From drewry@roanoke.infi.net Fri Apr 11 07:55:39 1997 From: Laura Taylor Newsgroups: alt.fan.q,alt.startrek.creative Subject: NEW: Oasis 1/8, TNG/Q, PG-13 Date: Fri, 11 Apr 1997 14:55:39 +0000 Organization: InfiNet Lines: 255 Message-ID: <334E50EB.5EFD@roanoke.infi.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: pm6-133.roanoke.infi.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 2.02 (Macintosh; I; 68K) Path: atheria.europa.com!netnews1.nwnet.net!netnews.nwnet.net!arclight.uoregon.edu!feed1.news.erols.com!howland.erols.net!news-peer.sprintlink.net!news.sprintlink.net!sprint!news.maxwell.syr.edu!news.visi.net!news.infi.net!news.infi.net!not-for-mail Xref: atheria.europa.com alt.fan.q:5603 alt.startrek.creative:44089 OASIS by Laura Taylor drewry@roanoke.infi.net See Oasis Notes for disclaimers A bard must traverse o'er the world, Where things concealed must rise unfurled, And tread the feet of yore; Tho' he may sweetly harp and sing, But strictly prune the mental wing, Before the mind can soar. George Moses Horton "The Art of a Poet" Part One Captain Jean-Luc Picard placed his head in his hands and groaned. He had just received a directive from Starfleet Command that alternately perplexed and infuriated him. He closed his eyes, then opened them and pinched himself hard on the hand. No luck; he was not in his bed, as he had hoped, and he had not just awakened from an unpleasant dream. Not wanting to delay the matter any further, yet simultaneously not wanting to share the news with his crew because doing so would make it incontrovertibly true, he summoned his senior officers to the observation lounge. Before leaving his ready room, he walked over to the replicator to request a drink. He considered ordering his usual - tea, Earl Grey, hot - but decided it would not be enough. "Double Bourbon, straight." ************************* "Ahem," Captain Picard said, clearing his throat nervously once everyone had settled in their customary chairs. "I just received some rather *unusual* information from Starfleet Command. News that I guarantee you're not going to believe." Commander Will Riker straightened in his seat and looked at Picard with bemusement, a sly smile creeping in around his mouth and eyes. "And here I thought we'd seen just about all there is to see in this quadrant. This ought to be a doozy." "Oh, it is, Number One, it is, especially when you consider the source. Our orders are to proceed towards Earth. Somewhere along the way - I don't know where or when - we are to pick up an unusual passenger. A passenger, an old adversary, you might say, whom we all know only too well." He rubbed his head nervously. "We are then to ferry this 'guest' to Federation Headquarters, where he will be formally inducted as an ambassador between the Federation and his people." Deanna Troi looked at Picard, puzzled by the maelstrom of emotions she sensed churning within him. She concentrated, trying to filter through the conflicting emotions as she sought to determine their cause. Then her enormous eyes widened even further. "You're kidding me--" Data asked what everyone else was thinking. "Whom will our guest be?" "Q." "*Q*?" Riker, Doctor Crusher and Geordi LaForge asked simultaneously. "Hasn't he blessed us enough with the good fortune of his existence? What kind of a stunt is he up to now?" Riker demanded to know. "Is this another one of his pointless, inane 'tests'?" "It seems that Q's numerous forays into our lives have piqued the interest of the entire Continuum, which in turn decided that the best way to really learn more about us was to open relations between the Continuum and the Federation and appoint an official emissary to foster dialogue between our two races. Just our luck, that emissary happens to be Q." Picard paused, considering the ridiculous irony of the situation. "I suspect that underlying all this diplomacy-speak the truth is that Q got himself in trouble again and the Continuum is trying to channel his irresponsibility rather than punish him as before. At least this time we've been warned in advance of his impending arrival. A mixed blessing, at best." He sighed. "Maybe we can arrange to be sucked into a temporal causality loop before then. In any event, you have your instructions." He paused again, lost in thought. "Number One, you have the bridge. I feel a rather nasty headache coming on. Dismissed. Oh, and Commander?" Riker turned to look at Picard. "Sir?" "Try to keep in mind that Q will be an official diplomatic guest. Don't encourage him." Riker stiffened. "Yes, sir," he groused. ************************* Several hours later, Picard felt well enough to return to the bridge. He had just settled into the command chair when an all-too-familiar burst of light momentarily blinded him. Picard tensed reflexively, then noticed the figure standing before him. It was not Q. It was, in fact, a young boy, approximately ten years old, judging from his appearance. The expression of wide-eyed wonder on his face reminded Picard of Wesley Crusher, when he first caught sight of the Enterprise's main bridge, and for a moment Picard wondered if Q had sent him back in time to their first meeting en route to Farpoint. Upon closer examination, however, Picard realized the boy was not Wesley. He was wearing a child-size Starfleet uniform bearing the insignia of an ensign and immediately snapped to attention when he spotted Picard. "Sir," he began, "I am here to--" "Who the blazes are you? Is this one of your pranks, Q?" Picard snapped. The boy studied Picard calmly as he considered his response. He had been warned about the reaction he would get from the Enterprise crew. "I am Q," he answered, gazing around the bridge, the bridge that he had heard so much about he felt like he had been here all his life, "but the Q you know is my father." "Your *father*?" Troi blurted, unable to contain herself, although everyone else on the bridge seemed to have been rendered momentarily speechless. "Great. Just great," muttered Riker once he managed to pick his lower jaw up off the floor. "He's gone and reproduced himself. Just what we need." "You need not be concerned, Commander," the young Q replied. "I am not like my father in temperament, although I do share his fascination with humans. You see, my godmother is human, and, well, she's taught me a few things about human behavior, and how to better conduct myself when in the company of humans. I have no intention of testing you or harassing anyone on the Enterprise." Having finally found his voice, Picard croaked, "Why are you here? We were told to expect your--" he forced himself to say the word "--father. We're supposed to take him to Earth." "He sent me here to bring you to the Continuum first." This proved to be just a bit much for the hapless captain as his headache renewed itself with unexpected vehemence. He closed his eyes and groaned softly. I should have retired years ago, he thought to himself. A comfortable chateau, nothing but gardens to tend and books to read, maybe even a guest professorship at the Sorbonne, but no... The young Q looked at Picard and smiled softly. He reached out an arm and delicately touched the Captain's shoulder, sending a warm rush of energy into Picard's body. His father and his godmother had told him so many wonderful stories about this amazing, this remarkable human, he wanted to make a good impression. Still expecting the other shoe to drop, Riker barked, "Get away from him!" He unholstered his phaser, remembering too late what had happened to him the last time he physically threatened a Q. Instinctively, he froze, although he gnashed his teeth in ill-concealed fury and frustration. "It's - It's all right, Number One," Picard said, lifting his head. He smiled at the boy, amazed that such a gentle and sincere creature could have such a *pest* for a father. "What did you do to me? My headache's all gone, and I think you even got rid of the rheumatism in my knee." "I was just trying to help. I'm well aware of your past history with my father, Captain. I hope I can make up for that in some fashion." He smiled back at Picard. Riker spoke up. "You said that you were here to take us into the Continuum. How is that possible?" "First of all, I'm here to escort Captain Picard, and only the captain, to the Continuum," the boy replied. "Secondly, it's not as impossible as it seems; it's been done before. I believe my father once told you that humanity will eventually evolve into a level of existence similar to what we are now?" Riker nodded. "The Q are energy beings, completely unaffected by time or space or matter. Humans are actually part matter, part energy, and the part of you that is energy-based is very much like a Q. The energy part of you is what can enter the Continuum, while your material aspect remains behind in the physical universe." Riker looked puzzled. "I don't understand. You've lost me." Troi interjected, "I think I know what he's talking about. The energy part of humans is what was once referred to as a 'soul'. When Terrans still worshipped creator deities, they believed that they each possessed an immortal soul or 'divine spark'. Is that what you're referring to?" she asked the young Q. He nodded. "Those primitive theists were on to something, they just didn't have all their facts straight. Over the next million years, humans will gradually shed their physical bodies and their mortality, which together bind them to a specific point in space and time, as their 'souls', as you phrased it Counselor, escape to cavort about the universe. In fact, you're evolutionarily about three eons ahead of schedule, which is part of the reason why Father has been so interested in humans." "I presume then, that you intend to separate the Captain's soul from his flesh to take him to the Continuum. What will happen to his body while he is in the Continuum? Will he be in any danger?" Troi asked. "Wait a minute, Counselor," Picard rebutted. "I haven't agreed to go. I'd first like to know *why* I'm supposed to go with you." "You don't have to go with me, Captain," the young Q responded. "This is an invitation, not an order. The reason why my father has been named as Ambassador to the Federation is that he has reached that stage in his existence when he is expected to ascend to the Council of Elders. Each Elder has a specific purpose in maintaining the preordained order of the universe - some are responsible, for example, for preserving an equal balance between hydrogen and oxygen in water molecules, or for establishing plant life on new planets, or, as in the case of my father, for monitoring human evolution and development. The Council realized, as my father approached the Age of Ascension, that it might serve the Continuum well to put his fascination with humanity to good use. His reports on the Federation have stirred up quite a bit of interest and controversy in the Continuum, and the Council decided it would be to our - and your - advantage to establish an official relationship. My role in all this," he concluded, "is to escort Captain Picard, if he wishes, to my father's Rite of Ascension, after which the Enterprise will escort him to Earth as planned." Picard considered the young Q's offer. He stood, tugged on his uniform and said, "As captain of the USS Enterprise and a designated emissary of the Federation, how can I possibly refuse?" He bowed formally. "Very well, Q, I accept your invitation, and look forward to this momentous occasion." "Captain," Troi cautioned, "I'd first like to know what will happen to your physical self when you are away." "There is no cause for concern, Counselor," the young Q said. "Captain Picard will have the appearance, and all the symptoms, of being in deep stasis - a coma, if you will." "Sir," Riker said, "I recommend that you - that your body - remain in Sickbay under Dr. Crusher's care." "An excellent suggestion, Number One." Picard turned to the boy. "Give me one hour to prepare. Commander, you have the bridge." END PART ONE ******************************************************************* From drewry@roanoke.infi.net Fri Apr 11 08:00:23 1997 From: Laura Taylor Newsgroups: alt.fan.q,alt.startrek.creative Subject: NEW: Oasis 2/8, TNG/Q, PG-13 Date: Fri, 11 Apr 1997 15:00:23 +0000 Organization: InfiNet Lines: 146 Message-ID: <334E5207.28EA@roanoke.infi.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: pm6-133.roanoke.infi.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 2.02 (Macintosh; I; 68K) Path: atheria.europa.com!netnews1.nwnet.net!netnews.nwnet.net!arclight.uoregon.edu!feed1.news.erols.com!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.bbnplanet.com!www.nntp.primenet.com!nntp.primenet.com!news.visi.net!news.infi.net!news.infi.net!not-for-mail Xref: atheria.europa.com alt.fan.q:5598 alt.startrek.creative:44081 OASIS by Laura Taylor drewry@roanoke.infi.net See Oasis Notes for disclaimers I am never away from you. Even now, I shall not leave you. In another world, I shall be still that one who loves you, loves you Beyond measure Edmund Rostand "Cyrano de Bergerac" Part Two Dr. Fatima al-Ghazali was having a difficult time adjusting to life on the Enterprise. She was no stranger to Federation starships, having previously served for five years on the Bozeman, and had in fact spent several years traveling about the galaxy in Klingon Birds of Prey, Vulcan cruisers, Ferengi traders, and even Cardassian prison ships, but the Enterprise held certain painful memories for the young widow, memories that she never quite been able to exorcise. At night, as she closed her eyes and let the steady thrum of the warp engines lull her to sleep, she imagined the agonized cries of her husband as he sacrificed his life to save his crewmates.... It had been nearly ten years ago when an omnipotent energy being hurled the Enterprise across thousands of light-years into the Delta Quadrant in a fit of pique. The ship's crew, consummate explorers, went about their business as if nothing unusual had happened and sent an away team to an uncharted planet, where they stumbled across a race of beings mercilessly bent on destroying and assimilating every civilization they encountered. The Enterprise crew was unprepared for the single-minded malevolent purpose of the Borg Collective, and consequently eighteen lives were lost when the Borg ship attacked. That much was generally known throughout Federation space. What was not widely known was that, were it not for the efforts of Lieutenant Ali ibn Akbar al-Ghazali, the entire crew would have perished in a cataclysmic warp core explosion. When the Borg cube fired upon the Enterprise, the plasma in one of the warp conduits heated just to the point of ignition. Had the plasma actually ignited, safety measures would have contained the explosion to a single sector until it burned itself out, thus minimizing the risk to the Enterprise. Instead the plasma burned slowly, like a dying ember, as the heat worked its way towards the warp core. The ship's engineers worked feverishly to locate the problem, knowing only that sensors detected unusual levels of heat emanating from the plasma conduit, but unable to determine the exact cause or location of the malfunction. They were reduced to frantically tearing panels away, trying to isolate the problem, when al-Ghazali found the source of the heat as it sputtered towards a critical junction. The fire had to be extinguished before it reached the junction, or else it would spread throughout the entire conduit network, but smoldering plasma cannot be extinguished by conventional methods. Al-Ghazali realized the only way to extinguish the fire would be to block its access to fuel, and thus, without hesitation, he stepped into the conduit, absorbing the fire into his body and thereby extinguishing it. His agonized howls echoed throughout the ship, and on the other side of the galaxy, his young wife screamed uncontrollably as her subconscious mind told her that her beloved Ali had been wrenched from her soul. Once Q sent the battered Enterprise back to Federation space, Fatima had insisted that Ali's body be returned to Earth, where he could be laid to rest in the crypt of his Persian ancestors in ancient Susa. To Fatima's surprise, the Enterprise's senior officers and engineering staff joined her, even going so far as to wear the traditional robes of mourning. There Captain Picard, looking very much like a priest of Ahura Mazda as he respectfully ignited the ritual fire sacrifice to the spirit world, bestowed upon the widow of Lieutenant Ali ibn Akbar al-Ghazali the Medal of Courage, Starfleet's highest honor. Fatima was offered extended leave from duty for her people's traditional period of mourning, but when the year was up she realized that she no longer wanted to serve in Starfleet and resigned her commission. She was a skilled physician, and decided to put her arts to good use, and simultaneously honor the memory of her husband, on the battlefield. She spent most of the next several years on Bajor, tending to rebels wounded in the war for independence from Cardassia. She also managed to find her way into bloody skirmishes along the Klingon-Romulan border, seduced a Ferengi pirate in order to steal badly needed medical supplies for the Maquis, and somehow got captured and sentenced to a Cardassian prison ship, where a terminally ill Gul warlord miraculously recovered under her ministrations and, in gratitude, set her free. During those years of wandering from planet to planet, Fatima earned medals and accolades and respect from Bajor, Cardassia, Vulcan, Romulus and the Klingon homeworld for her bravery and willingness to help the injured even in the thick of battle, without regards to species or political affiliation or territorial claim. Her only impetus was the memory of her husband; as he had sacrificed his life for the survival of others, so would she willingly place her life in danger to bring comfort and assistance to the sick and injured. She had not needed to read the official report on Ali's death, because it had been scorched onto her psyche where his spirit was ripped away from hers. Every new dawn that rose on the horizon, she drew breath from the agonizing loneliness of his absence as her intimate link to his sacrifice sustained her, drove her, motivated her. Though her collection of awards far outnumbered her husband's sole medal, she never felt vindicated, and continued to push herself beyond human limits. Fatima had also become reacquainted with the ancient and mysterious heritage of her people, the Bedouins of Arabia, while recuperating on the desert world of Vulcan. Even in the twenty-fourth century, little was known about the Bedouins, except that their nomadic way of life had all but disappeared two centuries earlier with the advent of desert farming. Yet the legends of the wanderers persisted, even in the very permanent structures of New Cairo where she had grown up. Traveling throughout the endless desert of space, Fatima felt her spirit communing with her Bedouin ancestors, each planet an oasis where she replenished her supplies but never her soul. She was at home in space, and grateful that starships smelled much better than camels. Two years ago, Fatima felt an irresistible urge to return to Starfleet. It had taken her almost a full year to make her way to Earth, and then another six months to convince Starfleet Command to reactivate her commission. She had barely been on duty two months when the Borg ship attempted to assimilate Earth by altering history, but was thwarted by Captain Picard and the Enterprise crew. She had been very busy then, tending to the thousands of wounded, when Picard walked into San Francisco Hospital and offered her the position of assistant chief medical officer aboard the Enterprise. His proposal came as a shock to her, and she very nearly refused him on the spot. The same forces that had driven her from one end of the galaxy to the other, however, also compelled her to reject her doubts and accept the position. Fatima had now been on the Enterprise for three months, and although she was glad to be back in space, the memory of her husband's untimely death continued to haunt her. She had forced herself to read the report on Ali's death before boarding, but she scrupulously avoided Engineering, and spoke to no one among the crew who had known him. Her healing skills helped Fatima make her mark in Sickbay, but she was unknown to any who had not had the good fortune to be cared for by her. Even Ali's spirit seemed to have abandoned her. END PART TWO ******************************************************************** From drewry@roanoke.infi.net Fri Apr 11 08:08:31 1997 From: Laura Taylor Newsgroups: alt.fan.q,alt.startrek.creative Subject: NEW: Oasis 3/8, TNG/Q, PG-13 Date: Fri, 11 Apr 1997 15:08:31 +0000 Organization: InfiNet Lines: 369 Message-ID: <334E53EF.5CEA@roanoke.infi.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: pm6-133.roanoke.infi.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 2.02 (Macintosh; I; 68K) Path: atheria.europa.com!netnews1.nwnet.net!netnews.nwnet.net!arclight.uoregon.edu!newsfeeds.sol.net!uwm.edu!news.inc.net!news.visi.net!news.infi.net!news.infi.net!not-for-mail Xref: atheria.europa.com alt.fan.q:5599 alt.startrek.creative:44082 OASIS by Laura Taylor drewry@roanoke.infi.net See Oasis Notes for disclaimers In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree Samuel Taylor Coleridge "Kubla Khan" Part Three Captain Picard leaned his head back against the biobed cushion and closed his eyes, trying to dispel his nervousness. For the past hour his thoughts had been occupied with visions of death and dying. His subconscious had apparently decided to play a morbidly perverse joke on him, dredging up images of near-death experiences, the drug-induced living death of zombies, children's bedtime horror tales of premature burial, and memories of his own brushes with death, especially one in which Q played a significant role. In vain Picard tried to focus his thoughts on more enjoyable things, such as Shakespeare or archaeology, but instead the inner workings of his mind coughed up snippets about Ophelia and Macbeth mixed with gruesomely vivid details about mummification. Picard ignored the perverse whims of his subconscious and instead focused on the activity in Sickbay. Doctor al-Ghazali was attaching a cortical monitor to his forehead while Beverly fussed with a diagnostic unit. He noticed with inward pleasure that Beverly seemed to be about as nervous as he was. Riker remained on the bridge while Data and Counselor Troi stood by, both eager to observe the experience. The young Q was also there, his eyes focused inward, seemingly deep in thought. He is probably making final plans with his father, Picard mused. At last Beverly finished setting the controls on the diagnostic unit and positioned it over Picard's midsection. Refusing to look him in the eye, she said to him, "This will monitor your respiratory and cardiac systems, while the cortical monitor will provide data on your neuro-synaptic activity." She shifted her attention to the young Q. "If there are any serious fluctuations in his life signs, I want you to bring him back immediately. Do you understand?" He nodded. "I promise you, Doctor, that Captain Picard will be well cared for. I assume personal responsibility for his safety." He looked at Picard. "Are you ready, Captain?" Picard nodded and grasped Beverly's hand. "I'll be back before you know it." She squeezed his hand and smiled grimly. "You'd better - you still owe me a home-cooked all-crepe breakfast." "On my honor as a Frenchman, we'll be feasting the morning after I get back. All right, Q, let's go." Q snapped his fingers and disappeared in a burst of white light. Instantaneously, Captain Picard slipped into a deep coma-like stasis. Beverly and Doctor al-Ghazali watched his life signs nervously as they wavered briefly, then stabilized. "Do you sense anything, Counselor?" Data asked. "I've lost all contact with him," Troi observed. "It's not like a typical coma, where I can still sense emotions - it's as if his subconscious has been completely shut off from me." ************************* Judging from the size of the filled-to-capacity banquet hall, the reception honoring Q's Ascension was *the* social event of the millennium. To Picard's human subconscious, he was in an infinitely enlarged version of the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, but he found that if he closed one eye and squinted with the other, he could see that he was actually standing at the center of the galaxy, and that what appeared to be the small flames of countless flickering candelabras were actually billions of stars whirling past the windows and reflecting off the enormous floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The frescoed ceiling, which was as ephemeral as the seemingly marbled floor, brilliantly depicted the epic battle between the Olympians and the Titans, but Picard soon discovered that the flashes of Zeus's lightning bolt were really quantum particles ricocheting off each other as they flew past at dizzying speeds and the boulders hurled by the hundred-handed giants thundered as stars eternally exploding into and out of existence. The effect was, simply put, breathtaking. Picard looked down at himself and noticed that he looked much as he always did. He was even still wearing the dress uniform he had donned for the occasion. A glance to his left revealed that his escort, Q's son, was likewise unchanged. Yet when he looked at the other guests as they waltzed past him, what his eyes saw and what his subconscious told him he was seeing made absolutely no sense. Standing within earshot a rainbow, which Picard somehow recognized as the color spectrum, was arguing vehemently with a rather triangular fellow who looked vaguely familiar, yet Picard could not quite put his finger on the man's name. Then it hit him: it was the Pythagorean Theorem personified, and he was involved in a heated debate with Spectrum over the merits, or lack thereof, of Ludwig von Beethoven's compositions. "But he was utterly undisciplined!" Theorem shouted above the din. "He was stone deaf, and he had absolutely no respect for the equanimity of the octave! Bach, on the other hand--" "Bach, smach," Spectrum interjected. "If I hear one more word about Bach I'm going to turn white." "But Bach based his compositions on mathematical principles," Theorem insisted. "His cantatas are elaborately constructed matrices, and his Mass in B Minor reflects Einstein's own theory of relativity!" "Mathematical principles are not the be-all and end-all of music, Pyth," Spectrum rebutted, flashing a bright shade of orange. "Don't you think your argument is a little biased, since it was also Pythagoras who recognized the octave in the first place?" Theorem grunted. "Bach was so dry, so bland, so self-righteous. Beethoven, on the other hand, was passionate, tempestuous, innovative. Just listening to the Fifth Symphony brings out the indigo in me." She melodramatically placed her hand on her chest and colored. Picard turned and bumped into an eccentric multi-headed individual that barely gave him enough attention to mutter "Excuse me," in four-part harmony before resuming what seemed to be an eternal argument with itself. "Believe you me, there are few things in this universe worse than being eternally doomed to 'mark the spot,'" snarled one head. "'You are here' - I mean, come on, how stupid can that be?" "You think you have it bad?" responded another. "I've spent my entire existence as the number ten in a dead language! After the fall of Rome, I didn't get hauled out of storage and dusted off except for a couple of popes or the occasional Super Bowl or Olympic Games. And I despise sports!" "You two have it so easy it makes me sick!" snapped the third. "Try getting anywhere when you're the unknown factor in every single eighth-grader's algebra homework! Y's been holding *that* indignity over my head for centuries." The fourth head harumphed at his brothers. "Oh please," he snorted. "I'd like to see you three take a shot at being the letter chi in the Greek alphabet. For centuries I was trapped with that blasted rho, doomed to sanctimonious symbolism, and then I was relegated to college fraternity nicknames. I'd take being a place marker or a Roman numeral any day!" "Oh yeah?" retorted the first head, and the argument continued as it has for millennia. Picard chuckled to himself as he moved on. Across the room he spotted Amanda Rogers chatting with Zenith, who was very tall, and his wife Nadir, who was very small, and attempted to wade his way through the crowd to speak to Amanda. Halfway across the dance floor, someone grabbed at his arm and spun him around. He could not believe who his accoster was. It was Kathryn Janeway. "Captain Janeway, what are you doing here?" he stammered, incredulous. "You've been declared missing in action and presumed dead for almost three years, ever since Voyager disappeared in the Badlands." "I've been in the Delta Quadrant, trying to get Voyager across 70,000 light years with a half-Maquis crew," she answered. "It's so good to see you, Captain. I doubt you'll remember having seen me once you're returned to the Enterprise, but at least we can catch up. How have things been in the Federation?" "That can wait - knowing Q, this party's going to last quite a while. How did you come by an invitation to this event? Or, to be more blunt, how do you know Q?" "Q? Knowest thou Q? Dost thou seek the A?" babbled a crookedly formed being who had surreptitiously sidled up to Picard and Janeway and was intently eavesdropping on their conversation. "Canst thou by searching find out God? A wounded spirit who can bear? If thine enemy be hungry, give him bread to eat, and if he be thirsty, give him water to drink. To the hungry soul, every bitter thing is sweet." "I beg your pardon?" Picard asked, nonplused by the string of non sequiturs. "Tangent, go away. These are humans. Don't bother them." The young Q shrugged and looked at Picard and Janeway as Tangent made a beeline for a lonely helium atom. "Don't mind him; he's harmless. He always speaks in random platitudes. By the way, Captain Janeway is my godmother. Her presence here is about as obligatory as yours." "Your godmother?" Will wonders never cease? Picard thought to himself. "Now this I've got to hear." The two Starfleet officers, their escort following at a safe but respectable distance, wandered off in search of a place to sit and talk. They had settled into a semi-secluded window box, eager to share news about the Alpha and Delta Quadrants and about their mutual association with Q, when the massive oak doors at the end of the hall were flung open with a melodramatic flourish and the host himself appeared. He was dressed head-to-toe in a magnificent jewel-encrusted scarlet robe trimmed with ermine, much like ancient European royalty would wear to a coronation. A horde of repulsive toad-like creatures clamored around Q, hopping on him and fawning over him like excited puppies, croaking their congratulations and promising favors in return for his support for their causes on the Council. Their appearance and antics would have disgusted even a Ferengi. Q, however, seemed not to notice the crowd of well-wishers and influence peddlers and swept through them, his eyes darting anxiously about the hall. When they fell upon Picard and Janeway, a huge grin broke across his face. In the blink of an eye, he was before them, the robe instantaneously replaced with a Starfleet admiral's dress uniform. "Jean-Luc! Kathy! My two favorite humans in all the galaxy!" he cried, gathering them both up in a warm embrace. He then kissed Picard on the top of his head. "Mon capitain, I am *so* glad you decided to come. This would all be just empty, meaningless rigmarole without the guest of honor present." Picard, flustered by the display and instinctively wary of Q's seeming benevolence, smiled weakly. "Guest of honor? No, Q, I believe that designation belongs to you. You have my hearty congratulations." "Oh, nonsense, Jean-Luc. If it weren't for you and your human compatriots," Q insisted, leering at Janeway, "we wouldn't be here. *Something* about you and your fascinating little species must have been a good influence on me, or else I would never have ascended. And now that I have, I'm obligated to behave myself. More or less," he added with a mischievous grin. "By the way, I'm sorry you couldn't attend the Rite of Ascension itself, but we Q have to keep *some* secrets from the evolutionarily challenged. I hope you won't hold it against me." He did not stop talking long enough for either captain to answer. "I see that you've met my son," he indicated the young Q, who seemed to shrink into the shadows in embarrassment. "You know, considering all that's he's heard about you from myself and my *darling* Kathy, he feels like he's known you all his life." At this the young Q smiled shyly. "Unfortunately, you've been such a role model for him, he's almost as dull as you are." Picard thought he detected an wince from the young Q, and in sympathy for the boy's plight tried to change the subject. "Q, how am I able to see - what I see - here?" As he was talking, a comet walked past him, undulating her tail seductively and winking at him, before rejoining her escort, a binary star in the form of Siamese twins. "Take her, for example," Picard indicated the comet, "I know she's a comet, yet she looks like a lovely young woman trying to flirt with me." Q sighed and rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. "Always the consummate Starfleet officer, eh, Jean-Luc? These philosophical forays into the workings of the human mind really do bore me, since there's really not all that much to discuss. Elephants possess more imagination than humans. Besides, I must go mingle. A good host mustn't neglect his guests, you know." He winked at Janeway. "Kathy, perhaps you can field his question. You have, after all, been to the Continuum several times." A crowd of dancers swept Q away, laughing and applauding as he displayed his finesse on the dance floor. Picard looked at Janeway with surprise. "It's true, Captain," she answered. "And each time I've come here it's looked totally different. The first time, it was a way station on a desert road; then it was an American Civil War battlefield--" Picard's eyebrows shot up "--I'll explain later. Now it's the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. My godson, who is far more considerate and patient than his father, said that our subconscious mind provides the imagery to match the situation we're in. In other words, this--" she indicated the hall "--is a manifestation of our collective unconscious, which is why you and I are able to perceive the same images." "So what you're saying, if I understand you correctly, is that our unconscious projects an image within the realm of our mental and sensory capacity that is somehow linked to the object in view?" Picard asked. "Therefore, when I look at Spectrum, my subconscious evokes an image of a rainbow. That's also why you and I perceive each other in Starfleet uniforms; that's an image taken directly from our memories. This is almost like taking a walk through my own subconscious!" he exclaimed, excited in spite of himself. "Captain Picard, Captain Janeway, may I get you something to drink?" the young Q asked, having regained his composure after his father's cruel remark. "Yes, Q, thank you," Janeway replied. "Surprise us with something exotic." He walked off. "He's not at all like his father," she said once he was out of earshot. "I'd like to claim some credit for his temperament, but I think his mother is primarily responsible. She's not as adventurous as Q, and she seems to consider humans with little more than disdain, despite what we did for the Continuum. Her temper is rather formidable and she can stand up to Q's antics far better than we can." "He is a remarkable child," Picard agreed. "I wonder if Q realizes just how fortunate he is." Picard and Janeway continued chatting, making up for lost time and space, losing all track of their surroundings, until Q rejoined them. "Talking about me behind my back?" he asked. "That's not very nice; and at my own party even. And here I thought we were all friends." He extended his lower lip in a mock pout. "And what a party it is, Q. I'm very impressed," Picard said. "But I should be returning to my ship soon, and Captain Janeway should return to Voyager as well." "Duty calls, Jean-Luc? All right, but first a drink, a toast to the new relationship between the Continuum and the Federation." He beckoned a serving girl carrying a tray with drinks on it. As she came closer, Picard felt a sudden chill run down his spine as all his interior warning signals went berserk. The serving girl's eyes were as black and as dense as ebony, and her face, frozen in a grotesque imitation of a smile, resembled a death's-head mask. When Picard sought to identify her in his subconscious, his mind experienced the odd sensation of suffocation, and it took all his concentration to extract himself from the vacuum. He wondered if Q suspected anything, or if it would be appropriate to warn Q about what he had just sensed. Picard never had a chance. The serving girl handed Q a champagne flute filled with a blood-red liquid, then served Picard and Janeway before stepping back. Q raised his glass in a toast, and the two humans followed suit. "To evolution!" he shouted, and tossed the contents of the glass back. Picard and Janeway echoed, "To evolution," then gasped in unison as they saw Q's reaction to the drink. His eyes bulged, and he clutched his throat, gulping for air. Drops of foam collected around his lips as blood began to flow freely from his nose and ears. The flute fell to the floor and shattered into a thousand pieces, spilling its contents over the marble, as Q's free hand flailed frantically, struggling to find a support, until his eyes fell upon the serving girl. His face, already pale from the seizure, grew even more ashen as he recognized her. "You--" he sputtered, "Soma--" then collapsed, his eyes rolling back until only the whites showed. The serving girl cackled with glee, then disappeared in the gathering crowd. Through the rushing sound of blood pounding in his head, Picard heard a woman's scream. He knelt beside Q and instinctively felt for a pulse as Janeway cradled Q's head in her lap. Much to his surprise, he found one - slow, but steady. He also noticed that the vacuum he felt in the presence of the serving girl was now affecting his subconscious perception of Q; the entity appeared to be shifting in and out of Picard's perception, like a flickering flame. He looked up as the young Q rushed over. "What happened?" he demanded to know. The boy was as pale as his father. "Soma. She's the worst enemy of all energy beings. Her poisons are so deadly, we have no serum for them. I've heard stories about her, but I never really believed she existed--" "Who is she?" Picard prodded. "I thought the Q were omnipotent. How can she be so dangerous?" "Soma is pure matter. Her poisons convert energy beings, such as the Q, into matter." He sniffed a large fragment of the glass, which lay beside the prone form of his father, then dipped his finger in the puddle of liquid and held the droplet to his lips before turning away in disgust. Only then did Picard realize that his drink was not the same as what had been served to Q. "This drink was a mixture of the four basic material elements - earth, air, fire and water," the boy said. "When blended in the right proportions, they are almost always fatal to a Q. Captain, we have to get him out of here. Matter cannot survive in the Continuum, and if we don't find a cure soon, he *will* die. Will you grant him sanctuary aboard the Enterprise, while I try to find someone who can help him?" the boy pleaded. Picard nodded his assent, and with a blinding flash he was back in Sickbay. END PART THREE ********************************************************************** From drewry@roanoke.infi.net Fri Apr 11 08:18:22 1997 From: Laura Taylor Newsgroups: alt.fan.q,alt.startrek.creative Subject: NEW: Oasis 4a/8, TNG/Q, PG-13 Date: Fri, 11 Apr 1997 15:18:22 +0000 Organization: InfiNet Lines: 441 Message-ID: <334E563D.1C6@roanoke.infi.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: pm6-133.roanoke.infi.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 2.02 (Macintosh; I; 68K) Path: atheria.europa.com!netnews1.nwnet.net!netnews.nwnet.net!arclight.uoregon.edu!news-peer.sprintlink.net!news.sprintlink.net!sprint!news.maxwell.syr.edu!news.visi.net!news.infi.net!news.infi.net!not-for-mail Xref: atheria.europa.com alt.fan.q:5606 alt.startrek.creative:44094 OASIS by Laura Taylor drewry@roanoke.infi.net See Oasis Notes for disclaimers Note: Part 4 is LONG, so it's coming in subsections Death come knockin' on that gambler's door, Said, "Ol' gambler, are you ready to go?" No, no, no, no, no, no, no, Because I ain't got on my travelin' shoes, Ain't got my duty singing No, no, no, Oh Lordy no, no, no, Because I ain't got on my travelin' shoes Source unknown "Travelin' Shoes" Part Four Picard bolted upright, slamming his sternum into the diagnostic unit that lay across his midsection. Doctor al-Ghazali pressed her hands firmly on his shoulders and ordered him to lie down. "You've been through quite an ordeal, Captain," she insisted. "You need to regain your equilibrium." "Doctor--" he gasped, wincing from the impact, "Q--where's Beverly?" "Doctor Crusher has the situation under control. Q appeared in Sickbay the moment you regained consciousness. She's trying to stabilize his condition now." "What *is* his condition?" "Pretty serious, I'm afraid. He hasn't responded well to resuscitative efforts and is virtually catatonic, with just the barest of life signs." She checked the readouts on the diagnostic unit, then slowly swung it away from Picard. "You may get up now, but I urge you to take things easy for a few hours. You may have a few bouts of vertigo, which is to be expected; any headaches, heart palpitations or nausea, however, and I want you back here immediately." "Yes, Doctor. Where is Q?" "They're working on him in the quarantine lab. Try to stay out the way, however; it's pandemonium in there." Picard watched through the parasteel observation window with Data and Counselor Troi as Doctor Crusher and her staff worked frantically to stabilize Q's life signs over the course of an hour. After repeated attempts at cortical stimulation, CPR and even open-heart massage (a procedure virtually unheard-of in the twenty-fourth century), she was satisfied that Q would at least survive with the assistance of life support and beckoned Picard into her office. "What the hell happened, Jean-Luc?" she demanded. "Did the Continuum decide to punish Q after all?" "To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what's going on," Picard admitted. "We were at the reception and Q had just toasted us when he experienced a severe reaction to whatever he was drinking. Q's son claimed it was the work of some creature named Soma, who apparently goes about the galaxy assassinating energy beings like the Q. I think I saw her at the party, disguised as a serving girl." He shuddered involuntarily at the memory of her dead, black eyes. "She's supposedly made of pure matter, and uses matter in some way against her victims. In this case, it was the drink; Q's son said it was a highly toxic poison consisting of earth, air, fire and water." "I don't understand," said Deanna. "Ancient Terran scientists believed that all matter consisted of those four elements," Data said. "And in classical Greek, 'soma' meant 'flesh'. Philosophers such as Aristotle and Basil of Caesarea referred to 'soma' in metaphysical arguments defining and explaining what they thought was the nature of God and the created universe. Those debates essentially focused on the relationship between spirit and matter and how - or if - the two could co-exist." "So this Soma turned Q into matter by poisoning him *with* matter?" Deanna asked. "That seems to be the case." "Well, whatever she did, she was very thorough," Doctor Crusher said. "Q's *barely* alive, and I don't know how much longer life support can sustain him. His nervous system has absolutely no electromagnetic impulses, which means that he is completely paralyzed, his heart cannot beat on its own, and there's no brain activity of any kind. This isn't like when the Continuum made him human; then, he at least retained a sense of his former self. Now, there's nothing; Q is just a shell of a human, without memory, personality, or self-consciousness. By his standards, he might as well be dead." "I can't even sense him empathically," added Deanna. "Before, whenever he was on the Enterprise, I could at least sense his infinity, although it was far too complex for my abilities to grasp." She looked at Picard. "It's not like when Q's son took you to the Continuum; as I tried to read your emotions, it was as if a steel door had been slammed shut in my face. When I try to sense Q, I don't feel a barrier, I feel...nothing. I don't mean I don't actually sense any emotions, I mean that I feel *nothingness*." "I know exactly what you're saying, Counselor," Picard said. "When Soma approached, it felt as though my subconscious was being sucked into a vacuum. Then, after she poisoned Q, I experienced the same sensation in his presence." "Did Q's son say if there was any cure, or an antitoxin for the poison?" asked Doctor Crusher. "It doesn't seem likely," said Picard. "He said that Soma's poisons were almost always fatal. To be honest, I think he was trying to hold out hope for himself, and didn't want to say there was no chance of Q surviving. He did say, however, that he was going to try to find help." At that moment the young Q appeared in Sickbay, accompanied by an extremely old man. The boy looked around anxiously, then studied the faces of the humans staring at him curiously for clues. "My father?" he asked hesitantly. "Is he--?" "He's in critical condition, Q," Picard answered. The young Q heaved a sigh of relief. "We've done all we can, and from our perspective it doesn't look like there's much hope for his survival. I'm sorry," he added, placing his hand on the boy's shoulder. "I wish we could do more." "That you've managed to keep him alive this long may be just the edge we need," the young Q replied. "Most of Soma's victims die within seconds, and those that don't suffer torturous agony until they are driven to suicide, or madness, or both. I've brought someone who may be able to help," he added, indicating the old man, "in fact, he's the only one who *can* help." Picard stepped towards the stranger, self-consciously straightening his dress uniform's tunic as he did so. Something about the old man seemed oddly familiar, yet he was also uniquely alien. He looked human, but Picard could tell with a glance that he was anything *but* human. His hair, bristling in countless directions from a single topknot on his head, was brittle and yellow with age. His face, which gave the unique appearance of both arrogance and compassion, was lined with deep creases, yet his neck and chin lacked the jowls and dewlaps that so often befall old faces, leading Picard to think that perhaps the stranger only wished to *appear* old. His coal-black eyes glittered with a vivacity found only in young children as they stared out at Picard from beneath bushy yellow eyebrows. He was dressed in a simple tunic that, when it caught the light of Sickbay as the man shifted his weight from one bare foot to the other, shone with an eerie iridescence. In one hand he held a stick, with which he beat an endless rhythm on the floor. Picard then realized that the man's feet were moving in a slow but steady cadence equal to the rhythm produced by the stick. Somewhat unnerved, Picard extended his arms in greeting. "Welcome to the USS Enterprise. I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the--" "I know who you are, human," the man began. His voice was strong and sonorous as it echoed throughout Sickbay. He grasped Picard's hand with a grip that would make a Klingon whimper and gazed deep into his eyes. "Do *you* know who *I* am?" "Captain, I--" Deanna began, then fainted. Beverly and Data bent down to attend to her. " Counselor!" Picard turned to look at the young Q. "Do you know what happened to her?" "I'm sorry sir," the boy responded. "I'm afraid that Primus may have overwhelmed her empathic senses. Perhaps she should be taken away from here. She should recover soon." "Doctor?" Beverly nodded. "She's unconscious, but unharmed." "Mr. Data, take Counselor Troi to her quarters." "Yes sir." Picard turned back to the two figures before him. "I think maybe some explaining would be in order. For starters, who is Primus and why is he here?" "Yes, sir. Primus is the progenitor of all Q." He paused a moment to let Picard digest the enormity of this news. "He is, in mortal metaphysical terms, the Alpha and the Omega, the Prime Mover, thought thinking itself. All Q can trace their origin directly to Primus. We are omnipotent, but Primus is pandynamic - his creative energy flows throughout the entire cosmos, and every act of creation that occurs draws its energy from him. That's why you recognized him; you are actually recognizing that of him which is within you." "Are you saying that Primus is the Creator, is--" Picard caught his breath "--*God*?" "Yes and no. Primus did not actually 'create' anything, not even the Q. Over ten billion millennia ago, before Chaos gave birth to Time, Primus thought the Continuum into existence. You could even say that Primus *is* the Continuum. From that ocean of energy the Q emerged, and with the creative potential inherent within them, went about the messy business of creation." "So then the Q are our creators?" Picard asked. "That's an unwelcome thought, to say the least." "Again, it's not that black and white. Some of your ancient philosophers claimed that life, as you understand it, was the result of the emanation of creative energy through various stages. These stages were generally known either as 'demiurges' or 'aeons'. Creative energy originates with the Prime Mover and then flows through these demiurges and so on down through the chain of causality until it reaches its completion in matter-based life. That life, in turn, is a weak reflection of the Prime Mover." "Let me see if I've got this straight," Picard said, scowling in disbelief. "Primus is the source of the energy that powers creation. That energy resides in - or, rather, *is* - the Continuum. The Q emanated out of the Continuum, from them emanated other life forms, and so on and so forth until that creative energy reached its goal in humanity?" "You are not exactly the *goal* of creation," Primus rumbled with laughter. "Creation will continue. What you are, however, is the tool that will eventually enable my creative energy to evolve. Energy, by itself, cannot evolve, because, contrary to what your narrow-minded physicists claim, it is not inherently kinetic. Laws of inertia do not apply to energy. Matter, on the other hand, is kinetic, and can evolve. As my creative energy emanated into countless lifeforms, it gradually began to merge with matter until it reached a perfect balance in humanity. As your race evolves, the blending of energy and matter will give the Continuum the necessary potency to regenerate and replenish itself." "Really?" Picard asked, intrigued in spite of himself. "Yes, Q told us that we would eventually evolve into Q-like beings. So what does this have to do with Q?" "My child," Primus began, and Picard sensed a note of paternal devotion in his voice, "has been stripped of creative energy and exiled from the Continuum that sustains him. He is like a clay statue, devoid of life. The link between the shell he has become and the Continuum that gave him life must be re-established or he will die. I can provide a bridge to the Continuum, but pure matter and pure energy cannot mix, and Q will die from the effort. There must be a filter through which the creative energy may pass." Picard did not like the direction this conversation was taking. "What do you mean by a filter? What kind of a filter? What is involved here?" "In order to save Q, I must have a lifeform in which matter and energy already co-exist in harmony." "A human." Primus nodded, sending sparks flying from his hair. "By linking my creative energy to Q through a human, I can restore the emanation from the Continuum to him. There will be a high cost, however." "What cost?" "The human will die." Picard caught his breath. "Because human energy will be filtering my energy, the two will coalesce into a single emanation and pass into Q. Once a human loses the link to creative energy, that human dies. There is no other way." Picard seethed with frustration. He felt certain that no one on the Enterprise would willingly sacrifice his or her life to save Q; too many of them remembered the way he had tormented them for his amusement in the past. Q would not survive the journey to Earth, however, and Picard doubted the Federation would be willing to send someone to their death just for the sake of an important and advantageous alliance with a notoriously unreliable and arrogant entity. On the other hand, Q seemed to have gradually changed over the years that Picard had known him, to the point that Picard thought Q actually *liked* him, and the debt Q would owe Picard for literally saving his existence would be immeasurable. He turned to Beverly for support. "Just where am I supposed to find someone who wants to die just so that Q may live to harass us another day?" he asked ruefully. The young Q stepped towards Picard, his voice strangled with fear and unshed tears. "Please Captain," he implored, "I know it seems like too much to ask, for a mortal to die so that a being that is supposed to be immortal may live, especially considering my father's somewhat malicious dealings with your crew in the past, but can't you see that's why I brought him here? He always talked to me about how humans were often willing to risk their lives for what seemed to be insignificant things. He admired your noble sense of purpose, your courage and your compassion. Don't you see, Captain? You're our only hope." Picard turned as he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and heard a slight cough. "Captain - sir - I would be willing to help Q," said Doctor al-Ghazali. All eyes in the room turned to look at her. "Fatima - no - are you crazy?" asked Doctor Crusher. "Doctor al-Ghazali, do you realize what you are saying?" Picard asked, his eyes betraying his concern. "Need I remind you about the circumstances of your husband's death?" Fatima's face paled momentarily. "No one knows better than I that Q was indirectly responsible for Ali's death. That is exactly why *I* must do this." Picard scowled in disbelief. "Beverly, may we use your office?" he asked. She nodded slowly, then said, "I'll stay here and monitor Q's condition. He's stable for now, but I don't know how long that will last. I'll let you know of any changes." Picard nodded in reply, then motioned for Fatima to follow him. When the door to Doctor Crusher's office had closed behind her, Picard wheeled around and confronted her. "Doctor al-Ghazali, what the devil do you think you're doing?" he raged. "What's all this nonsense about *you* being the sacrificial lamb? What do you mean?" Fatima studied the floor, collecting her thoughts. With a deep breath, she forced herself to look Picard in the face, knowing that her eyes were about to overflow with tears. "You know that Ali was a Zoroastrian?" she asked, somewhat rhetorically. Picard just maintained his steady gaze, hoping that alone could break her resolve. "What do you know about Zoroastrian beliefs?" she continued. "I know that Zoroastrians believe in a strict duality between good and evil, that Ahura Mazda, the god of light, is constantly at war with Ahriman, the god of darkness. That's about the extent of it." Fatima remained silent. She was not Zoroastrian, nor was she as inclined to categorize darkness and light as resolutely as Ali had; thus, explaining her decision in terms of Ali's faith to Captain Picard would require some delicately constructed polemic. "There is a Persian myth about the end-time that may help explain where I'm coming from," she began. "According to the myth, Saoshyant, the savior, will come to prepare the world for its rebirth and Ahura Mazda's ultimate triumph over Ahriman. As the world becomes purified the demon of lust will starve and turn on Ahriman, who in turn will beg Ahura Mazda to protect him, but he will banish Ahriman from creation. Then Saoshyant will raise the dead, and Ahura Mazda will at last be able to reunite body and soul. All the metal in the mountains of the world will melt, and each person must walk through the river of molten metal to be purified. Those who were faithful to the Path of Light will feel as though they are bathing in warm milk, but those who turned to darkness will suffer as their sins are burned away." She paused to let Picard consider what she had just said. "As much as Q has harassed you, he has also championed you and served as the advocate of humanity in the Continuum. If what Primus says is true," she said, jerking her arm toward the quarantine lab, "if we are the perfect blend of matter and energy, then we need Q as much as Q needs us. We cannot let him die." "I am well aware of that necessity, Doctor," Picard retorted. "And having him as an ambassador to the Federation could provide untold benefits to the balance of power in the Alpha Quadrant. But I still don't see why *you* have to be the one to make this sacrifice and, in fact, I think you're the least viable candidate to do so." He sat down on the edge of the desk and took Fatima's hand in his own. "I understand what you're trying to say with that myth; you consider yourself to be Saoshyant, raising Q from the dead so Primus can restore him to his former state, but that is a myth from your husband's tradition. You are not Zoroastrian." "No, but I was raised in the Sufi tradition, which, though it is not dualistic like Ali's faith, does proclaim a unique bond between body and soul. We have a saying: 'To die in hope of union with Thee is sweet, but the bitterness of separation from Thee is worse than fire.' We strive for union with God; Q longs for union with himself, with the Continuum. Life is union; death, separation. The same is true for Zoroastrians, for Sufis - and for Q." Picard grimaced. "So you're telling me that you're on some mystical religious quest? Do you think this is your idea of a 'dark night of the soul'? Or do you have some sort of a 'Good Samaritan' complex? Oh yes, I'm well aware of your activities along the Cardassian and Romulan Neutral Zones. You still haven't convinced me, Doctor, and I don't think you've even convinced yourself." Fatima sighed softly. "You may be right. I haven't convinced myself here," she said, tapping her head. She then placed her hand over her heart. "But here, the issue has already been resolved and carried out." She looked up and noticed that Picard was looking over her shoulder, and turned to see that Primus and the young Q had silently entered the office and were listening intently to the debate. She addressed herself to the young Q. "My husband sacrificed his life to save the Enterprise and her crew after your father sent the ship to the Delta Quadrant. It seems only fitting that I should sacrifice myself to save Q." Primus gazed at Fatima, understanding everything in an instant. "It is right," he intoned solemnly , placing his hand on her shoulder. "No, it is *not* right!" Picard exploded in fury. "Forgive me, Doctor, but how do I know you don't have some ulterior motive? How do I know you won't try to avenge your husband's death on Q?" "The same reason why you knew that I belonged on the Enterprise, even after what happened here," she responded. "I didn't understand it then, but I realize now that I was destined to be here, to do this. For years after Ali's death I kept throwing myself into dangerous situations, praying to die at the hands of renegades or stray sniper fire. Ali's self-sacrifice has haunted me and driven me from one end of the Alpha Quadrant to another. Giving life to he who took my husband from me will finally bring the circle to completion." "Captain," she said softly, "*please*. Let me do this. I have no children, Ali is gone, I feel as though I don't belong anywhere, yet this seems so...right. So destined. Do not mourn my loss, and do not wish me to live. For years I have been wandering through the desert, and I can finally see an oasis in the distance." Her eyes shone with anticipation and unshed tears. "Ali is waiting for me there, I know it." Primus stepped forward and looked Picard squarely in the face. "Can you not see that her spirit has been torn away, much like Q's? She and her husband were as one being, energy and matter joined in perfect balance. But Q's thoughtlessness divided her soul, and now she stands before you as mere flesh, slowly dying, just as Q lies dying outside this room. This human and Q are now on the same journey, struggling through the desert to reclaim their lost halves and to heal their wounds. They cannot make that journey alone. Only together will they succeed, and be reconciled and restored." Picard snorted in disbelief. "You still haven't provided me with a suitably logical argument," he insisted. "Doctor al-Ghazali, I'm giving you twelve hours to seriously consider the consequences of your choice. After twelve hours, if you still wish this, I will give you one more chance to persuade me it is for the best. Only then will I consider permitting it. In the meantime," he concluded, tugging on his tunic, "let's hope Q doesn't die." ************************* Sections b-d of Part 4 to follow... From drewry@roanoke.infi.net Fri Apr 11 08:25:01 1997 From: Laura Taylor Newsgroups: alt.fan.q,alt.startrek.creative Subject: NEW: Oasis 4b-d/8, TNG/Q, PG-13 Date: Fri, 11 Apr 1997 15:25:01 +0000 Organization: InfiNet Lines: 254 Message-ID: <334E57CD.1759@roanoke.infi.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: pm6-133.roanoke.infi.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 2.02 (Macintosh; I; 68K) Path: atheria.europa.com!netnews1.nwnet.net!netnews.nwnet.net!arclight.uoregon.edu!feed1.news.erols.com!news.maxwell.syr.edu!news.visi.net!news.infi.net!news.infi.net!not-for-mail Xref: atheria.europa.com alt.fan.q:5601 alt.startrek.creative:44086 OASIS by Laura Taylor drewry@roanoke.infi.net See Oasis Notes for disclaimers ************************* Almost without volition, Fatima found herself headed towards Engineering. This was not the same ship Ali had died tried to save - that ship was destroyed several years ago in a confrontation with the Duras sisters - but Ali had been an engineer, and the Borg had recently tried to establish a new collective on the engineering deck of this Enterprise. As far as her fragmented spirit was concerned, it might as well have been the Enterprise-D. She was surprised to find Engineering empty, except for Data and Geordi. "Doctor al-Ghazali, is there something I can help you with?" Geordi asked solicitously. "Uh, no, Commander, thank you, I'm just out for a stroll," she replied. Turning to Data, she added, "Is Counselor Troi all right?" He inclined his head. "She is in her quarters and resting comfortably." "Did she give any indication of what happened to her?" "I overheard her tell Doctor Crusher that the magnitude of Primus's emotional power overwhelmed her, much in the way an undertow might overwhelm a swimmer. She claimed to be unhurt." He pursed his lips in an android imitation of a worried frown. "Are you all right, Doctor?" She smiled weakly. "You could say that I, too, have been sucked into the undertow of overpowering emotion." "Doctor?" She ignored him and walked towards the warp core. The plasma pulsed in a glorious splendor of iridescence, like a star about to go supernova. The warp core is truly the heart of a starship, powering all of the vessel's lesser functions much like a human heart forces life-giving blood through the entire body. And just as the human heart is subject only to the brain, so the warp core is subject only to the computer. Yet the heart will continue to beat, reflexively, even when the brain is dead. Fatima stood before the warp core, mesmerized by the steady whoosh and thrum of the plasma coursing throughout the ship. The hypnotic rhythm soothed her jangled nerves, and she turned to look at Geordi and Data, who had followed her, puzzled by her strange behavior. "It's ironic, you know." "What's ironic?" asked Geordi. "Plasma is one of the fundamental components of our blood. You could say that the plasma that fuels th e warp core is the lifeblood of this ship. Yet human plasma is never deadly." Geordi stepped closer, finally understanding what was on her mind. "I was there, you know. I saw it happen." "Yes, I know. Captain Picard gave me a copy of the full report. It said you burned yourself trying to pull him from the conduit." Her voice was ragged and hoarse, barely above a whisper. She could not bear to lift her eyes to his face, for fear that his memories of the horrible sight would jump from his eyes to hers. "I tried to stop him, but...he was right. There was no other way to stop the slow burn. At least, none that would have worked in time." He put his arms around her. "Your husband was not just a very brave man, he was a remarkably intuitive engineer. He had a flair for binary code that I've only seen in Vulcans. He used to brag that it was because his people invented the zero." "Lieutenant al-Ghazali also created some excellent encryption programs," added Data. "I found breaking the codes to be quite challenging. His use of the Arabic and Farsi alphabets, rather than Greek, was inspired." Fatima smiled at their memories. Ali had tried to teach her Farsi, the ancient language of Persian emperors, not long after they were married, and gave up in disgust. A code written entirely in Farsi would have probably convinced the Romulans to beg for peace. She knew little of Ali's life on board the Enterprise - they had intended to serve together, but two months before her transfer was to come through the Enterprise had been sent to the Delta Quadrant, and soon thereafter the transfer became pointless. Ali was a great storyteller, and his letters to her had consisted mostly of news about planets the Enterprise visited, or the peccadilloes of other crewmembers, or, more often, ancient legends about Persian emperors. Ali loved to tell Fatima stories about Darius, and Cyrus, and even Alexander, though he was not Persian. His eyes took on an eerie shine and his entire body became very animated as he relived those glorious times when even Memphis and Athens looked east to Susa with envy. He could easily have put Scheherazade out of business. But now he was dead, and his stories had died with him. It was good to hear Geordi's and Data's stories about Ali. She stepped away from Geordi's embrace and straightened her shoulders. "Thank you, Commander, Data. You've been a great help," she said, and left. ************************* "Fatima, are you sure this is what you want? Do you realize the consequences?" Doctor Crusher asked gently when Fatima arrived at Counselor Troi's quarters. Deanna was lounging on a sofa with a cup of tea while Beverly sat in a chair opposite her. Fatima suspected that Beverly had been relating to Deanna all that had happened in Sickbay after she fainted. "Do I realize that I will die if I help Q?" Fatima asked in return. "Yes, I'm well aware of that. But that doesn't matter to me. Death is...I've never feared death. In fact, for the past few years, I've courted it. Not that I'm on a suicide mission," she added hastily. "It's just that, since Ali's death, my life has been - not empty, exactly, but not complete. Not whole." Deanna gazed at her, weighing Fatima's emotions. "Do you think that, by dying, you will be reunited with Ali and become whole again?" "There's some truth to that, but it's not exactly right. Q was responsible for Ali's death. There's a part of me that thinks that, if Q dies and I haven't done *everything* I could to save him, then I will be responsible for Q's death, and I will become even more divided. Another part of me believes, however, that my fate, my destiny, is to bring humanity and Q one step closer together, and that the only way I can do this is to help restore Q to his natural state." "Do you blame Q for Ali's death?" asked Beverly. She understood too well the pitfalls of culpability for a husband's death. "Once, I blamed Q, I hated him, for what he took from me. A part of me still does. But now I see that, if Ali was not dead, then I would not be making this choice, and Q would die. If Q were to die, then the Federation would lose a valuable ally, humanity might very well lose its soul, and the Continuum would not evolve as it should." "You're taking a rather large load on your shoulders, don't you think?" Beverly prodded, not challenging, but not comprehending Fatima's argument. "Look at it this way. Primus said that humans represent the perfect balance between energy and matter. My spirit died with Ali. Q's spirit died at the hands of Soma. I truly believe that Q and I can help each other become reunited with our respective spirits, and become whole again. It may very well be that I cannot become whole unless I am reunited with Ali in death, but according to my people's beliefs, direct suicide is not the way to go. I need to make the ultimate sacrifice, believing in my heart that what I do is for the good of others, and not just for my own selfish interests." "Do you know what I refer to Will as?" Deanna asked after a moment of uneasy silence. "I call him my 'Imzadi.' It means, essentially, 'soul-mate.' Will and I never married, but to a Betazoid, an Imzadi is bound to you far more than a spouse. I can appreciate your sense of fragmentation." She paused long enough to place her teacup on the table. "There are many cultures that believe our lives are like an intricate spider web, hanging precariously between life and death, good deeds and sin, all actions delicately intertwined and vulnerable to the slightest outside interference. I can tell that you truly believe your sacrifice, whatever your motivations may be, will both atone for Q's 'sin,' give meaning to your husband's death and thereby repair your own damaged web. Although I cannot pretend to understand your logic, I cannot fault your resolve. I will speak to the captain on your behalf." ************************* Fatima was waiting in Sickbay at the appointed hour with Primus and the young Q when Picard swept in with Beverly and Deanna hot on his heels. He did not look pleased to see her there. "How long have you been here?" he barked. "About four hours, sir." "Are you still determined to go through with this?" he asked, already knowing the answer. "Yes, sir. I see no other choice." Picard laced his fingers behind his back and began pacing. "I'm not sure that I do either. There's no question that Q has been a fly in our ointment from the day I took command of the Enterprise. Without him, however, we might never have defeated the Borg, we might never have deepened our understanding of the fragility of time, and I might not be standing here before you now. There is no question that Q has been an asset to humanity as much as he has been a liability." "What I have just said does not mean that I condone what you seem to think is your predetermined destiny. As captain of the Enterprise, I have, on occasion, had to order another officer to his or her death. My command decisions have also inadvertently caused the deaths of other officers. But Q is supposed to be immortal, and yet here he lies dying, and now I have to decide if his immortality is worth the price of one mortal life. I've never put much stock in destiny; I believe our actions define our lives, not vice versa. Can you see the quandary I'm in?" Primus stepped towards Picard. "Do you wonder, human, why I beat the ground with this stick? It is the pulse that forces life throughout the cosmos. You can hear it in your heart, but it also beats in your spirit. It resounds throughout space. My feet move in time to that rhythm in the dance of creation. As I dance, worlds come into being and worlds fall away. The reverberations of my feet send out vast concentric circles of life and death like ripples on a still pond. I do it not because it is my destiny, I do it because it is who I am. Destiny is not as linear as you would have it, human. Listen to the girl. For her, destiny is not the why or the what; it is the *because*. She has already made the sacrifice. Now it is your turn. Let go." Picard looked at the young Q, who had remained silent. He returned Picard's gaze, then said, simply, "Please." Picard knew when he was outnumbered and outflanked. He had known hours ago that he would acquiesce, but he was not sure if it was because of the political advantages, or because he knew he did not have a choice. Despite his continued reservations, he nodded in agreement. Fatima embraced the captain. "Thank you for believing in me, and for giving me the chance to redeem myself." Resigned to her determination, Picard sighed. "I have given you nothing. I am only permitting you to take what you will have. Let me warn you, however, that I have given Beverly explicit instructions to take whatever measures are necessary to preserve your life." He turned to Primus. "Primus, I leave her in your hands. What must we do?" Primus took Fatima's hand and guided her to the biobed where Q lay. "Are you at peace with your decision?" he asked her. For a moment she hesitated, leading Picard to think that she had changed her mind, then she smiled beatifically. "Yes." "'Once you have been delivered from this cage, your home will be the rose garden...'" Primus began. "'...Once you have broken the shell, dying will be like the pearl,'" Fatima recited after him. Her grandfather had been a devotee of Rumi, and she knew his writings better than she knew the Qur'an. "Place your hand over Q's eyes," Primus instructed. As she obeyed, he switched his stick to the hand closest to her and wrapped her fingers around it before sliding his own hands over both of hers. "I will catch you when you fall," he murmured as everything went black. END PART FOUR ********************************************************************* From drewry@roanoke.infi.net Fri Apr 11 08:34:42 1997 From: Laura Taylor Newsgroups: alt.fan.q,alt.startrek.creative Subject: NEW: Oasis 5/8, TNG/Q, PG-13 Date: Fri, 11 Apr 1997 15:34:42 +0000 Organization: InfiNet Lines: 467 Message-ID: <334E5A12.93D@roanoke.infi.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: pm6-133.roanoke.infi.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 2.02 (Macintosh; I; 68K) Path: atheria.europa.com!netnews1.nwnet.net!netnews.nwnet.net!arclight.uoregon.edu!newsfeeds.sol.net!news.maxwell.syr.edu!news.visi.net!news.infi.net!news.infi.net!not-for-mail Xref: atheria.europa.com alt.fan.q:5607 alt.startrek.creative:44096 OASIS by Laura Taylor drewry@roanoke.infi.net See Oasis Notes for disclaimers Note: 'Abu' is Arabic for 'father'. It comes from the same linguistic root as 'rabbi', 'abbe'' and 'papa'. A sense o'er all my soul imprest That I am weak, yet not unblest, Since in me, round me, every where Eternal strength and wisdom are Samuel Taylor Coleridge "The Pains of Sleep" Part Five Q opened his eyes slowly, cautiously, and peered around at his surroundings. He ached all over, and his throat was parched. Ever so gently he raised himself up on his elbows and looked around. Nothing looked familiar. He could tell that he was in a large canvas structure, resting on a bed of soft plump cushions. An oil lamp burned on a low table near his head and a fire smoldered in the center of the tent. A feathery thin wisp of smoke curled upwards and exited the tent through a small opening in the roof that revealed a blindingly white sky. Colorful carpets covered the ground around the makeshift hearth in overlapping layers. Q noticed that the ground, though not soft, gave way when he pressed on it. Q sat up at a rustling noise against the far wall of the tent and swung his legs off the bed. The tent wall appeared to draw away, and the bright sunlight streaming in momentarily blinded him. When the wall fell back into place and Q's eyes cleared, he noticed a young woman standing before him. He jumped in surprise. "Good morning," she said, taking a step closer to him. "I'm glad to see that you are finally awake." Q stared at her, uncharacteristically speechless. The woman looked to be no more than thirty, and Q could tell from his seated position that she was tiny in comparison to his imposing stature. Her skin, burnished by the sun, was a dusky olive hue, and her almond-shaped eyes were as dark and intoxicating as coffee. Her lips, rich and full like ripe pomegranates, parted to reveal two even rows of teeth that shone like pearls. She was dressed in a costume of robes in varying shades of green. Her trousers, an almost-yellow chartreuse, cascaded down her legs until they gathered tightly about her ankles in a band of gold filament. Over her torso she wore a long-sleeved tunic, likewise trimmed in gold, with a modestly curved neckline in a shade of avocado that on anyone with paler skin would reflect a hideous glow. The tunic, which fell to mid-thigh, was cinched with a sash identical to her trousers. A pale olive green scarf decorated with intricate patterns of green and gold covered her plaited dark hair. She was Beauty incarnate. She took another step toward Q, extending a wooden platter with fruit on it. "Please, help yourself," she urged in a low, melodious voice. "You must be starving, you haven't eaten for days." Q pressed himself against the cushions with distrust. "Who are you?" he rasped hoarsely. "Where am I and how did I get here?" "I'll answer your questions if you eat something first," she insisted. She placed the plate on the table. Q eyed the fruit warily. "There are some dates, a few figs and a handful of betel nuts," she said. "I'm thirsty. May I have some water?" "Eat the fruit. They will replenish your fluids." Q obeyed grudgingly and bit into a fig. Juice dribbled down his chin. "Be careful," she cautioned. "Don't waste those juices. Fluid is a rare commodity in the desert." Q's eyes widened as he wiped his sleeve across his mouth. "Desert? What desert? You promised to answer my questions if I ate some fruit, well, here's the evidence," he said, extending fingers stained red by the betel nuts. "Do you remember who you are?" "What sort of a stupid question is that?" Q retorted haughtily. "Of course I know who I am. I--" he paused, confused. "My name is Q, I know that much," he continued, chagrined when he realized that he did *not* remember who he was. "The rest seems to be somewhat hazy. I think I remember something about a party..." "We found you in the desert, naked, alone, without provisions and unconscious. We don't know how you got there. You've been with us for three days, delirious for most of that time." "Who's 'we'?" Q asked. "For that matter, perhaps you'd better tell me who *you* are." "My name is Fatima al-Ghazali. I am accompanied by my father-in-law, Abu Primus." "What are you doing in the middle of the desert?" "We're Bedouins. The desert is our home." Fatima paused, and a shadow of melancholy fell across her face. "We're on our way to a shrine near the River of Life, where Abu plans to commemorate the anniversary of my husband's death. You are welcome to accompany us as far as you wish, but I urge you to go with us to the shrine. The Saint may be able to help you." Q shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Since I don't know how I got here, I don't know how or where to go, so you're probably my only hope, unless I care to become food for sand worms. These figs are delicious, by the way." Fatima smiled again, her face as enigmatic as a sphinx as she kneeled on the floor beside Q's bed. "Good. You need to eat everything on the plate; it's important to build up your strength before we can continue. Do you have any recollection of how you ended up in the middle of the desert?" "No idea whatsoever. You said I was naked when you found me?" Fatima nodded. "That would explain how I came to be wearing this--" he said, indicating the light blue caftan he was wearing, "I have a vague memory of a red and black uniform." Q looked down at the remaining dates on his plate and scowled. "Do I have to eat these?" he complained. "They look like burned locusts." "Yes, you do," she insisted. "You were very badly sunburned when we found you, and the protein in the dates will help your skin heal and regenerate. Now if you will please excuse me, I have other matters to attend to," she said, rising. Q snorted in disgust and reluctantly bit into a date to appease her, but as soon as she left the tent he spat the unchewed morsel on his plate and put it back on the table. He stood and stretched his arms stiffly above his head, feeling the tautness of his burned flesh and wincing at the sharp stings caused by the movement. As long as I'm stuck here, he thought, I might as well get to know the place. The tent was quite large, about sixteen square meters around and three meters in height, supported at the four corners by sturdy wooden poles driven deep into the sand. One corner of the tent was separated from the main chamber by a canvas panel. That must be where Fatima sleeps, Q realized, and stepped inside, oblivious to any need she might have for privacy. Finding no clues to reveal more about his mysterious hostess, nothing besides a simple bed, a few garments and a copy of the Qur'an under her pillow, he resumed exploring the main chamber. On the opposite side of the fire from his bed was a low pallet resting on a bed of straw where, Q guessed, Abu - what had Fatima called him? Primus? - slept. He thought Primus was an odd name for a Bedouin. But then, he thought sardonically, what sort of a name is Q? Having thoroughly examined the tent, Q decided to step outside and view his surroundings. He yelped with pain as his tender bare feet came into contact with the scorching sand and beat a hasty retreat into the cool shade of the tent. His eyes scanned the chamber and fell upon a pair of sandals at the foot of his bed. His soles, which Q realized were sunburned from his ordeal, shrank back from contact with the unyielding leather, but he gritted his teeth and forced his feet down onto the sandals and tied the thongs tightly around his ankles. Only when he felt certain the sandals were secure on his feet did Q dare venture outside again. The first thing Q noticed when he stepped outside was the unending expanse of the desert. Everywhere he looked, every way he turned, he saw nothing but sand, a great expansive sea of sand. And, like the sea, the desert was continually changing its appearance, as winds stirred loose granules from the surface and drove them into Q's face, stinging his tender skin with thousands of tiny arrows. He remained motionless, mesmerized by the eternal and infinite continuum of the desert. Continuum? Where had he heard that word before? Deep within Q's subconscious, a slumbering memory stirred, and he felt a profound yearning, an unquenchable thirst, a powerful homesickness. But where was home? Judging from the sun's position in the sky, Q estimated it to be mid-morning, and realized that he had yet to face the full power of the desert heat. He wondered that he had survived at all before Fatima and her father-in-law discovered him; he was obviously *not* a desert native. The second thing Q noticed was a herd of about twenty camels gathered behind the tent, most of them resting on their haunches, placidly chewing cud. In fact, Q heard them before he saw them, when one of the animals emitted a hair-raising noise that was half bellow, half belch, and Q nearly jumped out of his skin. When he peered nervously around the tent to determine the source of the noise, the odor emanating from the camels caused him to wrinkle his nose in disgust before the herd even came into view. Q momentarily wondered if he might not be better off braving the desert alone. Then he spotted the old man resting against one of the camels, and realized that he must be Abu Primus. Something about the old man looked very familiar to Q, but he could not put his finger on what or why. His hair, which bristled in countless directions from underneath a white skullcap, was brittle and yellow with age. His sun-blackened face, which gave the unique appearance of arrogance and compassion and innocence and ancient wisdom in equal measure, was lined with deep creases. His coal-black eyes glittered beneath bushy yellow eyebrows. He was dressed in a simple white caftan that appeared to be stitched from a single piece of cloth. In one hand he held a stick, with which he beat an endless rhythm on the desert floor. Q noticed his lips moving, and thought the obviously crazy old man was talking to the camel. As he approached, however, Q realized that the man was speaking a litany of sorts, chanting in a language Q could not fathom. The man looked up as Q's shadow fell upon him and leaped to his feet with a spryness Q would never have thought possible in a man of Abu's apparent, but indeterminate, age. "My child!" he cried, embracing Q tightly. "You have at last returned to us from the land of the djinn! Allah be praised!" Q was startled by the old man's enthusiasm for his well-being and disturbed by the compassionate embrace. On the surface, Abu Primus seemed to be nothing more than a typically superstitious old man, but the emotion apparent in his voice and the fervor of his embrace suggested a far greater concern than mere superstition would suggest. Somewhat embarrassed, Q carefully extracted himself from Abu's arms. "'Land of the djinn'?" he asked, hoping for clues about the old man, about himself, about Fatima. "That place between life and death where spirits try to seduce us away from the Noble Path of Light. Surely you're familiar with Milton? 'A thousand fantasies//begin to throng into my memory//of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire//and airy tongues that syllable men's names//on sands and shores and desert wilderness.' I had feared that you would never return to us, that your death was sealed by those airy tongues and beckoning shadows," Abu replied, grinning toothlessly. Q was beginning to suspect that he was not the only mystery around here, and he doubted he would ever get a straight answer from Fatima or her father-in-law. Fatima had said they found Q in the desert several days ago, yet Abu seemed to suggest that Q had been with them before, or perhaps had been with them all along. It did seem odd that they adapted so well to his assuredly disruptive presence. Q considered asking the old man how much he knew about Q and who he was, but almost immediately decided against it, thinking that perhaps Abu's answers would only generate more questions. In any case, the old man's emotion made Q uncomfortable. "Where's Fatima?" he asked. Abu Primus pointed to a dark spot in the distance. "It is mid-morning. She's at prayer." Curious, Q headed toward the dark spot, which, as he came closer, he realized was Fatima. From a distance he watched, fascinated, as she arranged several rocks in a large circle. She then knelt outside the circle and removed her sandals and scarf. With her right hand she picked up a handful of sand and began methodically scrubbing her face and head, then her left arm up to the elbow, and finally, with her left hand, she likewise scrubbed her right arm. Her ritual ablutions complete, Fatima began tracing lines in the sand within the circle of stones in such a pattern that four straight lines connected stones opposite each other in the circle and converged on a single point in the exact center of the circle. Fatima then stepped to the central point and, facing east, raised her arms to the sky and in her throaty contralto intoned the creed of her people, "La ilaha illa Allah. Muhammad rasul Allah." Ignoring the thought that he might be committing some horrendous taboo, Q stepped closer. He had a vague sensation, like an indefinable memory, that he was familiar with many forms of human (human?) prayer (why?), including the shahada, but as he watched, Fatima's prayer took on a form he was quite certain he had never seen before. As Fatima began chanting Allah's glorious names and praising his great deeds, her feet began to stamp the ground in an even, controlled rhythm, her arms outstretched, her head thrown back. When she had established the correct tempo, she began to turn clockwise, so that as her right foot touched down, she was facing one of the four cardinal points on her sacred circle, exclaiming at each point "Allahu akbar!" Slowly the tempo of Fatima's ritual dance increased, and Q felt the blood pounding in his head to the same driving rhythm. It was as if her mystical dance had itself become the earth's heartbeat, sending life coursing through Q's veins. As her whirling became faster, more frenzied, Q saw the cosmos whirling around him... ...Allahu akbar... ...the earth rumbling in humble obedience... whirling faster, ever faster... ...stars moving through his vision blurred by wind and sand and tears... ...Allahu akbar... ...millions of voices praising in unison... whirling, whirling, centrifugal and centripetal forces in tandem with the spinning of the galaxy... ...faces, his face... ...Ora pro nobis... ...the reverberation of a cosmic heartbeat... whirling, whirling, whirling... ...a ship traveling through the stars... ...God is most great... ...Kyrie eleison... whirling out of control... ...at the center of an endless ocean of fire... ...hearing darkness, seeing silence... ************************* The pungent, heady fragrance of myrrh wafted into Q's nose, triggering a powerful sneeze and arousing him from unconsciousness. The sudden movement precipitated by the sneeze sent daggers of pain coursing through his body, causing him to cry out and struggle. A pair of soft, strong hands pressed on his shoulder blades and Fatima's low voice ordered him to relax and lie down. Q fought her, briefly, but her soothing words soon outmatched his fear and distrust and he pressed his face into the pillow. He was back in the tent, lying on his stomach. The scent of myrrh, he discovered when he turned his head to the right, was coming from a jar sitting on the table beside his bed. Fatima was rubbing the fragrant ointment into his aching back with delicate but deliberate strokes. Q then realized that he was naked to the waist, and Fatima's nearness to him awakened conflicting and unfamiliar feelings of discomfort and desire. The pleasure engendered by her touch, however, masked more potent sensations of pain radiating throughout his body. "What are you doing?" he asked, the edge in his voice muffled by the pillow. "You should not have followed me," she scolded, irritation evident in the tone of her voice. "Worship is not a matter to be taken lightly, and you have no business imitating that which you do not respect or understand. Because of your arrogant foolishness, your wounds have reopened." "What, you mean the sunburn?" Q asked, perplexed. "No," Fatima sighed in exasperation. "When we found you, you were so close to death that a vulture was circling your body, occasionally swooping down and gouging your back. You've got some pretty nasty scratches, and your disrespect for the customs of my people reopened the wounds and caused you to start bleeding again. Look at this," she ordered, pulling down her tunic to show a network of jagged red and purple lines extending from her collarbone back to her shoulder blade. "This is what the vulture did to me when I tried to pull you away." She lifted the caftan Q had been wearing earlier, which was lying on the ground beside his bed. It was soaked with blood. "This is what you did to yourself. Now don't move while I finish wrapping these wounds," she ordered. Q resented her manner, but acquiesced. He could not shake the feeling that she knew much more about him than she was telling, and wondered how he could draw her out into the open. A voice told him there was a reason she was holding back, that she distrusted him as much as he distrusted her. "Tell me about your husband," he asked cautiously. He heard a sharp intake of breath, then silence. He craned his neck to look at Fatima, who was biting her lip in a vain struggle to prevent the single tear that had collected in her left eye from falling. Unable to control her reaction, and sensing Q's eyes searching her face, Fatima looked down at her feet. "Ali was the best, the very best of men," she whispered. "He died, several years ago, far from the desert, in the line of duty." "What happened?" Q asked. Fatima carefully related the circumstances of Ali's death, omitting any direct reference to Q's role in that unpleasant event. At the mention of the Enterprise, however, Q's eyes widened. He had heard that name before, had seen that ship before, in his mind, in the impenetrable fog of his memory. He debated asking Fatima about the Enterprise, hoping to unravel the mystery of his past, but an inner voice urged him to wait. Part of him distrusted her, but an equal part of him believed that she would tell him what he needed to know - what he longed to know - at the appropriate time. For now, however, he wanted to know more about her and her strange father-in-law. For her part, Fatima could tell that Q was uneasy, and secretly reveled in the power she had over him. Q had deservedly earned a reputation for being arrogant, condescending and presumptuous, lording over the mortals he confronted and flaunting his immortality and omnipotence. This Q, although he was, essentially, the same Q, was neither immortal nor omnipotent, and did not realize that he was supposed to be so. Holding the knowledge of who and what Q was, and being the means of restoring him to his natural state, Fatima felt...omnipotent. Traversing space in the years following Ali's death, she had wondered if she were immortal, because death remained perpetually elusive, no matter how hard she tried to seduce it. Now the being responsible for Ali's death was at her mercy, entirely dependent on her for his life and his identity. If Ali could see me now, she thought to herself. He would know how to resolve the conflict that raged within her heart. Ali. He was the reason why she volunteered for this 'suicide' mission. He had also volunteered his life, believing, she knew, that his action was for the greater good, but she lacked his fortitude and his faith. Yet something told her that helping Q was for the best, and that Ali would be proud. Ali would have made the same choice, without hesitation, were he in her place. She knew, with a twinge of regret at her selfishness, that her ultimate reward, reuniting with her dead husband, was her primary motivation, and resolutely steeled herself against the challenge that lay ahead. Shaking herself out of her reverie, she looked at Q. He was equally lost in thought. "Are you hungry?" she asked. "What?" Q stirred, shaking the cobwebs from his mind. "Oh - yes, I'm starved. You're not going to make me eat any more dates are you?" He injected a note of pleading into his voice. "No, we can't afford to waste them. It will take us a week to cross the desert, and our provisions have to last." She rose from the floor beside his bed. "You're welcome to join me. I could use your help." Q groaned as he pushed himself to his hands and knees, then carefully turned over into a sitting position. He was grateful to discover that he was wearing trousers, in the same loose-fitting style as what Fatima was wearing, underneath the blanket. A matching sleeveless tunic was folded neatly at the foot of the bed, and he carefully eased it over his shoulders and fastened it. He walked over to the fire, where Fatima was grinding chickpeas in a large bowl. "What do you want me to do?" he asked solicitously. She pointed to a strange brew bubbling over the coals. "Stir that," she commanded. "Don't let it boil over or get too thick." "What is it?" He immediately regretted asking. "A blend of fermented camel's milk, honey and olive oil." She looked at him and smiled at the look of utter nausea on his face. "Don't worry, it tastes better than it sounds." "An amazing and impossible feat, I'm sure." Fatima finished grinding the chickpeas and emptied the contents of her bowl into the mixture, which quickly assumed the consistency and texture of porridge. Q's already churning stomach took a back flip at the sight. As he struggled to regain his composure, she took a pair of tongs and pulled a flat brown lump out from the ashes at the edge of the hearth and dusted it off. Q realized it was a loaf of bread, and sighed audibly as he realized, gratefully, that there would be at least one edible item on tonight's menu. By now, the stew was cooked to Fatima's satisfaction, and she removed the pot from the fire. She ladled it into two bowls and handed one to Q. From a pouch she removed a handful of olives, which she arranged on a wooden platter with the bread and a hunk of cheese. From a water skin she carefully poured two cups of the priceless clear liquid and gave one to Q. "Eat," she ordered. Q grimaced at the sight of the stew, but he was very hungry, so he closed his eyes and prayed for strength before attempting to eat. Much to his surprise, it was quite good, and he greedily ate every bite, scraping his bowl clean with a hunk of bread. He also ate his fill of olives and cheese, and was careful not to spill any water. In a matter of minutes, he was finished, feeling fat and happy. He belched appreciatively. "Where's Abu?" he asked, having finally noticed that they were alone. "He is fasting in preparation for the pilgrimage. He will only eat after the sun sets." "Ah, well, more for us, then," Q said, reaching for another hunk of bread. ************************* The serpent undulated her way across the cool dunes, stopping briefly to flick her forked tongue in search of prey. In the distance, she could see a small camp bathed in the light of a full moon. Sensing the proximity of her quarry, she unfurled her hood and hissed in anticipation. It would be a good night for hunting. END PART FIVE ********************************************************************** From drewry@roanoke.infi.net Fri Apr 11 08:43:37 1997 From: Laura Taylor Newsgroups: alt.fan.q,alt.startrek.creative Subject: NEW: Oasis 6/8, TNG/Q, PG-13 Date: Fri, 11 Apr 1997 15:43:37 +0000 Organization: InfiNet Lines: 454 Message-ID: <334E5C29.50D0@roanoke.infi.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: pm6-133.roanoke.infi.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 2.02 (Macintosh; I; 68K) Path: atheria.europa.com!netnews1.nwnet.net!netnews.nwnet.net!arclight.uoregon.edu!su-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.bbnplanet.com!europa.clark.net!news.maxwell.syr.edu!news.visi.net!news.infi.net!news.infi.net!not-for-mail Xref: atheria.europa.com alt.fan.q:5602 alt.startrek.creative:44087 OASIS by Laura Taylor drewry@roanoke.infi.net See Oasis Notes for disclaimers By each spot the most unholy In each nook most melancholy There the traveller meets aghast Sheeted memories from the Past Shrouded forms that start and sigh As they pass the wanderer by Edgar Allen Poe "Dream-Land" Part Six Q squeezed his eyes shut against the burning wind and sand, forcing tears down his cheeks. Between his legs he felt the steady, rhythmic motion of a galloping horse as the muffled beat of hooves pounding the desert floor echoed in his head. He had no recollection of seeing the moon, but the entire desert seemed to be bathed in the milky cool glow of a full moon. A few paces ahead, Fatima rode a pure white mare, counterpoint to Q's own obsidian-black steed, her robes streaming behind her like the tail on a comet. Silence and darkness hung oppressively low, yet refused to touch the riders or their mounts as they raced across the empty dunes. Q called out to Fatima, to ask her where she was leading him and why they had left the camp in the middle of the night, but she was either ignoring him or just out of the range of his voice. He spoke to his mount, urging it to go faster, but Fatima remained just beyond his reach. Frantic, Q stretched out his long arm in desperation, silently pleading for her to wait, but to no avail. Then Fatima reined in her horse, pulling it up sharply, and turned to look at Q. "What is it you wish from me? Haven't I done enough for you already?" Her voice was brittle, resentment and condemnation evident beneath the clipped syllables. "Our journey will be difficult; we have no time to waste on your irrelevant questions." Q guided the stallion until it stood parallel with the white mare, and realized just how impossibly monochromatic the entire scene was. Everything he saw was in shades of black or white, with not even a glimmer of color to disrupt the stark contrasts. Disturbed by the sight, Q asked, "Where are we going?" Fatima sighed. "Where I lead, you must follow; where I am going, you cannot go," was her cryptic response. She raised her arm and pointed to an indeterminate point in the distant darkness. "Come; they are waiting for us." She prodded her mount and took off, leaving Q in a whirlwind of dust. Coughing and sputtering, he chased after her, but the swirling sand obscured his vision and he could not find her. Even the hoof prints had disappeared. He reined in his steed to get his bearings and collect his thoughts. What had she meant by ordering him to follow, yet refusing to let him go where she went? She was truly a sphinx, or an oracle, or worse. She was definitely too enigmatic for his comfort, and standing in the pale desert, cold, lost and alone, Q felt lonely and frightened. He had no memory of who he was or where he came from, nor could he recall how he had come to be in the desert. The brief flashes of what he hoped were memories were of the heavens far above this desolate expanse, filled with stars and ships and strangely familiar faces, all ebbing and flowing in a massive ocean of fire, at the center of which stood Fatima and Abu. Q's fractured self-consciousness could not make any sense out of the images and, to disconcert him even further, he suspected that Fatima could help him, if she were not so determined to shroud herself in mystery. And now she was - or had been, before she abandoned him - leading Q on this strange moonlit journey across the dunes to heaven only knew where. Suddenly chilled, Q shivered violently and wrapped his cloak tightly about his shoulders. He dismounted and pulled the reins over his horse's head, leading it behind him as he trudged across the sand in the direction he thought Fatima had been headed. After what may have been minutes, or may have been hours, for Q's sense of time was as disrupted as his sense of self, he spotted what looked to be a small beacon of color in the distance. As he approached it, he realized that, whatever it was, it was most definitely brown. Not black, or white, but brown. As the object loomed nearer, Q thought it was some sort of statue, or fountain, or perhaps a road sign, though there was no road in sight. Then, as the object's dimensions became more clear, Q recognized it as a herm, a devotional device once found at intersections throughout ancient Greece. It stood about six feet tall, with three bearded heads carved near the top, each head facing a different direction. Midway between the heads and pedestal was a ridiculously enlarged erect phallus. Q stopped to study the statue, and as he walked around it to inspect it from all angles, he noticed that he was no longer standing in the desert, but at a three-way intersection, with each of the three heads facing one of the roads leading away from the herm. Then the herm spoke. "Whither goest thou, traveler?" Q nearly jumped out of his skin. "What the--? I wasn't expecting an enchanted herm." "An enchanted herm? Oh, that's a fine treat. But this is thy dream, so if I surprised thee, it's only thy own fault." "This is a dream?" "Is it a dream? Or is it reality? The difference is not so great, I think. When thou hast the ability to translate thought into action, the line blurs. Dreams and reality flow through thee, uniting and separating, until thou canst not tell one from the other." "Well then, Father Hermes, perhaps you can tell what this dream means? That is your purpose, isn't it - to interpret dreams?" "No. I cannot. My home is in the borderlands between Earth and Hades, helping travelers find their way to the Styx, but thou art not like other travelers. Thou art not dead, yet...thou dost not live. Thou art wandering through the borderlands, and now that thou hast come before me, thou must choose thy path. The road behind thee takes thee back whence thou came; do not look back or thy fate will be like that of Lot's wife. Thou must choose from the other two paths. Each road will lead thee to Anubis. There Anubis will judge thee, and thou wilt learn thy destiny. I cannot tell thee which road to choose, traveler; I can only tell thee to seek the phoenix rising from the ashes, for she will lead thee to the sign of life." Q stepped back, puzzled and frustrated with the herm's riddles. How was he supposed to know which road to choose? Then he noticed a faint glimmer of red on the horizon, in the direction of the road leading to his left. He looked up, and for the first time since his strange journey began he noticed the full moon descending in the west, to his right. Of course! The herm had instructed him to seek the phoenix rising from the ashes - the sun rising in the east! He turned to retrieve his horse, but it had disappeared. He looked back at the herm, about to ask where the horse had gone, but then he remembered Fatima. "I was with someone - a young woman - earlier, but we were separated. Has she come by here? She had told me that I was supposed to follow her." The herm waggled its phallus in a grotesque rebuke. "It is *thy* journey, traveler. Thou must make it alone. Hurry, for Anubis becomes impatient. And traveler? Remember me to Anubis." At that the herm disappeared, and Q found himself in a hardwood forest, the three roads clearly marked between the trees. He turned left and headed towards the sun. Presently he came upon a tall, dark-skinned man wearing the native costume of one of the American Indian tribes. Though his attire was ornately decorated with beads and feathers, his face remained unmarked except for a small feathered tattoo over his left eyebrow. He stood before Q, strong, proud and immovable. A wolf trotted out of the woods and sat silently at his feet, her lips curled in an eerie grin. Something about the stranger looked familiar to Q, but he could not put his finger on what. The man looked him up and down, then, without saying a word, drew a circle in the dirt with his toe. Q felt panic rising up within him. The herm had not warned him about any dangers along the road, only about meeting Anubis, the jackal-headed Egyptian Lord of the Dead. Was this stranger Anubis, and if not, then who was he and what threat did he pose to Q? Was he the test, the judgment that Anubis would supposedly impose on Q? What was the meaning of the circle drawn in the dirt? Then Q remembered the herm's instructions: 'Seek the sign of life. Remember me to Anubis.' Holding his breath with nervous anticipation, Q stepped forward and drew a T, for the intersection where he met the herm, in the dirt below the circle. Tau with Omega ascendant: the ankh, the Egyptian sign of life. The stranger smiled. "You have met the challenge, traveler. In your dream, I am Anubis, but you have known me elsewhere as Chakotay." Q's mind reeled. He was flooded with images of a ship floundering far from home, tensions simmering among its crew, a hodgepodge of formerly warring camps, and of a woman, her hands on her hips, her strong chin jutting in defiance, and of a boy...his boy. His child. He staggered, then dropped to his knees as unexpected grief overwhelmed him. The wolf padded over and licked his tears. "You have one more challenge ahead of you, traveler," Anubis-Chakotay said. "The road behind me forks. One path will lead you home. The other path...it is difficult to say." Q looked up, but the man and wolf had vanished, and the scene had changed once again. Now he found himself on top of a mountain, with two roads leading to the base. As Anubis-Chakotay had not given him any warnings or instructions, Q turned left, as he had before, and made his way down from the summit. As he rounded a large boulder, Q spotted a small scorpion standing in the middle of the path, ferociously jabbing her tail at him in a silent challenge for him to attempt to pass as she skittered back and forth across the path. Suddenly a high, keening wail shattered the stillness of the air and the scorpion charged. ************************* A sharp burning sensation roused Q from his slumber. For a brief moment, he thought he had actually been stung by the scorpion, and it was only the sight of a dagger held in Fatima's small hand slicing through the air over his head that convinced him this was reality, and the scorpion was a dream. Frozen by terror, he could not decide if it would be safer for him to remain very still and let Fatima think she had already killed him, or to flee into the desert. Then he heard the unmistakable hiss of a cobra poised to strike. It was enough for him to make a decision. Q rolled to his right and off the bed faster than he thought humanly possible, but he barely made it to relative safety before the cobra sank her fangs into the cushion where his left leg had lain only a second before. Then Q saw the glint of light on metal, and Fatima's dagger flashed down and beheaded the cobra before she could tear herself free of the cushion. Q and Fatima stood there in the half-light, both breathless, he from not breathing, she from exertion. Then Q felt an agonizing, burning fire in his leg and gasped in pain as he collapsed on the bed. "What is it?" Fatima asked, concern etched on her face. "I don't think you made it in time," moaned Q, clutching at his thigh. "I think she got a good chunk of me up here." Fatima raised her dagger, causing Q to shrink back in distrust, but she merely used it to tear a seam in his caftan. She sucked in her breath. "Yes, she did, but I don't think she got you head-on. There may be hope for you yet." "Hurry," Q gasped, "The pain - it's like being burned alive." Fatima looked up, startled. Her face had become deathly pale. Through his haze of pain, Q thought he saw pain and anger in her eyes before she regained her composure and went to work on his leg. She tore one sleeve from her shift and tied it tightly around Q's thigh just above the hole where one fang had pierced his flesh. With her dagger she made a neat incision over the hole, causing Q to cry out, then began methodically sucking the poison out and spitting it into a bowl that seemed to materialize from out of nowhere. When she was satisfied that she had removed as much of the toxin as possible, she dabbed some myrrh on the wound and bound it with her other sleeve. She retrieved a cup and filled it halfway with water, then hooked the cobra's mouth over the rim and squeezed just behind the reptile's eyes, forcing whatever poison remained out through the fangs and into the water. She then handed the cup to Q. "Drink this," she ordered gently. Q's stomach lurched. Despite the care she had just displayed in tending his wound, he did not trust her. The memory of that dagger arcing through the air between dream-reality and consciousness, coupled with the gruesome sight of her 'milking' the severed head of the cobra, was just too much for him, and he turned away in revulsion. His confidence only went so far, and with all he had been through lately, it was even more limited than usual. "I'm not trying to kill you," Fatima pleaded. "This is an ancient folk remedy for snakebites. It's an effective serum. It's diluted enough that it cannot hurt you, although it may make you nauseous." "I already *am* nauseous." "Then it may make you vomit." "And I'm supposed to want that?" "Q, I don't know if I was able to remove all the poison from your bloodstream. Drinking this will help your body develop the antibodies to fight what's left." Q turned at the sound of his name and looked closely at Fatima. It was the first time he had heard her use it, and the gentle, pleading tone in her voice softened his heart. Grudgingly, he accepted the cup and drank the contents in one swallow, although as soon as it hit his tongue he had to fight the impulse to spit it back out. Fatima then removed the cup from his lips and gently eased her arm down and pulled it away from where it had been supporting his neck so that his head rested against the pillow. She tentatively reached out her hand to smooth the hair away from his forehead, prepared to jerk back if he flinched at her touch. He did not. "You were dreaming when the cobra attacked?" she asked, her voice softened by concern and nervousness. Q's eyes flew open. "Yes. It was...surreal. I didn't even realize it was a dream until it was nearly over, and I'm not entirely sure that it was just a dream." "Yes, I know. I had the same dream." "How do you know? I haven't even told you what my dream was about." "We were riding across the desert under a full moon, until we were separated. Then we each had to face a challenge posed by a herm, and later by Anubis. Our response to the challenges determined our destiny. Is that what you dreamed?" The look on Q's face was of pure astonishment. "I--Yes, that's exactly right. Except then I found myself facing a rather high-and-mighty scorpion, just before I woke up." There was a faint rustling sound, and Abu Primus stepped out from the shadows where he had witnessed the entire exchange into Q's line of sight. "I sent you both that dream," he said. "The scorpion was specifically sent to Q to warn him about the danger." Q struggled to sit up. "What? How? To control your own subconscious mind is one thing, but to project that control on others, and to enable two people to experience an identical dream...that would require an incomprehensible amount of telepathic power. You're obviously not just some desert mystic. Who, or what, are you?" For the first time since he regained consciousness yesterday, he was beginning to trust Fatima; Abu's revelation destroyed all that. "It was necessary. Your life is in serious danger, Q, and you need Fatima's help. You were too busy trying to find answers to your questions and to recover your memory to see that. You've never been able to see the forest for the trees." Fatima, who had been studying her feet since Abu spoke, raised her eyes to his. "I think we need to tell him everything. He doesn't trust us." "If we tell him everything, then he definitely won't trust you," Abu responded, any hint of reproof absent from his tone. Q's eyes shifted back and forth between Fatima and Abu. "Tell me everything? Tell me what? Are you saying that you've known who I am all along? Then why have you been stringing me along like this?" His voice was shrill with pain, fear and distrust. Abu eased himself down cautiously onto the edge of the bed. "Let me tell you a story first, then we'll see." "A man set out one day with his beloved son to graze his flock. As they were headed home, a herd of magnificent gazelles appeared across their path. Silently and quickly the father rounded up the flock. Warning the boy not to stray until he returned, he hurried after the gazelles. The wild things leaped in the air and streaked off as soon as he stepped towards them, but he was a keen hunter and loved nothing better than the chase. Eagerly he followed their trail. "Meanwhile the child waited alone. It was his fate that a She-Ghoul, that monster of the wilderness who loves to feed on human flesh, should spy him as he stood unprotected. With one leap she sprang upon him and greedily devoured him. "The father hunted long and far but could not catch a single gazelle. At last he gave up and returned to the flock. His son was nowhere in sight, but on the ground he found dark drops of blood. He was inconsolable, but what else could he do but turn home? "On the way he rode past a cave, and there he saw the She-Ghoul dancing, fresh from her feast. The man shot her, then slashed open her belly and in it he found his son. He laid the boy upon his cloak, pulled the woolen cloak around him tight, and carried him home. "When he got home he called his wife and said, 'I have brought back a gazelle, dear wife, but it can only be cooked in a cauldron that has never been used for a meal of sorrow.' "The woman went from house to house in search for such a pot. But one neighbor said, 'We used the large cauldron to cook the rice for the people who came to weep when my husband died.' Another told her, 'We last heated the big cooking pot on the day of my son's funeral.' She knocked at every door but did not find what she sought. So she returned to her husband empty-handed. "'Haven't you found the right kind of cauldron?' the man asked. 'There is no household but has seen misfortune,' she answered. 'There is no cauldron but has cooked a meal of mourning.' Only then did the man fold back his woolen cloak and say to her, 'They have all tasted their share of sorrow. Today the turn is ours. This is my gazelle.'" When Abu finished, Q snorted, unimpressed and unmoved. "What a lovely fairy tale. What does it have to do with me?" Abu stood and looked down at Q, the omnipresent merriment in his eyes dulled by paternal devotion and grief at the loss of a much-loved child. "What the story has to do with you, my child, is that I am the father, and you are the child devoured by the She-Ghoul." Q's mouth gaped open in shock and disbelief. For what seemed like an eternity he was incapable of formulating a coherent thought, much less a question. He at last had the presence of mind to close his mouth and swallowed loudly. He glanced at Fatima, who sat beside him, her face ghostly pale, her hands trembling violently as she clutched involuntarily at her shift. The only person who seemed to have his wits about him was Abu, so Q redirected his attention to him. "What--I--That is--I mean--you're my father?" he finally managed to stammer. Abu nodded gravely. "Essentially, yes. You see, Q is not just your name, it's what you are; you belong to a race of immortal, omnipotent energy beings called the Q. And I am the founder of that race." "And what does the She-Ghoul represent?" "You were recently attacked by an assassin known to us as Soma. You are, in fact, lying near death on a human starship; everything that you have experienced here is in your mind. But I have, metaphorically speaking, rescued you from Soma's belly." "What about the cobra, or the vulture, or being left for dead in the desert, for that matter? If this is all in my head, why am I still being victimized like this?" "Those are all manifestations of the poison Soma used on you. The sunburn represents fire; the vulture, air; and the cobra, earth. You should only have to face the threat of one more material element, water, and then the poison should finally be out of your system. But you will not be out of the woods yet. That is where Fatima comes into all this," Abu added, anticipating Q's question before he even moved his lips. Q looked at her, and she nodded in silent agreement. "Her role has not yet really been defined, although she and I have a sense of what it will encompass. Just let me impress upon you how much you need her if you're going to survive, Q. As she told you in your dream, where she leads, you must follow." Q closed his eyes and tried to control the flurry of emotions raging within him. As soon as Abu Primus had told Q who he was, a rush of memories flooded him, nearly overwhelming him. He had a vague sensation of the knowledge of his immortality and omnipotence expanding outwards and straining to overcome the boundaries created by the poison, like an overfilled balloon about to burst. He envisioned Chaos mocking him as he tried to make sense of the jumble of images swirling past his eyes. Q forced himself to relax, allowing the memories to wash over him, sifting through them as he sought one memory in particular. The image of a red-faced, middle-aged balding man came to him, and Q recognized Jean-Luc Picard from his vision while whirling in the desert. Q mentally stepped back from the image, studying it, and saw himself, teasing Picard, taunting him because Picard refused to acknowledge Q's power. Then he saw the Borg cube, saw the merciless automatons as they attacked the Enterprise. He saw the plasma heat and the handsome young lieutenant force himself into the conduit, defying all survival instincts on behalf of his crewmates. Then he saw the grief-stricken widow, her face shrouded in tears, and at last he knew. He understood. And for the first time in his infinite existence, Q felt remorse. He opened his eyes. He was alone. Where Abu and Fatima had gone, he did not care to know. All he knew was grief and sorrow. He pulled his knees to his chest, turned his face into the pillow and sobbed his regret to the cosmos. END PART SIX ********************************************************************** From drewry@roanoke.infi.net Fri Apr 11 08:57:42 1997 From: Laura Taylor Newsgroups: alt.fan.q,alt.startrek.creative Subject: NEW: Oasis 7a-c/8, TNG/Q, PG-13 Date: Fri, 11 Apr 1997 15:57:42 +0000 Organization: InfiNet Lines: 354 Message-ID: <334E5F76.7797@roanoke.infi.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: pm6-133.roanoke.infi.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 2.02 (Macintosh; I; 68K) Path: atheria.europa.com!netnews1.nwnet.net!netnews.nwnet.net!arclight.uoregon.edu!news-peer.sprintlink.net!news.sprintlink.net!sprint!news.maxwell.syr.edu!news.visi.net!news.infi.net!news.infi.net!not-for-mail Xref: atheria.europa.com alt.fan.q:5608 alt.startrek.creative:44098 OASIS by Laura Taylor drewry@roanoke.infi.net See Oasis Notes for disclaimers Part 7 is LONG, so I'm posting it in 2 subsections If only there were occasion for repose If only this long road had an end, And in the track of a hundred thousand years, out of the heart of dust Hope sprang again, like greenness. Omar Khayyam "The Ruba'iyat" Part Seven Blaise Pascal once wrote, "The eternal silence of these infinite spaces terrifies me." Though these words were first uttered over 700 years ago, Q thought them entirely appropriate to his own circumstance and reflected upon them as he gazed about him. In every direction, the tan and golden desert sands extended beyond the range of visual acuity until earth and heaven finally embraced like long-lost lovers on some distant unknown horizon. Q felt the barren loneliness crying out from deep within the earth's bowels, a mournful voice rising and falling like the funeral dirge he heard in his dreams, and he longed to mourn with the earth, to mourn with Fatima. Yet he remained silent, fearing that his own plaintive cries of remorse and loneliness would be nothing more than a mockery of their shared primordial grief. Instead he turned his thoughts inward and wept silently for them. The silence was overbearing, flooding his veins as the sun relentlessly rained down fire and heat upon Q's turbaned head. Even as he was drowning in his own unshed tears, Q was also suffocating in the fierce dry heat of the desert sun. He could find relief nowhere. The gentle zephyr that had earlier accompanied the caravan had fled the sun's oppressive heat, and even the camels refrained from their usual grumbling, save the occasional noisy dispute between bulls over a cow in season. Abu Primus had ordered them to break camp three days ago, bolstered by Q's quick recovery and eager to reach the oasis Fatima claimed was even now only four days' journey hence. The journey was brutal: they rose before dawn, ate a quick meal of fruit, dried meat and bread, traveled six hours until the sun's heat became too strong for even the camels to endure, then pitched the tent and rested for six hours. Then, as the sun began to sink towards the horizon, they broke camp and traveled for another six hours until the moon had reached its zenith and the cold night air chilled Q to his bones, and rested again. The hardship created by the rigorous cycle made conversation extraneous, and few words were exchanged as they gathered around the hearth each night. Q found himself lost in his own thoughts and memories as images and sensations extending eternally beyond the desert horizon reminded him just how far from home he was. Envisioning the omnipotent fertility of the Continuum in stark contrast to the impotent desert reawakened his homesickness, from which there was no refuge. To Q, everything had become a blur. Hours faded into days, each featureless dune only led to more of the same, even the moon seemed to remain in full phase, as if the emptiness and desolation below it held it captive. What terrified Q most of all about the silence and infinity was his realization that the desert was a reflection of him; he stood here, looking inside himself, and all he saw was a vast desert wasteland, extending infinitely into nothingness. He was as devoid of life now as he had been overflowing with creative energy in the Continuum, and his only hope of restoration was a human whose husband he murdered and her inexplicable faith in an unnamed Saint. For all he could imagine of it, the Continuum was as remote and unattainable to him as the oasis towards which they were heading. On the fifth day, as the caravan crested a dune, Abu came to a sudden halt and pointed excitedly. "There it is!" he called. Q and Fatima dismounted and walked towards him. Fatima nodded. "Yes, I see it now," she said. Q squinted and peered in the direction Abu indicated. "See what? I can't see anything but sand, sand, and more sand." He was hot, tired, dusty, thirsty, and in no mood for false hope. Fatima looked at him, fully aware of his melancholy and frustration. "Look right on the edge of the horizon," she instructed. "You should be able to see a long, low dark spot. That is the mountain range we have to pass through just before we reach the oasis." Q strained his eyes to the point she indicated. He thought he began to see the spot, but it could as well have been a mirage, and he turned his back on it in anger. Then a slight breeze, the first he had felt in days, ruffled his caftan, and for just a moment he thought he smelled water. He inhaled deeply, reveling in the faint but intoxicating greenness of the aroma. The scent also encouraged the camels, and several of them lurched to their feet, growling and snarling like mad dogs. "Come, let's go," urged Abu. "We should reach the range within a day." It was all the motivation Q needed to vault into his saddle and take off after the herd. They pitched the tent at the entrance to a gap that would take them straight through the range and to the oasis where the shrine was located. Outside the tent, the mountains loomed large and inviting like the embrace of a favorite aunt. A small creek that had been steadily carving the mountain pass for centuries emptied into a sparkling pool of fresh water near the camp, and they had all enjoyed the pleasure and relief brought by the crystal clear spring. Q had been the first to dive into the pool, diving and splashing in the blissfully cold water as he washed away the dust and aches of the long road that now lay behind him. Then, when he felt refreshed and stretched out in a hammock strung between two date-palm trees, Fatima removed her tunic and leggings and waded in up to her waist, scooping the water with her hands to wash her face and upper body. Q gallantly offered to go into the tent so she could have some privacy, but Fatima declined and continued as if he were not there. She never bared her head or removed her shift, though she did eventually duck her head underwater, wringing the excess water from her hair by twisting it into a loose braid. Q swung lazily, watching her through partially lowered eyelids, admiring her simple modesty that was free of all shame or embarrassment. He felt desire, but the feeling did not spring forth from his libido; something in her evoked an unquenchable yearning in him that was, and was not, like love. He had often caught himself watching her surreptitiously, and wondered at the ache he felt when she was out of sight. Q was familiar with the astonishing range of human emotions and had allowed himself, at several times in his immortal lifespan, to experience most of them, though in general he found emotions to be dreadfully inadequate, irrational and inconvenient. The sensations Fatima evoked, however, were like no emotion he had ever experienced, and as he lay in the hammock watching her, he tried to remember all that he had once known about human relationships before dozing off in the cool shade, a soft breeze kissing his face. Late that night as they gathered around the hearth, there was a palpable aura of excitement and barely restrained joy in the air. Abu's eyes shone with renewed liveliness, and Fatima smiled and laughed for the first time in a week as she stitched together a new garment made from a length of brilliant white cloth. Even Q was less morose and prone to self-examination than he had been for the past several days as he reclined against a large cushion and savored a cup of potent, steaming coffee. The first time he had tasted the thick, viscous liquid, distilled from crushed roasted beans boiled over the fire, he had nearly choked on its bitterness. Tonight, however, it was a welcome end to an exhausting day as he swirled it around his tongue before swallowing. His spirit refreshed and his hunger sated, Q felt a peace and a camaraderie he had not felt before. The worst is over, he thought. I will soon be home. ************************* Fatima sensed Q's longing and knew her death was imminent. Abu Primus had warned her that, as they neared the oasis, her spirit would begin to merge with Q's, bringing them closer together until their bond would be as inviolable as love between a man and a woman. When he first explained what would happen, she was afraid, thinking that perhaps she would become involuntarily unfaithful to Ali, but Abu reassured her, explaining that her bond with Q would be one of existence, whereas her bond with Ali, rooted in eternal love, transcended even death. Her undying love for Ali, he added, would secure her metaphysical union with Q. "It is like a flame," he had said. "A flame can be divided an infinite number of times without material harm, but with each division the flame loses some of its potency. As the flames merge together, it grows brighter, stronger, more alive. You and Ali share a single soul, bound in love. Soon you and Q will also share one soul, bound together by death because of your love for Ali." Fatima only nodded, recognizing the logic in his argument, but not entirely sure she understood. She knew what was expected of her, she understood the choice she had made, and she was prepared to face whatever consequences that choice brought. It was that persistence of vision that sustained her. With each passing day, Fatima felt herself inexorably drawn to Q like a moth to a flame. She had first become aware of the sensation the night of their shared dream, as if the dream itself had served as a watershed, forcing her subconscious mind to accept the reality of her sacrifice. What she neglected to tell Q, however, was that their shared dream was not identical. Like Q, she had stood before the herm, but she had chosen to turn west, away from the sun. The road entered a forest, where she met Anubis, although in her dream he was accompanied by Osiris. There they instructed her to look for an eagle, but before they could finish, she was awakened by the terrifying hiss of a cobra. That night, as she tended Q's wound, she was overcome with tenderness, like a mother caring for a sick child. She longed to remain by his side as his memory returned to him, to comfort him, to forgive him for what happened long ago, but Abu pulled her away, insisting that Q face the paradox of his responsibility for Ali's death and his impending debt to her alone. Hearing Q's muffled sobs that night, Fatima had not been able to sleep. The journey across the desert had been especially difficult for her; as Q grew stronger, she became weak. She had lagged behind the rest of the caravan, unable to maintain the blistering pace Abu set, struggling to remain on her mount. When they stopped at midday and at night, she collapsed on her bed into a dreamless slumber, and awoke more exhausted than before. She was relieved when they reached the mountain range, with its cool, clear spring, and could barely contain herself from indulging her fatigue and her thirst before Q had had his fill. Under normal circumstances, she would never have bathed in another man's presence, but this time she did not shy away from Q's penetrating gaze. She luxuriated in it, letting his unfulfilled yearning wash over her like an exquisite perfume. That night, after praying for the first time in a week, she began preparing her funeral robes. The end is near, she thought. I will soon be with Ali. ************************* It took them two days to reach the oasis as they traveled from dawn to dusk, stopping only for a midday siesta. The path was narrow and occasionally treacherous as it wound through the range, bordered by the stream on one side and a sheer rock face on the other, but Abu led the caravan at a nerve-wracking pace, pressed by an urgency only he knew. Throughout the entire journey he had remained on foot, the caravan following behind at a steady pace in single file, but as he led them through the mountains even the camels had to jog to keep up with him. Q turned in his seat to look at Fatima behind him, wondering at the speed with which they were traveling, but her face remained a stony mask, not even acknowledging his unspoken question. He knew she had stayed awake the entire night, working on the garment. Q wondered if it had something to do with the shrine they were visiting. On the second day, the path widened enough for them to pass two abreast, and Q and Fatima rode side-by-side in silence. It had finally occurred to him that the impending anniversary of her husband's death was what quieted her, and the memory of his role in Ali's death kept him quiet. At one point he considered remaining behind, out of respect, but then Fatima turned to him, as if she had read his thoughts, and said, "The Saint will be able to help you get home." By mid-afternoon on the second day, Q spotted a round white dome in the near distance and rightly guessed it to be the shrine. Next to the domed building stood a slender tower - a minaret, he supposed - and as the building grew larger he saw a magnificent eagle land on the golden crescent moon that stood atop the minaret and let loose with an ear-shattering scream, calling to its mate much like a muezzin would call the faithful to prayer. Fatima gasped loudly, startling Q from his reverie. He looked at her, puzzled by her reaction, and for the first time noticed just how pale and drawn she had become since their journey began. Her cheeks were hollow, and dark circles accented the omnipresent haunted look in her eyes. Her once-lustrous hair hung limp down her back and she moved with the fragility of a woman decades older. Her lips were thin and colorless. Sensing Q's eyes on her, Fatima turned to face him. The dark, brooding passion in his eyes that she remembered from the Enterprise logs but had never seen herself until now caused her to blush involuntarily. She slowly reached out her hand and placed it over his. "I'm all right," she murmured. "It's just been a long day." Q swallowed and closed his eyes. Her hand was as light as a feather, yet the contact left him with a burning ache that both terrified and invigorated him. He carefully pulled his hands away and spurred his mount forward just enough to reach out and grab the bridle on Fatima's camel. Halting both animals, he leaped down, then coaxed Fatima's mount to its knees. In a single fluid motion, he grabbed the reins and sprang up behind Fatima as the camel lurched to its feet, bellowing at the additional weight, and securely wrapped his arms around Fatima's waist. When she turned to look at him, puzzled, he merely said, "You look tired enough to fall off. Why don't you rest while I take the reins." She stiffened momentarily at his closeness, but exhaustion quickly usurped any residual feelings of distrust and modesty and she nestled into his embrace. Entwined like two trees growing from a single root system, Q and Fatima rode the rest of the way in comfortable, intimate silence. As the dome loomed larger, Q noticed the tops of trees swaying in the breeze, bedecked with the plumage of a thousand species of birds chirping and twittering with delight. The eagle he saw earlier had been joined by its mate, and the two graceful birds perched atop the minaret like monarchs surveying a kingdom, occasionally turning to each other to rub beaks in a tender avian kiss. Then the caravan rounded a large boulder, and Q was awestruck at the splendid panorama that lay before him. He did not know what the oasis more closely resembled - the Garden of Eden, the Elysian Fields, or the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. What he did know for certain was that he was at the very edge of Paradise. His strongest impression was of the sheer greenness of the place. A thick canopy of trees surrounded the shrine, and the aftenoon sun intensified the reflections of foliage on the white dome, giving it a warm green glow like a spring meadow. Within the forest Q could see oak, maple, ebony, cedar, locust, poplar, cypress, sandalwood - trees that never grew together in nature - all in full foliage. The birds that Q had heard and seen earlier continued their joyous singing, undisturbed by the humans or the eagles perched nearby. The western edge of the forest was bounded by a wide river as blue as lapis lazuli, and Q could see elephants, zebras and lions gathered by the sandy banks. As the caravan entered the forest, monkeys chattered their friendly greetings and gazelles bounded shyly away, turning at a safe distance to peek at the newcomers. Q was startled to recognize the forest from his dream, and his arms tightened unconsciously around Fatima. The trees soon thinned into a large clearing where the shrine sat, and Q was once again rendered speechless by the beauty that defied his infinite knowledge. The shrine was perfectly square, bounded on each side by four graceful columns topped with Corinthian capitals painted to resemble locust trees. The columns themselves were painted a bright yellow and decorated with intricate blue script Q recognized as Arabic. Inscribed in gold over the door was the shahada, and Q found himself reciting the creed as he gazed in wonder. He dismounted, intending to explore the interior of the shrine, but Abu Primus stopped him from entering. "No," he commanded. "It is not yet time. When it is appropriate, then you may enter." Q hesitated, curiosity waging war with obedience, but unwillingly acquiesced. He turned to assist Fatima with her dismount. "Thank you," she said, and took Q's hand and led him over to the shrine. Pointing to the two columns to Q's left on the front of the building, she said, "Those tell the story of Fatima and Ali, the daughter and son-in-law of the Prophet. Ali was supposed to be the fourth Caliph, but he was brutally murdered by his enemies. Those columns," she continued, indicating the two to Q's right, "tell the story of the Saint who is buried in this shrine. He, too, was a martyr." She looked at Q. "His name was also Ali." Q did not move a muscle as he held Fatima's gaze for what seemed to be an eternity. At first, he did not know what words he should say, what words he *could* say, to ease her pain and beg her forgiveness. Then, as he saw the tears coursing down her face, words ceased to matter and he pulled her into his arms with an anguished sob, burying his face in her shoulder. His chest heaving, he managed to pull himself away and take her tiny face in his hands, bending down until their foreheads touched. "Forgive me," was all he could say. Fatima closed her eyes and smiled. "We are beyond forgiveness, Q," she said. "Guilt and pain and death have all been washed away. Here there is only reconciliation and redemption." She reached up and gently wiped the tears from Q's face. "Ali forgave you even as he died. Now you must forgive yourself." With that, she removed herself from Q's arms and began unpacking the tent. ************************* Sections d-f to follow... From drewry@roanoke.infi.net Fri Apr 11 09:04:56 1997 From: Laura Taylor Newsgroups: alt.fan.q,alt.startrek.creative Subject: NEW: Oasis 7d-f/8, TNG/Q, PG-13 Date: Fri, 11 Apr 1997 16:04:56 +0000 Organization: InfiNet Lines: 305 Message-ID: <334E6128.7476@roanoke.infi.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: pm6-133.roanoke.infi.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 2.02 (Macintosh; I; 68K) Path: atheria.europa.com!netnews1.nwnet.net!netnews.nwnet.net!arclight.uoregon.edu!su-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.bbnplanet.com!europa.clark.net!news.maxwell.syr.edu!news.visi.net!news.infi.net!news.infi.net!not-for-mail Xref: atheria.europa.com alt.fan.q:5605 alt.startrek.creative:44091 OASIS by Laura Taylor drewry@roanoke.infi.net See Oasis Notes for disclaimers ************************* They pitched the tent on the eastern side of the shrine, near a warm mineral spring that bubbled up from a subterranean source. Above the tent, the stars twinkled like a million tiny candles, and Q gazed fondly at them, remembering the joy he once felt dancing among them like the firefly that danced above his face. That night, for the first time, Abu Primus dined with Q and Fatima. Their meal had been unusually simple - a small loaf of hard, unleavened bread and a chalice of wine they passed back and forth between themselves - but Q felt as if he had dined at the palace of a king. After dinner, Abu explained the ritual they would undertake at dawn the next day. "First," he said, "we must fast. Our bodies must be cleansed of pollutants, so tonight we have eaten this simple meal, to ease us into slumber, but it will be our last meal. As soon as the sun is completely above the horizon, we pray. Then I will go and prepare the shrine for the rites while you go down to the river." At this, Fatima rose and handed Q a white bundle. "You must wear these garments into the River of Life as you wash away your sins and purify your spirit. Only then may you enter the shrine and plead your case before the Saint." Q was confused. "Plead my case? But you've assured me all along that the Saint could help me, that he *would* help me. Now you seem to be suggesting that he won't help me." Abu's brow knitted, making his bushy eyebrows seem even more so. "He will help you, no doubt. Whether or not you accept his help on his terms, however, is another matter." "His terms?" "He will put you to a challenge, much like the figures in your dream. How you face that challenge will determine the final outcome." "So are you saying that there's still a chance I won't get home?" Q's voice was rising with his panic. How could he have come so far, only to fail? He had trusted them! He looked to Fatima, imploring her with his eyes to help him. She briefly returned his gaze, her eyes full of warmth and compassion, then dropped her gaze to the ground with a small sigh. Q shifted his eyes to Abu, who remained infuriatingly silent. Unable to contain his anger any longer, Q stood and stalked outside. He flopped down on his back by the bubbling spring and laced his fingers over his chest. High above him, an owl hooted, but there was no other sound. Q looked up at the stars, calling each of them by name. He longed to be among them again, skipping across them like a stone across the water. He closed his eyes and imagined himself back home in the Continuum, free to roam the galaxy to his heart's content. For all its faults, the Continuum was his home, and he missed it, he missed his brothers and sisters, he missed his son. He even missed that stick-in-the-mud Picard. Come hell or high water, he thought, I will get back home, challenges be damned. At that last thought, Q grinned. He was definitely feeling more like himself. ************************* Fatima slept better that night than she had in the previous seven nights combined. When the first glimmer of morning light reached her face, she rose quickly and dressed in the funeral robes she had finished the night before. As she was braiding her hair, she heard Q step around the partition separating her chamber from the rest of the tent, and turned to greet him. Like her, he was dressed in white from head to toe; like her, he looked rested, composed, expectant. "Abu sent me to tell you to hurry up," he said, somewhat bashfully. "I'll be right there," was her reply. She glanced at Q, and smiled, reading his discomfort at the idea of praying. "It won't be that bad. It's really for my benefit more than yours; I was raised by people who prayed five times a day. There's nothing quite like trying to figure out what direction Mecca is in when you're way out in space somewhere." Q's eyebrow lifted. "Even the Bajorans thought I was nuts sometimes." He stifled a laugh as she rose. "Come on," she said, tugging at his arm. "I'll walk you through it." The prayer ritual went smoothly, and even though Q knew it was meant for Fatima's benefit, something about the rite resonated within him. He had always been fascinated by human liturgies, and loved to watch them, unseen, as the participants struggled through their pitiful attempts at communion with the sacred. What was even more fun, he remembered, was spicing the rituals with a little 'deus ex machina' from time to time. It had been a long time since he tried that though; the last he could recall, the Oracle at Delphi had fallen off her tripod and broken her leg. He did not mock Fatima's prayer ritual, although there was a certain incongruity in one immortal being speaking in human sacred language to another. He was glad when it was over. As they walked silently through the forest on their way to the river, Q noticed that the cacophony of birds he heard yesterday was strangely absent, and even the wildlife he had seen had disappeared from view. It was an eerie sensation, such utter silence after the joyful noise and liveliness of the day before, and it reminded Q of the proverbial 'calm before the storm'. He thought to ask Fatima her opinion, but she seemed to be lost in thought, a wistful smile on her face. The silence was stifling as the trees gave way to a narrow sandy strip on the banks of the river, and Q became increasingly nervous. He reached for Fatima's hand and gave it a squeeze to reassure himself of her presence, because she seemed to be thousands of miles away. She squeezed back, but continued walking towards the river, not even looking back at him. He dropped her hand and stopped. "Wait," he insisted. She stopped but refused to turn and face him. "What is it, Q?" she asked, a subtle note of impatience evident in her voice. "Something's not right. I can't explain what. It's - oh, I don't know. It's not *real*. What happened to all the birds and animals? Doesn't it seem unusually quiet to you?" Fatima spun around, alarmed. "What are you talking about? The trees are filled with birds. Can't you see those lions on the other bank?" Q took a step forward. "No, I don't," he replied, stressing each word separately. "As far as I can see, you and I are--" Fatima held up a hand, momentarily silencing him. "Sh. Do you hear that?" Q strained his ears. "Hear what?" "That rumbling sound. Like a stampede or something." "Where is it coming from?" She looked around nervously. "I can't tell. I'm not even sure I'm actually *hearing* it. I can feel the ground shaking." Q froze, directing his attention to his feet. A muffled bellow, barely perceptible to his heightened senses, rose up from deep within the earth. As he strained to identify the sound and determine its source, the volume increased, shaking the ground beneath his feet with a dull pounding rhythm and driving water over the river's natural banks. He grabbed Fatima's arm and tugged her back towards the forest. "Come on," he urged. "Let's get out of here." Fatima resisted, wrenching herself free of his grasp and turning back to the river. "But the ritual--" "The ritual can wait. Something is very wrong here, and I'm leaving with *or* without you." He moved towards the relative safety of the trees, his long legs carrying him across the sandy beach in three strides. With his back to the river, Q did not see what transpired next. A monstrous black bull emerged from the river with a thundering roar and charged straight for Q, its head held low, its long curved horns aimed menacingly at his back. In less time than it took for Q to turn in horror at the terrible sound, Fatima had unsheathed her dagger and hurled it, embedding the blade deeply between the beast's eyes. Blinded by blood, pain and fury, the bull turned towards Fatima's scent and charged. She stood her ground, intending to step aside at the last minute and let the animal run past, but a treacherous root snagged her foot and she fell to the ground with a cry of alarm. Before Q could react, the bull had gored Fatima and tossed her in the air like a rag doll, then flung her to the ground and trampled her, sending particles of sand mixed with blood and sweat flying. "No!" Q screamed with a voice torn from the very heart of the Continuum. Without thinking about his own safety, Q raced to Fatima. The bull, sensing Q's presence, turned its attention away from Fatima's broken, bloodied form and snorted at Q, pawing the ground with a mighty hoof, daring him to come closer. Q slowly reached down to pick up a stick - a woefully inadequate weapon, he realized - and brandished it as he edged between Fatima and the bull. With a sickening sense of relief he heard Fatima moan and stepped bravely foward, swinging the stick back and forth in an attempt to confuse the animal. He could feel its hot breath, rank with pain and hatred, on his face. The bull bellowed, gathering its powerful muscles in preparation to charge, but just as suddenly dropped to its knees with a groan and toppled over, dead before it hit the ground. Q stood there dazed, his mind reeling, his chest heaving as he struggled to regain his composure. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flutter of movement, and remembered Fatima. Her once pristine garment was covered with blood, dust and grass and her hair was matted with blood pouring from a cut above her left ear. There was a horrific gash across her torso where the bull had gored her, and Fatima pressed her hands to the wound to keep her intestines from spilling out. On her back a giant cloven hoofprint gave testimony to the trampling she received, echoed by the dozens of scrapes and bruises that decorated her sickly pale flesh. She was alive, but barely. Q knelt down by her side and with infinite tenderness lifted her in his arms. Even in the fullness of life she was a mere slip of a girl, but now she was virtually weightless. As Q stood she moaned again, bringing a brief rush of color to her cheeks, but Q could tell by her pallor that death was near. His only thought was of getting her to the shrine, where Abu Primus, or pehaps even the Saint, might be able to help her. Drawing strength from his determination, Q carried Fatima into the forest. ************************* Abu was waiting for them at the entrance to the shrine and seemed to Q to be curiously unsurprised by the sight of the bloodied figure draped over Q's arms. He beckoned Q inside. The interior of the shrine was as simple as the exterior was ornate. The four walls were freshly whitewashed, bare of any decoration except a small niche in the eastern wall indicating the direction of Mecca. In the center of the shrine was a long, low table covered with a white cloth, on top of which rested a gold chalice. At each end of the table were two candles, providing the only light inside the shrine. Abu instructed Q to lay Fatima on the table. Abu produced from within the folds of his cloak a long knife set into an ebony handle inlaid with precious stones. He turned the knife so the handle was pointed at Q. "Kill her," he said. Q was stunned. "What?" he cried. Abu was unmoved by Q's reaction. "You must kill her if you want to go home, Q. That is the challenge you must face." Q felt his fury rising like bile in his throat as he resisted the urge to strike Abu. "How *dare* you demand this of me! She saved my life countless times, and her reward is this treachery?" Fatima's eyelids fluttered and she reached out her hand, searching for Q. As her hand came to rest on his cheek, she forced her eyes open with great effort. He was astonished at the tenderness and love he saw in her expression. "No Q, I did not save your life, at least not yet. If you don't kill me, then you will die." "No!" Q roared in impotent rage and helplessness. "I won't do this to you! Not after what you did for me." His hands trembled as he carefully tucked a strand of hair behind Fatima's ear and wiped a smudge of blood from her cheek. "I can't live without you." "You won't have to. The moment I breathe my last, we will become as one, and I will be with you always. But I *must* die at your hands, Q." "I think the bull's already taken care of that." Tears streamed down his face, washing away the bloodied imprint of Fatima's caress. "The bull was merely the last manifestation of Soma's poison," Abu said. "You have been restored to your natural state, now that all vestiges of the toxin have been defeated. But Soma's poison didn't just turn you into matter; she wiped away your identity and your link to the Continuum. Fatima volunteered to sacrifice her life to restore yours." "You've known all along that I would have to kill her," Q said menacingly, glaring at Abu. "Yes." "And still you let me--" "--grow to love her? Of course; it was only natural. You've been two bodies sharing a single soul as Fatima helped you overcome the poison. She has also come to love you, even against her memory and instinct. But now that you are free from the poison, you must occupy this soul alone. Fatima's work is done. If you do *not* kill her before she dies of her injuries, then there is nothing more I can do for you, and she will have died needlessly." Q bent his head down and inhaled deeply. He could not let go. There had to be another way. In his infinite knowledge he knew, however, that there was no other way. He knew about Soma, and knew that only one other Q had survived one of her assassination attempts. That Q, his father, now stood before him, urging him to take the knife and restore himself to immortality by killing the one human he could not live without. Without looking up, he held out his hand, palm up. "Leave us alone," he said. Abu gently placed the knife in Q's hand and exited the shrine. Q lifted his head and gazed at Fatima, his heart bursting with love and gratitude and mourning. Her eyes were open, but the light that once flickered in them was dull and vacant. He smoothed his hand across her brow and leaned over, careful not to put any weight on her, and kissed her, his lips whispering "Forgive me" against her cold skin. In the blink of an eye, the knife flashed across her throat. END PART SEVEN ********************************************************************** From drewry@roanoke.infi.net Fri Apr 11 09:10:35 1997 From: Laura Taylor Newsgroups: alt.fan.q,alt.startrek.creative Subject: NEW: Oasis 8/8, TNG/Q, PG-13 Date: Fri, 11 Apr 1997 16:10:35 +0000 Organization: InfiNet Lines: 150 Message-ID: <334E627B.5E2@roanoke.infi.net> NNTP-Posting-Host: pm6-133.roanoke.infi.net Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 2.02 (Macintosh; I; 68K) Path: atheria.europa.com!netnews1.nwnet.net!netnews.nwnet.net!arclight.uoregon.edu!news-peer.sprintlink.net!news.sprintlink.net!sprint!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!news.bbnplanet.com!news.maxwell.syr.edu!news.visi.net!news.infi.net!news.infi.net!not-for-mail Xref: atheria.europa.com alt.fan.q:5604 alt.startrek.creative:44090 OASIS by Laura Taylor drewry@roanoke.infi.net See Oasis Notes for disclaimers Our two souls therefore, which are one Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion Like gold to aery thinness beat John Donne "A Valediction: Forbidden Mourning" Part Eight Q knew the moment his eyes opened that he was on the Enterprise, in Sickbay. His head ached, but he was fully restored. Raising himself up on his elbows, he spotted his son and Primus standing at the foot of his bed, joy and relief radiating from their faces. A commotion in the next room drew his attention away from them, however, and he sat up and jumped off the biobed to investigate. A cluster of humans were gathered around a pale form in Starfleet medical blues. Doctor Crusher was a blur of movement as she called for instruments or hyposprays in an obviously futile attempt to revive her patient. Picard, standing at the head of the biobed, looked up and saw Q standing in the doorway. His lips thinned in a half-grimace, half-smile, then he looked back towards the patient, absently stroking her thick black hair. Data and Counselor Troi came towards Q. "I see you have recovered, Q," the android said. "Primus's plan worked." "Q, are you all right? Is there anything we can do for you?" asked Deanna. "Who is she?" Q asked, indicating the unconscious young woman. "What happened?" "That is Doctor al-Ghazali," Data said. Deanna studied the expression on Q's face. "Do you remember anything of your experience?" Q did not respond. At the mention of her name, he knew who she was, and realized with a start that what he thought had been a very strange dream was all too real. "Where you lead, I must follow; where you are going, I cannot come," he said to himself. "Q?" Data prodded. "She's dead, isn't she." "She saved your life," Deanna said. "She *gave* me her life. Hardly a fair trade, is it? One simple human life in exchange for immortality." Picard, overhearing the exchange, joined them. "She gave you her life *willingly*, Q. Once again a mere mortal has rescued you from the jaws of death." He glared at Q. "I'm not interested in any of your self-righteous sermons, Jean-Luc." He looked at Picard, his eyes narrowed with anger and impatience. "I am fully aware of what she sacrificed for me." "Don't you ever forget it, either. I'll make *sure* you don't." "Captain," Deanna interjected, "I'm sensing a very strong feeling of grief. What we saw in Sickbay may have only lasted a few seconds, but I think Q knows Fatima much better than we realize." "How perceptive, Counselor," Q said. "Do you feel my pain? You cannot possibly fathom what I feel. I'm a Q; I don't 'feel' anything." "You do seem unusually disturbed by Doctor al-Ghazali's death," Data rebutted. Q ignored him and walked over to the biobed. "Don't bother, Doctor Crusher," he said hoarsely. "There's nothing you can do for her. There's nothing anyone can do for her." Beverly looked up, studying him. She remembered looking in a mirror not long after she learned of Jack's death; that exact same expression she saw so many years ago was now reflected in Q's face. She quietly put away her instruments and ushered everyone else out of the room. When he heard the doors slide shut behind him, Q finally allowed the unshed tears to fall freely. He felt a hand on his shoulder and tuned to face Primus. "Why, Father?" Primus responded without speaking, letting his compassion and comfort fill the Continuum and flow into Q's consciousness, healing and strengthening him. "You would have died if not for her, my son. Her death was instantaneous, and she felt no pain. Don't grieve because she is dead, rejoice in her happiness. She is with her beloved now, and you can go home." Primus turned Q away from Fatima's body and forced him to look at the young Q standing a few feet away, longing to embrace his father. "Remember your son who needs you, and your responsibility to the Continuum." He patted Q on the back. "Let's go home." Q took a long, lingering look at Fatima's lifeless body, committing her features to memory. She looked odd, wearing a Starfleet uniform rather than the desert robes to which he was accustomed, but he knew he would never forget her lovely face or her selfless sacrifice. She was a part of him, now. She was a part of the Continuum. Q snapped his fingers and disappeared. ************************* Q appeared at the entrance to the crypt and hesitated a moment, gathering his strength. Picard had dutifully brought him to Federation Headquarters last month, leaving Q on Earth with a stern warning to 'mind his manners' and a promise to keep Q in line. As soon as his diplomatic obligations allowed, Q came to this place, the al-Ghazali crypt outside the ancient ruins of Susa. He could not bring himself to attend Fatima's funeral, even though Picard had personally invited him, but he knew he had to pay his respects. Q took a deep breath and stepped inside. The crypt was a long marbled hall with golden plaques identifying each set of remains. Q could tell that the crypt had been in use for nearly twenty generations. The two most recent additions, Ali and Fatima al-Ghazali, were buried in a single vault near the back of the crypt, eternally reunited in death. He spotted the remains of several floral arrangements, holdovers from Fatima's entombment, and restored them to life with a snap of his fingers. Then a perfect sprig of jasmine materialized in Q's hand, and he carefully bent down and placed it on the floor beneath the plaque bearing Fatima's name. Sighing, Q stood and walked towards the entrance. Had he turned around, he would have seen the ghostly pair emerge from the shadows to pick up his offering and hold it to their lips. Had he listened, he would have heard the young woman draw away from her husband and call out to him. Had he stopped, he would have felt her wrap her arms around him in a heavenly embrace and place the airiest of kisses on his mouth. But Q walked out, never looking back. FINIS That's all, folks...tell me what you thought! Thanks for reading!