digging through improperly covered
refuse. On her Kahs-wan, Sovaz had seen a ketaya digging out the eyes
of a dead sahar, a sleek predator of the mountains. They were much like
Terran magpies or ravens, scavengers and tricksters, and unlike their
Terran counterparts the ketayas were green, the exact shade of blood.
None of this meant much to modern Vulcans. When Sovaz had been a child,
though, the ketaya was a magic bird, harbinger of death and
transformation in the ancient myths her older sister would tell her.
    She remembered sitting on T'Laren's lap, transfixed by the visions
a tale invoked in her. T'Laren would change her voice when she spoke
different parts-- high and sweet for a ketaya, growling and gruff for a
sehlat, cruel and bitter for a le'matya. Or she would tell stories of
ancient gods, when creatures far beyond the ken of mortals walked the
surface of Vulcan. Sovaz knew perfectly well that such stories were
illogical-- sehlats did not really talk, and she was quite positive
that even in the days before Surak gods did not walk around on Vulcan--
but she didn't care. The stories were fun, and if her older sister
chose to tell them to her, who was she, a small child, to contradict
her elders?
    Sometimes there had been conflicts. She remembered once, when
T'Laren had been telling her a story, her brother Soram entered the
room and stared. Sovaz squirmed slightly, uncomfortable under her elder
brother's gaze. She knew, though she was not sure how, that Soram
disapproved.
    "You should not fill the child's head with lies, T'Laren," he'd
said. Actually, he'd said "my betrothed one," not "T'Laren", and after
they actually got married he always called T'Laren "wife." Sovaz didn't
know why. Mother and Father called each other by their proper names.
    T'Laren had shaken her head. "Is that all you can see in the old
stories, Soram? Lies?"
    "They are obviously not true. Therefore they are lies. I don't see
how that is a difficult conclusion to draw."
    "Simply because they're not true doesn't make them lies. That's a
very black and white argument." T'Laren had gently removed Sovaz from
her lap. "Embedded in a fictional story can be powerful truths, that
would sound insipid if simply stated flatly. Some truths require the
resonance of symbolism. And children are well-equipped to interpret
symbolism, better than they are to interpret plain facts."
    "You speak of human children, betrothed. Not Vulcans."
    "There is little difference at Sovaz's age."
    "And you, of course, are an expert on the raising of Vulcan
children."
    T'Laren had raised her eyebrow. "You are not my father, betrothed.
Nor are you hers. If you have a difficulty with my treatment of your
little sister, take it up with your father. Should he choose to ask
that I stop, I will obey." She had turned back to Sovaz as Soram left,
stiff-shouldered. "Now where were we?"
    Not all her stories were of Vulcan's past. Sometimes she told
stories of Earth, which seemed as distant and impossible a place as the
once-upon-a-time land where Vulcan's ancient myths took place. Sovaz
had protested and called her a liar when T'Laren told her that water
fell out of the sky on Earth, and that every ten or fifteen years it
did the same thing on Vulcan. T'Laren had shown her holotapes to prove
it. And sometimes, T'Laren had said, it grew very cold on Earth, and
the water that fell from the sky froze to ice before it hit the ground.
But it formed very tiny, powdery, white ice crystals that covered the
ground like sand, and that human children would play in, bundled in
warm clothing. Sovaz found this as likely as the notion of talking
ketayas, but T'Laren assured her that it was true. And if that could be
true, then *anything* could be. The universe was full of wonders. As
Sovaz had grown older and T'Laren had advanced in Starfleet, T'Laren
would come home on leave with more wondrous stories of places she had
visited. Sovaz determined to follow her parents' and brother's
footsteps into Starfleet, not for their sake, but for the stories
T'Laren told her.
    Two years ago, T'Laren had stolen a shuttle and thrown herself out
into the skies over Vulcan, ending her stories forever.     Grief was
appropriate, was proper, at a loss of such magnitude. But it was the
Vulcan way to grieve and then to master the grief, to remember the life
without pain. And Sovaz could not. After two years, she still grieved.
There was a question left unanswered, and Sovaz, who would not
acknowledge that any mystery must remain forever unsolved, was forced
to face the fact that she would never learn why her older sister died.
If it had been an accident, she could research the cause and comprehend
it, someday; if it had been murder, she could have questioned the
killer. But T'Laren's murderer was forever beyond questioning.
    It made no *sense*. Why would anyone kill themselves? It went
against the most fundamental drives of any sentient race! It was
illogical in the extreme, and the explanations Sovaz had been given
were no explanations at all. Words like "unwell" were used to describe
T'Laren, before her death-- as if Sovaz, an ensign in Starfleet at the
time, was too much of a child to understand the truth. After her death,
occasionally the word "insane" was used. But that explained nothing.
Had T'Laren been too mad to know what she was doing? Had she believed
she could breathe in space, that she would fly among the stars without
a ship? Or had she known what she was doing? And if she had, *how*
could she have done it? *How could she have abandoned those who cared
for her-- abandoned me?*
    Sovaz had questioned Soram, sure that T'Laren's bondmate had to
have known what was going through her mind-- but Soram told her that he
had kept his mind closed to T'Laren since her insanity first
manifested. The final communication he had with her, her deathcry, was
the first he'd had in months. And when Sovaz asked if he had sensed
anything in that final cry as to her emotions-- did she feel triumph?
release? despair? joy?-- he looked at her as if she had committed an
obscenity and said that he would not speak of it.
    Today she was to meet a person who knew the answers to all the
questions Sovaz might have, except for that one-- *why did T'Laren kill
herself?* And she would give up the answers to all the other questions,
she would give up this opportunity she'd been given, if only she could
learn the answer to that one...
    But that was foolishness. Sovaz forced composure. She should
concentrate on the opportunities she did have. And concentrate on doing
her job, and making Q feel welcome here.
    She entered the transporter room. Counselor Tris and Security
Chief Washington were already there, Washington in a dress uniform and
Tris in what Sovaz presumed was a Bajoran dress uniform. When Tris wore
a uniform at all, it was a Bajoran military uniform; he wasn't
Starfleet, exactly. Sovaz made sure she was composed, and took a deep
breath.
    Commander Wilde came in. "Q's party is ready to beam up, sir," the
transporter chief told him.
    "Right. Energize."
    For a moment, as the shimmering forms took solidity on the
transporter platform, Sovaz saw the man she had come to greet, a tall
slender human. Then her attention was entirely caught by his companion.
She stared at the Vulcan woman materializing, unable to believe her
eyes. Could it possibly be true? Somehow, some way, could Soram have
been wrong?
    Then the two had fully materialized, and Sovaz was sure. Emotions
surged in her, beyond all hope of control. "T'Laren!" she cried, and
lunged forward, breaking ranks. "*Sister!* You're *alive!*"
    T'Laren stepped back slightly and studied her with the same utter
coldness Soram had given her when she had been overemotional.
"Lieutenant Sovaz," she said in a coolly correct voice, obviously
reading Sovaz's rank from her pips. "I was unaware that you had been
posted to Yamato."
    Sovaz stepped backward in bewilderment and growing mortification.
Why was T'Laren being so cold? So... traditionalist? Was she ashamed of
Sovaz for the emotions Sovaz had shown? She must be, yet why? It wasn't
like T'Laren to reprove Sovaz for emotions-- maybe she was wrong and it
wasn't really T'Laren? But no, it had to be-- how would she have known
Sovaz's name?
    Commander Wilde stepped forward, hastily filling the awkward
moment with talk. "Welcome to the Yamato. I'm Commander Derek Wilde,
first officer. I'm responsible for the conference."
    Q watched the interchange between Sovaz and T'Laren with dawning
interest. It seemed perhaps that this conference would be far more
entertaining than he'd thought. He was slightly amused at Wilde's
attempt to cover, and decided to make life difficult for the man. "So
the captain doesn't think I'm worthy of his personal attention, is that
it?"
    "Not at all!" Wilde said stoutly. "Captain Okita will see you
after you've had time to get settled in and comfortable. He believes
people should be at ease before meeting with ship's captains. This is
our security chief, Lieutenant Ken Washington--" a tall human with
curly, chocolate-brown hair and big blue eyes, who looked far too young
for his job and far too serious for his youth-- "Counselor Tris--" a
male Bajoran in a non-Starfleet uniform with black hair and strangely
feral dark eyes, who was glaring at T'Laren-- "and Lieutenant Sovaz,
science liaison to the conference. And you must be Q, right?"
    That was a space-filler question if Q ever heard one. He jerked
his thumb at T'Laren. "No, she's Q. I'm A."
    T'Laren said severely, in her I-Am-The-Ultimate-Vulcan voice, "I
am Doctor T'Laren, Q's psychiatrist."
    "Ah." Wilde nodded. "Pleased to meet you, Doctor." He turned back
to Q. "Sovaz'll take you to your quarters, get you--"
    "I would prefer another guide, Commander," T'Laren said in the
same icy voice.
    "Fine," the Bajoran snapped. "I'll do it." He grabbed T'Laren's
arm and tugged her off the platform with a complete lack of diplomacy.
Q smiled, intrigued. This was getting better and better.
    In the corridor, Tris snapped, "What the *hell* are you trying to
pull, T'Laren?"
    "I am not trying to 'pull' anything."
    "*Don't* give me that shit! I want an explanation-- if for nothing
else, then what you did to Sovaz. That was just inexcusable."
    "I have no desire to discuss it," T'Laren said, glancing back at
Q.
    "Fine. We'll talk later." Tris released T'Laren's arm and strode
ahead.
    "Hardly a very diplomatic young man, is he," Q murmured. "Though
for a Bajoran, I suppose he's a radiant source of goodwill."
    "Q. Be quiet."
    "So what's this about your sister? I'm astonished, T'Laren. You
told *me* you had no siblings. Was this perhaps an oversight?"
    "I have no sister."
    "Sovaz seemed to believe otherwise."
    "Sovaz is mistaken. She is not my sister."
    "And that solves everything, doesn't it?" Tris muttered, loudly
enough to be audible to Q.
    He palmed open a door. "These are your quarters. There's two
bedrooms, with individual locks, and a living room and bathroom
accessible from both. Here--" he handed Q a round badge of some sort--
"is your guest combadge. If you need anything, don't hesitate to call."
    "Can I have a Starfleet uniform?" Q asked. "Red."
    Tris seemed to think about it. "Mmmm-- no," he said decisively.
    "Why not?"
    "Stop it," T'Laren said sharply.
    "Because you're not Starfleet," Tris said, "and if I can't have a
Starfleet uniform, neither can you. Sorry, but them's the breaks." He
stepped into the quarters. "If you want to freshen up, the bathroom's
over there."
    Q wondered if he should take the hint, and decided not to. This
was far too amusing. "I'll keep it in mind," he said cheerily.
    "I believe I would like to," T'Laren said, starting for the
bathroom.
    "Oh no you don't," Tris said, grabbing hold of her arm. "You and I
need to talk."
    He tugged her out of the room. Q started to follow, and Tris
pressed the manual override button to close the door, in Q's face.
    Well. This was hardly diplomatic treatment. Q smiled nastily. The
doors were soundproof, but there was a little trick he had learned,
that perhaps Tris didn't know about. He hit the internal manual button
to open the door and immediately afterward hit the button to close.
This had the unfortunate side effect-- if it was done right-- of
jamming the door a crack open, just enough that sound could come
through.
    "*First* of all, you don't tell me you're alive," he heard Tris
say angrily. "Did it ever occur to you that there are people who care
if you're alive or not? Though after what you just did to Sovaz, I'm
not sure why I should. And second of all, why the hell did you try to
kill yourself in the first place? You know better than that! Why didn't
you get help? And *first* of all, what you just did to Sovaz is
inexcusable! What's gotten into you? That kid worships you. She *cried*
when she heard you were dead! In the first place, I can't see how you
could hurt *anyone* like that, let alone someone as innocent as Sovaz.
Your own sister!"
    "Sovaz is not my sister--"
    "Don't *give* me that! You called her your sister for the past
five years--"
    "You don't understand," T'Laren said coldly. "Sovaz is Soram's
sister. When Soram was my husband, Sovaz was my sister. Now that I am
no longer married to Soram, I no longer consider Sovaz my relative."
    "Oh. I see. All your relationships change completely because
you're not married anymore. And I suppose I'm no longer your *taran*,
right? After all, you're not married, so that doesn't apply."
    The word didn't translate. Q decided to wait for a lull in the
conversation before looking it up. Tris continued. "So you don't feel
anything for her at all, that's what you're saying? You're just like,
oh, well, I guess I don't know her anymore. And even *that* wouldn't
excuse you! Unless you positively *hated* the kid, you have no excuse
for hurting her like that."
    "She's Vulcan. She'll cope."
    "So if I'd casually told all your co-workers the things you told
me in confidence, you'd have coped, because you're Vulcan. Right?"
    "I was probably too unwell to cope at the time."
    "Oh, but you're fine now. Obviously you've got back your license
to practice. Or have you? Does your patient know about your little
nervous breakdown? Who re-certified you anyway?"
    "Starfleet Medical--"
    "And how'd you explain to *them* how you miraculously survived?
'Oh, I threw myself out of my shuttle, but fortunately a passing
inbound space freighter just happened to notice, and beamed me aboard.'
Or let me guess. Vulcans can survive up to ten minutes in vacuum,
right? Because you're so superior to all the rest of us poor species?"
     "I told them my family had been mistaken in certifying me dead."
Her voice held just the faintest trace of bitterness. Three weeks ago,
Q would never have detected it-- but he heard it now, and he was
willing to bet the Bajoran did too. "Soram was divorcing me, after all.
He had already severed our link. He could easily have mistaken my
death."
    "So he divorced you. Well. I'm glad I found *that* out. That's
more than anyone else seems to know. Is that why he said you were dead,
then? Because a dead wife is easier to explain than a divorce? Can
divorced Vulcans remarry?"
    "Of course they-- Soram remarried? You know this?"
    "Sovaz told me. And incidentally, she keeps referring to the woman
as 'my brother's wife.' *Not* 'sister'." Tris paused. "Oh, come on,
T'Laren. Don't tell me you still care about him. Not after what he did
to you!"
    "You know nothing about it. You never understood my relationship
with Soram."
    "No, and I don't think I ever will. I thought Vulcans were too
logical to stay in abusive relationships."
    Now she sounded angry. "Soram did not abuse me. What happened was
my fault, and there was nothing he could have done to save me. He did
try, you know. He was never the monster you thought he was."
    "Sovaz told me he said he closed his mind to you, when you went
off the deep end. I'm sure that did you a *lot* of good."
    "Was he supposed to let me infect him? Few Vulcans can risk being
bonded to one who is insane--"
    "You keep using that word. You know better. What you had was a
nervous breakdown. You did *not* go *insane*, T'Laren. Not by any
definition *I* ever learned."
    "What a Bajoran-- or a human-- would consider insanity, and what a
Vulcan would, are two different things."
    "Yes, obviously. Since I can't think of a reason for what you did
to Sovaz short of that. Are you sure you're well enough to practice? We
wouldn't want you harming an important Federation asset because you
were insane when you treated him."
    "I am in my right mind."
    "Then *what* the hell did you just hurt Sovaz like that for?"
    "Very well." T'Laren definitely sounded angry, the distinctive
degree of coldness in her voice differentiated from the coldness of
mere annoyance. "I did not wish to deal with Sovaz. I did not want to
answer her questions, I did not want to be faced with the reminders she
presented, and the quickest and most logical fashion of silencing her
would be to hurt her feelings. And I no longer wish to discuss the
subject."
    Tris was silent a moment. "You have really turned into a bitch,
haven't you," he said incredulously.
    "Apparently so. Now let me pass."
    "No. No, I don't buy it. I can't believe that you, of all people,
could turn that heartless. Cold, maybe, if you decided to go ultra-
Vulcan. That I can buy. But cruel-- no. You'd just have told Sovaz you
didn't want to talk about it, twenty times until it got through her
head, but you wouldn't have cut her down like that."
    "Perhaps you don't know me as well as you think you do."
    "Perhaps I don't. But I think I know you well enough to know you
usually pull this kind of stunt when you're feeling guilty. I remember
when you tried to pull this crap on *me*, remember?"
    "I never did that to you."
    "You did so. I remember it quite distinctly. I wasn't going to
take it then, and I'm not falling for it now. So what're you feeling
guilty about?"
    "You aren't going to do this to me, Tris. I know the trick. I am
not your patient, and I am not about to tell you anything. You can
believe anything you like about the incident, but I do not wish to
discuss it with you or anyone."
    There was a silence for a moment. "Fine," Tris said finally.
"We'll talk about this later."
    Q hastily moved away from the door, into the foyer of his own
bedroom, and pretended to be unpacking as T'Laren came in. He glanced
over at her, gauging her mood. She seemed very Vulcan and very
withdrawn, and paid no attention to his ostentatious removal of his
clothes from his bag, instead making a beeline for the bathroom. He
shrugged, and started unpacking in earnest. T'Laren had asked him
before why he bothered to bring clothes, when the replicators aboard
Yamato could make anything he wanted. Having attempted to get clothes
out of a Galaxy-class starship's replicator menu before, though, Q
didn't trust Yamato's replicators to keep him in the style to which
he'd grown accustomed, so he'd gotten an entire wardrobe out of
Ketaya's replicators and lugged it over here. This, unfortunately,
required that he unpack the whole thing, to avoid having to live out of
his suitcase for two weeks. Vanity was a very taxing business.
    While he worked, he spoke quietly to the computer. "Computer. Give
me the definition of the word *taran*. Print it on the terminal
screen."
    "What language?"
    "Probably Bajoran. If not, Vulcan."
    A definition appeared on the terminal. "*TARAN*, fem. *taransi*.
Bajoran. The lover of a woman who is already married. No close Standard
equivalent. Standard equivalent of fem. form is *mistress*." There was
more, but Q ignored it. He'd suspected it would be something like that.

Only Human

Part III: Yamato

This is the revised version of Part III, as I discovered I've been
posting an older version all along.  There have been minor changes made
throughout, and Section 7 has new material at the end.  As I begin
reposting Part III, it is as of yet incomplete.  I don't know
how many pieces it's going to end up being, total.

ONLY HUMAN (for those who haven't caught the story thus far) is an
alternate universe, based on the premise that Q lost his powers for
good in "Deja Q."  In exchange for protection, he offered the
Federation the benefit of his advanced knowledge, and was transferred
to Starbase 56.  Three years later, miserable beyond endurance, Q
attempted to kill himself.

Dr. T'Laren, Vulcan xenopsychologist and former Starfleet counselor,
turned up at this point, claiming that Starfleet had hired her as Q's
therapist.  In fact, it turned out that she was really hired by the Q
Continuum, in the person of the Q who got Q thrown out, whom T'Laren
refers to as Lhoviri.  T'Laren persuaded Q to accept her help and allow
her to counsel him through his depression.  To that end, they left
Starbase 56 on T'Laren's ship Ketaya-- a gift from Lhoviri, with some
surprising capabilities-- and headed for the starship Yamato, which was
currently hosting a physics conference.

Over the course of the past weeks of travel, Q has come to trust
T'Laren, more or less, though they've had some knock-down-drag-out
fights in the process.  At the end of Part II, Q decided that he no
longer wanted to die.  As Part III begins, they are just docking with
Yamato.

Parts I and II are available through ftp from ftp.netcom.com, /pub
/al/aleph/trek, human1.zip and human2.zip.  They are also available
from ftp.cis.ksu.edu in /pub/alt.startrek.creative/incomplete.  Part
III, which is as yet unfinished, is available to the extent that it
exists in the Netcom ftp site mentioned above.  Send requests,
comments, praise and flames to [e-mail] or [e-mail].

             *                   *                    *

    The door to the bathroom opened finally, and T'Laren came out. She
walked over to the replicator and ordered a cup of Vulcan tea. Q bided
his time until she was sitting down, sipping her tea. He stepped out of
the bedroom.
    "T'Laren. Why didn't you *tell* me you had such an interesting
past?"
    "You're incredibly predictable, Q," she murmured without glancing
up.
    "I never dreamed this conference would be so entertaining," he
continued, ignoring T'Laren's comment. "You didn't even tell me you
were married. Let alone that you were cheating on him."
    That got her attention. "What makes you think I was cheating on my
husband?" she asked sharply.
    "Oh, come now, T'Laren. I'm not stupid."
    "Lack of stupidity hardly means you cannot jump to the wrong
conclusion."
    "What other conclusion am I expected to draw, my dear doctor? When
a young Bajoran man says that he is no longer your *taran*, it does
tend to imply that he *was* at one point. Or are you going to tell me
there's some subtlety to the word's translation that I missed? Perhaps
in this context it means 'third cousin on the father's side', or
something?" This was fun. He hadn't had this much fun in... in... come
to think of it, he hadn't had this much fun since he lost his powers.
T'Laren's expression was quite delightfully exasperated.
    "You were eavesdropping."
    "I prefer to think of it as lending a sympathetic ear."
    T'Laren stared at him for several seconds in complete exasperated
frustration, obviously struggling to find the correct words. "My past
is none of your business," she said finally.
    "Oh, really? I think it is my business. I seem to recall a little
speech about how you were incapable of acting on a sexual temptation?
About what a stalwart Vulcan you are and how faithful and ethical and
all that? I can't *quite* see how that squares away with cheating on
your husband. Seems like a very un-Vulcan thing to *me.* Now, I admit
I'm no expert on Vulcan culture, but..."
    "Why do you care?" she asked coldly. "Does the idea that I might
have had a private life before I met you disturb you?"
    "Not at all! You're far more interesting this way. My respect for
you has just gone up enormously."
    "Then I don't think I want your respect." She turned back to her
tea.
    Q walked over to her armchair and leaned over the top of it. "Oh,
come now, T'Laren, don't be a wet blanket. I'm a trickster, remember?
People who spend their entire lives within the confines of the socially
acceptable bore me to tears. I knew you were more interesting than the
typical Vulcan before, but now you're positively intriguing. And then,
of course, there's that business with your sister." He perched on the
armrest of her chair, leaning his arm along the top of it, hovering
next to her. "You can't keep me in suspense. Tell me about it."
    "No."
    "No? She says no? A flat rejection. I'm crushed, T'Laren, truly I
am." He stood up. "What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.
I told you all the humiliating and sordid little stories you demanded
of *me*."
    "I am your psychologist. The relationship is not reciprocal."
    "If you keep saying that, I'll start to think you don't love me."
    She looked up at him. "You think this is extremely funny, don't
you."
    "Funny?... Oh, no, no, I wouldn't say 'funny'. Amusing, yes.
Entertaining, certainly. But not exactly a knee-slapping, ripsnorting
form of entertainment, no."
    "You're an incredible hypocrite."
    "A hypocrite? Moi?" That hurt a bit, actually, though he was
damned if he'd show it. Q had spent most of his existence despising
hypocrisy. "How am I a hypocrite?"
    "Three days ago you were furious because you believed that humans
laughed at your suffering. But you find other people's suffering
extremely entertaining, don't you. You haven't truly changed at all;
the only difference between you now and the omnipotent bully you used
to be is that you're no longer omnipotent."
    He smiled coldly. "Them's fightin' words, darlin'," he said. "In
the mood for a three hour argument?"
    T'Laren set down her tea on the table. "You have no other forms of
entertainment available to you, do you? When you're not brutalizing
others, or enjoying their pain, you're arguing with them. You can't be
happy unless you're antagonizing someone somehow."
    "Well." He picked up her tea and sipped at it, watching her
reaction with amused eyes. "It's no secret that I like to argue."
    Her eyes narrowed slightly. "It's also no secret that you are
deliberately and grossly obnoxious."
    Q set down the tea. "You get what you ask for."
    T'Laren shook her head. "No. You returned kindness with
thoughtlessness and cruelty. People may *now* treat you badly, but the
cycle started with you."
    "Did it now?"
    "Yes."
    "I wonder. You ever meet Dr. Taget, T'Laren?"
    "No."
    "He's a Tellarite. And a very typical one at that, obnoxious,
argumentative, loud-mouthed--"
    "You must have gotten along so well."
    Q smiled thinly but didn't otherwise acknowledge the sortie. "I
researched Dr. Taget a bit. At one point in his career, there had been
death threats made. He'd managed to offend someone, I forget what it
was, a Nausicaan or something like that. Something bigger than he was,
hairier, and meaner. And because Dr. Taget was so well-respected, he
was assigned a bodyguard while he was traveling on a Starfleet ship.
This bodyguard was killed. Did Security turn on Dr. Taget? Brutalize
him? Make him believe he would be killed? Did the captain of the ship
he was on dismiss his complaints?"
    "I take it the answer is 'no.'"
    "You are so correct. The answer is a resounding 'no.' Actually,
Dr. Taget, for all that he had nothing good to say about anyone else,
had only glowing terms to speak of Starfleet security in. And this is
not the only example I have." Q turned away. "Because I look human, and
am expected to play by human rules, I have been systematically
subjected to much greater indignities than any obvious alien. For that
matter, I've been subjected to greater indignities than most humans.
I've done a bit of research on the treatment of suicide attempts, for
one thing, and nearly everything that should have been done after my
second try wasn't. Whether Anderson was willing to admit it or not, her
tactics smacked unpleasantly of trying to punish me for attempting to
kill myself. Everything I've read indicates that that was exactly the
wrong thing to do. If I *had* successfully done myself in this last
time, it would have been the fault of Starbase 56's personnel as much
as if not more than my own."
    "You're trying to tell me that Starbase 56 drove you to suicide?"
    Q was somewhat surprised by her skeptical tone-- wasn't that
T'Laren's own theory? But then, she was probably playing devil's
advocate. "Why did I change my mind so quickly after leaving the base?"
he asked rhetorically. "Right at this moment, I feel so much better
than I have since we defeated the Borg that I might almost be a
different person. The only dramatic change in my life has been leaving
Starbase 56. And considering that it was *you* who recommended the
treatment, dear doctor, I would not argue against my point too
vehemently if I were you."
    "The climate on Starbase 56 was certainly an important factor. But
I think you're trying to shift the blame off yourself onto them. You
seem, in fact, to be trying to blame everything unpleasant that's
happened since you lost your powers on either Starbase 56 personnel or
humanity in general."
    "Oh, I wouldn't say 'everything'. Most of what I've gone through
has to do with rampant ingratitude and/or people who just won't let
bygones be bygones, not necessarily humanity. Humanity, in fact, has
been rather good about the bygones thing, although the gratitude part
could use some work."
    T'Laren raised an eyebrow. "Gratitude? For what?"
    "For my services, of course. And for the knowledge that enabled
the Federation to defeat a practically invincible enemy-"
    "We have only your word for it that they were practically
invincible."
    "Then don't take my word for it. Ask the Melgaani. Oh, wait-- you
can't, the Borg destroyed them. All right, ask one of the few remaining
El-Aurians. You can find one aboard the Enterprise-- in fact, you and
she are pals. Of course, you can't expect her to *tell* you anything,
because her people don't believe in giving out information to such
lowly short-lived creatures as yourselves, even when they call such
creatures friends-- but I digress. You could go to the planet Tarvisti
Seven, to the ruins of the Dream Domes, and open your mind to the
psionic emanations. It might destroy you, but you'd get a very up close
and personal look at just how invincible the Borg used to be." Q flung
himself into a chair. "Besides, while that's the most important thing
I've done for the Federation, it's hardly the only thing. In fact, if
Starfleet weren't such complete hypocrites about the Prime Directive,
they should by all rights have refused my offer of knowledge. Maximum
warp is now 9.8, up from 9.6. I've deliberately avoided giving them
transwarp, but that still means that the fastest Federation ships are
faster than anything the Romulans or Cardassians or Tholians have.
Defensive shields have increased in power by 60%. Weapons systems
aren't particularly more powerful, except when fighting species with
advanced multiphasic shields like the Borg, but there they're something
like 600% times as efficient. Why do you think the Cardassians suddenly
decided to give up worlds like Bajor? They can't afford to keep a
military presence on a world so rife with terrorists when they have to
play scramble to catch up to Federation tech. Which is why the
Federation has free access to the Bajoran wormhole, something that
would *not* have happened had the Cardassians still been holding the
area. The Federation is in a *much* better strategic position vis-a-vis
everybody than they were three years ago. And we haven't even mentioned
the theoretical value of all the information I've given you people."
    "All of which was rendered as payment for protection. Protecting
you has cost the Federation 14 lives. Obviously, they consider the
price to be worth it. But expecting gratitude into the bargain is a
little much even for you."
    "And what is this 'even for you' nonsense? When did you suddenly
become a member of the Chorus for the Litany of Q's Crimes Against the
Universe?"
    "I have always been aware of your flaws. It is important to make
sure you know them and are working to overcome them, or all the social
polish in the universe will not help you."
    "That's a terribly naive attitude. Villains who smile are better-
loved than the good-hearted but socially inept. If I had all the social
polish in the universe, I could be a monstrosity and I'd still get
people to like me."
    "My conscience would be eased tremendously if I will be able to
look back on my work with you and conclude that you did not end up a
monstrosity."
    "So be more precise, T'Laren. Are you saying that I *am* a
monstrosity, or that you're afraid I'll become one?"
    "What would you call someone who is entertained by the pain of
others?"
    Q smiled coolly. "A normal human being." He leaned forward. "Don't
take that self-righteous attitude with me. You pretend you know
something about human nature, so either you're deceiving yourself or
you're an enormous hypocrite. Are you going to deny to me that human
beings enjoy scandal? That the unveiling of others' mysterious pasts
excites them? That they might find the notion that a person who had
presented herself as above temptation turns out to be just as much
mortal clay as they are, if not more so, intriguing? Any human would
have the same reaction to this whole business with your sister and the
Bajoran fellow. I'm just honest enough to admit it."
    "And tactless enough?"
    "Oh, they're the same thing. Can't have honesty and tact at the
same time."
    "But you typically display neither trait."
    "I have been brutally honest with you, T'Laren. I've told you
things I've told no other being alive. I've never once lied to you."
    "Perhaps. But you have a reputation for being... somewhat cavalier
with your concept of truth."
    "There's no such thing as absolute truth. Only beings as ignorant
as you mortals could even devise the concept. There are as many truths
on any given topic as there are beings who know of that topic. Since
I'm no longer near-omniscient, of course, I'm limited to my own version
of a given truth, but I don't make the mistake of believing that truth
is absolute."
    "You might try to be a little more objective--"
    "*Objective?* That's another mortal concept. How can you possibly
be objective? The act of observation changes that which is observed. No
one sits outside the universe and watches from on high, not even the Q.
And besides, each individual brings so many biases to his perceptions
that nothing of any significance can be perceived in any fashion
remotely close to objectively. You Vulcans are positively ridiculous in
your belief that you can overcome your biases and view the universe
objectively. Through the filter of logic, and you claim *that's*
objectivity! Logic's just another bias!"
    "We are not discussing Vulcans, Q. We're discussing you."
    It figured. Get into an interesting philosophical argument--
especially one where his experience gave him the high ground-- and she
would try to drag the conversation back around to his shortcomings. Q
refused to let his good mood be sullied by her obstinacy. "No no no,
we're discussing Vulcans. In particular, a single individual Vulcan who
*claims* to be objective, who *believes* she can transcend her own
emotional biases when she wants to, and yet who gets on a moral high
horse about something that everyone does and is perfectly normal just
because *she's* uncomfortable with it. What are you complaining about,
T'Laren? That I am an evil nasty person who delights in the pain of
others, or that *you* are embarrassed to have so much of your sordid
past revealed?"
    "You know nothing of my past."
    "Admittedly you haven't been exactly forthcoming on the topic. So
I've had to take what little I can get."
    "Q, I have a right to privacy. My life is not a soap opera for
your amusement."
    "But don't I have the right to know the person I'm dealing with?"
    "If it were--"
    The door chime interrupted. "Enter!" Q caroled gleefully, hoping a
visitor might spice things up still more.
    He was not disappointed. Sovaz stood in the doorway, hands clasped
in front of her at her waist. "Q?"
    "Come on in! Make yourself at home. My apartment is your
apartment. What *can* I do for you, dear girl?"
    Sovaz entered, but not very far. "I have my own apartment," she
said politely. "I see no need to share yours, but thank you for the
offer."
    Q turned to T'Laren. "Did you ever think about teaching a course
in human idioms at the Vulcan Science Academy or something?"
    T'Laren had gone completely stone-faced again. "No."
    "Well, *someone* should." He turned back to Sovaz. "It's an
expression, Lieutenant. It means you should relax and make use of
whatever I own for the sake of your personal comfort. And please don't
tell me that Vulcans are incapable of being comfortable or something
silly like that."
    "I am quite comfortable," Sovaz said, "except of course for the
fact that human-normal environments are always cold and damp, but I'm
used to that. Is this expression a social amenity?"
    "Did you ever meet an android named Data?"
    "Once. When I was posted to the Feynman three years ago, we shared
scientific data with the Enterprise, and I had an opportunity to speak
to Commander Data. I asked him a great many questions, and he answered
all of them. I was quite pleased; most people don't try to answer all
my questions. Why do you ask?"
    "Because you sound like him."
    Sovaz thought about it. "I think perhaps it's a resemblance that's
only obvious to humans. I can't detect it."
    "Ah. So, what brings you here?" He was peripherally aware of
T'Laren standing utterly still, as if she could negate her own presence
by being unmoving. Sooner or later Q *had* to find out what was going
on between these two.
    "I have come to invite you to a reception tonight for conference
guests at 1900 hours. You may, of course, bring members of your
entourage." Her voice was formal and precise, and she carefully *not-
*looked at T'Laren with a visible effort. Q grinned.
    "Well. Let me ask my entourage." He turned to T'Laren. "Entourage,
how does a reception at 1900 sound?"
    "If you wish to attend, I will of course go with you."
    "I love Vulcan precision. Not a hint about how *you* might feel
about the concept. Ah well, if you have no feelings you can't get upset
if I run roughshod over them, can you?" He turned back to Sovaz.
"Sounds marvelous. Formal attire?"
    "Yes."
    "Wonderful. This gets better and better. And you'll be there?"
    "I'm Yamato's science department's liaison to the conference. I
must attend."
    "Well, if you go into it with *that* attitude, you won't have any
fun at all." Q walked over to where Sovaz stood near the door and
leaned on the wall behind her, hovering over her. "I'll tell you what.
If you'll promise not to be a complete stuffy Vulcan, I'll promise not
to make everyone else at the reception's life a living hell. Sound good
to you?"
    "I am a Vulcan," Sovaz said, sounding confused, "so I can't oblige
you on that part. In this context, what do the adjectives 'complete'
and 'stuffy' mean?"
    Q pointed at T'Laren. "See her?"
    For the first time, Sovaz looked at T'Laren. "Yes."
    "*That* is a complete stuffy Vulcan. Note the frigid posture, the
stony face, the total lack of animation. Sad, really, since T'Laren's
usually a much more interesting person, but apparently she decided that
being interesting was hideously embarrassing. Now, would you rather be
interesting, or would you rather look like that?"
    "I'd rather be interesting," Sovaz said definitely. "If I promise
not to be a complete stuffy Vulcan, will you answer all my questions?"
    "*All* your questions? Frankly, that depends on how many you have
and how much detail you need on them. I get paid for this, you know.
But I'm sure I could see fit to toss a few freebies your way."
    "Is a freebie a kind of frisbee?"
    Q stared. "'Frisbee?'"
    "A kind of toy that humans use to practice throwing skills, vector
calculation and social cooperation. My sis-- T'Laren taught me how to
use a frisbee once. It was very educational. But I had somewhat more
abstract questions in mind, actually. I already understand the physics
of frisbees fairly well."
    "No. A freebie is a free gift. Gratis. Without charge." He turned
to T'Laren with a huge grin. "Frisbees? My dear doctor. You *have* been
corrupting this child, haven't you."
    "No, she hasn't," Sovaz said, sounding slightly defensive.
"Frisbees are very useful for helping children learn how to--"
    "It was a facetious comment, Lieutenant. A joke, in other words.
You aren't supposed to take it seriously." He sighed. "What *do* they
teach them these days?"
    Sovaz apparently figured out that that was a rhetorical question.
"I need to deliver other invitations. But you will be there?"
    "I wouldn't miss it."
    She nodded, and left.

Only Human

Part III: Yamato

This is the revised version of Part III, as I discovered I've been
posting an older version all along.  There have been minor changes made
throughout, and Section 7 has new material at the end.  As I begin
reposting Part III, it is as of yet incomplete.  I don't know
how many pieces it's going to end up being, total.

ONLY HUMAN (for those who haven't caught the story thus far) is an
alternate universe, based on the premise that Q lost his powers for
good in "Deja Q."  In exchange for protection, he offered the
Federation the benefit of his advanced knowledge, and was transferred
to Starbase 56.  Three years later, miserable beyond endurance, Q
attempted to kill himself.

Dr. T'Laren, Vulcan xenopsychologist and former Starfleet counselor,
turned up at this point, claiming that Starfleet had hired her as Q's
therapist.  In fact, it turned out that she was really hired by the Q
Continuum, in the person of the Q who got Q thrown out, whom T'Laren
refers to as Lhoviri.  T'Laren persuaded Q to accept her help and allow
her to counsel him through his depression.  To that end, they left
Starbase 56 on T'Laren's ship Ketaya-- a gift from Lhoviri, with some
surprising capabilities-- and headed for the starship Yamato, which was
currently hosting a physics conference.

Over the course of the past weeks of travel, Q has come to trust
T'Laren, more or less, though they've had some knock-down-drag-out
fights in the process.  At the end of Part II, Q decided that he no
longer wanted to die.  As Part III begins, they are just docking with
Yamato.

Parts I and II are available through ftp from ftp.netcom.com, /pub
/al/aleph/trek, human1.zip and human2.zip.  They are also available
from ftp.cis.ksu.edu in /pub/alt.startrek.creative/incomplete.  Part
III, which is as yet unfinished, is available to the extent that it
exists in the Netcom ftp site mentioned above.  Send requests,
comments, praise and flames to [e-mail] or [e-mail].

             *                   *                    *

    T'Laren expected and feared that the argument would continue after
Sovaz left. Instead Q went into his bedroom and occupied himself with
removing various articles of clothing that he'd just packed, trying
them on, and staring at himself in the mirror as if his appearance were
a painting he was thinking of revising heavily. She retreated to her
own room, requested the computer to shut the door-- individual rooms in
the suite apparently didn't shut their doors automatically-- and
unpacked the few items she had bothered to bring aboard.
    The door to the bedroom opened. Q stood there in a black jumpsuit
with glittering gold piping and a short gold jacket. "What do you
think?"
    "What do I think of what?"
    "Of the *outfit*, of course."
    "I think it's a bit flamboyant, actually."
    "Flamboyant? *Flamboyant?*" Q shook his head rapidly. "No no no.
What a deprived young woman. Do you want to see flamboyant?" He
departed and returned a moment later with a medieval Renaissance
costume held up to him. "*This* is flamboyant."
    She was certainly not going to contradict him. "Why do you have
that... outfit... with you at all?" T'Laren asked, trying not to sound
overwhelmed with increduility.
    "Well, in case I felt like wearing it, of course. Why do you
think?" He put the costume down and glared at her. "Are you going to
wear *that?*"
    T'Laren was dressed in a formal gray shipsuit with darker gray
quilted shoulders and some black edging. It had served perfectly well
for coming aboard the Yamato, and she couldn't see why it wouldn't
serve for the formal reception. "Yes."
    Q rolled his eyes. "Fate spare me from the fashion-illiterate." He
shook his head. "You can't wear that. Please tell me you're just trying
to get back at me and you actually had no intention of wearing that."
    "I really don't see what's wrong with it."
    "It's *boring!* It's dull, it's stuffy, it's hideous, it turns
your skin gray and it makes you look at least fifty years older. Would
you wear something with a little color in it, at least, so I needn't
die from mortification that I'm associated with you?"
    "It is perfectly acceptable," T'Laren said, with just a touch more
sharpness than she'd intended. "I hardly see the need to take fashion
advice from a man who's been known to dress as a 22nd-century starship
captain, a 16th-century fop-- and a 21st-century judge."
    "Oh, you're going to blame me for the judge? Blame humanity; *I*
didn't come up with the costume."
    "But you dressed in it."
    "To make a point."
    "What sort of point did you intend to make by dressing as a
Starfleet captain from two hundred years ago?"
    "I was protesting that they wouldn't let me wear a Starfleet
uniform. Besides, I freely admit those things were flamboyant and
silly. They were always intended to be. But this-- this is just a
disaster, T'Laren. It makes you look like-- like--" He paused, as if at
a loss for words, and finally sputtered, "like a *Vulcan!*"
    "I am a Vulcan."
    "That's no excuse. Look." He strode into her room and walked over
to the clothing replicator. "Menu."
    "Q--"
    "This one looks nice," he said, scrutinizing the menu. "And this
isn't half bad. And the green in this one would go marvelously with
your bloodshot eyes--"
    "Q!" T'Laren walked over to him. "I have no intention of changing
my outfit to please your outrageous sensibilities. Will you get away
from my replicator, or will I be forced to bodily remove you?"
    He wagged his finger at her. "Touchy, touchy, touchy. And here I
thought I couldn't offend you."
    "I was wrong."
    "You certainly were. That shade of gray was *never* meant to be
worn by a humanoid-- except perhaps a Cardassian, but then they hardly
count as humanoid, do they." He turned back to the replicator. "A 401A,
in my friend's size."
    "It doesn't have my size. I haven't stepped into the measuring
unit."
    "Ah, but *this*, my dear, is a *Galaxy*-class starship. Not one of
those little bathtub tugs you're accustomed to serving on." The
replicator produced an outfit. Q removed it with a flourish and
unrolled it in front of her. "Voila!"
    Despite herself, T'Laren was forced to admit that the shipsuit Q
was presenting her with *was*, in fact, better-looking. Her current
attire was conservative and sedate; this was professional, sharp,
attractive without the excessive flashiness she'd have expected from
something Q would pick out. It was in gray and dark green, not much
more colorful than what she wore, but she could tell that it would, in
fact, flatter her coloring much better.
    She studied Q for a moment, trying to decide whether this was a
power game or a particularly obnoxious way of making a peace offering.
"It's quite attractive," she finally said.
    "So you agree with me! Go on, try it on. I'll go in the other room
and cover my eyes."
    "No." She took the shipsuit from him and hung it up in her closet.
"I will wear what I'm wearing." She turned to face him. "I'm not your
dress-up doll, Q."
    "No, of course not. But I *had* thought we were friends."
    *After your performance today? I wouldn't wish to see the way you
treat your enemies.* "Perhaps we are," she offered evenly.
    "Well, as a concerned friend, it would ill behoove me to let you
go out like that. Friends don't *let* friends dress like Vulcan
schoolmarms."
    "Vulcan schoolmarms wear dark brown robes. And I don't think you
intend a gesture of friendship, Q, not after your behavior today."
    "What, because I argue with someone means I can't be their
friend?"
    "When you repeatedly bring up points that obviously cause another
person pain, refusing to back off when you're asked, and make light of
an evidently traumatic situation, it is hard to imagine why the other
person would want to call you friend." She turned away quite
deliberately and crossed the room, turning back only when she had
placed the bed between them.
    "Ah." Q's expression had gone very masklike. For a moment she
regretted the harsh words-- but he had to learn. "In that case, I'll
leave you to your no doubt vital activities, Doctor." He turned and
pivoted back through the door into the suite, which swooshed shut
behind him.
    Either he was giving a remarkably good show of wounded pride, or
she had actually hurt his feelings. Could it be that after all this
time, he still didn't realize that being obnoxious was not a good way
to reach out to people? That if he wished to be another person's
friend, he should refrain from harassing them? *Had* this been Q's idea
of a peace offering? If that was the case, she really had a lot further
to go with him than she'd thought back on Ketaya-- unless he'd
backslid. That could have happened, too.
    The trouble was that she had no objectivity right now. She
remembered telling Anderson that Q couldn't offend her unless she
allowed it... but she hadn't thought she might be faced with Sovaz.
Fate was capable of cruel jokes. Or perhaps Lhoviri had arranged this?
Sovaz's presence could be explained by Lhoviri's sick sense of humor.
Or by her own carelessness. She should have checked the crew listings.
But then, who could have expected this? To have both Sovaz and Tris on
the same ship, and then to have T'Laren come to that ship unaware--
that had to be someone's idea of a joke.
    She had barely managed to maintain control. The moment she'd seen
Sovaz, all her carefully constructed barriers against her own memories
had begun to crash, and she remembered the last time she'd seen Sovaz--

**    --Her hands were dyed green, her clothing splotched with emerald.
She stared stupidly at her hands, unable to understand where all the
green had come from. The acrid smell of copper and salt tickled the
back of her throat, and she trembled, an atavistic reaction to the
scent of blood. Where had the blood come from?
**    Her eyes followed the green drops down to the floor, where they
pooled. Her face reflected in the pool, her expression confused.
Something had happened. What had happened?
**    Then she tracked down to Soram, lying still in the center of the
pool, and time stopped.
**    The door opened. She looked up, a frightened animal, and saw
Sovaz. A look of horror shattered the girl's calm features, to be
replaced by a cold mask that denied all emotion, all innocence, all
goodness in the universe. The innocence, the sense of wonder in the
girl's eyes shriveled and died.
**     "You have killed my brother," Sovaz said, and it was the death
knell for her childhood... and T'Laren had killed it...**

    She pressed her hands to her temples, trying to shut out the
vision of Sovaz's shattered innocence. It hadn't happened. Sovaz didn't
remember how her older sister had betrayed her, destroyed her, because
it hadn't happened.

**    "All right!"The entity flung his arms in the air. "What do you
need? Tell me what you need to want to live. I can do anything you
want. What will it take, for you to agree to live?"
**    She hesitated. He asked for impossibilities. But he had already
demonstrated that he could do impossibilities.
**    "My husband," she whispered. "I cannot live so long as he does
not."
**    "You want me to bring him back? Like I did you?"
**    "I want him to have never died. I want to have never killed him."
**    He paused, seeming to think about it. "Okay," he said finally.
"That's what you want? That's what you'll get. It'll never have
happened."**

    ...never have happened...
    But it *had*. She remembered it if no one else could. She
remembered how Sovaz had looked, and the awful feeling of desolation
that had overwhelmed her when she saw the girl's expression, worse even
than the horror of realizing what she'd done to Soram. And she couldn't
stop remembering. How was she supposed to face Sovaz, knowing what
she'd done to the girl?
    How was she supposed to face Sovaz after the cruel way she'd
rejected the girl today?
    *But I didn't want to hurt her. I just wanted her not to-- not to
look at me so worshipfully, so happily, as if she were overjoyed to
find me alive, when I don't deserve--*
    It hadn't happened.
    "Lhoviri," she whispered. "I can't do this." She sat down heavily.
"You're supposed to be omnipotent," she told the air quietly. "You
could have fixed me better than this, surely."
    *Do you expect me to do everything for you? You have to stand on
your own feet sometime, T'Laren.*
    She had no idea whether the reply came from Lhoviri or her own
mind. But whoever had said it, they were right. *This incident has
destroyed my objectivity. I should be concentrating on helping Q, not
wallowing in my own pain. That's what Lhoviri is paying for, anyway.
That is WHY it didn't happen.*
    *Physician, heal thyself.* T'Laren stared at the outfit Q had
given her, replaying the scene with Q in her mind and analyzing it. He
had expressed interest, amusement, even glee at the situation with
Tris, Sovaz and herself. He had mocked her for her relationship with
Tris-- but he was right on one level. She had told Q she was not
attracted to him, nor would she pursue him if she was, and that much
was true. But she had also told him she was capable of resisting
temptation, and that she had no desire to have sex with a man she
couldn't meld with-- and that was demonstrably false. T'Laren
remembered the humans she'd picked up in seedy bars on out-of-the-way
starbases or planetary shore leave, desperately trying to convince
herself that if she didn't meld with them she wasn't betraying Soram.
She remembered Tris, and how close she had come to divorcing Soram for
him. And while she was torturing herself, why didn't she go ahead and
remember Melor? How many people had she betrayed by going to bed with
him, and in how many different ways?
    No. This was counterproductive. Q had hurt her because, on this
topic, she felt a great deal of guilt and could easily be hurt. It was
Q's nature to probe for weaknesses-- he could hardly be blamed for that
at this stage of his development. If she had truly thought for a moment
that she had made great strides with him, she was a fool. She *knew*
better-- psychological treatment involved no miracle cures. Q trusted
her and would probably not be a complete ass to her in the absence of
other social stimuli, most of the time. Give him other people to
interact with, however, and he would... be himself. And if that hurt
her, that was her failing for allowing it.
    So. Q had been amused by the fact that she'd turned out to be
fallible. This was understandable. He had tried to charm Sovaz at
T'Laren's expense. Given how T'Laren had behaved toward Sovaz, however,
he wasn't even entirely wrong to do that. He had found the whole
situation with her past coming back to haunt her entertaining-- but he
was right; it was a natural human reaction and it was only because Q
was completely tactless and allowed his amusement to show so blatantly
that it had been so hurtful. Which meant... he was being an ass, but
probably not maliciously so. And so the offer of the suit might not
have been the opening move of a power game. It might have been a peace
offering.
    But this brought her back to the beginning, because she *still*
couldn't tell which. So she considered consequences. If she rejected a
peace offering, Q would be hurt-- and he had seemed to be hurt; surely
it couldn't have entirely been her comment about friends that elicited
that reaction-- unless it had been faked? But why would he fake being
hurt? Q might ostentatiously play at being wounded, but he always made
it obvious that it was play, a defense against the notion that she
might actually hurt him. There was nothing for him to gain by a sincere
pretense at pain. And Q would not be hurt if she rejected a power
gambit. He would shrug, smile and try again. If he backed off, he'd do
so in such a fashion to imply that he was conceding temporarily, or the
game no longer amused him-- not that he'd gotten hurt.
    T'Laren picked up the outfit. It *was* better-looking, and Q's
obsession with clothing was quite genuine. He could mock or parody his
own obsessions-- as witness the Renaissance outfit-- but they were no
less real. Q might really have considered the question of her attire to
be important, and have been trying, in  his typical obnoxious fashion,
to save her from what he perceived to be an embarrassment. It seemed
likely that she had assumed it was a power gambit simply because she
was annoyed at him, and because she considered clothing a trivial
issue.

    Ten minutes later she went to the door of Q's room and pushed the
door chime.
    The door swished open. "Fancy meeting you here," Q said, and then
his eyes fell on the outfit. "Aha. I see you had a sudden attack of
fashion sense."
    "I decided I would take your word for it," she said. "One as
obsessed with clothing as you can hardly help but have a better sense
for such things."
    He nodded approvingly. "It's quite attractive, if I do say so
myself. You could still do something with your hair, but then I'm not
about to push my luck."
    "A wise decision." As T'Laren stepped further into the room, Q's
own appearance registered on her. Her eyebrows went up. He had changed
clothing again, this time choosing a suit in dark red and grey that was
far less flamboyant than the previous black and gold. He had also done
something to his hair-- made it less obvious how little of it there
was, and gotten the gray in it to concentrate at the temples instead of
being scattered throughout. The most startling change, however, was
that he seemed to have gained back all the weight he'd lost over the
past three years. Q had never been built bulkily, but when he'd been
omnipotent his mass had been enough, combined with his height, to make
him formidable-looking. Over the past three years, in the holos she'd
seen of him, he'd grown more and more gaunt, and less and less
impressive-looking, until finally he'd wound up in sickbay looking like
a matchstick. He had always been able to lessen the gauntness with
clothing somewhat; now, though, he seemed to have actually gotten rid
of it. Only his hands betrayed him.
    He noticed her stare. "Impressive, isn't it? It's taken me close
to an hour just to get to this point, and I still haven't put makeup on
yet." Q turned to the mirror, where he had ranged a large number of
cosmetics. "You can watch if you want, it won't bother me."
    "It is impressive. It must be uncomfortable, though."
    "Oh, astonishingly. I can't sit down." He took what looked like a
surgical scanner and ran it over his face, leaning against the mirror.
"Beauty is pain." This was intoned with such solemnity that she knew he
would have to turn around and grin at her. He did so, satisfying her
faith in her ability to predict Q.
    "Why do you do it, then?" she asked. "I would think you would
consider physical appearance to be completely superficial."
    "Absolutely. By definition, even. Couldn't agree more."
    "So why--"
    "Because, except for Vulcans-- and you people are extremely weird;
I don't think you have any idea how much of an aberration Vulcans are--
nearly all species on this evolutionary level judge others by
appearances. And humans are among the worst of the bunch." He turned to
face her. "When I was on Starbase 56, it was in a sense my territory.
People came there to see me. I was by definition the center of
attention, the most important person there, whatever you want to call
it, so it hardly mattered what I looked like, people were going to
respect me and listen to me anyway-- at least to the extent that they
ever did. Not to mention I was utterly miserable, and so it seemed
appropriate that I look the part." Q turned back to the mirror, using
several specialized tools to apply cosmetics to the top half of his
face. He seemed to be flattening wrinkles and then recoloring the skin.
"Now, though, I am no longer on my own territory. If I want to receive
the sort of respect I've grown accustomed to, I need to use every tool
at my disposal-- which includes making my physical appearance as
impressive as possible."
    T'Laren nodded slowly. "That's very interesting."
    "I detect the drawing of a dissection scalpel. What's very
interesting?"
    "You recognize the necessity of using superficial appearance to
manipulate others. But it doesn't seem to have occurred to you to
develop the same sort of techniques to improve your social appearance."
    "Oh, don't. Puh-*lease*." He glanced over at her. His face seemed
not to fit together properly-- the top half was evenly colored and
largely unlined, the forehead and eyes of a man in the prime of his
life. The lower, unfinished half, however, was even more pale and drawn
than usual in comparison, and the effect was that of a man with a very
lifelike mask over one half of his face. Which half was the mask,
though, was indeterminate, since he'd already brought his hair and body
in line with the lies his upper face told. "Believe it or not, T'Laren,
I am capable of being socially competent when I want to be. I have even
on occasion been called charming. I realize this must be a shock to
you."
    "You can't sustain it. And you seem to have very little desire to
do it as a general rule."
    "You're right, but then I don't usually go around in such an
elaborate costuming job that I can barely move, either."
    "You do realize that you are not going to be the constant center
of attention. The conference attendees all have more or less equal
status. If you came here expecting they would hang on your every word,
I'm afraid you'll be disappointed."
    "Oh, I don't need to be the *constant* center of attention." He
turned and grinned at her. "Merely semi-constant."
    "Even that much might be too much to hope for."
    "It's not, I assure you. I can easily ensure that people pay
attention to me. I can even do it without being excessively annoying."
His grin broadened. "Shocking, but true."
    T'Laren raised an eyebrow. "You seem to be in an unusually good
mood today."
    "Oh, I am."
    "Do you have any idea why?"
    Q lost the smile. "Let's not dissect my mood until it's dead,
shall we?"
    "As you wish."
    He stepped back from the mirror, examining himself. The makeup job
seemed complete to T'Laren, but Q was apparently unsatisfied, leaning
back in to do minor touch-ups that seemed not to produce any
appreciable change. "How does it look?"
    "Very thorough. One would never imagine you spent two weeks on
life support a mere month ago."
    "No, one wouldn't, would one?" He turned to her. "Is it necessary
to say you're my psychologist? I realize you've already blown it in
front of the crew, but then I don't really care what Commander Clean-
Cut and his band of merry men think of me."
    "There's no stigma attached to having a personal therapist, Q."
    "So say personal therapist. Not psychologist. Not psychiatrist,
either, which is actually what you said you were."
    "Did I?" She thought back. He was right. "I'm sorry. I was--
distraught. It was an inaccurate description, since I'm not in fact a
psychiatrist, and it was unnecessary even had it been true."
    "For once I won't argue with you."
    The door to the suite chimed. T'Laren started toward the door.
"It's most likely Sovaz," Q pointed out. As she held back, he stepped
ahead of her and went to the door. "Come in!"
    It was, in fact, Sovaz. T'Laren noted that the girl's hair had
gotten overlong again. Sovaz tried to keep her hair in a bowl cut, for
the eminently logical reason that she didn't want to fuss with it, but
she was constantly forgetting to get her hair cut. Her straight bangs
were starting to flop into her eyes. She almost opened her mouth to
say, "Sovakam, you need a haircut," out of habit, but her mind caught
up with her in time.
    "Will you need an escort to Ten-Forward?" Sovaz asked.
    "Ten-*Forward?*" Q hesitated. "Right. This is a Galaxy-class
starship, isn't it. You frightened me there for a moment."
    "Why would you be frightened of the presence of Ten-Forward?"
    "An old... acquaintance of mine runs the Ten-Forward lounge on the
Enterprise. Someone who I would much prefer never to see again in my
life. And certainly, if you want to escort me, by all means do. I've
never had to find my way from VIP quarters to the Ten-Forward lounge on
a Galaxy-class starship before." He turned to T'Laren. "Come along,
entourage."
    As they headed for Ten-Forward, Sovaz began talking. "The
conference doesn't officially start until tomorrow at 1500 hours.
Nearly everyone is here; the only exceptions are Professor Yalit and
Dr. Pergiun. Have you ever met either of them?"
    "Pergiun I've met. He's a pompous ass. Yalit I've never even
*heard* of."
    "There's widespread speculation as to her race. Since she hasn't
been seen in person in sixty years, all anyone has to go on is records
from her time at the Makropyrios. She bears some physical resemblance
to Ferengi, but of course Ferengi females are forbidden by law from
leaving the Ferengi homeworld, except to go to a colony world, of
course, which in any case the Makropyrios is not. I believe they're
also forbidden from learning to read, or any other form of higher
education. I had a fascinating discussion with a Ferengi, in which he
was trying to explain to me the reasons why his species organizes their
gender roles in such fashion. I thought it was a highly illogical
system, myself. He wanted information on Vulcan mating habits in
exchange, in particular my personal experiences, and I had to tell him
I had no personal experience in that particular area. I believe he
thought I cheated him. This is considered a grave offense among the
Ferengi. I find this hard to reconcile with the fact that they are
well-known for cheating other species, but he assured me that this was
not so."
    "Lieutenant?"
    "Yes?"
    "I *really* don't care about the Ferengi."
    "Oh. If I am discussing a topic of little interest to you, feel
free to tell me to be quiet. Everyone else does."
    "I'll keep that in mind," Q said. They reached Ten-Forward, not a
moment too soon in T'Laren's opinion. "Oh, and Lieutenant?"
    "Yes?"
    Q shook his head gravely. "Do *something* with your hair."

Only Human

Part III: Yamato

This is the revised version of Part III, as I discovered I've been
posting an older version all along.  There have been minor changes made
throughout, and Section 7 has new material at the end.  As I begin
reposting Part III, it is as of yet incomplete.  I don't know
how many pieces it's going to end up being, total.

ONLY HUMAN (for those who haven't caught the story thus far) is an
alternate universe, based on the premise that Q lost his powers for
good in "Deja Q."  In exchange for protection, he offered the
Federation the benefit of his advanced knowledge, and was transferred
to Starbase 56.  Three years later, miserable beyond endurance, Q
attempted to kill himself.

Dr. T'Laren, Vulcan xenopsychologist and former Starfleet counselor,
turned up at this point, claiming that Starfleet had hired her as Q's
therapist.  In fact, it turned out that she was really hired by the Q
Continuum, in the person of the Q who got Q thrown out, whom T'Laren
refers to as Lhoviri.  T'Laren persuaded Q to accept her help and allow
her to counsel him through his depression.  To that end, they left
Starbase 56 on T'Laren's ship Ketaya-- a gift from Lhoviri, with some
surprising capabilities-- and headed for the starship Yamato, which was
currently hosting a physics conference.

Over the course of the past weeks of travel, Q has come to trust
T'Laren, more or less, though they've had some knock-down-drag-out
fights in the process.  At the end of Part II, Q decided that he no
longer wanted to die.  As Part III begins, they are just docking with
Yamato.

Parts I and II are available through ftp from ftp.netcom.com, /pub
/al/aleph/trek, human1.zip and human2.zip.  They are also available
from ftp.cis.ksu.edu in /pub/alt.startrek.creative/incomplete.  Part
III, which is as yet unfinished, is available to the extent that it
exists in the Netcom ftp site mentioned above.  Send requests,
comments, praise and flames to [e-mail] or [e-mail].

             *                   *                    *

    As they entered Ten-Forward, Sovaz left them, running off to
nursemaid another set of VIPs. T'Laren wondered whose brilliant idea it
was to put the girl in charge of liaison duties-- it was not always a
good idea to leave Sovaz in charge of fastening her own uniform
properly, let alone playing diplomat to an entire conference full of
undoubtedly pompous and arrogant people. For just a moment, T'Laren
wished for her Starfleet rank back-- counselors from other ships in the
fleet had a great deal more business asking a commanding officer why he
was placing a subordinate in a completely inappropriate position than
civilian psychologists had. But she pushed the thought away-- it was
not her place to worry about Sovaz anymore. Obviously Sovaz had learned
to take care of herself-- she had been promoted, hadn't she? She no
longer needed an older sister to watch over her-- and if she did, she
was in trouble, because she didn't have one anymore. T'Laren hadn't the
time to worry about anyone but Q.
    The object of her worries was standing a few feet in from the
door, peering about through the multi-species gathering as if trying to
decide who it would be most entertaining to inflict his presence on
first.  The decision was taken out of his hands, however, by a voice
from the left. "I *know* you, don't I?"
    T'Laren turned. For a second, she didn't recognize the man; she
wasn't expecting to see anyone else she knew, and if she had been,
she'd have expected to see someone from her past, before Q. She
certainly didn't expect to see someone from Starbase 56. So it took a
second or two to realize that she knew the lieutenant in a blue dress
uniform, and another second to recognize him as Harry Roth.
    "You could be right," Q said. "You look vaguely familiar. It's
entirely possible that we've met."
    "I'm sure of it," Roth said firmly. "I'd never forget a face like
yours. I *just* can't place your *name*."
    "It's such a difficult name to remember," Q murmured. He put on a
show of thinking about it. "No, I can't remember your name either. I'm
drawing a complete blank."
    "Don't you hate when that happens?"
    T'Laren watched with some bemusement. She had never seen the two
of them interacting; she had only Roth's word for it that they had any
better a relationship than Q'd had with anyone on Starbase 56, and Q
himself had seemed to contradict Roth. This, however, seemed like the
kind of banter one would see between actual friends. "Tremendously," Q
said. "It ruins my entire week."  He frowned.  "Perhaps if I knew where
you were last stationed, that might provide a clue."
    "Hmm... I was last stationed on... that's right, it was Starbase
56."
    "Well, now! I've spent the past three years on Starbase 56."
    "So have I! What a coincidence! You think that's where we met?"
    "It seems likely." Q pretended to think again. "I'm sure I could
remember. It's just that your face is so nondescript. Perhaps another
clue...?"
    Behind T'Laren, Tris's voice murmured, "These two know each other,
I take it?"
    "Rather well, I think," she murmured back.
    "Exactly *how* well is rather well?"
    Remembering Tris, and the way his mind worked, it was obvious what
he meant. "Not *that* well, I believe."
    Roth snapped his fingers. "No, I remember you now! You're K,
aren't you?"
    "One down, twenty-five to go," Q said. "You're seeming a bit more
familiar yourself-- is it... Harold Godfrey?"
    Roth shuddered dramatically. "Not even in jest, Q," he said.
T'Laren presumed Harold Godfrey was a private joke of some sort.
    Q smiled broadly. "Oh, *Harry!*" He grabbed Roth's shoulder and
hugged him in a parody of friendliness. "How've you *been?*"
    T'Laren raised an eyebrow. Q released Roth before the other man
made any attempt to get free. "Can't complain," Roth said. "And you?
You look much better."
    "I'd better. Considering what I looked like the last time you saw
me." Q jerked a thumb at T'Laren. "This creature's been making me
exercise."
    "Is that true?" Roth demanded, wide-eyed. "Have you actually
forced this poor being to engage in strenuous physical activity?"
    "Vulcans cannot lie," T'Laren said, deadpan. "I admit it."
    "How shocking! How astounding! I salute you, dear lady-- you've
done the impossible." Roth turned to Tris. "This is the most
astonishing Vulcan I've met, did you know?"
    "We've met before," Tris said calmly. "T'Laren's got a number of
astonishing talents."
    There was no way Roth, of all people, would miss that one. T'Laren
resisted the temptation to glare at Tris, and kept her face impassive
as Roth raised both eyebrows. "Is that so?"
    "Are you having fun without me, Harry?" a woman asked. "It's
against Starfleet regs."
    The newcomer was an apparently human woman, a lieutenant commander
in blue with dusky skin and long black hair. "Commander Dhawan, what a
delight!" Roth said. "Q, T'Laren, this is Shahrazad Dhawan, chief
science officer on this lovely ship. Commander, this is Q--"
    "We've met," Dhawan said flatly. T'Laren gathered the distinct
impression that if she'd realized Roth was talking to Q, she wouldn't
have come over.
    "Have we?" Q asked. "I can't say I remember... though, of course,
I've met so many petty little science people."
    Before Dhawan could react, Roth charged in. "And this is Dr.
T'Laren, his psychologist. Dr. T'Laren is the most astonishing Vulcan,
Commander. Not only does she tell jokes, but she actually managed to
get Q to exercise." He glanced at Q slyly. "I'll be polite and keep
from speculating on what sort of exercise program, exactly."
    Q smiled cheerily. "Good for you. Because if you did, I'd have to
say something vicious and scathing, and we'd all prefer to remain
civilized at a gathering of the Federation's finest minds. Which
reminds me, Harry, what *are* you doing here?"
    Roth laughed. "Still with the same wit and charm as ever, I see,"
he said. "Believe it or not, I am in fact one of the Federation's
finest minds."
    With a tragically horrified expression, Q said, "I had no idea
things had gotten so bad."
    "Oh, ha," Roth said. "Truly, think about it." He spoke as if
reciting to a concert hall. "Bright Jove, radiant as a thousand moons,
pales next to the blaze of  the sun."
    "Oh, nicely said."
    In a voice pitched for Vulcan ears only, Tris said, "Correct me if
I'm wrong, but are those two flirting, or what?"
    "Or what passes for it," T'Laren murmured back.
    "After all, consider who I had for a teacher," Roth was saying.
    "You have a point." Q turned to the other three. "I taught Harry
everything he knows."
    "It's true," Roth nodded. He glanced sideways at Q. "Now, if only
he would let me teach him everything *I* know..."
    "Can I break up this mutual admiration society here?" Dhawan
asked, at exactly the wrong point-- T'Laren would have loved to see how
Q would respond to such a blatantly flirtatious overture.
    "I don't see why," Q said. "*I'm* having fun."
    "You can stand here and trade double entendres with Harry all
night for all I care. But the captain would like to meet you at some
point."
    "Oh, the mysterious Captain Okita finally deigns to grace me with
his presence?"
    "Now, Q, let's try not to be a complete ass, shall we?" Roth said.
"Though admittedly you do it so well."
    Q shrugged. "When one has a talent as well-developed as mine, it
seems a shame to waste it."
    "Use it on someone other than Commander Dhawan, then. She's been
known to pull knives on Klingons."
    "Really." Q turned to Dhawan. "Should I be frightened?"
    Dhawan smiled ferally. "You're not a Klingon." She let a beat
pass. "I wouldn't waste a knife on you."
    "I think a good kick in the butt would do the job, myself," Tris
said. "If you think it's necessary, Shara, I hereby volunteer."
    "You think I can't fight my own battles, Tris?" Dhawan asked
cheerfully.
    "Hardly. I think Derek would have a fit if a human officer
attacked one of the guests, though. Whereas I'm a crazy Bajoran, so I
can get away with it. Besides, it's always best to pick on someone your
own size."
    T'Laren blinked. That had to be another Tris-ism. "Tris, what does
size have to do with it? Commander Dhawan is much smaller than Q."
    From Tris's expression, she realized she had just played straight
woman for him again. "Exactly. It'd be a terribly unfair fight.
Everyone knows a short vicious woman can kick a tall man's butt from
here to Romulus, and if he tries to defend himself physically everyone
jumps on him for hitting a small woman. Whereas *I* can kick Q's butt
from here to Romulus, and no one would criticize him for trying to
fight back." He beamed at Q. "See, this is Starfleet. It's very
important for us to fight fair."
    "Are you both truly complete psychopathic savages, or is this an
act you're putting on for my benefit?" Q asked.
    "In Tris's case it's an act," T'Laren said. "He may consider a
beating to be highly therapeutic for you, but he won't actually
administer one without a prescription. I would watch Commander Dhawan
if I were you, however. She seems formidable."
    "Thank you," Dhawan said. She turned to Q. "I don't want you on my
ship."
    "The very soul of diplomacy. I can see why they got a Vulcan child
to do your job."
    "I don't believe in beating around the bush. I don't want *any* of
you on my ship. I'm perfectly capable of analyzing the singularity
myself, and I don't need every physicist in the Federation second-
guessing me. And I consider you personally to be highly overrated."
    "Really."
    "Yes, really. If you're so brilliant, if you're bending over
backwards to help out us mere mortals, why are we still limited to
warp? Why haven't you given us the secret of teleportation, or
something?"
    "Because," Q said, as if talking to a very small child, "the way I
know how to teleport is to travel to the Q Continuum, then back out to
the mundane universe. And I really don't think that sending a pack of
teleporting savages to go romping through my old hometown will endear
me any to the folks sitting on my parole board. Not to mention that
you'd consume the power of an entire sun every time you did it, and the
stress of channelling such energy would derange your petty little
minds. Does the name Gary Mitchell ring a bell?"
    It didn't, actually.  It didn't seem to enlighten Dhawan, either.
"It was an example, Q. Surely a superior being like yourself can think
of *something* we mere mortals are capable of."
    "Certainly. But being capable of something and being ready to do
it are two entirely different things. As I understand it, human
children are capable of reproducing themselves when they're twelve. No
one suggests it would be a good idea for them to do so, however. If I
gave you a dramatic advance in theoretical understanding, enough to
support something like, oh, say, a working transwarp drive, it would
disrupt the balance of power in your little area of the galaxy. I trust
the Federation more than the Romulans or Cardassians; I do *not*,
however, trust them with dramatic increases of power. And I find it
very interesting that you, a member of an organization whose Prime
Directive is not to contaminate less advanced cultures with technology
they're not ready for, should think less of a member of a more advanced
culture for holding back what he knows."
    "He's got you, Shara," Tris said. "Of course, I always thought the
Prime Directive was arrogant and patronizing, myself."
    "No problem," Roth said. "Q will cheerily admit to being arrogant
and patronizing, I'm sure."
    T'Laren raised an eyebrow. "Harry, if this is how you treat people
you like, I'd hate to see your behavior toward one you hated."
    "I never said I *liked* Q, Doctor. I said I could tolerate him."
    "You love me, Harry. Admit it. You were the secret admirer sending
the boxes of chocolate to my room."
    "Couldn't have been. Maybe that was Nian, trying to cheer you up.
I send my secret admirees things like black silk briefs." Roth paused a
second, as if thinking. "You suppose it could have been Amy?"
    Q grimaced. "Oh, *please*."
    A man in an antigrav-chair floated up behind Q. He was a stick
figure, skin and bones, limply lolling in the chair; his head was
connected to the chair by implants at his temples, which touched
against two bars coming out from the chair. The contraption seemed to
be all that was holding his head in place. "I see you're still winning
friends and influencing people," his chair said in the same kind of
slightly flat voice the subvocalizer Q had used during his
hospitalization produced. It would have sounded normal at first if
T'Laren hadn't known it to be coming from a chair.
    Q turned. "Daedalus!" he exclaimed. "What a delight! Though I must
admit it doesn't come as a surprise-- I saw your name on the guest
list."
    "I saw yours as well," the chair said for the man in it. "I don't
know why I didn't cancel then."
    "Because you knew this conference would be condemned to utter
dullness without me, and you wished to provide me moral support in my
ambition to liven it up."
    "I suppose that must have been it." The man's head turned
slightly, eyes focusing on Q. In contrast to the debilitated state of
the rest of him, his eyes were shockingly bright. "You look terrible,
you know that?"
    "I'm *wounded*. I spent three hours in front of a mirror trying to
control the damage and you see through me immediately."
    "I always saw through you, Lucy. It's the curse of being the
greatest mind humanity currently has."
    "Who is this, Q?" T'Laren asked.
    Dhawan and Roth looked at her as if she had confessed she really
hadn't known that stars weren't painted on the sky. "The estimable Dr.
Peter Markow, intrepid explorer into regions where no man has gone
before and angels fear to tread," Q said. He pronounced the name
Markov; T'Laren remembered the spelling from the conference guest list.
"And Daedalus, this is my charming Vulcan companion, T'Ex."
    "It must be a private joke," Tris said.
    "Not private enough," T'Laren murmured.
    "I'm pleased to meet you, T'Ex," Markow said. From the flatness in
the artificial voice and the lack of expression in his slack face, it
was impossible to tell if he knew that T'Ex wasn't her name. "I'd be
more pleased if I knew who the hell you were, though. I can't imagine
Lucy getting a woman into bed, so what are you, his bodyguard?"
    "Among other things," T'Laren said.
    "Dr. T'Laren is Q's psychiatrist," Dhawan said.
    "Therapist, actually. I haven't got a psychiatric license."
T'Laren concealed her annoyance at Dhawan. "Dr. Markow, why do you call
Q 'Lucy'?"
    "Aren't you halfway curious as to why he calls me Daedalus?"
    "Yes, but I'm more curious about Lucy."
    "Short for Lucifer," Markow explained. "And Q screwed it up. It
should have been Icarus."
    "It should have been. Then I could have called you Icky, and we
would *really* have bewildered people."
    Roth turned to T'Laren. "Dr. Markow's one of the greatest minds in
Federation physics. When we were working against the Borg, he and Q
worked together quite a bit, moreso than many of us. I'm afraid we all
got a little strange when we were working against the Borg."
    "I can imagine."
    "Well, it was good to talk to you again, Dr. Markow," Dhawan said.
"I've got to go keep Morakh and Milarca from killing each other."
    "Oh, Morakh! My favorite bonebrain. I'd forgotten he was here," Q
said. "Daedalus, do you mind terribly if I go over and bother him?"
    "Of course I mind. I want to talk to you about this damned
singularity, not watch you get smeared into pulp."
    "No need to be afraid of Morakh. For all the Klingon bluster, he's
really a big pussycat. A very big, very ugly pussycat."
    "I'm not worried about Morakh. I'm worried about Dhawan."
    Tris nodded. "He's right. You're probably beneath Morakh's notice.
--In the sense of physical combat, of course."
    "I personally think it's a side effect of time travel," Markow
said.
    The non sequitur threw T'Laren for a moment, but not Roth. "What
makes you say that, Dr. Markow?" he asked.
    "Stop with the Dr. Markows, Roth, you're going to make me feel
old. I say that because if you look at the pattern formed by the fifth-
dimensional intersticial matrices--"
    "Oh, *please*, Daedalus. You're supposed to be a bright man, for a
human."
    Tris turned to T'Laren as the three physics experts descended into
technobabble. "I suppose that's our cue to either leave or let our eyes
politely glaze over and murmur like we know what they're talking
about," he said.
    "I really should stay and keep Q out of trouble."
    "You're not doing too well so far."
    "I can't exactly gag him."
    "I don't know. I'd consider it if he were my patient."
    "No, you wouldn't. You wouldn't actually kick him in the posterior
either if he were your patient. Admit it, Tris."
    "I suppose you're right-- which is why I'm glad he's not my
patient." The two of them had started to walk away from the knot of
arguing scientists. "I'm warning you, T'Laren, either he keeps himself
under control or he *is* going to get a punch in the face, either from
me or Shahrazad. It's our job-- not to mention Sovaz's--  to keep this
madhouse under control. We've got all these volatile, obnoxious,
arrogant assholes aboard, and adding Q to the mix was *maybe* not the
most brilliant idea anyone had. I'm not going to interfere between you
and your patient, but if he gets too disruptive, his ass is grass and
I'm a terraformer. You understand?"
    "You've gotten much better at the colorful Terran metaphors,"
T'Laren said.
    "Yes, haven't I? It comes from being Bajoran. We already swear
better than anyone else in the known universe."
    "I had forgotten."
    "Yeah." He snagged some hors d'oeuvres from a tray. "Want some?"
    "I'll take a rice ball."
    "Gone veggie again?" Tris shook his head. "I don't care what
Starfleet says about tolerance for other races' customs, I *know*
humanoids weren't intended to be vegetarians."
    "Meat on Vulcan is bad for one; it's much richer in heavy metals
than our plant life is."
    "You're not on Vulcan."
    T'Laren shrugged slightly. "You're not on Bajor. You still wear
that earring."
    "That's different."
    "I don't see how."
    He sighed. "Do you really want to have a stupid argument right
now?"
    T'Laren shook her head. "I've had enough of them lately."
    Tris nodded. "I figured." He took a deep breath. "So. How've you
been?"
    She studied him intently. This was another ploy to get her to talk
about it, she was sure. With Tris, it was best to be blunt. "Tris, I
really don't want to talk about it, all right? The last few years have
been... very bad. I just... would rather not speak of them. Not yet."
    "All right."
    "But I'll ask how you've been, if you're willing to tell me."
    "Sure I'm willing... you've heard the big news, haven't you? You
must have, unless you were in a monastery the past year or so."
    "The big news?"
    "The Occupation's over. The Cardassians packed up and went home.
And a Starfleet officer found out that the Celestial Temple of the
Prophets is really a stable wormhole to the Gamma Quadrant, so Bajor's
actually of interest to someone. We've got a Provisional Government
that *may* even last another three months before degenerating into
chaos. You must have heard."
    "Yes, of course. To be honest, Tris, I'd forgotten for a moment
that Bajor was still occupied when I last spoke to you. It seems
like... a much shorter time ago than it actually was." She grew
pensive. "I was occupied with personal problems when I first heard
about it, but once the significance sank in, I remember wondering if
you would choose to go home."
    "I thought about it." He shrugged. "I think I can do more good
here."
    He lied well to total strangers. To friends, though, his
inclination was to be honest when possible, and as a result he was
transparent to one who knew him well. "If you say so," T'Laren said
evenly, indicating her disbelief by a slightly raised eyebrow.
    Tris smiled wryly. "You still know how to see through my bullshit,
I can tell." He looked away. "I'm... not sure how well I'd be received
at home. They published my name as one of the 'Unsung Heroes of the
Resistance' or some crap like that, but to most people I probably still
look like a suck-up to the Cardassians." He shook his head. "Bajor's
got too much history. I'm not interested in history. I don't like my
history much-- I don't want to be the man I was on Bajor. And if I go
back, that's what I'll be." He turned back to her. "Besides, while
there's Bajorans in Starfleet, they all went through the Academy and
got the edges polished off. Counselors can serve with Starfleet without
being Starfleet officers themselves, so I can be out here and prove
that Bajorans aren't all crazy terrorists. So in a sense, I *do*
actually think I'm more use here."
    "And you know aliens better than your own kind, now?" she asked
softly.
    "A little, yeah. I'm not as alienated-- ooh, bad pun, I didn't
mean it-- as you are-- or were; you seem to be pretty comfortable in a
Vulcan skin now. Except, of course, that real Vulcans don't get so
upset with people who didn't do anything to them that they turn
specifically and viciously cold to their loved ones."
    "Real Vulcans do indeed," she said, refusing to rise to the bait.
"Someone has been telling you tales about real Vulcans, I suspect."
    "That would be Sovaz." His eyes wandered over to where she stood
in a conversational knot, eagerly interrogating a Tellarite and a human
about some arcane concept of physics. "She's a great kid, you know."
    "You are not thinking what I suspect you're thinking."
    "Of *course* not." His voice dripped disgust. "What do you think I
am, a child molester? Give her ten years and maybe."
    T'Laren shrugged. "I'm sorry if I've offended you, but Sovaz is
twenty-seven. Most humanoids would consider her fair game."
    "Sovaz is incredibly immature, even for a Vulcan. And I know about
Vulcans being late bloomers." He looked at her. "It's because you're
vegetarians," he said solemnly. "Look at you. You ate meat on Earth and
you told me *you* got started when you were fifteen. Most Vulcans don't
until their late twenties, isn't that what you told me? I personally
think we should start a charity. Feed the starving Vulcans some
protein. It'll do wonders for your sex lives."
    "Early blooming is hardly an advantage on Vulcan; besides, I 'got
started' because I was frightened, and you know me. Show me something
I'm afraid of, and I'll dive headlong into it--"
    "Like maybe dealing with your little sister?"
    T'Laren shook her head. "Cruel, Tris."
    "But true."
    She changed the subject. "How long have you been counselor on the
Yamato?"
    "I got posted here as backup counselor, oh, maybe nine months ago.
Then Counselor Seligman retired to teach at the Academy, about six
months ago, so I ended up as main counselor on a Galaxy-class starship.
Pretty impressive for a boy from Bajor, huh?"
    "I'd thought you were going into psy-ops."
    "Too much like what I did before. I wanted something completely
different." He looked at her. "What about you?"
    "You're astonishingly persistent, did you know?"
    "It's one of my charms."
    At that point a snatch of conversation caught her attention.
"Excuse me." She headed back over to Q, quickly.
    Q was facing Dr. Morakh, smirking slightly. Morakh's expression
was unreadable, masked under an impassive Klingon scowl.
    "Oh, you can admit it, we're all friends here," Q was saying.
"For all your education and your posturing at being a rational being,
you *really* would rather be ripping my head off than debating with me.
Go ahead, confess.  You Klingons are simply unfit for civilization."
    "I doubt there are very many sentient beings you have ever met in
your life who would not wish to rip your head off,"  Morakh retorted.
    "That depends on how you define 'sentient'."
    Morakh ignored that.  "The distinction you are failing to make is
that a civilized being would *not* rip your head off. Despite
provocation.  In fact, a civilized being, such as myself, would not
*want* to."
    "Oh really?"  Q raised any eyebrow.  "And here I thought you were
supposed to enjoy that sort of thing.  The joys of mayhem. Glorious
battle and all that."
    "If I attacked you, it would not be a battle," Morakh said. "It
would simply be a slaughter."
    "Same thing."
    T'Laren interposed herself between the two. "I'm afraid I couldn't
permit that," she said evenly.
    Morakh scowled at her. "I had heard Vulcans were pacifists." He
made it sound like a curse.
    "We were forced to be," T'Laren said calmly. "We were far too good
at war."
    For several seconds they stared one another down. Then Morakh
broke the stare, laughing. "I like you," he said. "You have courage. Be
assured I won't attack your charge, T'Laren." He gazed at Q as if
examining a herd animal. "It would be beneath my dignity to assault
such a weakling."
    "Or perhaps you're just afraid of Starfleet," Q said snidely.
    Morakh looked at him again. "I have heard you tried to kill
yourself," he said. "If you are too much of a coward to do the job
properly, that is your problem. I will not be provoked into doing it
for you."
    He turned away. Q stared after him for several seconds, a look of
astonishment on his face.
    "Why did you provoke him like that?" T'Laren asked sharply.
    Q shrugged. "To see what he'd do." He smiled. "Who'd have thought
it? There actually *is* a brain under that craggy forehead. I'm
impressed."
    "I'm not," Markow said. "You're going to get yourself killed one
of these days, Lucy."
    "What can I say? Live dangerously, that's my motto."
    "Get a new motto, then."
    "I don't think he was in much danger, Peter," Roth said, giving
the name the self-conscious edge of a man trying deliberately to use a
first name. "I've dealt with Morakh before. He's really quite a calm
fellow, for a Klingon."
    A small albino woman with oversized golden eyes approached the
small group. Her hair was short, a chin-length pageboy cut that curled
under at the bottom, and she wore a tight blue satin bodysuit that left
very little to the imagination. T'Laren saw Tris' eyes widen slightly
in appreciation. She glanced back at Q, who nodded at the newcomer.
"Dr. What's-your-name. A pleasure to see you again."
    "I'm glad to see you made it to the conference, Q," the woman
said. Her voice was soft but firm. "Rumor had you dead of acid
poisoning."
    "Well. The rumors of my death--"
    "-- were greatly cliched," Markow said. "Try an original one."
    "Dr. Markow, Dr. Roth, would it disturb you if I requested a few
moments of Q's time? My researches have turned up an interesting
question that I believe he's best equipped to answer, if he's willing."
    "Of course not," Roth said. "We'd no intention of utterly
monopolizing him."
    "An interesting question regarding the singularity? Or some other
aspect of physics?" Q asked.
    "As regards history, actually. A hobby of mine."
    Q rolled his eyes. "How typically Laon'l." He turned to T'Laren.
"Her people are positively obsessive about their own history. I can't
imagine why. A more tedious history would be difficult to come up
with."
    "There were intriguing spots," the woman said. She nodded at
T'Laren. "I have heard you are an associate of Q's? Dr. T'Laren?"
    The phrasing left it ambiguous as to whether the woman knew
T'Laren was not a fellow physicist, but T'Laren didn't feel the need to
explain her relationship with Q again. "Yes."
    "I am Professor Miari Elejani Baii of New Laon." The woman clasped
her fists together between her breasts and then spread her palms out
toward T'Laren in what was obviously a ritual greeting. "I must warn
you that I am an empath."
    In other words, she had noted the relaxed condition of T'Laren's
mental shielding, and thought T'Laren should know that she could read
T'Laren's emotions through it.  "Thank you for warning me," T'Laren
said, but didn't strengthen her shields-- she was perfectly comfortable
at the moment.  She recognized the species now. Laon'l were a very
recent addition to the Federation, powerfully empathic relatives of the
Scamarans, who had been Federation members for some time and had very
slight empathic gifts. Laon'l mindhealers were supposed to match
Betazoids for their skills in repairing damaged psyches. But Laon'l,
unlike their Scamaran cousins, were supposed to be physically fragile
and emotionally reclusive, preferring to stay on their own world.
T'Laren had never met one.
    Elejani Baii turned back to Q, who picked up his drink and sipped
at it serenely. "Since the Reunification, Laon'l scholars have been
fascinated by the circumstances of our separation from the Scamarans,"
she said. "There has been a revitalization of interest in the question
of Emaroth."
    "No doubt your Scamaran cousins think you're wasting time."
    "Scamarans are people of action. We Laon'l have undertaken only
one major action in our history. Of course you are familiar with our
history?"
    "Fairly conversant," Q said.
    "I'm not," Markow said.
    T'Laren thought she detected slight irritation in Elejani Baii's
face. No doubt she really wanted to pose her question to Q, not to
explain herself to Markow. But Markow was far too respected in the
scientific community, even by people who thought his theories were
ridiculous, for her to ignore him. "Then I shall tell the whole story,
so that we all understand and can converse," Elejani Baii said-- it
sounded like a ritual phrase.
    "How about you just ask me the question, and if Daedalus really
wants to hear it, you can tell him the whole thing later," Q suggested.
    "The question concerns Daisheneon Emaroth."
    "Why does that not surprise me?"
    "Who?" Markow asked. "Ignore Lucy, he's being an ass. I want to
hear this."
    Q sighed. "Oh, go on, Dr. Elejani," he said. "Heavens forfend that
the great Peter Markow should misunderstand a single minute of a
conversation not aimed at him."
    "If it is acceptable," Elejani Baii said. She turned to face
Markow and Roth. "My people are a very old race, older far than
humanity. We had a civilization on our homeworld of Old Laon for ten
thousand years, with a technology based primarily on biogenetics and
our empathic powers. But we had never left our world. We held no
interest in space. In fact, in our mythos, the sky was what you might
call Hell-- the source of metaphysic dangers to the soul, the home of
demons and the land of the tormented dead. We feared that when we
looked to the stars, the stars might suck out our souls. We were, in
fact, the only race I've ever heard of who developed a high level of
technology without so much as putting up a satellite."
    "They were, in fact, the most *boring* people you've ever heard
of," Q said. "No ambition, no drive to learn, no need to explore. They
explored their own pathetic little world, covered it with their
holistic and oh-so-terribly harmonious cities, and then sat and
analyzed their own navels for ten thousand years."
    "You speak as if you were there," Elejani Baii said.
    "I was."
    "Good, then you *will* be able to answer my question." She turned
back to the others. "Three thousand years ago, we were... confronted
with a being who called herself Emaroth. She claimed to come from
space, and so we dubbed her a demon-- a term that seemed more and more
accurate as the years went by. Emaroth was a creature of immense power,
and to us it seemed great malevolence. She informed us-- in terms not
unlike those that Q just used-- that we had wasted our potential,
squandered the promise of our sentience and the bounty of our world,
and that therefore she was taking possession of our planet. Every year,
she would extract a tithe of 1,000 of our best and brightest, and carry
them off to Hell."
    "And you believed this?" Markow asked. "That she was taking them
to Hell?"
    "Oh, yes," Elejani Baii said calmly. "You must understand that we
were not a superstitious people-- we rarely spoke of things like Hell
and demons. But I have watched the records we made at the time, and it
is hard to see how a thinking being could *not* believe. Emaroth could-
- and did-- level buildings with a gesture, make people vanish and
reappear, raise the dead or kill with a thought. We called her
Daisheneon-- a term that's something of a pun; it can mean either Great
Lady, Empress, or Great Demon. The word Emaroth itself was
intrinsically meaningless but seemed to be related to our words for
'judge' and 'challenger'." She sipped at a drink Roth handed her. "Also
it may help to understand that just as humanity has a predisposition
toward patriarchy, we Laon'l have a predisposition toward matriarchy.
Our sexes were equal under the law, but we were more likely to perceive
a woman as an authority figure, just as you are more likely to see
authority in a male." She cast a sidewise glance at Q, who had a
studiedly bland expression.
    "We did whatever we could to stop Emaroth. We shot at her,
poisoned her, blew up our own buildings around her. She merely laughed-
- she didn't even extract retribution for the attempts, which terrified
us even more. Our best efforts were completely beneath her. Our most
powerful psis united in an attempt to read her mind. Their brains were
burnt out by the effort, and Emaroth implied that she hadn't even
consciously assaulted them-- according to her, she was simply too
advanced a form of life for the comprehension of our limited brains."
    "Sounds like you'd get along with her," Markow said to Q.
    "Undoubtedly."
    "Some of us tried desperately to propitiate her, reinstituting the
ancient custom of child sacrifice. Emaroth resurrected the children and
opened the ground beneath the sacrificers, dropping them into the core
of Old Laon, because she was annoyed by the attempt. She insisted that
there was nothing we could do to stop her, that so long as we lived on
Old Laon she would take her claim of 1,000 every year.
    "And somehow that sparked an idea. Emaroth had told us that the
stars we feared were suns like ours, that harbored worlds like ours.
Space itself might be hellish, but if we could cross through it to a
new world... it was our *world* and the people on it Emaroth had laid
claim to. She made that very clear. Somehow, after ten thousand years
of fearing the stars, we became desperate enough to try to flee to
them.
    "It took three generations of feverish work for us to develop a
ship. The best we managed was impulse drive; our ships would be
generation ships, but once we were free of our world we would be free
of Emaroth, whether we had found a new world yet or no."
    "Only three generations?" T'Laren raised an eyebrow. "I've never
heard of a species that developed impulse drive that quickly without
some outside help."
    "You must understand the impetus. All the most intelligent of our
kind were going into physics. People who might have gone into
biochemistry or psychology were driven by the fear that Emaroth would
take them as part of her tithe. Our leaders, who fancied themselves the
best and brightest of Laon, feared the same, and so all our world's
resources were being diverted toward escape." She sipped again at her
drink. "Finally it came time. We persuaded all but six million of our
people to leave in the generation ships; those six million were either
too stubborn to go, or feared that Emaroth was tricking us into space
where she could take us all, or suspected that Emaroth would never get
around to them or their families with all the other people left behind
to choose from. So we parted from our remaining people, and left our
world for the 100-year-journey to New Laon.
    "50 years away from Old Laon, we saw our sun go nova. Old Laon and
all the people we left behind, all our history, all our ruins, were no
more than elemental particles. And we believed Emaroth had done it out
of malice or rage, that we'd escaped her grasp, and we cursed her name
for 3,000 years. And after we reached our new world, we once more
averted our eyes from the stars.
    "Fifteen years ago, we were contacted by the Federation. We
discovered that those taken in Emaroth's tithe had been transported to
a harsh, deadly world, that they had fought and finally tamed-- the
world they called Scamara. Our lost brethren had also developed space
flight, built colonies, and joined the Federation. They had technology
we had only dreamed of, and access to the bounties of a hundred worlds.
They persuaded us that space was not inhabited by devils, and we
consented to join the Federation, overjoyed by our reunion with them.
    "And so the question of Emaroth has been reopened-- who she was,
what her motives were, how she did the things she did. Most of my
people still believe Emaroth to be malevolent-- that she chased us from
our world out of petty malice. And yet recently we have used warp drive
to intercept the light from Old Laon, from before the nova, and we've
discovered that there was evidence of the impending nova hundreds of
years before Emaroth's arrival. So I have wondered if perhaps Emaroth
did not save our world; that, with full consciousness of the upcoming
nova, she harried our people into developing the tools to save
ourselves.  If one takes the premise that Emaroth truly believed that
we had squandered our potential, then her actions with the Scamarans
make sense-- by being forced to live on a harsh and unforgiving world,
the Scamarans were forced to become problem solvers and explorers, and
ended up achieving space flight on their own, at a much higher level
than we did."
    "Which is why the Scamarans are so much more interesting than
you," Q said.
    "Exactly." Elejani Baii turned to Q. "When I heard of *you*, and
your race, I was struck by the similarities between your kind and
Emaroth. A race of powerful beings that arbitrarily pronounce judgment
on less advanced races, that perform malevolent acts that are in the
long run beneficial-- such as your warning humanity about the dangers
of the Borg..."
    Q shrugged. "There are a lot of near-omnipotent races out there.
She could have been a Douwd. Or a Metraskan. Or an Organian, though
probably not."
    "But that is what I have wanted for some time to ask you. You
should know, one way or another. Was Emaroth one of your people? And if
she was, was she acting out of sheer malevolence, as many of my kind
believe, or was she trying to save us?"
    "What do *you* think?" Q asked, in his best I'm-certainly-not-
going-to-give-everything-away voice.
    Elejani Baii smiled. "I think that I am an empath," she said. "And
I think that for all the control you have of your face, you have very
little control over what an empath may sense of your emotions. And
therefore I think that you have just answered both of my questions--
Daisheneon."
    As Q's eyes widened, Elejani Baii suddenly reached up and put her
arms around his neck, pulling herself up. T'Laren tensed, prepared to
grab Elejani Baii if necessary, but the Laon'l woman merely kissed Q on
the cheek and released him. "Few of my people would appreciate what
you've done for us," she said. "But I understand. I give you the
gratitude of all my people."
    She turned away and walked off into the crowd before anyone could
say anything. Finally, Markow said, "Well?"
    "Well what?" Q asked, still staring after Elejani Baii as if she'd
just revealed that she was his long-lost mother.
    "Well, was she right? Did you save her people?"
    Q turned to Markow and smiled evilly. "*She* thinks so," he said.
"And who am I to turn down a potential ally? Even perhaps a deluded
one?"
    Roth laughed. "You utter dog. You tricked her?"
    Q shrugged, an innocent expression on his face. "What she wants to
believe isn't any concern of mine, is it?"
    T'Laren studied him, unconvinced. She had more experience reading
Q's expressions than the others here, she suspected. And when Elejani
Baii had called him Daisheneon, he'd had the same expression he got
when T'Laren surprised him by figuring out something he'd hidden from
her. It struck her as curious, if it were true-- not the idea that it
was true; she saw nothing inconsistent between Elejani Baii's story and
Q's personality. He had never given her any kind of detail on the
things he'd done in his past life, and none of the incidents mentioned
in his records were instances of him helping a race out-- but then,
this story hardly described an unaambiguous situation in that regard,
either. What would the Scamarans do to Q if they decided that he was
the being who had exiled them from their original home? Even if Q had
done it to save them from their star going nova, they might demand
retribution-- after all, someone with Q's powers *could* simply have
prevented the star from going nova, or could have transported them to a
kind world like their own, not a hellhole that killed thousands before
they finally tamed it. It was entirely possible that some of the ones
who'd come looking for Q had benefited from his actions in some
roundabout way-- T'Laren had no trouble reconciling that with what she
knew of him.
    But why, if it were true, would he hide it from Roth and Markow?
Everyone knew Q had committed atrocities. Why wasn't he eager to let
people know that he had done good deeds as well? She thought she knew
why he didn't go about protesting that he'd done wonderful things, but
why, when someone had stood up and described a good deed he'd done, did
he lie and imply he hadn't done it? Was he getting some emotional
benefit out of being perceived as entirely villainous? If so, she'd
have to work on that with him-- it would be very difficult to get him
to make friends if he wanted everyone to think of him as the bad guy.

Only Human

Part III: Yamato

This is the revised version of Part III, as I discovered I've been
posting an older version all along.  There have been minor changes
made throughout, and Section 7 has new material at the end.  As I
begin reposting Part III, it is as of yet incomplete.  I don't know
how many pieces it's going to end up being, total.

ONLY HUMAN (for those who haven't caught the story thus far) is an
alternate universe, based on the premise that Q lost his powers for
good in "Deja Q."  In exchange for protection, he offered the
Federation the benefit of his advanced knowledge, and was transferred
to Starbase 56.  Three years later, miserable beyond endurance, Q
attempted to kill himself.

Dr. T'Laren, Vulcan xenopsychologist and former Starfleet counselor,
turned up at this point, claiming that Starfleet had hired her as Q's
therapist.  In fact, it turned out that she was really hired by the Q
Continuum, in the person of the Q who got Q thrown out, whom T'Laren
refers to as Lhoviri.  T'Laren persuaded Q to accept her help and
allow her to counsel him through his depression.  To that end, they
left Starbase 56 on T'Laren's ship Ketaya-- a gift from Lhoviri, with
some surprising capabilities-- and headed for the starship Yamato,
which was currently hosting a physics conference.

Over the course of the past weeks of travel, Q has come to trust
T'Laren, more or less, though they've had some knock-down-drag-out
fights in the process.  At the end of Part II, Q decided that he no
longer wanted to die.  As Part III begins, they are just docking with
Yamato.

Parts I and II are available through ftp from ftp.netcom.com, /pub
/al/aleph/trek, human1.zip and human2.zip.  They are also available
from ftp.cis.ksu.edu in /pub/alt.startrek.creative/incomplete.  Part
III, which is as yet unfinished, is available to the extent that it
exists in the Netcom ftp site mentioned above.  Send requests,
comments, praise and flames to [e-mail] or [e-mail].

             *                   *                    *

    "Well, that was fun," Tris murmured.  "This kind of thing happen
often?"
    "I'm not sure," T'Laren murmured back. "I've never seen it before,
but I'm afraid that proves little."
    At this point a middle-aged Japanese man with short-cropped, solid
gray hair approached.  From a glance at the pips on his dress uniform,
T'Laren realized he had to be Captain Okita.
    Q seemed to notice him at the same time.  "Ah, the mysterious
Captain Okita," he said.  "I'm so glad you've finally come to say
hello."
    Okita smiled genially.  T'Laren had a definite feeling that
nothing whatsoever would appear to offend this man unless he chose to
let it.  He nodded at the three scientists.  "Dr. Markow.  Q.  It's an
honor to have individuals of your distinction aboard Yamato," he said,
still smiling.  "And Dr. Roth, I believe we met a few days ago?  How
are you enjoying your stay thus far?"
    "Well, I can't say it's been boring," Roth said, grinning.
    "I suppose a little honor must go a very long way," Q said to
Markow.
    "Don't be an ass, Lucy."
    "Ah, the day-to-day running of a starship is a time-consuming
business,"  Okita said.  "One can't allow as much time for pleasure as
one would hope."  He turned to T'Laren.  "Dr. T'Laren.  So glad to see
you well.  Your young sister Sovaz is shaping up into a fine officer."
    "She honors her family," T'Laren said.  "But I'm afraid that
family is no longer mine, Captain.  Sovaz is no longer my sister."
    "It's a shame to hear that.  I'd be proud to have her as a sister,
myself."
    "Do they teach you that in command school at the Academy?" Q
asked.  "Or is it a little trick you've picked up along the way?"
    Okita turned back to him, still smiling.  "Teach what?"
    "How to insult people while sounding as if you're complimenting
them.  It's a neat trick, wherever you learned it."
    Markow rolled his eyes, and Roth pressed a hand to his forehead.
Okita's smile broadened slightly.  "I've been told you take pride in
being difficult, Mr. Q," he said.
    "A scurrilous rumor."
    "I'm sure it is."  He nodded at all five of them.  "It's been
pleasant talking to you, but duty calls, I'm afraid."  He left.
    "Well, that was a rather astonishing fellow," Roth said.
    "He does that," Tris said.  "It's his 'man of mystery' act.  Ride
into town, greet the diplomats warmly, then ride off into the sunset
again."
    "He doesn't sound very fun at parties," Q said.
    "As if you ever get invited to parties," Markow said.
    "I get invited to all the best ones."
    "Define best."
    "The ones I'm at, of course."
    "Anyway," Tris said to T'Laren, ignoring the interplay between the
physicists.  "I'm kind of supposed to circulate.  If you feel like
talking, look me up after the reception."
    "Of course."

    T'Laren spent the rest of the reception watching Q.  There were no
more near-disasters as there had been with Morakh; he spent most of the
time trading witticisms and technobabble with Roth and Markow,
occasionally breaking stride to chat with someone else who showed up
but making no attempt to circulate.  The three of them seemed perfectly
content to be a monobloc, indivisible by the conversational sorties of
others.
    It grew late.  The reception started to fray, bleeding off people
to their rooms for the night, and T'Laren could see that Q was tiring.
When she suggested to him that he might wish to leave, however, he
laughed her off.  Finally Markow said, rather abruptly, "I'm going to
bed.  Goodbye."
    "You can't leave *now*, Daedalus," Q protested.  His tone was
light and joking, but there was a faint desperate edge to it.  "The
night is still young!"
    "The night is, but I'm not.  Just because you can go 72 hours on a
catnap doesn't mean we mere mortals can duplicate the feat.  Good
night."
    As his chair floated off, Roth said somewhat apologetically,
"Perhaps we should both get some rest.  The conference starts at 1100
tomorrow, you know."
    "Oh, I scoff at sleep.  Try spending three weeks in Li's sickbay
and you'd be sick of sleeping too."
    "Agreed," Roth said, grinning.  "But I'm beginning to think the
caterers would like for us to get out of here..."
    "Well, perhaps we should find a more congenial location.  T'Laren!
You know a bit about starships.  Where would you suggest we go?"
    "Why not to our rooms?" T'Laren suggested.  She was tiring
herself, and could see that Q was exhausting himself-- his voice was a
little too manic, his movements suggestive of punchiness, his laughter
a bit shrill.
    Q blinked at her.  "T'Laren.  Are you seriously suggesting I take
Roth to my *room?*" he asked.  "What*ever* would the neighbors think?"
    "Probably the wrong thing... more's the pity,"  Harry said.
    "I know, I know, one of the great tragedies of your life, right?
I can't help it that I find your silly human sexual customs quite
nauseating.  It's nothing personal, you know."
    "Well, you can't say something's nauseating if you haven't tried
it, now can you?"  Roth was definitely punchy, and maybe, T'Laren
thought, a bit drunk-- synthehol rarely impaired one's motor
coordination, but it was just as good as real alcohol at lowering
inhibitions.
    "I can.  I know everything, remember?"
    "You *used* to know everything.  You forgot most of it."
    "I can still say something's nauseating," Q said lightly.
"Besides.  As flattering as I find the attention, I assure you, Harry,
if you knew what I looked like under this monkey suit at the moment you
would be considerably less interested."
    "Oh, but I saw you in the hospital," Roth said.  "I doubt you
could look worse than that."
    "And you're still interested?"
    T'Laren wondered just how serious this was getting.  Roth sounded
almost as if he meant what he was saying-- if he was drunk, he probably
*did* mean what he was saying-- but did Q know that?  Or care?  "Most
certainly," Harry said.
    "Well, there you have it.  I couldn't possibly be seen in the
company of a man with such terrible taste.  Harry, I'm ashamed of you--
I thought you had *some* sense of aesthetics."  Q snapped his fingers.
"I have, as usual, a brilliant notion.  We can go to *your* room,
Harry, and we can take T'Laren along as a chaperone."
    "We actually need a chaperone?  Should I be encouraged?"
    "I'm actually rather tired,"  T'Laren said.  "I would prefer to
retire."
    "But you still have a brilliant career ahead of you," Roth
protested, grinning.  T'Laren blinked.
    "Forgive her, she's humor-impaired.  It's a hereditary disease--
you get it from being born a Vulcan," Q said.
    "I was just remarking that Lt. Roth must be more tired than I
thought," T'Laren said.  "Q, you need to get to bed.  It's late."
    "Oh, but I'm having fun."
    "We could solve several problems at once if you took my
suggestion," Roth said.  "You could go to bed *and* have fun.  Everyone
would be satisfied."
    "I'm horrified, Harry, exactly how many glasses of synthwine do
you think I *had?*"
    "Not enough, obviously," Roth said mournfully.
    "Q, kindly make up your mind.  You can stay here and flirt with
Lieutenant Roth if you wish, but *I* am going to bed. Are you coming
with me or not?"
    "I think she just asked if you were going to bed with her," Roth
said. "Should I be jealous?"
    Q shook his head sadly.  "To think how advanced the human race
might be if they didn't devote 90% of their thinking processes to the
sordid pursuit of sexual encounters.  You know, Harry, if I weren't
such a tolerant and forbearing individual I might have become quite
disgusted by now."
    "Well, either that or you're more human than you thought."
    "Please don't insult me like that again."
    "Good night, Q,"  T'Laren said.
    "Good *night*, T'Laren! Sleep tight!" Q caroled. "So long,
farewell, *auf wiedersehen*, good night!"
    T'Laren raised an eyebrow to herself as she headed for her
quarters.  Q was considerably less naive now than he had been during
the incident with Amy Frasier-- she had to assume that he knew what he
was doing.

    She had barely gotten out of her clothes and makeup when he showed
up back at the room, though.  He had an origami bird, apparently made
out of a napkin, in one hand, and was tossing it up and catching it
again, whistling.  T'Laren came out in her nightgown and bathrobe.
"You seem cheerful."
    "I hadn't noticed."  Q plopped himself down in front of a console.
"Computer, display gravitometric map of the singularity."  His voice
was hoarse and rasping, and even through his makeup he looked pale and
drawn.
    A bizarrely warped image flashed into existence over the console.
"Q, you're exhausted.  You should go to sleep."
    "Nonsense.  I'm enjoying myself far too much to sleep.  Computer,
rotate image by 90 degrees."
    "You're really frightened of going to sleep, aren't you?"  T'Laren
pulled up a chair and sat down near him.
    Q glared at her.  "*Frightened?*  Why would I be frightened of
going to *sleep?* I simply don't *want* to, T'Laren, and *please* stop
making mountains out of molehills, will you?"
    "You're afraid of having nightmares.  And perhaps you're afraid
that when you wake up, you won't be in as good a mood."
    He smiled wryly.  "The odds of me being in anything that remotely
resembles a good mood when I wake up tomorrow are practically
infinitesmal.  I admit it.  Why should I spoil a wonderful night by
sleeping through it?"
    "Because you will feel terrible in the morning?"
    "It hardly makes a difference if I go to bed now or in an hour or
don't go to bed at all, I'll feel terrible in the morning.  So it
really doesn't make much of a difference at all, does it now?"
    "I suppose not."  She got up and went to the room's replicator.
"Would you like a hot chocolate?"
    "I'd like a cold chocolate.  Heavy on the caffeine.  In fact, make
it a mocha."
    T'Laren shrugged and ordered a hot chocolate and a cold mocha. He
glanced up in surprise as she handed it to him.  "You're actually
giving me what I asked for?"
    "I don't think you're going to be deliberately self-destructive
again for some time, if ever.  And if you want to abuse your health..."
She shrugged.  "You're in sufficiently good shape now to tolerate a few
nights without sleep.  You won't like the results when you wake up, but
it's your decision-- I'm not going to make an issue out of it."
    "Hello? Exactly where did you come from and what have you done
with T'Laren?"
    Despite herself, she smiled slightly at that.  *More tired than I
thought!*  "We're in a different environment now, Q.  Of course I'm
going to change tactics."  She sat down again and sipped at her
chocolate.  "You enjoyed seeing those people again, didn't you?"
    "Which ones?"  He turned away from the display and faced her,
showing a certain amount of interest in the conversation.  She
suspected that he would rather talk to her than try to make his tired
brain make sense of the display.
    "Roth and Markow, in particular.  Actually, from the way the three
of you behaved, I would have assumed them to be your friends.  I
thought you said you hardly knew Roth."
    "I don't, really.  But he's amusing to trade conversational banter
with."
    "And amusing to flirt with as well?"
    Q choked on his mocha.  He put the glass down, an expression of
mingled embarrassment, outrage, and amusement on his face.  "I was
*not* flirting with him!"  The amusement took the upper hand for a
moment, his face twitching into a slight smile.  "*He* was flirting."
    "And what were you doing, then?" T'Laren asked, amused herself.
    "Responding, of course."  The slight smile turned into a brief
grin.
    "That's generally referred to as flirting where I come from."
    "Well, you're all barbarians in Texas."
    T'Laren sipped at the drink again.  "Seriously.  Given what you've
told me about your troubles with human sexuality, does that bother
you?"
    "What, that he flirts?  Harry does that with *everybody*."
    "I have a feeling that it's a little more serious when he does it
with you.  In fact, I wasn't at all sure he was joking, before."
    Q shrugged.  "He was a bit drunk, I think," he said.  "Harry
enjoys handing himself over to the synthehol and acting silly."
    "But you don't."
    "I prefer acting silly without external aids, myself.  But then,
of course, I have a much bigger ego than Harry."
    "Do you think there was any kind of element of seriousness in
there at all?"
    "Oh, almost certainly.  At least an element.  Possibly an entire
row of the periodic table."
    "Does that bother you?"
    Q picked up his mocha and looked into it for a moment.  "You know,
it used to," he said.  "After the, mm, incident with dearest Amy, I
became very nervous about humans finding me attractive in that sense--
in an aesthetic sense, of course, I had always intended to be
attractive, but I think I began to be unnerved by the relentless human
confusion of the aesthetic with the sexual.  For a while, the idea that
people would even contemplate me in a sexual sense was rather
disturbing.  And disgusting, as well.  But--" he shrugged-- "then I
became too involved in my work against the Borg to care, and shortly
after we'd finished that I was too depressed to care, not to mention
that people had come to despise me too much to want me whatever I
looked like... and finally I ended up looking terrible as well.  So...
actually I find it a little flattering.  I've been so terribly
unattractive for so long that I admit it's pleasant, to have someone
find me otherwise... Oh, yes, I know that Harry probably would be as
disgusted as everyone else is if he didn't have such a fetish for
intellectuals, but then I've *always* found appreciation of my
intellect an enjoyable quality in someone else."
    "I don't see why anyone would find you disgusting to look at, Q,"
T'Laren pointed out.  "You spent several hours today on your
appearance.  It would be better if you were healthier and less thin, of
course, but I don't see anything anyone could object to in your
appearance tonight."
    He shrugged.  "No, maybe not tonight, but I'm not going to get
quite this gussied up every night."
    "Have you been aware of Roth's feelings before?"
    "In a rather abstract sense, yes... He was never quite this
blatant before, I'll grant.  The closest he's come was the night after
the Borg defeat... Starbase 56 more or less turned into a giant party.
We'd suffered no casualties personally, you realize.  And the Borg had
been headed our way before the virus we developed finally took hold."
    T'Laren frowned.  "I was... indisposed at the time, but I'd heard
that the Borg retreated from Wolf 359."
    "They didn't retreat.  They found another target.  After they
completed assimilating Langan and realized what humanity was up to,
they realized that Starbase 56-- or more specifically, I-- was a much
bigger threat to them than the armada at Wolf 359.  That's really what
kept the casualties down there.  Oh, we improved shielding, and
developed some rather unique methods for getting around their defenses,
but that one ship had regenerated all the damage it had taken by the
time it decided to 'retreat.'  No, they were coming after me.  And the
rest of the scientists and tactical staff on the starbase."  He stared
off into the distance.  "I really didn't think the virus would work
before they got here-- we were quite far from Wolf 359, but Borg ships
are fast when they want to be.  Starfleet ships kept attacking, trying
to slow them down-- the Borg brushed them off like, oh, not gnats, but
maybe flies.  Something that's a definite nuisance, and hard to hit,
but a small insect nonetheless.  I was quite convinced they'd get here
before our virus stopped them."  He grinned up at T'Laren.  "I
suggested to Anderson that she send me out to them.  With a suicide
capsule, of course, I had no intention of letting myself be
assimilated.  But Langan didn't know much about the total war effort--
he knew about me, everyone knew about me, and I thought the Borg would
be satisfied to make sure I was dead, and would consider the rest of
the base irrelevant if I wasn't on it.  She told me I was being an
idiot and there was no way Starfleet was going to sacrifice me after
all I'd done.  I told her *she* was being the idiot... but it felt
rather nice nonetheless."
    "Q, this may perhaps be a very stupid question, but who was
Langan?"
    "Where were *you* during the Borg War?"
    *Dead.* "Indisposed, as I said."
    "Ah.  Stark raving nutty, you mean.  Well... it became obvious to
me very early on that there was no way I could make Starfleet into a
technological match for the Borg without forever destroying the balance
of power in this sector of the galaxy, which I suspected my own kind
would not overly love me for.  And which I suspected they wouldn't let
me get away with doing in the first place.  Besides, if Starfleet
became a technological match for the Borg, the Borg would adapt to the
technology they saw, and a century down the road, when the Federation
didn't have me around to help anymore, they would come back stronger
than ever.  I realized we would have to exploit the natural weaknesses
in the Borg... which are few and far between.  So I came up with the
notion of a computer virus, as it were.  Something to completely
destroy the operating system that links the Collective."  Q shrugged.
"I wasn't the one who implemented the idea, of course.  I have made
myself into a fair little programmer, but I'll never have, nor want,
that sort of skill.  Cyberneticists, scientists and engineers all over
the Federation were involved in the project-- including Data and
LaForge; I always found it amusing how LaForge would try to avoid
talking directly to me whenever we ran conference calls.  I was the one
who gave them some insight into the theoretical underpinnings of the
Collective, since it's something I've researched extensively... and in
some ways I was responsible for the direct implementation."  He looked
down, as if ashamed somehow-- but why? Ashamed of what?
    "How so?"
    "You asked about Langan."  Q looked directly at her.  "It was
obvious to me that if we were going to destroy the Borg with a computer
virus, we needed a Borg to feed the virus into.  As it happens, the
Borg have a nasty habit of taking people from the cultures they plan to
assimilate and making them into pseudo-Borg.  Borg spokespersons, as it
were; Borg with a remnant of personality, or rather a constructed
personality, built on the ruins of what the person used to be.  The
Borg originally intended to use Jean-Luc for this purpose.  My fault,
in a sense-- he was familiar to them, they had encountered him and
analyzed the records of his ship before.  They knew him.  So I warned
him that the Borg were going to try to take him, and he was kept under
intensive enough shielding during the critical period that the Borg
went to Plan B.  They grabbed a different starship captain.  Robert
Langan of the Exeter became Locutus of Borg."  Q looked at the table.
"I never told Starfleet that the Borg would simply go to Plan B, you
know.  Because someone *had* to be taken, to give us a link into the
Borg.  We wouldn't be able to infect a drone with the virus-- we needed
someone who would be interfaced directly into the main stream of their
processing, someone whose brain *we* understood, who we would be able
to sustain as we fed the virus directly into his brain.  We would only
have sufficient familiarity with a member of a Federation race.  And
besides, what I knew of the Borg's plan was based on their making a
Locutus.  If they were thwarted entirely, they would switch to a backup
plan, one that I didn't know-- and while I could imagine such a plan, I
could imagine far too many to figure out which they'd use.  So.
Someone needed to be Locutus.  Someone needed to have his sanity and
individuality destroyed forever."  He looked up at T'Laren seriously.
"It was my gift to Jean-Luc... both that I made sure he was spared
that, and that I made sure he never knew I knew that someone else would
have to go in his place.  If Picard knew only that Langan had been
taken... well, those are the fortunes of war.  But if he'd known that
I'd known that someone *would* be taken, that someone would have to
be... he would *know* that I arranged for someone else to go in his
place.  And I never wanted that."
    "Because you didn't want him to know you were ruthless enough to
sacrifice someone to the Borg?  Or compassionate enough to spare him?"
    "Neither.  Picard knew just how ruthless I can be.  And I could
care less if he thought I was compassionate.  I didn't want him to know
because it would hurt him to know.  He would torture himself for years
about how it should have been him.  Every time he heard Langan's name
mentioned it would be a knife in his heart.  Jean-Luc wasn't the sort
of man who could calmly accept that another should die in his place."
    "You cared about him a great deal, didn't you?"
    Q shrugged again.  "When I was still Q, he amused me.  Intrigued
me.  Infuriated me.  Did I care?  I... don't know.  I tried to avoid
caring about mortals, if you must know.  They always die.  I know one Q
who's had her heart broken on the average of once a century because she
can't help loving mortals, and they always die on her... and you have
to let them die, they turn warped if you keep resurrecting them.  But
when I became mortal myself... I think I did care about him.  He went
out of his way in a lot of ways for me.  For some time I resented the
fact that he wouldn't let me stay on the Enterprise, of course, but...
you know,  originally Starfleet was toying with the idea of putting me
on trial for crimes against humanity?  Attempted murder, committing
acts of war against the Federation, etc.  Picard talked them out of it.
The very person I committed those 'crimes' *against*.  If it weren't
for him, I might have died in a penal colony two and a half years ago."
    "Starfleet would never have sentenced you to death, Q."
    "No, but I couldn't have lasted more than six months at the
outside in one."  He stared into nothing.  "I thought it was safe...
because I was mortal myself, you see?  I, too, would die.  Probably
before him.  So I allowed myself to feel... gratitude.  A certain
amount of... warmth.  He would never have allowed friendship-- for
obvious reasons, he was a lot less pleased with our past history than I
was-- but we had occasionally achieved something of an understanding.
And then he died."  Q's gaze dropped to his hands, uncharacteristically
still and folded in his lap.  "Thus proving that it's *never* safe to
care about mortals, I suppose."
    This had probably been a bad idea to bring up.  Q was more prone
to depression when he was tired.  T'Laren tried to bring the
conversation around to something more cheerful.  "You seem to have some
feeling for Roth and Markow.  Is that anything more than being
entertained by their company?"
    "With Harry, no... well, admittedly as I said I find his feelings
toward *me* rather flattering, but I suppose being flattered is a form
of entertainment... so no, I'd say not.  Daedalus, on the other
hand..."  Q thought about it.  "I have a lot of respect for him.  He
did not fall quite so far as me, no, but he didn't start as high,
either... and for a human, he's fallen hard indeed.  You know that he
wasn't born that way, of course."
    "I know nothing about Dr. Peter Markow, except that you seem to be
friendly with him and he appears to be confined to a floatchair.  And
he is well-respected."
    "Daedalus got that way by trying to interface with... oh, the name
wouldn't mean anything to you, but a long-dead species created devices
for speed-teaching.  You press against them and they feed the secrets
of the universe into your brain.  Given the fact that these creatures
were energy lifeforms and could tolerate the intense stresses of the
feed, this worked well for them.  It worked less well for Markow.  He
burned out most of his neural pathways doing it... after a few years in
therapy, it turned out that oddly, his actual mind was unaffected.  He
could still think as clearly as ever.  But there hasn't yet been a
neural regeneration technique invented that can repair the damage he
did to the nerves in his body."
    "Did he retain any of the knowledge?"
    "He says it comes to him in dreams... Occasionally I'll tell him
something and he'll claim he knew it already.  But I think he's trying
to console himself for his loss by pretending he got something out of
it."  Q turned morose again.  "If he can fool himself successfully,
more power to him.  It's an ability I wish I had."
    "Would you call him a friend?"
    "I don't call anyone a friend, T'Laren."
    "You called me a friend.  This afternoon."
    "Then you're the only one."  His mouth twitched slightly.  "I like
Daedalus, I have a certain understanding with him, and we don't get on
one another's nerves to nearly the extent that either of us get on
everyone else's.  I'll miss him if he dies before I do.  But my
impression of 'friendship' was that one is supposed to be able to
confide in the other.  And I could never confide in him-- less so him
than others; he's the one person I've met who I can't be self-pitying
around because the magnitude of his loss is almost as great as mine."
    "Have you ever met anyone you thought you could confide in?"
    "I'm talking to her."
    "Besides me."
    "No." No hesitation.  "The one time I thought I had, I... well,
let's say I haven't had very good experiences with confiding in
people."  He stared into space, glowering, storm clouds visible in the
set of his face.  "Are you sure I can't have a sedative?"
    T'Laren did not quite sigh.  "Q, this is just your body's reaction
to exhaustion," she said.  "You know by now that you get especially
depressed when you let yourself get overtired.  You're not going to
solve the problem in the long run by running away from your troubles
with sedatives."
    "Fine.  Then I'd better go to bed."  He stood up.  "This wasn't
one of my more brilliant ideas.  I thought if I could just stay up
while I was still feeling good, it would stay that way... stupid of me,
I suppose."
    "It's perfectly understandable.  No one wants to go to bed when
they're having fun.  Do you need any help?"
    "Help?"  He raised his eyebrows at her.
    "You're exhausted, and that outfit took you an hour to put on.  Do
you need help with it?"
    Q smiled sardonically.  "I do believe you're as bad as Harry, dear
counselor,"  he said.  "No, no, I'm not such an invalid-- or such a
child-- that I require help getting my jammies on.  You don't need to
tuck me in, either."
    "How about a lullaby?"
    Q grinned.  "How about--" he began to sing, rocking an imaginary
baby in his arms with elaborate, exaggerated facial gestures intended
to indicate fatherly concern, or maybe epilepsy-- "Go to sleep/go to
sleep/go straight to sleep/ and don't wake up/ and don't wake up/ until
at least mid-morning..'?"
    His singing voice was hardly the best to start with.  It was made
considerably less lovely by being cracked and hoarse with exhaustion
and giddiness.  T'Laren came awfully close to laughing out loud.  "You
are terribly silly."
    "An effect achieved by long years of practice, I assure you."  The
smile faded.  "In any case.  Good night."
    "Sleep well."
    "Not likely," he said, and stepped into his bedroom.  The door
swooshed closed behind him.

Only Human

Part III: Yamato

This is the revised version of Part III, as I discovered I've been
posting an older version all along.  There have been minor changes
made throughout, and Section 7 has new material at the end.  As I
begin reposting Part III, it is as of yet incomplete.  I don't know
how many pieces it's going to end up being, total.

ONLY HUMAN (for those who haven't caught the story thus far) is an
alternate universe, based on the premise that Q lost his powers for
good in "Deja Q."  In exchange for protection, he offered the
Federation the benefit of his advanced knowledge, and was transferred
to Starbase 56.  Three years later, miserable beyond endurance, Q
attempted to kill himself.

Dr. T'Laren, Vulcan xenopsychologist and former Starfleet counselor,
turned up at this point, claiming that Starfleet had hired her as Q's
therapist.  In fact, it turned out that she was really hired by the Q
Continuum, in the person of the Q who got Q thrown out, whom T'Laren
refers to as Lhoviri.  T'Laren persuaded Q to accept her help and
allow her to counsel him through his depression.  To that end, they
left Starbase 56 on T'Laren's ship Ketaya-- a gift from Lhoviri, with
some surprising capabilities-- and headed for the starship Yamato,
which was currently hosting a physics conference.

Over the course of the past weeks of travel, Q has come to trust
T'Laren, more or less, though they've had some knock-down-drag-out
fights in the process.  At the end of Part II, Q decided that he no
longer wanted to die.  As Part III begins, they are just docking with
Yamato.

Parts I and II are available through ftp from ftp.netcom.com, /pub
/al/aleph/trek, human1.zip and human2.zip.  They are also available
from ftp.cis.ksu.edu in /pub/alt.startrek.creative/incomplete.  Part
III, which is as yet unfinished, is available to the extent that it
exists in the Netcom ftp site mentioned above.  Send requests,
comments, praise and flames to [e-mail] or [e-mail].

             *                   *                    *


    In her own room, T'Laren attempted to meditate.  Exhaustion made
this impossible, fraying her concentration and dragging her down.
Before she knew it she was asleep.

**    She was attempting to knit a pair of socks for her father.  It was
for a school project of some kind.  Q came into the room.  "T'Laren,
I've got something to show you."
**    "Can it wait?" She held up the socks.
**    "He's got awfully smelly feet, T'Laren."  By which she understood
him to mean that her father had been dead for ten years, now.  Smelly
feet indeed.
**    "Where are we going?" she asked Q.
**    "Where do we ever go?"
**    They appeared on the plains of Vulcan, outside the Hall of Ancient
Thought.  T'Laren realized that the being she had thought Q was in fact
Lhoviri, wearing Q's form.  "Why?" she asked him, meaning why did he
look like his brother.
**    "For dramatic effect, of course," Lhoviri said.  "Watch."
**    Sovaz approached at the head of a procession.  Her cousins and her
cousins-in-law bore a coffin on their shoulders.  Behind the coffin
walked T'Laren's mother Helene, sniffling and dressed in black.
T'Laren looked away from the coffin, certain she knew who was inside.
"I don't want to see this," she said.
**    "Name me one thing I wanted to see and we'll be even."  Now he was
Q again.
**    The coffin was laid out on a stone slab.  Sovaz held the Romulan
knife, still green with Soram's blood, and stabbed the coffin with it
in a Romulan death ritual.  "I'm sorry!" T'Laren screamed, unable to
bear Sovaz's stony face any more.  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, forgive me!"
**    Sovaz looked up at her.  "Who are you?" she asked.
**    "I'm your sister!"
**    "My sister is dead," Sovaz said coldly.  She flipped open the
coffin, and there was T'Laren, body bruised and mottled from her
exposure to vacuum.
**    "But I didn't-- it was changed--" She looked to Lhoviri, who still
looked like Q.  "Do something!"
**    "Actions have consequences, my dear," he said.  "Even all the
power of the Q can't wash the blood away."
**    "You are the other one, the replica," Sovaz said.  "MY sister is
dead.  And YOU have murdered my brother."
**    "You were supposed to save me!" she cried to Q.  Whether her
patient or her benefactor, the same name applied.  They were both Q.
**    "Who's going to save you from yourself?" he replied...**

    She jerked awake with a gasp.
    It had been months since she'd allowed herself to dream.  She
remembered the last time-- awakening, screaming, the darkness of the
room around her become the darkness of her own tomb, and Lhoviri had
been there, coaxing her back to sleep, but she would not... Lhoviri had
warned her that if she tried to use the meditative disciplines to hold
off dreaming entirely, it would be worse for her when her control
finally broke.  Brittle, she had assured him that she had no intention
of breaking, ever again.
    *Psychologist, heal thyself.*  At least she hadn't screamed.  If
she'd woken Q, she would not have liked having to explain that she was
the one with the nightmare this time.  *What a hypocrite you are!  You
say he's psychologically addicted to sedatives, that he uses them to
escape his dreams rather than facing the trauma that causes them.  All
true, but what is your excuse, dear doctor?  You should know better!*
    She was not sweating-- sweat was too precious a commodity on a
desert to be released by fear.  Vulcans only sweated when it was too
hot even for them, or when they exerted themselves.  But she was
flushed green, and her heart pounded, and she was lightheaded from the
adrenaline surge.  After too long controlling themselves, Vulcans were
known to get sick from sudden surges of emotion.  T'Laren concentrated
on the disciplines, ordering her rebellious body to compensate for the
adrenaline reaction.  After a moment, she stood up, throwing off her
covers.  She needed something else to concentrate on, something to burn
out the rush of energy that made her lightheaded.

    It was 0300 hours, the truly dead time in a starship's
recreational centers.  Everyone aboard was, as a general rule, either
asleep or on duty at an hour like this, and the holodecks were
generally free, unless someone had reserved one overnight.  T'Laren
checked, and found that none of them had been so reserved.
    She slid the data solid into the slot by the door, and entered.
"Computer.  Activate training routine 9."
    The program on the data solid sprang to life.  Gravity dragged at
her, a sudden downward yanking as her weight increased under Romulus
gee, too close to Vulcan gee for her to detect the difference.  But the
atmosphere was different; as hot as Vulcan, but wetter, the air damp
like Earth's and the oxygen thick.  It was easy to hyperventilate in
such an environment, with the gee subconsciously informing her body
that she was on Vulcan now.
    Four adult Romulan men came over the ridge ahead of her.  They
were not carrying phasers; the purpose of this simulation wasn't to
test T'Laren's shooting abilities.  She dropped into a fighting stance,
legs positioned to maximize her balance, arms up and ready.  At the
same time, she let her face change, a savage smile spreading across it.
Romulans and Vulcans could, under most circumstances, tell one another
apart from the bone structure of their faces.  But a Vulcan who behaved
in an obviously Romulan fashion would confuse both races; there were
far more genetic throwbacks, Romulans who looked like Vulcans, than
there were Vulcans who would smile with savage passion.  They would
expect her to be one of them, to fight like a Romulan.  Good.
    Humans were arguably one of the physically weakest of the powerful
races in known space; even the Ferengi, while weaker on average, were
stronger than humans pound for pound-- it was just that humans were
bigger than Ferengi.  With typical ingenuity, humans had turned this
racial weakness to an advantage, designing martial arts techniques that
required very little physical strength, no more than a typical human
had, and then teaching these techniques to Starfleet cadets.  The
reason Starfleet officers, overwhelmingly human, could hold their own
in physical combat against far stronger races such as Klingons or
Nausicaans or Romulans was the fact that those races, having strength,
had never developed the techniques that did not require it.  For a
small, slight Vulcan female raised under Earth gee, physically weaker
than other Vulcans and even than some humans, these techniques had
proved vitally useful.  For her training to go undercover, T'Laren had
also adopted some of the Romulan *shal kemat* techniques-- the fighting
style developed by Romulan women to hold their own against their own
men, another martial arts technique that owed little to physical
strength.  She used that mostly now, with a bit of her Starfleet
training thrown in, to disable the first man that came at her, turning
the force of his rush against him to throw him some distance.  The next
man came at her with arms wide, in an attempt to bear-hug and grapple.
She ducked under him, grabbed him and threw him as well.
    The next two were warier, circling her slowly, as their friends
picked themselves off the ground.  In a real fight, T'Laren would know
herself to be outmatched at this point, and either surrender or run for
it.  That was, however, not the purpose of this simulation.
    It was difficult to keep all of them in focus.  T'Laren knew that
if she didn't do something, the two she had attacked would recover--
she had only thrown them; they would only be winded, not badly hurt--
and then she would have to deal with four at once again.  She edged
away from the battleground, showing every sign of preparing to break
and run.  The two still standing watched intently, the look of
predators waiting for the prey to break and run.  T'Laren obliged them.
    One of the two charged her.  At the last possible second T'Laren
ducked down, reached up and grabbed the man as he lunged, throwing him
over her head.  This was the second time she'd used that technique-- a
bad idea; the simulations had been programmed to learn from their
companions' mistakes.  She straightened up and spun, sensing danger, to
find herself directly facing the fourth.  He hit her, hard, sending her
flying to the ground.
    Though she knew what to do, she didn't do it in time, her
compensatory techniques thrown off by the heavier gravity.  T'Laren hit
the ground wrong, unable to roll and get back to her feet in time to
keep the Romulan from diving onto her and pinning her with his weight.
He hit her, trying to subdue her long enough that he could grab her
arms, which she was moving rapidly.  As he went after one, another one
came up and found the junction at his neck.  Since he had been
programmed to expect a Romulan woman, given T'Laren's behavior, he had
not been programmed to expect a nerve pinch.
    As she pushed him off her and stood, one of the others grabbed her
from behind.  Inexcusably clumsy of her, to allow that.  She tried to
flip him, but he was prepared for that-- he lifted her off the ground,
so she had no leverage and all the advantage was contained in his
height and superior strength.  T'Laren went completely limp and
unresisting as he began to squeeze her, so he would assume he had
already taken the fight out of her.  The moment he stopped squeezing,
she twisted and kicked backward, hard, into his kneecap, breaking it.
The Romulan screamed and dropped her.
    The two remaining Romulans were right there as she sprang back to
her feet, though.  They doubleteamed her, punching her repeatedly so
she couldn't use the motion against them and throw them.  She managed
to grab one and try to fling him, but he outmaneuvered her, yanking
*her* off-balance.  Then the fourth one chopped at the side of her
neck-- the primitive precursor of the nerve pinch, the move as done by
Romulans had neither the safety ratio nor the effectiveness of the
millenia-refined Vulcan version, but it was sufficient.  T'Laren
sagged, stunned, and the simulation froze.  She fell out of the one
Romulan's grip and hit the dirt heavily, unable to persuade her body to
work.  The Vulcan version produced unconsciousness 98% of the time,
rarely this sick, stunned numbness.
    Well.  A rather dismal showing over all.  She had never been
defeated this quickly-- when she'd first been introduced to this
program, after training simulation 8 in which she'd fought one Klingon,
it had taken the four stupid Romulans five minutes to subdue her.  This
had been one point six minutes.  Once, she had been able to defeat all
four Romulans in less than two minutes on a consistent basis... not
that that had done any good; the one time she had needed her fighting
skills behind the Neutral Zone, she had known, with logic and gut and
every fiber of her being, that even with the element of surprise on her
side she would never win.  She would be hurt, and subdued, and then
handed over to the elite Tal Shiar telepaths to be mindraped.  Instead,
she had chosen an entirely different kind of arena, used her body as a
weapon in a totally different sense--  two totally different senses, in
fact-- and forever destroyed her own innocence...
    The downward slide had begun after that, the emotional turmoil,
the needs Soram would not fulfill, the violence of her passions-- in
hindsight she could see it had all begun after that one night.  Perhaps
she should have used martial arts on Melor after all.  Perhaps in the
end the damage would have been less.
    Tears stung her eyes.  Stunned as she was, she could not summon up
the control of body and mind to prevent them.  She lay there, unable to
move, for several minutes, until pins and needles shot through her
spine and sensation slowly returned.  This hadn't helped much.  All it
had done was show her how much retraining she needed.  Q would depend
on her as a bodyguard, and she couldn't even disable four artificial
Romulans.  And if she were smart, now, she'd go to Sickbay and get the
various bruises and scrapes she'd just picked up treated before Q saw
them and asked what was wrong.  She didn't want to go to Sickbay-- most
doctors were human, and had a falsely jovial need to make small talk
with a patient, to ask how she got hurt and warn her against doing it
again.  The artificial friendliness of humans was more than she thought
she could take right now-- but it would be utterly moronic to waste a
healing trance on this.  Sighing, she struggled to her feet, summoned
up her control, and left the holodeck, the program vanishing behind
her.

    The intercom bleeped at an hour that human beings were most
certainly not evolved to be awoken at.  Q came fully awake, heart
pounding, convinced that this was the notification of impending Borg
invasion, and then realized that these were not his quarters on
Starbase 56.  He puzzled over this for a few seconds as the intercom
bleeped again.  Slowly it dawned on him that the Borg had been defeated
two years ago and that he was currently on Yamato for a conference.
Right.  That made sense.
    "Q here."
    "Are you all right, Q?" a perky young Vulcan asked.  Q hated perky
young people.  Perky young Vulcans were the worst.
    "I'm perfectly fine, Sovaz.  Nothing that another six years of
sleep wouldn't cure.  Why did you feel the need to call and check up on
me?"
    "Are you aware that it's 1115 hours?  The conference was supposed
to have started 15 minutes ago."
    So it was.  Q checked the chronometer.  It had to be
malfunctioning.  The last time he'd looked at it, it said 0640 hours,
and that had only been a few minutes ago.
    "I was planning on being fashionably late, actually," he said.
    "I don't think there are any species aboard that really consider
lateness to be fashionable," Sovaz said seriously.  "But I will confess
that I'm not an expert on what various beings consider fashionable or
not."
    "You're not? I *never* would have known."
    "No, I'm not."  Puzzlement, hesitation, then sudden comprehension.
"Oh! You're being sarcastic.  I see."
    "A remarkable deduction.  Here's one of those freebies for you, my
dear.  Bowl cuts are not considered fashionable by *anybody*.
Especially when they've been growing out for half a year."  Q sighed.
"Is everybody else there?"
    "Several members have begged off due to illness.  Are you ill?"
    "No, and neither are they.  I'd suspect that *somebody* found the
real stuff in amongst the synthehol.  I, however, am making a personal
statement by being late.  You can tell them that."
    "So when do you plan to arrive?"
    "When I feel like it."  He relented.  "In an hour.  Good-*bye*,
Sovaz."
    Now where the hell was T'Laren?  And why hadn't she woken him up?
Q hadn't planned to oversleep, but he had forgotten to tell the
computer to wake him-- not normally a major oversight, since normally
he had his own personal computer with the infallible time sense come in
and wake him if he overslept.  Where *was* she?  He got up and padded
out of the room, leaning on the bell to hers.  No answer.
    "Computer, locate T'Laren."
    "Dr. T'Laren is in Holodeck 3."
    "Well, that's just peachy."  He touched his badge.  "Q to T'Laren,
where the hell are you?"
    A few seconds lag time.  "In Holodeck 3," she finally replied--
which, of course, he knew, having just asked the computer.  Q made an
exasperated noise.
    "Let me rephrase that.  What the hell are you *doing* in Holodeck
3?"
    "Exercising and training."  She sounded drained.  "Why aren't you
at the conference?"
    "Because no one was around to wake me up," he told her in a tone
of infinite patience.
    "You didn't set the computer to wake you."
    "No, I didn't.  A small oversight.  I didn't realize you'd be
*exercising* at this ungodly hour--"
    "Ungodly?  It's 1120.  You normally get up two hours before this.
Of course, you don't normally wait until 0300 to go to bed."
    "Nor do I normally spend four hours tossing and turning, drifting
off and waking up with nightmares, and generally getting no sleep at
all.  Actually, come to think of it, that *has* been normal since I met
you."
    She sighed.  "You can't have it both ways, Q," she said.  "Either
I coddle and protect you from yourself, which means you grant me
control over you, or you take responsibility for your own behavior in
exchange for the freedom to do as you wish.  You've made it abundantly
clear that you don't want to do what I tell you when I tell you
something for your own good.  Such as suggesting that you might want to
go to bed at a reasonable hour."
    "Well, if I had *known* that you had given up on trying to be my
mommy, I would have *realized* I couldn't depend on you to wake me up.
What if I had needed you?"
    "You could have called me.  As you apparently did, so I must
assume that you know how to operate a combadge."
    So she wanted to get snippy, eh?  "You're obviously incapable of
being reasonable at the moment,"  Q said loftily.  "I have a conference
to attend.  Goodbye, T'Laren."  Let her chew on that one.

    It was actually an hour and a half before he considered himself
presentable enough to appear at the conference.  When he walked in,
there appeared to be a heated debate in progress.  Everyone stopped
talking for a moment and looked over at him.
    "Q. How nice of you to join us," Dhawan said with heavy sarcasm.
    "I thought I'd give you some time to formulate your silly little
theories and marshal your arguments before I came in and explained
everything to you," Q said.  "Please, don't stop arguing on my account.
Go on with your debate.  I'm sure it's quite entertaining."
    "I can't imagine how you'd find it so," Dr. Anne Christian said
coldly.  "Nobody's getting killed."
    Dr. Christian made Q extremely uncomfortable.  He smiled to cover
his discomfort.  She was another name he'd seemed to have overlooked on
the guest list.  Perhaps he should check the roster again.  "Anne,
dear, you wound me.  Do you think I have a one-track mind?"
    "Q's character is dead.  Can we stop assassinating it now and do
something useful?" Markow asked.  "Dhawan, I can't believe that a
person who's gotten to be science officer on a Galaxy-class starship
could overlook an effect of that magnitude..."
    Q sat down in one of the many empty chairs toward the end of the
table-- apparently a lot of people hadn't shown up, including Roth and
Morakh.  Too bad; Roth was fun to sit next to and whisper rude comments
about others, and Morakh was generally fun to bait.  He quickly picked
up the gist of the argument and smiled to himself.  They weren't even
in the right ballpark-- like philosophers attempting to deduce the
circumference of the flat Earth.
    For the next half hour, Q listened to their silly arguments, not
entirely able to repress a smirk, as he doodled idly on his datapad.
The debate was between two different theories-- if anyone had anything
entirely different, they weren't mentioning it.  Markow's was, as it
had been last night, that it was a side effect of time travel, which
begged the question of whose time travel, obviously.  Q had intended
last night to get the evidence to refute that one, as he had a gut
certainty it was wrong, but he hadn't yet figured out *why* it was
wrong, other than his intuitive sense that the universe just didn't
work like that.  The other argument, proposed by a Romulan woman named
Milarca, was that the singularity was a gateway to an alternate
universe, and that was just rampant idiocy.  For some reason, several
people seemed to agree with her, and were arguing with Markow and a
Vulcan named Toral, who was a proponent of Markow's theory.  Most of
the others were merely adding commentary to the debate.
    Finally, in a poisonous voice, Shahrazad Dhawan finally gave Q his
opening.  "Well, why don't we ask the self-proclaimed expert?"  she
declaimed, getting up and walking over to Q.  "I suppose this puzzle is
so terribly obvious to you that you have nothing better to do than
doodle on your padd."
    She was trying to shame Q.  Q smiled at her with genuine delight--
it was not often he met someone as terribly inept at attacking him as
Dhawan.  "Commander Dhawan, I'm surprised," he said.  "That's the first
thing you've said showing the *slightest* fragment of intellect all
day."
    "If you know what the singularity is, perhaps you might wish to
end the suspense," Milarca said sharply.
    "Oh, I couldn't do that-- I wouldn't want to deny you the pleasure
of solving the problem yourselves.  But if you're looking for hints, I
think I could drop a few.  For instance, Dr. Milarca, did it *ever*
occur to you to look for emissions of nadion particles in coming up
with your rather remarkable hypothesis?"
    Milarca narrowed her eyes at him.  "And exactly why would I want
to do that?"
    Q sighed.  "I suppose I need to spell it out," he said.  He stood
up and paced, aware of the fact that every eye was on him-- and,
despite his show of exasperation, he was delighted with the fact.  "If
you bothered to measure the intensity of nadion particles, you'd
realize there are far too many of them for this singularity to
*possibly* be connected to a parallel universe."
    Now Milarca was staring at him.  "How am I supposed to realize
that?" she asked, her voice sharp with anger and bewilderment. "I'd
never heard that nadion particles had *any* connection to alternate
universes.  To my knowledge, the only thing nadion particles have
anything to do with is the local gravitometric patterns."
    He had her now.  Q smiled sweetly.  "And did it never occur to you
that *maybe*, just *maybe*, a naked singularity would cause a fairly
sizable alteration in the local gravitometric patterns?"
    "Of course!" she snapped.  "And the particle concentration
reflects that."
    Dhawan said, "Look, we've all been over this.  The nadion particle
concentration is a little on the low side, but perfectly within
acceptable tolerance levels for a singularity of this intensity--"
    "Oh, *acceptable* tolerance.  Defined by who, may I ask?  Have you
become the arbiters of what is acceptable for stellar phenomena?"  Q
walked over to Dhawan and leaned on the back of her seat until she
stood up to face him.
    "Defined by patterns detected by empirical research," Dhawan
snapped.
    "Ah. Defined by the limitations of what data you've actually
gotten to collect, and what you've bothered to correlate.  I see., That
makes it *so* much clearer."  He was really enjoying himself.  He'd
forgotten how much fun this could be.
    "Lucy, spit it out," Markow said.  "Obviously you think you're
privy to some information we mere mortals don't share.  How about you
do your job instead of putting on a show and *tell* us what we're
missing?"
    "I am suitably chastised," Q said, and grinned.  "Very well.
Since none of you have seen fit to correlate patterns of nadion
radiation with known incidences of alter-gateways, I suppose I *will*
have to spell it out in words of two syllables or less."  He was now
standing at the head of the table, having totally usurped Dhawan's
position there.  He leaned forward, as if imparting a secret of great
import to the gathering.  "At the boundaries between what you call
parallel universes, all gravitational forces are annihilated.  This
naturally doesn't affect the concentration of gravitons visibly, since
there's so many of the things around a singularity that you can't
detect the distinction with your feeble instruments.  But you *can*
detect the decrease in nadion particles caused by their annihilation at
the boundary.  Apparently it simply never occurred to you to look for
such an effect, but I assure you, it is there. And *that*, Dr. Milarca,
completely shoots your theory down, I'm afraid.  The nadion
concentrations are characteristic of a singularity that is *not*
associated with a parallel universe boundary."
    "And is there any proof of this, other than your word for it?"
Milarca asked evenly.
    "Oh, I'm so glad you asked that.  Computer! Access the Federation
Physics Institute's records for all studies of naked singularities,
wormholes, and other major temporal/spatial disturbances.  Display
nadion particle emissions, graviton emissions, and conclusions as to
the causes of each event."
    "The requested operation will take three point five minutes to
complete," the computer informed him.
    "Peachy.  Do it anyway."
    "Why does that happen?" Sovaz asked.
    Q spun.  "Excuse me?"
    "Why is gravity annihilated at the boundaries between universes?"
    "Sovaz, he hasn't even proven that it *is*, and you're asking him
*why* it is?" Dhawan asked.
    "Q has considerably more expertise in these matters than we do,"
Sovaz said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.  "And I
do not think that he would lie."
    "Why not?"  Dhawan asked sharply.  "Considering his past history--
"
    "No," Anne Christian said.  "Q isn't likely to lie about something
this trivial.  He'll reserve his lies for when he can cause maximum
pain."
    "Anne, you seem utterly fixated on this notion of me as a ruthless
villain.  I'm beginning to think you don't love me."
    "I wonder if the Federation Council's pardon would protect you
from a lawsuit for wrongful death?" Christian murmured.
    Q ignored her.  It was an empty threat, more or less-- even if she
sued him for her son's death and won, he was valuable enough that the
Federation would pay the damages for him.  "Considering my past
history, Commander Dhawan, I would be utterly foolish to lie to you.
Let's not forget that I have no pet theories to endorse or sacred cows
to hold inviolable.  I *know* what the fundamental structure of the
universe is-- and the Federation is paying me a great deal to explain
it to limited creatures like you.  I am hardly short-sighted enough to
jeopardize my meal ticket, my dear.  Give me *some* credit."
    "Is artificial gravitation affected by the boundary crossing?"
Sovaz asked.  "For instance, if someone were to fly into a singularity
that *did* lead to an alternate universe, would the artificial gravity
fail during the passage?"
    At this point the information Q had requested appeared on the
holographic display in the middle of the table.  "Yes and no," Q said
to Sovaz, and then turned his attention to the display, jabbing his
fingers into it and calling for the computer to recalculate various
figures.  In his best lecturing mode, he demonstrated that the
concentration of nadion particles was invariably at least .3% lower
near a singularity associated with another universe.
    When he was done, Milarca nodded simply.  "Very well.  I will bow
to the evidence.  But I'm not yet convinced that Dr. Markow's theory is
correct, either.  Does this gravitational annihilation effect take
place when time travel occurs as well?"
    "No.  There's a warping effect, which alters the *frequency* of
the nadions, but your equipment isn't sensitive enough to detect that."
    "Lucy, if you know what's causing the singularity, stop beating
around the bush and tell us," Markow said.
    Q made a face.  "Unfortunately, I'm limited by your inferior
equipment.  I can't directly sense what's causing the anomaly; all I
can tell you right now is what's *not* causing it.  Of course, I've
also only had a day to think about it.  Give me a few days."
    "No brilliant theories?"
    "I'd hardly wish to prejudice you, Daedalus.  No, I'll leave the
brilliant theories to you for the moment."
    A man named Blumenthal said, "But look, what if we're looking at
this all the wrong way?  It's just occurred to me--"
    Having had his moment in the sun, Q yielded the stage with more
grace than he'd thought he'd be able to manage, and let Blumenthal
expound on his silly theory.  He dropped an occasional scathing comment
into the gathering, but ignored the proceedings for the most part,
concentrating on collecting the information he needed to disprove
Markow.

Only Human

Part III: Yamato

This is the revised version of Part III, as I discovered I've been
posting an older version all along.  There have been minor changes
made throughout, and Section 7 has new material at the end.  As I
begin reposting Part III, it is as of yet incomplete.  I don't know
how many pieces it's going to end up being, total.

ONLY HUMAN (for those who haven't caught the story thus far) is an
alternate universe, based on the premise that Q lost his powers for
good in "Deja Q."  In exchange for protection, he offered the
Federation the benefit of his advanced knowledge, and was transferred
to Starbase 56.  Three years later, miserable beyond endurance, Q
attempted to kill himself.

Dr. T'Laren, Vulcan xenopsychologist and former Starfleet counselor,
turned up at this point, claiming that Starfleet had hired her as Q's
therapist.  In fact, it turned out that she was really hired by the Q
Continuum, in the person of the Q who got Q thrown out, whom T'Laren
refers to as Lhoviri.  T'Laren persuaded Q to accept her help and
allow her to counsel him through his depression.  To that end, they
left Starbase 56 on T'Laren's ship Ketaya-- a gift from Lhoviri, with
some surprising capabilities-- and headed for the starship Yamato,
which was currently hosting a physics conference.

Over the course of the past weeks of travel, Q has come to trust
T'Laren, more or less, though they've had some knock-down-drag-out
fights in the process.  At the end of Part II, Q decided that he no
longer wanted to die.  As Part III begins, they are just docking with
Yamato.

Parts I and II are available through ftp from ftp.netcom.com, /pub
/al/aleph/trek, human1.zip and human2.zip.  They are also available
from ftp.cis.ksu.edu in /pub/alt.startrek.creative/incomplete.  Part
III, which is as yet unfinished, is available to the extent that it
exists in the Netcom ftp site mentioned above.  Send requests,
comments, praise and flames to [e-mail] or [e-mail].

             *                   *                    *

    People trickled in over the next several hours, but none of them
were Roth, or anyone Q might be interested in making fun of-- although
one of the humans, a Madeline Lebeau, was sufficiently and undeservedly
arrogant to the point where Q noted her for later knocking down.  At
1700 the conference broke up, people going off to discuss theories in
private groups, do more research, or relax and have fun. With some
startlement, Q realized that he was extremely hungry-- he hadn't had
anything since he got up this morning, and hadn't really noticed until
now.  Well.  He had no intention of going off to Ten-Forward to be
lonely, and since Markow hated eating with other people and Roth wasn't
here, there was no chance he'd get some company.  He decided to check
back at the room and see what T'Laren was doing.  Much as he hated to
admit it, he'd gotten rather used to eating with other people-- well,
with her, anyway-- aboard Ketaya.
    As he left, Sovaz caught up with him.  "Why are gravitational
forces destroyed at the boundaries between universes?"  she asked.  Q
marveled at her single-mindedness.
    "Haven't you anything better to do?" he asked.
    "No," Sovaz said seriously.  "You demonstrated to the conference's
satisfaction that the effect *occurs*, but any other physicist could
have done that.  You must have the ability to explain *why* that
happens.  Don't you?"
    "That depends on how much detail you want," Q said.  A truly evil
idea was occurring to him.  "Listen, Sovaz, I'm off to get something to
eat.  Want to go with me and ask your questions?"
    "Certainly.  They make a very tasty couscous at Ten-Forward--"
    "No, no no.  We're not going there.  I'm off stage now, I have no
desire to continue to be a public spectacle."  He turned to her, barely
able to restrain a mischievous grin.  "I'm going to my quarters for
something to eat.  Still want to come along?"
    "T'Laren will be there?"
    "Almost undoubtedly."
    Sovaz hesitated.  "If I didn't go with you, would you still answer
my questions?"
    "When I get around to it, the next time you catch me with nothing
better to do, in a few days or so... sure, why not."
    For a Vulcan, Sovaz had lousy facial control-- or maybe Q had just
gotten used to trying to read T'Laren.  Her face changed, a scaled-down
version of a human face falling.  Then the mask slid into place.  "If
T'Laren is offended at my presence, that is her problem," Sovaz
declared.  "It's my job to learn all I can from the delegates."
    Q allowed the grin to break out on his face, briefly.
"Delightful."  He began to walk back toward the VIP quarters, wondering
why they hadn't chosen a conference room closer to said quarters.  "The
most basic explanation I can give you is that the gravitational
constant is tied into the definition of the universe far more so than
the electromagnetic forces.  Space is defined by the interaction of
gravitons and locons, and time is defined as the interaction of
chronatons with the other two.  At least, to the perception of mortals-
- we won't get into what it looks like when you can invert locons at
will.  But in any case, the point is that those three particles are
actually more like threads, that the fabric of the universe is woven
of.  When you hit the boundary of the universe, the substrate that the
gravitons propagate in, the gravitons can no longer propagate.  It's
like trying to make a sound in vacuum.  There's nothing there to carry
the wave.  Does that help any?"
    "Does that also mean that time and space disappear outside the
boundaries of the universe?"
    "Clever child.  Yes, of course they do.  But they leave behind a
residual charge which makes it more likely that when you re-enter
another universe, you'll come out in a similar time and space--
assuming of course that the other universe operates by the same
physical laws.  Now if you managed to get lost between the boundaries
of the universes, you could completely lose all temporal and spatial
charge and end up literally anywhere in space and time when you finally
get through the barriers."
    "That's fascinating,"  Sovaz said, and appeared to mean it-- Q
tended to use "fascinating" only in a sarcastic sense.
    "To me it's rather dull, if you want to know the truth," Q said.
"It was interesting a few hundred millenia ago when I was first
learning to manipulate all that, but nowadays my interests have taken a
decidedly mundane turn.  For instance.  My understanding is that
T'Laren used to be married to your brother? What's going on with that?"
    "As far as I know, nothing is going on," Sovaz said, a bit
bewildered.  "They are no longer bonded."
    "Right, but how did it happen?  My understanding was that Vulcans
don't go about divorcing each other every day of the week."
    "I don't understand what happened myself,"  Sovaz said, staring
ahead at nothing.  "Soram reported that T'Laren was dead.  I don't see
how her bondmate could be mistaken about such a thing, yet she is
obviously not dead, so he *must* have been mistaken..."
    "How did they get together in the first place?"  If T'Laren
wouldn't tell him anything about her background, he'd go behind her
back and get it.
    Sovaz considered.  "They were bonded when I was very young, so I'm
not entirely sure.  But I believe what happened was that Soram
requested a wife from the Marriage Registry--"
    "The Marriage Registry?  Let me guess-- a Vulcan dating service?"
The idea of a Vulcan dating service had to be one of the stranger
things he'd heard in the past three years...
    "Not a dating service.  If I understand it correctly, a dating
service is where humans turn to be partnered with someone for
companionship?"
    "One could phrase it that way, I suppose."
    "Vulcans do not casually seek companionship," Sovaz said
seriously.  "Most Vulcans are bonded to their future betrothed at the
age of seven.  But in some cases, the betrothed dies before the
appointed time, and the person left unbonded must turn to the Marriage
Registry to find another unbonded.  In other cases-- for instance, my
parents are progressives.  They believed Soram and I should be free to
make our own choices on adulthood.  But Soram is a very strict
traditionalist.  As soon as he became old enough, he applied to the
Marriage Registry for a wife.  And as T'Laren had been raised on Earth,
she too was unbonded, so the Registry partnered them, and our families
thought the match would be a good idea.  Soram was planning to go into
Starfleet, where one needs to have dealings with humans, so having a
wife experienced in human culture seemed logical.  And T'Laren wished
to learn Vulcan ways, so having a strict traditionalist husband seemed
logical as well."
    "But things didn't work out as logically as planned, I take it."
    Sovaz made a semi-shrug.  "They seemed to be working out
adequately to me.  But I confess I have no experience in matters of
bonding.  I have no explanation for what happened."
    "What *did* happen?  As far as you know?"
    "I don't wish to violate T'Laren's privacy.  If she meant for you
to know, she likely would have told you."
    So the kid had some backbone after all.  Q was genuinely beginning
to like this girl.  "Oh, T'Laren told me a few gazillion things.  For
instance, that she went nuts and tried to kill herself.  So if *that's*
what you're edging around, don't worry about it-- I already know."
    "She told you *that?*" Quickly Sovaz tried to regain her
composure.  "I... that is not the sort of thing most people tell anyone
outside the family, or perhaps very close friends.  I was under the
impression that you were T'Laren's client."
    "Client.  Oh, that's a good word.  I like that one.  Sounds so
much better than 'patient.'"
    "But aren't you?"
    "Why? Does it matter?"
    "I wouldn't think... that she would share such personal
information with a client."
    "Whatever works, kiddo.  I assure you that T'Laren had what she
believed to be good reasons to tell me what she did.  Now.  Is it true?
*Is* that what happened?"
    "I don't know..."
    At that point they reached Q's quarters.  Q imagined a look of
relief on Sovaz's face, and grinned to himself.  Any relief she felt
had to be premature.  He palmed open the door and went in.  "Yoo-hoo!
T'Laren! I hope you look passable, because I've brought us a dinner
guest!"
    T'Laren stepped out of her bedroom and froze.  Q could no longer
restrain the grin.  "She followed me home, Mom.  Can I keep her?"
    The effort of will it took T'Laren to unfreeze was practically
visible.  "I'm rather tired, actually," she said.  "I think I would
prefer to go lie down."
    "I'm sure you would prefer it, but we can't always get what we
want.  Now are you going to be completely rude to my houseguest and set
me a terrible example, or are you going to be a gracious little
Vulcan?"
    For several seconds she stared at him, her face icily masklike.
"Very well," she said finally.  "You are entitled to invite what
houseguests you desire.  I shall be a gracious hostess."
    "You need not be concerned that I should shame you," Sovaz said;
the cadences of her voice indicated that she was speaking Vulcan, and
the translator was rendering it.  "My business here is with Q.  I am
not concerned with you."
    "Oh, come on, folks," Q said cheerily.  "Let's all *try* to get
along here, shall we?"  He plopped himself down on the couch.
"T'Laren! Why don't you get us something to eat?"
    Much to his surprise, she turned toward the replicator, showing
every sign of obeying.  Belatedly he realized that he'd just given her
an excuse to not confront Sovaz again.
    "Does artificial gravity disappear when one crosses the boundaries
between universes?" Sovaz asked.
    "Depends on the method of generation.  If you're using a graviton
field, then sure-- gravitons are annihilated.  But you're not likely to
detect the effect, since it lasts less than a nanosecond in most
crossings between universes.  Since time is also annihilated, most
boundary crossings are effectively instantaneous."
    "But if one got lost between universes, as you were talking about
before.  What then?  Would the inhabitants of the lost ship still feel
the passage of time, even though time had been annihilated?  Or would
it feel to them as if no time had passed?"
    "Hmm.  You know, I've never seen a mortal get lost between the
boundaries of the universes, so I really couldn't tell you.  I know
that a Q who gets lost perceives the passage of a form of subjective
time, but then we have multiple temporal senses, and not all of them
have anything to do with chronatons.  I would suspect, mortal senses
being as paltry as they are, that if mortals got lost outside time
their mental functions would come to a screeching halt."
    T'Laren returned with plates of some kind of vegetable stew, and
set them down in front of Q and Sovaz, silently.  Q picked through his
for a moment, then looked up.  "Not all of us are root-suckers, my
dear.  Could you possibly arrange something a little bit more to the
tastes of an omnivore?"
    "One would think that, in your desire to be a gracious host, you
would avoid offending your vegetarian guest with the smell of meat,"
T'Laren said.
    Q grinned.  Wonderful, she was fighting back.  He had started to
worry.  "Well, let me ask," he said.  "Sovaz! Would it bother you if a
severely underweight omnivorous being who can't process vegetable
protein as efficiently as animal and who is in obvious and desperate
need of something to help build back his muscles to something remotely
resembling normal fulfilled his nutritional requirements in your
presence?"
    "It would be illogical to do otherwise," Sovaz said blandly.  "I
would not wish to be responsible for a human's lack of proper
nutrition."
    "There, you see? *Some* Vulcan guests don't get offended by
perfectly logical requests.  Now why don't you get me something with a
modicum of protein?"
    "Since I am hardly an expert on your desires, it might be best for
you if you got it yourself," T'Laren retorted.  Her voice was still
cool and emotionless, but there was a faint edge to it-- it was a
retort, all right.
    Q sighed ostentatiously.  "*Very* well. *If* I must." He got up
carefully-- he didn't want Sovaz to see him hurt himself by trying to
stretch his body out too rapidly or bending his back wrong-- and walked
over to the replicator.  "Anything to drink, Sovaz?"
    "I'm rather fond of tomato juice," Sovaz offered.
    "Fine.  One beef stew, one Tipharean bubble-juice with grape, and
one tomato juice."  He glanced over at T'Laren, who had retreated to a
chair across the room and was watching him intently, sipping a glass of
mineral water.  "Done with your food already, T'Laren?  Or did you hide
the rest of that repulsive stew under the potted plant?"
    "Why would I wish to hide my stew under a potted plant?" T'Laren
asked, doing a wonderful impression of Vulcan bewilderment at human non
sequiturs.
    Sovaz glanced at T'Laren and then at Q.  "Why *would* she wish to
hide her stew under a potted plant?  Is this a human custom?"
    "A very popular one," Q assured Sovaz.  "Human children indulge in
it all the time.  When their mothers tell them to eat their food
because of the starving children on Bajor, human children come up with
some very ingenious methods of hiding the food.  T'Laren, don't tell me
*you* never hid your food under a napkin or fed it to the family dog!
Come clean.  You can tell us, we're all friends here."
    "It would be illogical to waste food," T'Laren said.
    "So? What's your point?"
    "On that topic," Sovaz said, "since it *would* be illogical to
waste food and you apparently find your vegetable stew unpleasant,
would you mind if I finished it?"
    "How much time have you been spending with Counselor Tris lately?"
T'Laren asked Sovaz-- the first thing she'd said directly to the girl--
as Q sat down with his food and motioned for her to go ahead.
    "Why do you ask?" Sovaz countered.
    "It seems you have picked up some of his habits.  Be cautious.
Few humans are offended if you ask for their food, but other species
can be."
    "Why would they be?" Sovaz asked.  "If they do not wish to finish
their food, why should it offend them that someone else should do so
for them?"
    "Because-- and this is a very important point, Sovaz, so Pay
Attention-- Aliens Are Not Logical," Q pronounced.  "If it helps, put
it to music and make a song of it.  Aliens Are Not Logical.  In fact,
*no* one but Vulcans places any cultural emphasis on being logical.
Aliens will get offended by the damnedest things.  You want to hear a
funny story?"
    "Assuming you are capable of telling one, by all means go ahead,"
T'Laren said.
    "Oh, this is a laugh a minute, I'm telling you.  There's a race
out in what you call the Gamma Quadrant, who call themselves the
Sintisee.  About fifty thousand years ago, a mutation changed the color
of Sintisee hair, which was up to that point pretty uniformly blue.
Now a race of Sintisee with *purple* hair emerged.  You got that?
Well, since the two groups first encountered one another about three
thousand years ago, they've made all sorts of edicts on what it really
*means* to have purple or blue hair.  Mind you, biologically there's no
difference between the two other than hair color, but at various times
they have enslaved each other, conducted pogroms, exiled each other, or
decided that the other was intellectually inferior.  Learned treatises
were written on why blueheads would never become engineers or
scientists in a country dominated by purpleheads; in blueheaded
countries, it was determined that purpleheads were naturally cruel and
emotionally crippled and could never be allowed positions of power.  Or
vice versa, depending on the time and the place.  I mean, it was just
incredible."
    "And there is no difference between the two other than hair
color?"
    "No biological difference.  A lot of cultural differences from
centuries of segregation.  Anyway, one morning they all-- the entire
planet-- woke up to find their hair a uniform bright green."
    "How did that happen?" Sovaz asked.
    Q rolled his eyes.  "Take a wild guess, Sovaz."
    Sovaz looked confused.  "I don't have enough information to
hypothesize--"
    "He means he did it," T'Laren said.
    "Oh."  Sovaz nodded.
    "So now their little prop had been kicked out from under them.
There was no way to tell by *looking* at people whether they had been
blueheads or purpleheads, since everyone had the same green hair color.
And it was the same shade of green, too.  Boring, but then science
often is.  So what do you think they did? Did they realize how silly
the distinction had always been and live in peace and harmony
forevermore?"
    "That would have been the logical solution," Sovaz said, "so I
must assume that that is *not* what they did, since this is a story
about alien illogic, right?"
    "Oh how right you are.  No, they started trying to *empirically
figure out* what color people's hair *used* to be.  They used photo
reference, they used speech patterns, they used aptitude tests--
*aptitude tests!*  They took it into their heads that purpleheads were
stupid or blueheads were intuitive and emotional, and *tested* people
on that basis!  Unbelievable!  And *then--* this is what kills me--
they passed a law saying that everyone had to *dye their hair* back to
its original color!" He was laughing as he remembered.  He also
remembered that there had been revolutions and pogroms, witchhunts for
mis-dyed folk and the institution of entirely new prejudices, but he
suspected the Vulcans wouldn't find all that nearly as funny as he had
at the time.  "Is that or is that not the funniest thing you've heard?"
    Sovaz blinked.  "I find the whole story somewhat tragic,
actually."
    Q sighed.  "You would.  The problem with you Vulcans is you have
no sense of humor."
    "I'm sorry if I offended you," Sovaz said earnestly.  "I'm sure a
human would find your story very funny."
    "It depends on how well the human knew Q," T'Laren said.
    "Let's not start, ok?"  All Q needed was for T'Laren to decide to
go into a recitation of his crimes against the universe.  Besides, he
*still* thought it had been funny.
    "Would it be possible for me to have more stew?"
    Q scrutinized Sovaz.  She was small and slender, just as she'd
been ten minutes ago.  "Three bowls of stew?  You're going to get quite
chunky, my girl.  Better break out that holodeck exercise program."
    "You may of course have more stew," T'Laren said.  "Q is probably
unaware that your metabolism is still in its adolescent phase."
    "You mean she's still *growing?*  Horrors!  T'Laren, she's going
to grow up to be as gawky as you!"
    "I am not still growing," Sovaz explained.  "Not in terms of
height.  However, I have not yet completed the transition to maturity."
    "And yet you seem so worldly-wise."
    For several seconds Sovaz looked puzzled.  "Oh!  That is a joke,
isn't it?  Most sentients do not consider me worldly-wise."
    "Sure, Sovaz.  Kill the joke, why don't you."
    "It really was a mercy killing," T'Laren said.
    "As defined by a Vulcan?  Oh, I am cut to the quick.  A Vulcan
finds me unhumorous.  What tragedy.  What pain."
    "Since you did not disprove Dr. Markow's theory, do you believe it
is possible that the singularity represents the after-effects of time
travel?"  Sovaz asked.
    Q stared for a second, trying to figure out if that was supposed
to be a conversational save.  He decided it wasn't, and glanced over at
T'Laren, jerking a thumb toward Sovaz.  "She get that from you?"
    "What?"
    "She never lets up, does she?"
    "I did come here to ask you questions about the singularity,"
Sovaz said, a tiny note of defensive reproof in her voice.
    "Oh, of course.  By all means.  Ask away."
    "I just did."
    "Did you now?"  He considered.  "Hmm, I guess you did.  What do I
think of Markow's theory?"
    "Yes.  Do you believe it is possible?"
    "Possible?  Sure.  Likely?  Not bloody.  The odds of that
singularity turning out to be caused by time travel are about
equivalent to the odds of T'Laren standing up on the coffee table here
and singing 'It's Not Easy Being Green.' *Possible*, sure, but I
wouldn't bet money on it."
    "Can you explain why not?"
    "Not yet.  If I could, I'd have shot him down in the conference.
But..." He shrugged.  "Working with time and space as many millions of
years as I have, you get a feel for things.  An intuition, if you will.
Were I still in possession of all my powers, I could probably tell you
exactly why the singularity is probably not caused by time travel-- but
then, if I had my powers, all I'd have to do is scan the thing and I'd
know just what *did* cause it.  I just don't think the universe works
that way.  It *feels* wrong.  And while my intuition is, I'm convinced,
far more valuable than ten limited little mortals' experimental
hypotheses, the rest of the conference doesn't see it that way.  So I
can't shoot down Markow's theory until I've figured out exactly why
it's wrong."
    "Do you have a theory of your own?"
    "Dear child, of *course* I have a theory.  I would be entirely
remiss in my duties if I didn't have a theory."
    "But you haven't proposed it.  What is your theory?"
    Q smiled broadly.  "That would be telling."
    "But it is your *job* to tell what your theory is."
    "No, no, no.  I assure you that that is not my job.  *My* job is
to shoot down everyone *else's* theory."
    "That makes no sense."
    "It makes perfect sense.  You just don't realize it because of
your basic misconception as to what this conference is about."  Q stood
up, placing his empty bowl on the coffee table, and paced.  "I'm sure
you think that the point to this conference is to discover the true
nature of the singularity.  Right?"
    "Well... yes, of course."
    "*That* is your first mistake.  If the point was to discover the
true nature of the singularity, they'd give me their fanciest equipment
and hire me to stare at the readouts for oh, about three days.  A week,
tops.  And then I would *tell* them, and they would know.  No, that's
not what the point here is.  The point is to make all the top
scientists in the Federation feel like they are doing something useful
and contributing to the betterment of humanity-- and other sentiences
in the Federation.  It's Starfleet's solution to everything.  Can't
figure out which end is up?  Form a committee.  Somehow humans have
gotten this notion into their heads that there is safety in numbers.
If all the top scientists agree, it *must* be true.  Never mind the
glaring disproofs of that maxim-- you said you met Commander Data,
right?"
    "Yes."
    "Everyone in the Federation's scientific community thought his
creator was utterly wacko for believing he could build a sentient
android.  If it were true that majority opinion is always or even
usually right, Data would likely not exist today.  And yet he moves."
He looked directly at Sovaz.  "Did it ever occur to you to wonder why
you, a junior officer, are the primary liaison between the conference
and the ship?  Why wasn't that job given to your superior, Commander
Dhawan?"
    Sovaz considered.  "I had thought it to be intended as a learning
experience.  Also, Commander Dhawan is herself participating in the
conference.  This would interfere with her ability to effectively
moderate it."
    "I doubt it.  No, I'll tell you the *real* reason, Sovaz.  The
real reason is that Dhawan is a raging egotist with a serious tact
impairment." He grinned.  "As a fellow sufferer of *that* particular
affliction, I can sympathize.  But the point is that she is incapable
of managing this conference because she perceives it as a challenge to
her competence, and she's right.  If Starfleet really were concerned
only with results, and truly didn't give a damn how they were obtained,
this conference would be a genuine scientific endeavor rather than a
three-ring circus.  Morakh, for instance, does not deserve to be here.
I've been accused of bigotry against Klingons, and I admit, I haven't a
very high opinion of the species.  But I don't think Morakh should be
excluded because he's a Klingon; I think he should be excluded because
he simply is not one of the Federation's top 40 physicists.  There are
probably Klingons brighter than he is, and the only Vulcan I've ever
met who couldn't run rings around him mathematically is T'Laren over
there."
    "Who do you think *should* be included?" Sovaz asked, puzzled.
    "About a fourth of the people that are actually here, tops.  Roth,
entertaining as he is, is not one of the Federation's best.  Dhawan
herself should be here; Markow should be here; I don't know about
Elejani Baii.  Milarca should not.  LeBeau should not.  Pergiun should
not."
    "And you?"
    "I'm out of all of their leagues," Q said, grinning darkly.  "If
they *really* wanted to solve the problem, they should have hired me to
come out here and solve it for them, like I said.  In terms of merit, I
certainly should be here.  In terms of what this conference is actually
about, I probably should not."
    "Q's cynicism must be taken with a grain of salt," T'Laren
advised.  "He may be very knowledgeable about physics, but he views all
humanoid interaction through the filter of his own experience-- and his
experience is with the worst of humanoid behavior.  He has very little
ability to give anyone the benefit of the doubt."
    "Difficult when there is no doubt to be benefitted from," Q said.
"Vulcans are often unable to comprehend the pettiness and stupidities
of other humanoid races.  I have no difficulty seeing humanoids'
virtues, on the rare occasions when they display them; but I'm far
better aware than Sovaz is of how stupid most people are."
    "I don't understand people," Sovaz confessed.  "I understand
Vulcans a bit better than I do most other kinds of people, but I don't
really understand Vulcans either.  I create a model in my head of what
I believe a person will do, based on past experience, and then they do
something completely contrary."  She stood up, picking up her three
empty bowls.  "Physics is much easier."
    "Of course," Q said.  "The underlying laws that govern the
behavior of the universe are actually very, very simple.  Sentient
beings make themselves unnecessarily complicated.  I firmly believe
that the only way one can understand a sentient being's behavior is by
analogizing their mental processes to one's own-- which has never
worked for me; my mental processes are completely different from anyone
else's."
    "That should serve as your model for arrogance, Sovaz," T'Laren
said coolly.  "In fact, Q's mental processes are entirely predictable
using a model that assumes him to be human; he simply prefers to
believe himself beyond anyone's ken."
    "*Entirely* predictable, dear doctor?  I hardly think so."
    "Indeed.  When you are not aware that I am predicting you, your
behavior is entirely predictable.  When you *are* aware, you typically
become angry and do something random to demonstrate your
unpredictability."
    The idea of being predictable did, in fact, make him angry-- but
now that she had thrown down the gauntlet, he could *not* give her the
reaction she'd predicted.  So he laughed.  "Oh, T'Laren, you're
delightful," he said.  He turned to Sovaz and said conspiratorially,
"She's mad at me for inviting you here."
    "I cannot imagine why," Sovaz said.  "I would very much like to
know, though."  She glanced at T'Laren, a sudden hard look on her face.
    "Well, T'Laren?  You seem so interested in enlightening the child,
perhaps you'd like to explain your own unusual behavior?"  This was
perfect.  He watched T'Laren with barely concealed glee.
    T'Laren looked away, as if smoothing her mask in place.  When she
looked back at them, her face had the stillness of death, an unhealthy
drained look-- not a mask rigidly holding emotion in check, but as if
too much energy had been drained from it to show emotion.  "Sovaz, I
ask forgiveness," she said.  "I cannot tell you why I chose suicide,
nor why I behaved as I did earlier.  The two are related, however.  My
weakness lingers, and I have not yet achieved full health."
    "These things are understood," Sovaz said.  It sounded like a
formal Vulcan phrase.  In fact the whole exchange sounded like Vulcan
platitudes, dancing around the terms of the actual offense.  Q was
annoyed.
    "You're just going to let her go with that?" he demanded of Sovaz.
"After she humiliated you publicly the way she did?"
    Sovaz tilted an eyebrow at him.  "Vulcans do not feel humiliated
at the actions of others," she said.  "T'Laren cannot shame me."
    "Right. Uh-huh. Sure."
    "This has been an enlightening conversation, Q," Sovaz said.  "I
thank you."  Her own Vulcan mask was firmly in place.  Q could only
stare at her, mentally spluttering with frustration, as she nodded at
T'Laren and left.
    "You *people!*" he burst out as she left.  "You unutterably
*infuriating people!*"
    "Infuriating because we will not cooperate in your little games?"
T'Laren asked.
    "Infuriating because you won't stand up for what you feel, or
admit to it, or apologize properly for hurting someone else, or
*demand* a proper apology, or-- oh, you're just *unbelievable!*  How
did you manage to function for three thousand years as a society of
emotional cripples?"
    "I think your definition of emotional cripple differs somewhat
from mine," T'Laren said.
    "Yes, yours can include anyone except for you.  I'm perfectly
willing to admit that in my own way I am crippled-- though frankly I
think I'm a lot better described as a social cripple; I *have* no
problems expressing my emotions-- but you are not.  In fact, it's your
biggest problem, T'Laren.  You're willing to go on and on about how I
have all these problems, but what are you doing about your own?"
    "It is *not your place* to worry about my problems!" T'Laren said
sharply.  Her tone of voice was not one he'd ever heard from her--
controlled anger, deliberately released-- a tactic Picard had used
often, but not something Q expected from a Vulcan.  Q raised an eyebrow
in surprise.  T'Laren's usual reaction when she got angry was to go
cold and totally Vulcan.  This was something new. "Our relationship has
never been reciprocal, Q.  You are not my therapist, you are not
qualified to *be* my therapist, and I have not requested your help.  So
stay *out* of my affairs."
    "I seem to have hit a nerve."
    "You seem to *have* far more nerve than sense,"  T'Laren retorted.
"Why are you trying to antagonize me?  Are you so terrified of your own
need for friendship that you must destroy the entire rapport we've
created?"
    "Make up your mind, T'Laren.  One minute you're saying, 'No, we're
not friends, I am your godlike psychologist and you must obey.' The
next you're whining because I'm not being nice to you and I should play
nice with my friends.  Which is it?"
    "I never claimed to be a godlike psychologist," she said, and
half-smiled.  "That honor belongs exclusively to your brother, I'm
afraid."
    "What, you trust *Lhoviri* and not *me?*  What are you, *insane?*"
    "I was, when he found me," she said calmly.
    "T'Laren, how many times do I have to tell you this?  You *can't
trust Lhoviri*.  Do I need to tattoo it on your forehead or something?
He's *me*, six million years down the road.  He's a malicious and
untrustworthy bastard-- *I know*.  He hides it better than I did, but
he's older than I am, too."
    "So you're saying that you are a malicious and untrustworthy
bastard, but I should trust you anyway?"
    "*I* don't have any powers.  And yes.  When I did, I was a
malicious and untrustworthy bastard.  I've learned a few things since,
I think-- I hope-- and I'm *still* capable of being malicious and
untrustworthy, but I'm also enormously grateful to you.  Lhoviri isn't.
He has no motivation to do anything nice for anyone."
    "So you never did anything nice for anyone.  Even your fellow Q."
    "I didn't say that--"
    "You just did."
    "Look, you just don't *know* Lhoviri like I do!"
    "Indeed.  You knew him so well you expected that he would be one
of your champions, until you discovered that he was responsible for
your being thrown out of the Continuum."
    Q drew in a sharp breath.  "Cheap shot, T'Laren."
    "I learned from the best,"  T'Laren said coolly.
    Despite himself, Q smiled.  "I seem to recall you had a talent for
this the first time I met you,"  he said.  "I didn't need to teach you
much."  He shook hs head.  "That's besides the point, though.  You're
right-- I thought I knew him, and he betrayed me.  So obviously he's
*worse* than I thought he was."
    "That doesn't follow.  He might have betrayed you because he
didn't have the cavalier attitude toward mortal lives that you had, and
that you expect him to share.  Or, as I've mentioned before, he might
have betrayed you because he believed this was your last best chance
for redemption.  Either way, he has no particularly good reason to hurt
me.  And whether you want to accept it or not, Q, Lhoviri is
responsible for my being here today.  I owe him more than I am likely
to be able to repay.  I do *not* trust him, and he understands that I
do not, because if I allowed myself to begin thinking that Lhoviri is
interested in my personal welfare I would probably end up worshiping
him.  But I have not have the experience of knowing him and caring
about him for several millenia and then have him betray me, no.  This
doesn't speak volumes about your objectivity in the situation,
however."
    "Him saving your life doesn't speak volumes about *yours*,
either."
    "True.  But Lhoviri is not the point, and we've become
sidetracked.  The point is that you are attempting to interfere in my
life, to equalize the balance of power between us by trying to practice
guerrilla psychotherapy on me.  It's not your job."
    "I never *said* it was my *job*," Q said. "My *job* is shooting
down people's silly little theories.  But you really are behaving like
an idiot, you know."
    "What business is it of yours if I choose to behave like an
idiot?"
    "Why *shouldn't* it be my business?"
    She sighed. "I have *explained* why it is not your business.
We're going around in circles again."
    "Yes, circular arguments have always been the bane of our
existence," he said lightly. It wasn't a terribly entertaining
argument, either. T'Laren couldn't see how she was contradicting
herself, and for once Q didn't feel like hashing it out with her.  They
weren't starting from the same reference point, he thought, and in
order to get to the same reference point he was afraid he'd have to say
too much. If T'Laren wasn't in a self-revelatory mood, he couldn't see
why he should have to be the one to strip metaphorically nude.  "Fine,
I've got work to do anyway."  He got up and headed for his room.
    "You do realize that we haven't resolved anything?" T'Laren called
after him.
    "When do we ever?" he asked, and let the door to his room shut
behind him.