Don't hold me to this, but I think I've got it right. ('bout fuckin' time) Here tis.

Know ye that the concept for this story, as well as divers ideas herein, has been well and truly stolen from Alara and Mercutio who've both written versions of same. To wit: Q loseth all his powers, endeth up on the Enterprise, then with the holp of fair maid who rideth to the rescue, spendeth much time growing the fuck up.

It's good to be king
If just for a while.
-Tom Petty

Three days after his precipitous arrival on the Enterprise bridge, the truth of his exile was only just beginning to sink in. Q was learning the unpleasant realities of having a human body: eating, urinating, defecating, dry heaves--a direct result of the defecation thing--sleeping, itching, hurting. To his astonished dismay, the attack by the Calamarain more than amply demonstrated the amazing vulnerability of these little mortal shells. He'd actually felt pain, a vastly unpleasant experience he had no desire to repeat, and he'd discovered that avoiding it, even the mild pain humans called discomfort, was a full-time job. He spent almost all his time attending to physical needs of one revolting sort or another and it was beginning to wear on him. And the silly things they wanted him to do... it simply didn't bear telling. A job and a place to live? That was so far removed from any reality he'd ever contemplated as to be unfathomable.

Q was offended by the notion that he was now expected to grub for a living like a mere mortal simply because he'd become one. He had no idea what to do, and the variety of possible occupations was bewildering, even daunting. Picard flatly refused to consider Q's proposal to join Starfleet. Now Q was angry and hurt, and he didn't want anything to do with slimy mortals who turned down his clever suggestions. That morning, when Counselor Troi, his sometime escort and interpreter of human custom, announced a visitor who'd just arrived by shuttle, he assumed it was another 'advisor' of some sort and summarily refused to see the person. Then he immediately changed his mind.

"Who is it?" He demanded. "I may talk to them if I feel inclined." A visitor who wasn't an Enterprise flunky might distract him from his woes.

"I don't know who she is," the counselor responded to his petulant query, "I only know she's just arrived, and she asked if she could see you." Deanna was using her professionally patient voice, a tone Q had come to know and loathe over the past few days. "She looks like she's from Orion."

"Orion? I don't know any Orionese." When he'd been immortal, Q had made it a point to avoid certain races, and Orionese, grubby, grasping and easily as mercenary as the most avaricious Ferengi, were high on his list of mortals to be eschewed. "What does she want?"

The strained patience was even more noticeable when Deanna answered him. "I don't know, Q. Why don't you ask her?"

Q glared down at her. "By all means, subject me to the gazes of shameless curiosity seekers. It was bound to happen sooner or later."

"I'll take that as a yes," Deanna answered, and disappeared.

Minutes later she was back, escorting a tall, dark-eyed woman with the jet black, curly hair and large-pupiled eyes typical of her race. Her skin was much paler than the typical Orionese, however; pea green instead of rich emerald, and she was dressed, as far as Q could tell of such things, extremely conservatively.

"Q," Deanna was polite and to the point, "Riller Harris. Riller Harris, Q."

"What's an Orion doing with a human surname," Q asked bluntly. Deanna gave him a wide-eyed, warning glance which he ignored.

"Half-Orion," the woman answered. "My father was human, actually."

Q shuddered ostentatiously. "And you're the victim of that sordid union? How utterly grotesque."

The woman shrugged, flipping her hands open in a gesture that clearly meant 'so what?'. "Lots of people think so, but here I am."

"Ahh. I'll let you two speak in private," Deanna interjected. She had no desire to be present when furniture started flying. "Call me when you need to be escorted back to the transporter," she said, and quickly took her leave.

The other two ignored her. When the door closed, Riller Harris sat down uninvited.

"What do you want?" Q demanded. Insulting their parentage usually enraged humans, no matter how they tried to hide it, but this Riller Harris person was apparently made of stronger stuff. No matter. He would have her crying before this interview was over.

She watched him steadfastly. "I'm here to offer my services as a legal representative, Mr. Q. I want to be your lawyer."

Q was intrigued despite himself, and suddenly frightened. What made her think he needed a lawyer? Was he in some sort of trouble?

"What makes you think I need that?" He desperately hoped she'd spell it out for him chapter and verse. "Or that I'd want you to do the job?"

She settled more comfortably into her chair, not quite hiding an expression of triumph, and Q knew that somehow he'd played into her hands. "Sir. You're smarter than any mortal living, but you're only three days old. Without someone to represent your interests, the Federation is going to take complete and utter advantage of you because you won't know how to stop them." She tipped her chin up, scrutinizing him carefully for several long moments. "Tell me something. How much do you think you're worth to the Federation?"

When it became obvious that he had no answer for her, she posed another question. "What have they offered you?"

Weak-kneed, Q sank into a chair. He suddenly had the feeling he'd been offered far less than he deserved. "A position as a senior scientist at Makropyrios," he answered grudgingly. It only just now occurred to him that he could have asked for a lot more, if only he'd known what was available to him. He'd been tricked, rooked, bamboozled, and he felt a surge of anger and humiliation at how easily they'd been able to take advantage of him. "Why?" He demanded. "What do you think I'm worth?" This woman obviously had answers to questions he hadn't thought to ask, and that frightened him even more. What else was he missing due to his sheer ignorance of the way the Federation worked?

Riller Harris shook her head. "The real question is 'what can we get for you?' I think we can get a good deal more than a senior scientist's salary."

"We?" He didn't know if she'd meant to use that particular pronoun, but he clung to it as if it were a lifeline. If she could help him...

She nodded. "If you agree to let me represent you."

Already beginning to think defensively, he asked her what she got out of it.

The answer came so quickly and easily that he knew she'd had her plan laid out long before she'd spoken to him. "Twenty percent of your gross earnings over the next ten years."

"Isn't that an awful lot?" He had no idea whether it was a lot or not, but it seemed an appropriate objection.

The lawyer smiled again, unperturbed. "Mr. Q, almost every culture that has lawyers has a word for them that describes some type of carrion-eater. It *is* a lot, but this is no simple thing I'm offering. Do we have a deal?"

"I need time to think about this," Q responded evasively. He had no basis on which to make a decision, and he knew it. He would have liked to ask Picard's advice, but that would be tacit admission of his loss of omniscience; a loss he was not prepared to deal with at the moment. Q thought for about three seconds. "Yes. We have a deal."

***

That night, lying in bed, mulling over the day's turn of events, Q became scared all over again. Everyone was trying to take advantage of him, distracting him with little things and neglecting to tell him what was really important. Starfleet, the Federation, this slimy lawyer, they were all alike and he was helpless and at their mercy; utterly cast adrift. He chastised himself for his impulsiveness in agreeing to allow this total stranger to represent him.

'I should have made her wait for an answer,' he told himself. 'I should have found out if there were other lawyers, better ones.' He groaned at the thought and turned over on his stomach. He hadn't asked her how good she was, just signed the papers and recorded his agreement that the contract had been entered into willingly. He hadn't even wanted to see what he was signing and Harris finally had to read it aloud to him. 'Riller Harris,' he thought. 'Evil beast-lawyer from Orion.' She was a larcenous, contemptible vulture and he despised her.

Still, for all her revolting avarice, the strategy she'd mapped out seemed sound.

"Invent something," she'd told him. "I don't care what, anything. Something to show them how smart you are."

Stung by the notion that anyone anywhere might not perceive him as the most intelligent mortal being in existence, and mightily offended by the idea the he should have to prove it, Q sulked and sniped at Harris all morning. He followed up on her suggestion, however, and created a warp resonance signature enhancer before the afternoon was out.

"Here." He shoved it at her rudely. "It facilitates dilithium diagnostics. Not that I expect that to be within your range of understanding."

Harris took the small device and looked at it carefully. She didn't care whether she understood it or not, as long as it worked. "How'd you know to come up with this?" She asked curiously.

Her question stung. "Do you think I've forgotten everything I knew?" Q demanded harshly. "Just because I'm not omniscient anymore doesn't mean I'm as stupid as the rest of you mortals!"

"No one thinks you're stupid, Sir. Far from it," Harris answered reassuringly. She looked mildly surprised, and Q realized he'd overreacted.

"Federation technology isn't very advanced from my point of view," he explained dismissively. He was embarrassed at how easily he'd misinterpreted her meaning, and he wanted to change the subject. "Suffice to say it's very easy for someone like me to understand and improve upon."

"Oh, of course." Harris agreed blandly.

She patented the invention before dinner-time (something else he would have never thought to do), then went with him when he showed it to Geordi. The chief engineer raved delightedly, and Q preened, smugly pointing out all the clever features of his shiny new toy.

"Can I have this?" Geordi asked. "It would really make diagnostics about ten times easier."

"Of course," Q answered charitably. The chief engineer's admiration made him inclined to be generous.

"No!" Riller interjected. "Absolutely not!" She snatched it away, and both Geordi and Q turned to her with expressions of outrage.

"Why not?" They both demanded at once.

"Because it's for sale, Sir." Harris stared up at him with wide, alarmed eyes. "Like we discussed?"

"Oh." He'd forgotten. "Okay." Q gave Geordi an innocent shrug, pleased to be able to tweak the engineer and blame it on someone else. "Sorry, Geordi. Advice of Counsel."

Now his clever little design, minus several crucial specs, was on its way to representatives from the Ferengi and Klingon alliances and the Andorian homeworld, along with an invitation to bid on the right to use it. Geordi asked that Commander Riker represent the Federation's interests, a request that worried Q not at all.

"This is the bait we're dangling," Harris told him later. "Our objective is to... allow the Federation to obtain a clearer picture of your relative worth."

"In other words you're trying to start a bidding war to rachet up my value." He nodded approvingly. "That's a Q's trick; I should have thought of that myself."

"Right. Which is why you should say 'no' if someone asks you if they can have it."

He knew that! Q gave her a hard, calculating stare. "I've been underestimating you mortals at every turn, it seems."

Whether or not she heard the accusation implicit in his comment, she did not respond. "Permit me to suggest, Sir," she answered with a touch of sympathy, "that it may take some time to adjust."

And that was the problem. He didn't want to adjust, he wanted to go home. He wanted to be omnipotent again, to instantly understand what she was feeling and thinking rather than to have to discern her motivations from her spoken word. Without his powers he felt shockingly lost and helpless. And some of that must have been apparent to Harris because she offered him sympathy. Sympathy! How dare she? This contemptible little Orionese bovine who was blithely auctioning him off to the highest bidder-he was going to get her for this. He hadn't fallen so low that he couldn't find a way.

Q jumped out of bed and sat down at his computer console. Unacknowledged, part of him mourned the inability to acquire information simply by thinking about what he wanted to know. He dismissed the water that rolled out of the corners of his eyes as some other revolting physical manifestation about which they'd forgotten to inform him. Several hours later he conceded his quest was a futile one. Riller Harris had no skeletons in her closet that he could find. She was exactly what she seemed to be: the daughter of one Eldon Harris and an unnamed mother, graduate of a law school on Andor Prime, and a practicing attorney on Rigel 4.

That wasn't nearly enough information. He had no choice but to trust Harris, and that made him frantic for a means to regain a sense of control. Harris had to have a weakness; something that would restore him the upper hand, and he was going to find it.

***

Q was not the only one looking for dirt on Riller Harris. Had he deigned to ask Riker or Data, he would have found they were also knee deep in a search for exploitable weaknesses. It would not have helped him, however: they came up empty-handed as well, and had to report that fact to Captain Picard who was not pleased.

Neither was Geordi. He wanted that warp resonance signature enhancer. "Captain, it would vastly decrease the time we spend on diagnostics. He's managed to create multi-resonance flow regulation sequencers that essentially 'listen' to the dilithium crystals as well as watch them. It's so simple I can't believe I didn't think of it before now. I could probably invent one myself except that lawyer of his would have my head. You know," he continued thoughtfully. "If we could pry her away from him, I bet we could get him to give it to us. Butter him up. He'd probably go for it."

"He is extremely susceptible to flattery." Deanna agreed.

Picard nodded, turning to Riker and Data. "And this Riller Harris; you found no irregularities in her records?"

"None that would apply, Sir. The only remotely irregular datum I found was that her mother's name was not mentioned in her biographical profile," Data said. "Coupled with the facts that her birthplace is listed as Orion, and, by her appearance she is at least part Orionese, we may conclude that her mother was property. I do not know if that is relevant to the business at hand, however."

"A slave?" Picard's amazement and revulsion was reflected on the other faces around the table.

"It is common knowledge that Orionese trade in sentient property, Sir. And by their tradition, slaves do not have the right to legal parenthood."

"Yes," Picard muttered, reluctant to discuss the matter at all, and especially embarrassed to have to discuss it with Data. A combination of conditioning and genetic tampering created a steady supply of self-aware sex toys; a popular trade item in that quadrant where Orionese dominated. It was disturbing to think that a Federation citizen would have availed himself of such an immoral commodity, and he couldn't help but remember that Starfleet had once tried to do the same thing to his officer. Still... "You're certain she is who she claims to be?"

Bravely or innocently, Data spoke to the question implicit in Picard's query. "The offspring of a slave would not necessarily become a slave herself, Sir. I took the precaution of verifying her records with the University on Andor Prime and the Rigellian Trade Council. She is who she claims to be, and her accomplishments are quite genuine."

"I didn't mean to suggest they weren't," Picard protested, aware that he'd implied exactly that. "I simply wished to find anything that we could use to our advantage during the upcoming negotiations. I don't suppose there's any way to tell if her presence is some elaborate trick on the part of the Q Continuum?

"Unfortunately that is impossible, Sir."

"Yes. I assumed as much." Picard stood. "Dismissed." He turned to Deanna. "Except for you, Counselor. I'd like you to accompany me on a brief visit to our guest."

Picard had, of course, heard tales of the fantastic eroticism of Orionese females, and he steeled himself to resist any overtly amorous distractions from the business at hand. As soon as he met Riller Harris, however, he gave himself a stern reminder not to yield so easily to his preconceptions. A solemn young woman with wary eyes and attire so modest it practically shouted at him not to make assumptions about her, Riller Harris seemed almost deliberately ordinary. She invited them in at once and asked them to sit down, showing no inclination to eat him.

"May I serve you something to drink?" she asked politely.

"No," Picard answered quickly, nonplussed by her use of the word 'serve'. "Thank you, I'm not thirsty." He shifted in his chair and smiled cordially. "Frankly, I came because I wanted to ask you how it is that you decided to take Q as a client, and I'm more than curious as to how you found him in the first place. Would you care to enlighten me?"

One didn't have to be an empath, nor even a particularly observant human, to see the mask drop over her face. "You know all unclassified logs are available under the Freedom of Information laws." She let a hint of skepticism show on her face. "Don't you?"

Picard refused to be put on the defensive. She was correct of course, but he knew how FOI regulations worked, and the sheer density of regulations and information she would have had to sort through to find facts about Q was nothing short of overwhelming.

"But how did you know to look for this particular piece of information," he asked. "I've seen a review of your cases. You don't make it a habit to raid Starfleet for clients, so why do so now?"

She tilted her head, smiling out of a corner of her mouth. Was he actually naive enough to expect a real answer? She took in his composed, rigid features and decided he probably was. But what did he expect her to say? 'As you know, Captain, the best data pirates in existence come from Rigel. Starfleet logs are stolen as a matter of routine.' She didn't think so. "Are you sure I can't get you something to drink, Sir?"

It took him several moments to realize that he wasn't going to get an answer. "No, thank you." He stood, and Deanna followed. His smile touched every part of his face except his eyes, which had gone hard as flint. "Please enjoy the hospitality of my ship for as long as you're on board."

Harris handled his offer with finesse, smiling as sweetly as if she hadn't just been insulted. "Thank you, Captain. I'm sure I will."

"Impressions," Picard snapped as they walked down the hall.

"She's confident in her abilities," Deanna answered promptly, "and she expects a great deal out of these negotiations. For Q, but mostly for herself. My guess would be that she sees him as something of a windfall."

"She may be right," Picard answered ruefully. "If he makes a habit of inventing things, he will earn himself a great deal of money. However she managed to find him, she may have latched onto a bit of a gold mine. Q could make her very wealthy."

Troi agreed. "And she's taken a great risk coming here. Q could have summarily dismissed her. He almost did. I don't think she'll let him give up his invention without a fight."

Picard nodded. "I find myself in the reluctant position of actually admiring her."

"Captain," Deanna looked thoughtful. "I have an idea. Will you come with me to ten-forward?"

"Why Deanna," Picard gave her an amused smile, "I think this is a fine idea." He linked arms with her. "I shall be delighted to accompany you."

"I meant so that we could talk to Guinan."

"Oh." Picard let his face fall into an exaggerated expression of disappointment and disengaged his arm.

Troi actually blushed and gave him a mock pout. "Teasing your staff is not a very captainly thing to do, Captain."

He put his hand over his heart and looked at her askance. "Me, tease? You wound me to the quick, Counselor."

"I didn't even know you had a 'quick'," Deanna rejoined, and walked ahead of him, leaving him to wonder what she meant by that.

Guinan was less helpful than they hoped she'd be; she gently but firmly refused to extend her perceptions to eavesdrop on someone who hadn't done her any harm, regardless of her antipathy towards Q. "I know Q is relieved that she's here," she said, "and my experience of Q tells me that if she's working for him she'll earn every credit."

It took no great perception to figure that out. "Well, thank you, Guinan." Picard turned to leave, obviously disappointed.

Guinan relented slightly. "I'll tell you this much," she offered. "This may be your chance to learn to lose with grace, Jean-Luc. She's very highly motivated, I'd say almost driven."

*****

Riller watched Picard and his escort leave with a sense of relief. They had come to feel her out, obviously, but she knew she'd given nothing away. She was certain the woman had been trying to receive impressions from her, so she'd projected a sense of smug confidence in her own abilities. The truth was, she wasn't sure this would work at all, and the fact that they'd been apprehensive enough to come check her out was reassuring. It meant they weren't at all certain of their position.

Good. They would fight all the harder to achieve the outcome she wanted all along. She stood up and moved restlessly around the room, coming to a stop in front of the mirror. She stared at her reflection, talking to it as she was prone to do when unobserved.

'Well, mama,' she thought with satisfaction, 'I may help you keep your moon after all. Not so bad for a slave-woman's daughter, is it?'

Riller had never known what it meant to be the offspring of a bonds-woman and her master until her father had kicked them both out when she was nine years old. Of course, he called it granting her mother freedom, but that was no easy road when you were penniless and unskilled. They'd moved to an outpost planet where the children called her slave-girl and threw rocks at her when she tried to go to school. They moved again and again, each time to a locale that was slightly better than the previous one. As prostitutes went, her mother was a good one. By the time Riller was fifteen, they lived in relative comfort. Her mother worked in a good house on Risa, with a stable clientele. She was able to hire a tutor so that Riller could catch up on her interrupted studies, and their life took on an air of normalcy except that Riller lied whenever someone asked her what her parents did. Now she cringed when she looked back on her pathetic attempts to cover her shame. With the perspective of years she'd learned to be proud of her mother's accomplishments. Prostitution paid well enough that her mother had been able to buy a share of a moon when she retired--no small feat. Riller still didn't tell people what her mother had done for a living, but for now it was for pragmatic rather than personal reasons.

'Look,' she frowned at herself, trying to stanch the flow of memory, 'stop living in the past, or the future. You've got a client to prepare, so get going.'

A day later, when she came to collect Q for the negotiations, he wasn't ready.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I can't decide what to wear," he answered petulantly. "I've never been to a negotiation before, and I'm not really sure what color will suit me best. Something somber," he held up a black suit for her inspection, "or something a little more vibrant, something that projects confidence." He waved another ensemble in front of her, a garish clown's suit of bright, clashing colors.

"Somber," she answered quickly. She was certain he was afraid; had she been in his position she would have been afraid also, but she didn't know what to say to reassure him, so she drilled him on how to behave once the negotiations were underway.

"Now remember," she was trying to move him along quickly because they were already late. "You are not to say a thing. *I* will do all the talking. And don't go near the Ferengi. If they try to approach you just turn and walk away. Don't even speak to them."

"I still don't see why not." Q objected. It was somewhat comforting to know what to expect, but he wasn't going to curtail his usual behavior just on her say-so, lawyer or not.

"The Ferengi use poison as a negotiating tool. I don't want you to get hurt."

"Oh, gods forbid," Q answered sarcastically. 'You money- grubbing piece of slime,' he added with silent venom. "You just don't want your meal-ticket slipping out of your grasp."

Harris didn't answer, and Q fumed all the way to the conference room. Just wait until he got his hands on whatever ungodly sum she was able to get for him. He was going to sue her for... something. He'd get back all the money that she'd weaseled out of him in his time of vulnerability. 'But wait,' he thought. 'What if she didn't ask for enough?' That notion was enough to terrify him into breathless silence for the duration of that morning's negotiations. He envisioned himself creditless on some streetcorner with a cup in his hand; an image that would have made him roar with laughter back when he had his powers, but now loomed as an all-too-possible future. He sat in his chair, seething with hatred for the universe around him in general, but specifically for his fellow Q who had done this to him. It would serve them right if he died alone and friendless in some back alley. They would feel miserable for the way they'd mistreated him. They would bring him back and beg his forgiveness, but it would be too late. He would hold it over their heads for ever and ever...

"Sir?" His evil lawyer nudged him out of his morbid reveries. "Wake up. We're breaking for lunch."

Q jumped slightly and looked around. He couldn't believe he'd dozed off. "Did we win?"

Harris smiled. "Not yet. We've only just started. Please come with me now."

She never let him out of her sight except to sleep, but at least she was polite about it. They went back to her quarters. "What would you like to eat?" she asked him.

Food again. "I don't know," he sulked. "Not pickles." He was learning the hard way that all foods didn't agree with him.

She ordered two rare roast beef sandwiches, but he turned up his nose. "Dead animals?" He asked disdainfully. Cooked flesh he especially avoided--even the smell made him nauseous. "I refuse. I want macaroni and cheese."

"Coming up," Riller answered with equanimity. She was thinking of how close she was to the biggest money of her life, and how she would dump this obnoxious little rodent the minute she got her hands on his cash. First he insulted her every chance he got, then in the middle of the opening rounds he'd fallen asleep! Old Ones but she'd wanted to kick him awake when she saw his head drooping. Kick him hard. Potentially the most brilliant scientist--the most brilliant mortal--alive, and he couldn't stay awake for three hours? Unctuous and coy, the Andorian negotiator suggested that perhaps he was nocturnal.

Everyone at the table smiled except Q, who nodded on, oblivious.

"He's been under a great deal of stress," Riller said in his defense.

Now, watching him pick at his food, she wondered why he always had to be so perversely disagreeable. Maybe it was a result of losing all of his apparently limitless former powers. Or maybe he was just a brat.

"Is there something wrong with your food?" she asked, watching him pick at it unenthusiastically.

He put his fork down. "This doesn't taste the same as when I had it in ten-forward."

"Would you like to go to ten-forward to get some?"

"No." He answered so quickly that she wondered what happened to him to give him such an aversion to the place. He was idly rubbing the back of his hand, but that wasn't much of a clue.

He put his plate back in the replicator, then hovered over it with indecision, obviously wondering what to do next.

"Try black beans and rice," she suggested.

He did. Took a taste. Put it back.

"Gnocci with Alfredo sauce?"

Same response.

"Spanikopita?" She was rapidly running out of suggestions for vegetarian human food. "Nocarian sap-moss?"

Finally one he could tolerate. "This is good. It tastes like..."

"Candy," she finished for him. "It is candy, but it's also got protein and vitamins in it."

"Do I want to eat protein and vitamins?" He asked dubiously.

"Of course you do," she answered easily. "Everybody does."

"Well *I* am not part of everybody," he announced, "And I think it's about time you realized that." But he'd picked up another piece.

"It tastes even better with cottage cheese and blackberry sauce," she suggested.

He ordered some, gulped it down. "You're right. That was good." He pushed himself up from the table. "Are we ready to go back yet? Tell me what happened when I... got distracted."

"Nothing important. We're almost finished dickering over the price of your dilithium flow regulator. I suggested that you were looking for a place to settle down but that wherever you went it had to be worth your while. They'll chew on that, and when we get back I'm going to outline your terms."

"I see. What are my terms?"

"Access to all publicly funded research facilities and any private research facilities that receive public funds," she said around her sandwich, "unrestricted travel, the right to negotiate on a per case basis for any inventions, discoveries, or products requested of you or any you may create of your own volition and clear title to same, military protection on demand, transtemporal and transpatial diplomatic immunity. That sort of thing."

Q was impressed. He wouldn't have thought of any of that. "Counselor Troi told me it's impolite to talk with your mouth full."

"She's right," Riller agreed mildly. "I shouldn't do it."

"That's very rude of you," Q said.

'Eat me,' Riller answered to herself. She'd learned from her mother how to wear a pleasant face, regardless of circumstance, and Q was certainly putting that skill to the test. 'As soon as I get my money,' she thought, 'it's curtains for you, you little cockroach.' It was remarkably gratifying to use her father's rough-hewn trader's speech on occasion. Of course, the down side was that it reminded her of her father. She smiled up at Q, none of her thoughts showing on her face. "Let me finish my sandwich, then I'll answer all your questions."

That was agreeable since he didn't have any more questions.

Staying on the Enterprise, Riller was reminded once again of why she was so happy living on Rigel Four. It was a hard planet, full of cutthroat venture capitalists who didn't care what color your skin was or where you came from as long as you did what they paid you to do. Here among the staid Starfleet types, Riller sensed a type of amazed condescension which was all too familiar from her days as an inadvertent tourist attraction on Risa. 'Look, Bill, that little Orionese girl has schoolbooks. Isn't that something? Can you read, Honey? Wonderful! Marvelous!'

The Federation representative, Riker, reminded her of those long ago tourists. He was extremely polite, but she could see that he was proud of himself for remembering to treat her like a real person, and she automatically hated him for it. The Klingon and Ferengi negotiators looked at her like they wanted to throw her over the table and have at her, but she was used to that. In a way she preferred it because it was a more honest response.

When Riker made a point to seek her out during a break in the negotiations, her automatic reaction was to become stiff and defensive.

"Tell me," he smiled down at her, all bluff geniality. "What made you decide to go to law school?"

Riller knew her smile did not look genuine, considered smoothing the distrust out of her expression, then decided to let it stand. The other negotiators were watching surreptitiously, and she didn't want the negotiations to be sidetracked by accusations of favoritism. She took a step back. "Why shouldn't I go to law school?"

"Well, I've never met an Orionese lawyer before, and if they're all as good as you are, I'm going to steer clear of them from now on."

'Good save,' Riller thought sourly. "Thank you, Commander. Would you excuse us, please?" It was obvious that he wanted her to stay around so he could mine her for her background, but she turned away. Q, who'd been glaring at Riker with undisguised hostility, turned with her.

"He has a point, you know," Q said when they were out of earshot. "I've never heard of an Orionese lawyer either, especially not an Orionese woman lawyer. I thought you were all busy being omnivorous sex toys or something."

She really was going to tear this brat a new asshole. "Mr. Q," she answered tightly, "you and Commander Riker need to curtail your curiosity and stick to the business at hand."

"But... " Q thought he might have found a chink, however small, and he meant to exploit it. "it's true, isn't it? I mean, traditional Orionese custom and all that."

"I still don't see what that has to do with anything. Unless you think it would help things along if I stripped and did a table dance."

"I don't know." Q was nonplussed and showed it. "Would it?" It's not how he would have done things, but he didn't really know much about mortal customs--maybe it would be useful.

"No!" Riller released her tension in a burst of laughter at Q's genuine confusion and Q was disappointed. "But the Ferengi would probably put in an offer for me as well. We don't want that."

"Why don't we?"

"Just trust me on this one, please?"

Despite her little encounter with Commander Riker, Riller was actually beginning to relax and enjoy herself. She'd done this sort of thing often enough to know there was a point in negotiations where all the parties began to play subtle and not so subtle one-upmanship games with one another. This, Riller knew, was when they gave things away without intending to, each trying to impress the others. The Ferengi blustered and postured; the Andorians offered bribes; The Klingon negotiator offered veiled and not-so-veiled threats; the Federation rep, Riker, tried to look amused and above it all, saying little. Riller suspected he knew where her true interests lay, and was holding out for the final rounds.

That evening she played a little game of her own, approaching the Andorian to ask where on Andor his family was from. He smiled broadly when she told him where she'd gone to school, and the two of them had a few moments' animated conversation before parting for their respective quarters.

"One of his clan-group was in my class," she told Q, having made sure to time her comment so that Riker would be sure to hear it.

"Big deal," Q answered. Andorians, he knew, had large families. He was probably related to everyone on his planet. "Do you intend to take his bribe?"

Riller grinned. "Oh, you heard that, did you?"

"How could I miss it?" He mimicked the Andorian's sibilant speech patterns, "'The additional benefits for your client and yourself would be quite considerable.' Obsequious toad."

"Well, hold your horses," Riller liked that phrase though she'd never actually seen a horse. "Let's wait until he puts an actual figure on it."

"You put a figure on it--on *me*," Q responded harshly. "I heard you tell him I was worth one hundred million Federation credits."

"You're may not get that much," Riller warned, completely missing Q's anger at being appraised like a piece of furniture. "Probably not even close."

"Why, because you're going to take it?" Q glared at her suspiciously. The greedy sow was probably going to steal half of it before he even saw a single quarter credit. He really was going to sue her. Perhaps he'd even get a law degree--if she had one it couldn't be hard--then he wouldn't have to trust anyone else with his money and his legal rights. His name would strike fear into the hearts of litigators everywhere.

Staring down at her, Q could see her green skin mottle with dots of deeper color. Satisfied that he'd finally managed to get a dart under her stolid exterior, he crossed his arms and waited for the explosion.

Riller noted the smug satisfaction in his expression and forced herself to calm down. She did not want to let this slur go unchallenged, but she would not yell at him in the middle of the corridor. "If I wanted to, I could steal *everything* I get for you," she answered silkily. "There's ways to do it legally, and there'd be no one to protect you. You have no friends here, no family, no lovers; no one to care whether I rob you blind or not."

To her horror, his eyes filled with tears.

Q turned and strode down the hallway towards his quarters. That last remark had stirred up all the thoughts he'd been avoiding as he'd tried desperately to pretend that this was all some temporary game he was choosing to play. In his mind he heard her say it over and over again: 'no family, no friends... no family no friends...'

Safe in the privacy of his room, he put his hands to his ears in a futile attempt to block out the sound. "Stop it," he whispered. "Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop." His chest was heaving, and he sank into the chair by his eating table, hands clutching his hair. "I can't do this," he whimpered. "I'm afraid."

The doorchime made him jump to his feet. "Come," he said in a voice that was almost normal. He still had not made the connection between tears and emotional pain, so he didn't think to wipe his face.

Harris looked mortified. "I want to apologize for that last remark, Sir. It was cruel and uncalled for."

Q shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he answered in a monotone. "I'm going to tell Captain Picard I accept his original offer."

All sympathy left her, the room going black before her eyes as rage and fear overwhelmed her. "You will do nothing of the sort," she hissed. She advanced on him threateningly, oblivious, for the moment of his greater size and strength. He couldn't do this to her, not when she was so close! "Toy with me," she snarled, "and I'll destroy you! Don't think I can't do it!"

Q took a step back, then another, afraid of this rampaging harpy. She was between him and the door, or he would have run.

"Calm down." He said the only thing that might save him from her. "I was only joking!"

Riller stopped abruptly, breathing in great shuddering gasps. With the sudden rush of adrenaline pumping through her, she felt unkempt and out of sorts. Angry Orionese exuded a pheromone which warned others to stay away or incited them to fight; Orionese females under stress sent out an olfactory cocktail of sexual musks. A genetic adaptation designed to appease and distract, it was a physiological response to danger that she could not control, but she could smell it on herself, and it made her feel slightly revolted. She wanted to scream or cry or fight, and she could do none of these things. She and Q glared at each other in a room that was suddenly far too small for safety. His lips were twisted in a disgusted sneer, but his eyes were wide and wary.

"Congratulations." Her breathing calmed somewhat, and her tone was returning to normal, but her face was still tight and angry. She attempted a smile, but only managed a grimace. "You finally managed to make me angry." She didn't know what else to say. She wanted to ask him whether he was really giving up or if this was another variant of his spur-of-the-moment attacks, but she didn't trust herself to behave civilly if he gave her the wrong answer. Riller ran a hand through her short hair, wondering if tomorrow would find her on a shuttle back to Rigel, sick with failure after having come so near her goal.

She backed away from him, trying to pull herself together. Her shoulders slumped slightly. "You know. There's a lot of things I could say to you right now, but I'm holding them all inside because you're my client and it wouldn't be polite." She turned away, trying to combat the sudden sense of impending defeat. "I'll see you in the morning," she sighed. "Try to be ready on time, please."

Q waited until she was gone before collapsing onto the bed. Harris's reaction stunned him, and he needed a few moments to recover. In the weakness of the moment, he really *had* intended to give up and take Picard's original offer; the suspense of the negotiations was wearing on him, and he simply wanted it to be over--to have *something* settled in his life. Harris had completely misunderstood, turning on him like a mad thing when he'd simply wished to discuss the matter.

Now he knew he couldn't talk to her about it at all, and he was beginning to feel he'd lost what little bearing he thought he'd had. It horrified him that he didn't understand why this should set her off when nothing else he said managed to disturb her aplomb.

And worst of all, he had to perform that urination thing again.

At least he thought he did. As he moved towards the bathroom, unknowingly wading through Harris' dense pheromonal output, the tingling sensation in his groin increased, disturbing him in a way he couldn't quite identify. His penis was pressing against his underpants, making him walk funny, and when he removed it from the seamed opening in the front of his jumpsuit, it seemed to move in his hands, lengthening as he touched it. No stream of urine appeared. He wondered for a moment if he'd forgotten how to do it.

Finally, standing there holding himself and feeling slightly foolish, he remembered that this was a symptom of arousal. The thought confounded him. Arousal was a prelude to sex, and was caused by stimulation of the erogenous zones. 'When had that happened?' Q wondered. He quickly reviewed the last twenty-four hours and decided that it hadn't.

'Great,' he thought, 'Apparently I'm some type of pervert.' The thought made his chest feel heavy, and his throat began to ache. In the miasma of conflicting physical signals, his body felt weak and shaky. When he'd had his powers he'd paid little attention to the varieties of human sexual expression except when he could use them to torture some poor mortal who was ashamed of his desires. Now he wondered if some unknown perversity had been hardwired into the body he'd adopted. He imagined himself lurking furtively through the halls of the Enterprise, going into paroxysms of shame and heat whenever some unexpected trigger caused him to react like this. How could he live knowing he had to endure this weakness? He flopped back onto his bunk, turning over to hide his face in the pillow. The movement was slightly stimulating, and without conscious volition he rubbed himself against the bedcovers. The sense of building pleasure returned with a vengeance, and he was acutely aware of how he must look, grinding himself against the mattress. He made a small, choked sound of embarrassment and quickly flipped himself onto his back again. This was the Continuum's fault. They'd given him a perversion that made him want to rub himself against bedcovers. After all, he'd been sitting on the bed when it happened a moment ago. He jumped up so quickly it made him dizzy. Standing in the middle of his room, his body a welter of confused signals, he wondered what could possibly go wrong next.

***

At the morning staff meeting, Riker gave an account of the negotiations, frustration evident in his voice. "Harris just sits there watching. The rest of us fall all over each other, raising the ante higher and higher because the list of technological advances Q claims to be able to facilitate just gets longer."

Picard automatically looked at Troi for confirmation. She'd been present, though silent, at some of the sessions.

"I get no sense that this is braggadocio, Captain. He genuinely believes he can do all these things. Taken together with his claims about knowing which planets have the greatest deposits of rare minerals, I can't imagine the Federation would be willing to pass him up, no matter what he costs."

Riker nodded, remembering the barely concealed greed on the Ferengi's face when he'd asked if Q knew which unclaimed planets contained the greatest latinum and dilithium deposits. Q started to answer but Harris thrust out a hand, restraining him.

"You're talking to *me*, remember? Now, what did you want me to ask my client?"

The Ferengi, seething at being addressed so highhandedly by a female, repeated his question.

Riker could see from Q's smugly gratified expression that he enjoyed the discomfiture he caused, even by proxy. Harris leaned in towards Q, turned on their scramblers and the two engaged in a brief but animated discussion, at the end of which she gave the Ferengi a single word answer: "Yes."

Despite himself Riker felt a moment's empathy towards the Ferengi negotiator. Safely hidden behind his ferret lawyer, Q watched the wrangling with blatantly mocking amusement. Harris commandeered his every waking moment, shielding him from any interaction with the negotiators. This had the unfortunate effect of protecting him from the results of his egregious behavior, and Q was quick to take advantage. Every smirk, every veiled expression of amused disdain, was a thorn in Riker's side; every lazily expansive gesture of faux goodwill only served to underscore Q's utter contempt for the mortals' frenzied scrambling after him and the knowledge he represented. If Harris only knew the kind of being she had taken as a client...

"Deanna," Riker pulled himself back to the present. "What's your impression of Riller Harris? What kind of person is she?"

Picard turned to him with a curious expression. "Why, Number One?"

"She seems to be a person of integrity. If she knew about the things Q's done, the deaths he's caused, might that be enough to make her change her mind about representing him?"

But Deanna was shaking her head. "That would be very much the wrong approach, Will. Remember, I got the strong impression that she wasn't doing this for Q but for herself. I don't even think she likes him very much."

"So she really is just in it for the money."

"Yes, but I don't think she'll cheat Q. If I'm right about her, she'll get him the best deal possible as a matter of personal honor."

"Oh, she'll do that, all right," Riker agreed ruefully. "The Andorians offered her a hundred million credits. She said she'd think about it."

That caused a stir around the table. Riker shook his head. "Then the Ferengi said they'd match that offer plus his weight in latinum."

"See to it that our offer exceeds theirs, Will," Picard ordered. "We've been given orders to acquire Q for the Federation and we haven't been given any leeway in this. I received a communication from Admiral Shanthi in which she stated that we have a great deal of latitude at our disposal in terms of what we're able to offer for him."

"Well, that's useful," Crusher said sarcastically.

"Actually it is, Beverly. If she only wanted money she'd have taken the Ferengi's offer," Riker explained. He turned to Picard. "I think she's really been aiming for a contract with the Federation all along."

"Explain, Will."

"It's the terms she's requested. Why ask for transtemporal and transpatial diplomatic immunity from the Ferengi, Andorian or Klingon governments. Q hasn't committed any prosecutable offenses against them. He's never been mentioned in any of the reports from those alliances"

"So you think by including those conditions she was offering a broad hint as to where her true interests lie."

Riker nodded. "We may be able to use that to our advantage."

"How so, Number One?"

Riker carefully hid his amusement. This was one area where the Captain's privileged background put him at a disadvantage. Picard never much thought about the cost of things; when he wanted something he bought it, usually the best there was, and that was the end of it. Regardless of what Shanthi said, however, Riker thought she'd prefer to acquire Q for the least amount possible. "She might come down on the price if we throw in some of the other things she's requested. Let me go and talk to her, Sir. I think I may be able to get us a deal."

"Very well," Picard smiled. "I'll trust your poker instincts to come through for us."

***

Riker knew he had not made a very good impression on Q's lawyer, but he didn't know what he'd said or done wrong. He knew she didn't like him, and he worried at the reason over a cup of coffee in ten-forward.

"Problem?" Guinan leaned an elbow on the bar, ready to listen.

"Mm, yes." Riker admitted. I need to make someone like me, and I'm not sure how to go about it."

"Well there usually needs to be some basis for mutual understanding in order for that to happen. Do you and this person have anything in common?"

"No." Riker looked up at her with dawning amazement, wondering how he could have been so blind. "Not only that, but I haven't taken any of her feelings into account." He stood up. "I've been assuming she was like me..." He paused abruptly, frowning at himself. "No... that's not it either." He looked into Guinan's deep brown eyes, "I've been assuming she *should* be like me. I've been a pig!" he said in the horrified tones of someone who's just committed an embarrassing faux pas. He jumped up and headed towards the door. "I have to go apologize."

Guinan looked after him with mild confusion. "Glad I could help."

***

When he got to Harris' room, Riker was direct and to the point. "I need to apologize to you," he began without preamble. "I didn't realize how easy it was to talk down to someone until I heard myself doing it to you, and I'd like to ask your forgiveness."

Riller was actually rather impressed. "You realized it, *and* you've come to ask forgiveness for it. I would have never expected that of you, Commander." She inclined her head. "Forgiveness granted."

"Thanks," Riker smiled ruefully. "You know, when we're cadets they teach us in all but words that we represent the pinnacle of Federation achievement, and sometimes it's hard to see any other point of view."

She smiled back. "I could tell." She tilted her head towards the table. "Won't you have a seat?"

Riker sat, accepted her offer of a cup of tea, and they drank in silence until he took a deep breath and plunged in.

"You know, there was another reason I came to see you."

Harris put her cup down and looked at him, her lips curving up slightly. Riker relaxed suddenly, in control and in his element now. He'd seen that cat-in-the-henhouse grin across many a poker table, and he knew the smile on his own face was just as calculating.

"Do tell, Commander." Harris was very collected, he'd grant her that.

"The Federation has no intention of letting Q go, no matter what we have to do to keep him."

"That wouldn't be a threat, would it?"

"Never!" Riker smiled ruefully. "We're at your mercy and we know it. But you know, I've been thinking about this. Neither the Ferengi, the Klingons nor the Andorians seem to realize just how valuable Q is, and how rare. None of them even offered security arrangements, as if you'd mentioned them just to be difficult. They seem to think throwing money at him is enough." Riker shook his head in apparently sincere amazement. "They probably figure he can raise his own defense forces with all that money. Train them. Feed them. House them. I wonder what something like that would cost." He said, his voice full of innocent curiosity.

Riller loved this. She absolutely lived for it. "You know that doesn't matter. My client is potentially worth billions. He's worth billions now. All he has to do is remember where he put the unclaimed planet with all the dilithium on it."

"Then why are you asking so little? Sounds to me like you can't be too sure of him?"

This man was good. She wasn't sure of Q at all; she was playing a hunch, which was why she'd been so careful with the terms of her contract with him. Riller shrugged. "No point in being greedy. Wherever we look, there'll always be more money."

Riker nodded. If this supposed dilithium planet really existed, and Q found it, he'd have more money than god.

"Think about it," Harris seemed to follow his thoughts. "If he were forced to go to the Ferengi, for example, all they'd have to do is claim a planet, any planet, and the price of dilithium would sink like a stone. Think of how badly that could de- stabilize the Federation economy. Now imagine the Ferengi being able to yank your chain like that any time they wanted, courtesy of my poor, confused client who means well, of course, but doesn't know anything about the hard realities of the marketplace. Think of the effect that would have on the Federation. On Starfleet. On your career and reputation if you let that happen."

Riker could picture this sector of the galaxy run by Ferengi and the image wasn't pretty. The Federation's economic stability was something he'd always taken for granted, and it was only this very moment that he really thought about the long-term consequences of Q falling into Ferengi hands. 'Put yourself in their place, Will,' he thought, 'If you were a Ferengi you'd use him to de-stabilize the Federation economically, then you'd carve up the spoils.' Will realized he'd underestimated her, and worst of all, it showed. He was playing this one badly, and he was grateful Picard wasn't here to see it.

"So you see, Commander, it is to the Federation's advantage to guard Q most assiduously. You yourself pointed out that he's rare and valuable. I would think you'd be jumping over yourselves to provide him with all the security he wanted, under whatever terms he wanted it. If the Ferengi, or anyone else for that matter, were to try to steal him..." She shrugged. "Of course you may have a different point of view altogether. If you do I'd love to hear it."

Outplayed indeed. "You know, when you put it like that, it's very easy to see your point of view."

Riller stilled her excitement, thinking, 'By the Three, this is going to work.' "And when you consider how much he'll add to the body of scientific knowledge... I wouldn't want to have to explain to all those scientists that you lost him because you couldn't guarantee his safety."

Riker shook his head admiringly. Never give up the opportunity to learn from a master. "Do you play poker by any chance?"

She looked bewildered. "I am in deadly earnest, Sir. Please, save the mild flirtation for another time."

Riker cleared his throat, suddenly eager to get out of that room. "I'm authorized to tell you that the Federation will accede to your terms. Draw up your documents. We'll sign them."

Riller nodded as if she'd expected nothing less. "I assume both you and your captain have Federation signature authority?"

"In this case? Captain Picard will sign the agreement. Definitely."

"I'll need a copy of the authorization documents." Despite himself Will smiled at her, and she smiled back, understandingly. It was always prudent to let your boss commit the Federation to a hundred million dollar expenditure, a security logistics nightmare and a blanket pardon of a notorious criminal. Besides which, it *was* his job.

***

Q woke to the persistent queeping of his doorchime.

"Who is it?" He demanded blearily.

"Sir?"

Oh. Riller Harris was the only person in existence who called him that. She called him again, her voice soft and urgent. "It's me. Let me in, please."

"Ummmmm." Q groaned and stretched. He liked stretching, so he did it again twice before getting up. "Wait."

He replicated a robe and fiddled with the belt, tying the knot just so before calling her in.

"I hope you've come to apologize for your barbaric display of temper last night." He drew himself up very straight, looking down at her with what he hoped was a cold, forbidding stare.

Harris pushed past him to lay three padds on his table. She held a fourth one up for his inspection.

"Guess what?" She seemed entirely too cheerful for eight thirty in the morning. "We got it. We got everything, *and* all the money. You should have seen the way he rolled over. I couldn't believe it."

Rolled over? That sounded like calisthenics. "What are you babbling about now, Harris?" He was hungry and out of sorts, and he wanted something to stop the grinding sensation in his stomach. An apple, maybe, or more Nocarian sap-moss.

She waved the padd. "We got the Federation deal!"

Thank you, Riller Harris! "Is that it? Of course we did. That's what I hired you for, isn't it?" He demanded petulantly. "You had to wake me out of a sound sleep to tell me this?"

"Sir, I got you eighty million credits. Aren't you a little bit excited?"

"Is that a lot?"

Harris snorted. "You could live comfortably on that for a year or two."

"A year's salary?" Q was outraged. "That's all you managed to get for me?"

Riller walked over to his terminal. "Computer. Display average salary, Makropyrios Institute research scientist."

A eighty-nine, a comma and three zeros appeared.

"Computer, subtract that amount from eighty million and display."

Q peered over her shoulder. "See the difference in those two numbers?" Riller asked. "Most research scientists manage to live good lives and raise families on eighty-nine a year. You've got almost a hundred times that much."

Q was impressed despite himself. He remembered that he'd been about to give himself away for that paltry scientist's wage and he had to steel himself against the swell of gratitude he felt. This woman had saved him from a life of penury. "I suppose you'll be wanting your cut now," he offered grudgingly.

"I already got mine," she said, unwittingly ridding him of his onerous burden of indebtedness.

"Greedy woman," he accused her.

"That's me," she quipped, too happy to be more than slightly irritated with him.

"Computer," Q had a wonderful idea. "Display annual salary, Jean-Luc Picard."

One hundred-twenty-nine thousand, four hundred thirty two and twenty-seven hundredths.

Q stared at that figure, feeling an unholy glee rising in him. He would buy the poor captain a gift. Nothing too fancy, just a little something to show his appreciation.

***

The freighter captain was respectful and polite, but insistent. His package was to be hand-delivered into the care of one Jean-Luc Picard. No it could not be beamed aboard, there was a code thirty-nine interdict against that.

"Code thirty-nine," Picard repeated. That was the code used for articles of significant historical or anthropological value to the Federation; articles that might be damaged by use of a transporter beam. He began to grow excited despite himself. Perhaps something from Professor Galen's collection... With Worf to accompany him, he hurried down to the cargo bay, thumbed his receipt of the gigantic, unwieldy box, then proceeded with exaggerated caution to open it.

Riker and Troi, too curious to wait, came down to the cargo bay to find him standing in front of a large clay statue, reverence and stupefaction plain on his face.

"What is it?" Riker asked.

Caught in that peculiar state between rage and laughter, Picard could only hold out the handwritten note in his hand. "'By way of saying thanks for everything,'" Riker read, "'one of the terra cotta warriors from the tomb of the Emperor Ying Zheng of the Qin Dynasty, 210 BCE, China. Love and kisses, Q.'"

The culprit, of course, was long gone.

***

The day he got his windfall, Q received a visit from Q. He didn't notice at first because the entity materialized without the customary flash of light. The second Q leaned against the wall for several moments, waiting for Q to notice him.

"How the mighty have fallen," he finally drawled.

Q looked up, startled, then he glowered. "Come to gloat?" He stood up, turning around slowly. "Well, this is all of me. Get a good look."

Q2 shook his head, shaggy blond locks falling across his eyes. "This is the thanks I get? I got rid of the Calamarain for you. The least you could do is show some gratitude."

"Hardly likely since you probably sent them in the first place."

Q2 grinned. "Guilty as charged. That's what I came to talk to you about. Now that you're essentially powerless," he barely bothered to keep from gloating, "you're way too easy to damage. So we've decided to be nice. Not that you deserve it, but since we're in a charitable mood, and since you have no choice but to take our charity," he paused, lingering over his insulting words, "we've decided not to let anyone else know where you're located."

Q2 walked around him in a slow circle, shaking his head. "Poor Q. So helpless that the rest of us have to pitch in and save him from his mistakes." He shook his head with every appearance of sincere sympathy. "You should thank us, really."

Q was almost sick with anger. To *thank* them? Unthinkable! "When I get back..."

The second Q lifted a finger. "Ah, ah, ah. *If* you get back..."

"What do you mean, 'if'? I always got back before."

"Yeah, well that's the problem. There have been too many 'befores'. Stick out this human thing to the end and we might take you back. But as your mighty lawyer would say, 'wimp it, and you're toast, buddy'." Q2 drew a finger across his throat to make his point. "You know, you should stick with her. She could teach you a thing or two."

He waved a mocking 'bye-bye', and disappeared in a flash of light.

Q was confused now, as well as angry. A thing or two about what? "Wait! Come back!" But he was yelling into an empty room. Q2 was gone.

Q would not admit to being grateful that the Continuum would prevent further attacks. He would and did, however, sulk about the unfairness of the sentence he'd been handed. He'd stewed and fretted all the way to Risa. Bearing in mind Q's cryptic suggestion, he'd asked Harris to accompany him. Now he wasn't sure it was such a good idea. Still excited about their victory, she was bringing up the topic up yet again.

"Does winning always make you this garrulous?" Q asked irritatedly. He didn't like talking about her coup because it reminded him of exactly how helpless he'd been without her. "Or are you doing this because you know I don't want to hear about it anymore?"

Q had a point, Riller had to admit, but she wasn't home on Rigel, and he was the only one to whom she could tell this story, though obviously he didn't enjoy it as much as she did.

"I'll stop, Sir."

"And stop calling me 'Sir'. It sounds stupid."

Riller shook her head. "That would be inappropriate. You can call me Riller if you want, but I can't call you by your name, it wouldn't be right."

"No? You're telling *me* no? You *work* for me, remember?"

Riller stopped herself from giving him a sullen glare. How could she forget? He reminded her every chance he got. "Sir, it's precisely because I work for you that I have to address you formally."

"Explain." Q found he could get lots of information by that one simple command, and he worked it for all it was worth.

Riller took a breath. It wasn't that simple, actually. She could call him Q if she wanted, but she preferred the distance and formality of addressing him by a title. Here on Risa, or anywhere for that matter, an Orionese woman travelling with a wealthy human male could easily be mistaken for his doxy. She wanted to avoid giving that impression as much as possible.

"If we call each other by first names," she answered, "it makes us sound like we're friends and we're not. We're employer and employee."

Q was unexpectedly hurt. He hadn't been extending friendship, had he? "Well, *employee*, did you find me a house yet?"

Riller brightened. Since arriving on Risa, Q'd indulged himself in an endless round of conspicuous consumption. He'd decided that one of her duties was to accompany him on his spending jaunts, for which he was paying her extremely well. She had to admit, it was gratifying to walk into stores she'd never dared enter before and watch the clerks fall all over themselves when they saw Q's bank balance. Q was treated like a god, which was appropriate, she supposed, and as his assistant, she received her share of obsequious fawning. Two insanely zealous security guards helped round out the impression of wealth and importance.

When he said he wanted to buy a house here, the real estate company assigned them a personal broker who dropped all her other clients to work with him. She promised to find him the perfect home and didn't mind at all that he dithered and dallied, unable to define perfection to his satisfaction. Riller, however, was getting tired of trying to accommodate his demanding standards. She had things to do, and as soon as she got him situated she wanted to be off and doing them.

"I got something I think you'll like," she offered with cautious enthusiasm. "It's secure and private, the grounds have enough room for you to have your own lab built, and they'll let us change the zoning laws in order to build that flitter pad you wanted."

Q sighed theatrically. This whole business of buying things was extremely trying. First he had to pore over swatches with the new tailor, the old one having been fired because Q didn't like his tone of voice. Then he'd had to select an array of footwear and pick through all those colors and styles and materials. Now he had to buy a house. Decisions, decisions. Well, a poor mortal could only do his best.

"Okay, let's see it." He reached for the portaholo, automatically recreating it mentally so that it looked nicer and worked more efficiently. For a moment his enthusiasm completely failed him as he shaped the improved design with his empty hands. It was a strange, sad feeling, knowing that he should be able to create something just by thinking about it, but couldn't. He noticed Riller carefully looking away and realized his eyes had filled with tears again. It happened occasionally, but by tacit agreement they ignored this revolting ocular discharge until it went away.

He blinked his eyes clear, touched the control, and the holo images materialized around him. Rooms appeared and disappeared as the real estate agent walked through the house. "This home, closed since the last century, was the Risan residence of Carter Winston, dilithium dealer and fine arts collector. Easily the most palatial residence on this planet, it was created with the highest quality materials and craftsmanship. It's even been rumored that Winston actually travelled through time to find stone-carvers who could do justice to the rare Darean marble that graces the grand foyer from floor to ceiling." The agent smiled conspiratorially. "Whether that story is true or not, these bas- relief sculptures have the rare distinction of being carved from the two largest single blocks of Darean marble ever discovered."

As the broker prattled on, Riller watched Q out of the corner of her eye. She was beginning to be able to read Q's signals, and she suspected he was very interested. Once salespeople learned that he was easily swayed by words like rarest, biggest, best, and most expensive, he was very easy to handle. He could have sent for merchants to come round to his hotel suite, but he liked audiences and would hold court for hours while managers and clerks danced attendance. Riller played along, watching the managers cringe in horror when she coughed discreetly and mentioned that they had an appointment at that merchant's competitor.

"My goodness where has the time gone," Q would exclaim. He would jump to his feet and sweep towards the door, then pause and turn around, reveling in the pained, suspenseful silence that accompanied his imminent departure. "Oh hell," he would say, gesturing dismissively, "wrap it all and send it to my hotel."

Then he would smirk, watching the manager breathe a sigh of relief before making his grand exit through doors which were always held open for him.

Riller thought he was unnecessarily cruel, but she admired the way he performed. He was good at playing the hotshot; this house should be perfect for him.

Q didn't even wait until the holo was finished. "Get it," he told Riller, and she nodded and went to the comm.

Thinking of her commission, the broker was so overcome she actually started crying.

"Tell her I'm moving in tomorrow," Q called out from his chair.

"Did you hear that?" Riller asked the tearfully grateful young woman.

"I'll beam right over and get his authorization," the woman said. A minute later, Q owned the finest home on Risa.

"Have my things moved from the hotel," he ordered the broker.

"We don't usually do that," she started to say. Q glared down his nose at her, and she capitulated immediately. "But I think we can make an exception in your case."

When she left, Q looked over at Riller. "Now that's how you get things done," he pointed out. Then he noticed she had her cloak on. "Where are you going?"

Riller turned to face him. "You plan on sleeping in a bed tomorrow night?"

For a horrible moment Q thought she was making an oblique reference to his episode with the bedcovers. What had he done to give himself away? "Why?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because if you do, I'd better go buy one."

"Oh!" Relieved, he tossed her one of the hundred thousand credit chips he left scattered around. "By all means shop away. And make sure you get something I'd like. Should I come with you?"

"Why don't you stay here and finish looking at that holo," she suggested.

As she hoped, he was immediately distracted. "Good idea." But he had to give her more orders or he just wouldn't have been Q. "Make sure you're back soon. We still have to decide what to eat for dinner."

"Okay." Riller's back was turned so he couldn't see the expression on her face. She slipped out the door and immediately felt a weight lifting from her shoulders. She threw her head back, sighing her relief. Q's guards gave her expressions of veiled sympathy and she smiled back in acknowledgement. Running her hands through her hair, she moved quickly through the hotel. This was her first moment away from him since they'd met, and she wanted to make the most of it.

Riller stopped to speak to the concierge, telling it to buy two beds, pillowcases, sheets, blankets, etcetera, and ship them to Q's new address. Their hotel was, naturally, located in the most exclusive district on Risa, but Riller wanted to find someplace where the atmosphere wasn't quite so rarified, maybe a pub where she could nurse a beer in a quiet corner.

Q wasn't very fond of Riller, but he was beginning to understand why Q2 thought she'd be good for him. She was dependable. She found things for him, did things for him, and she was a calming, reliable presence, but as she'd so acridly pointed out when he'd made his one overture of friendship, they were boss and worker. When she didn't return after half an hour he grew irritated. She was derelict in her duties, leaving him alone like this. He planned a series of scathing putdowns, in which he would point out her privileged position as his employee and call into question her fitness to serve a being of his stature.

When the half hour stretched into an hour he began to panic. There was something he could do, something about calling Risan security and reporting a missing person, but he didn't know how. His personal security guards were right outside, but he knew they would not leave his presence. He was just getting ready to put on his cloak and go out looking for her when she came breezing in, a happy smile on her face.

"You won't believe what I found," she said, then she caught the expression on his face. "What's wrong?"

"Where've you been?" He demanded.

She started to bristle, then she noticed the tears on his cheeks. "I went for a walk. It was nice out."

"You didn't ask me if you could. I thought something happened."

He'd been frightened, she realized. In that moment she got her first inkling of just how much power she could have over him. Her thoughts spun with possibilities, but she shrugged them off. His pain and vulnerability were as genuine as his arrogance, and it would be beneath her dignity to take advantage. She simply wouldn't do it.

Riller wasn't much good at soothing anxiety, her own or anyone else's, but she made an earnest attempt. "I'm sorry I frightened you, Sir, uh... Sir, but you're going to have to get used to the fact that I have to go away sometimes."

"Why? Don't I pay you enough?" He asked harshly.

"It doesn't have anything to do with how much you pay me," she said. She was trying to reassure him, but his eyes went wide and panicky, and more tears flowed. He wiped them away absently. If it wasn't the money thing, what was it? And what if she did it again?

Riller knew she was making things worse, but she didn't know what else she could tell him. "You need to blow your nose," she pointed out.

Q stared at her blankly. Blow his nose?

"Go to the bathroom and clean your nostrils," Riller elaborated. He went. She heard him puffing ineffectually and felt a moment's exasperation. Couldn't he do *anything* without her help?

"Blow harder," she called through the door. She listened briefly. "Harder!"

This time he produced a good solid honk. "Nice one!" She encouraged.

He came out of the bathroom, his expression a mixture of embarrassment and disdain. "Am I correct in thinking you are probably the crudest person in this solar system?"

She shrugged. "Probably, but you knew I was from Rigel."

"Explain," Q demanded.

"I'm trying to explain," she said, but she sat down and didn't say anything further. She mistakenly thought he still wanted to know why she had to go away, and she was unwilling to discuss the details of her personal life.

Q perched on the arm of her chair and crossed his arms, regaining his composure. "I'm listening."

He overwhelmed her, looming over her like that, and she jumped up and moved to the sofa.

His eyes were still hard. "Well?"

Where to begin? She could tell him the truth: 'I have to pay my mother's taxes because she and her friends saw fit to move back to Orionese territory when she retired, and a group of independent ex-prostitutes is too big a challenge for the status quo.' Nope. Too personal. She opted to tell the end of the story. "I have to go back to Orion and pay taxes."

"What?"

"I have to go pay taxes," she repeated. Was he going deaf now?

Was she lying to him? "But you're a Federation citizen, right?"

She folded her arms and looked away from him, stubbornly not speaking.

Q scrutinized her carefully. Obviously she wasn't telling him everything, and just as obviously he was going to find out what she was holding back. Her reticence was a deliberate attempt to thwart him, and he resented it. Besides, what did any of that have to do with being from Rigel, or the fact that she disappeared without telling him?

Riller was sneaky. He was going to have to watch her. Aloud he merely asked her what was on the menu for dinner that night.

Riller smiled in spite of herself. They always had to look over the menu so she could explain the components of the food they ate. No way was Q going to embarrass himself by ordering something then finding out he couldn't eat it. Q wasn't fond of food, but liked to sound like he knew what he was talking about when they presented him the menu. In the hotel restaurant he swelled visibly when the maitre'd rushed over to give him an effusive greeting and lead him to the best table in the house. Q dressed splendidly and he tipped well, somehow managing to confer his regality on any establishment he graced with his presence. It was fascinating to watch the effect he had, and Riller wondered how he managed it and why it was necessary. She herself simply wanted a meal.

"So." They'd eaten and Q had been lionized over. Now he felt comfortably relaxed and sleepy. "What was so important that it kept you away for a whole hour?"

Riller smiled. "I found my old neighborhood. Where my mother and I used to live."

"Really." Q was disappointed. He'd thought it had something to do with him. "Did you find my bed?"

He noticed that some of the animation drained from her face. "Yes, I found you a bed." She looked at him solemnly and dared the subject that had so irritated him earlier. "Sir. I really do have to arrange for a trip to Orion soon, but don't worry. I'm not going to leave until I get everything taken care of here."

He didn't want her to leave at all, and he was also confused and distracted by the non-event that had just taken place. There had been warmth between them for a moment, and now it was gone. He had done something, or not done something, and she was back behind her formality. He was unpracticed at dealing with human feelings, but he somehow knew he couldn't say 'be like you just were' and have it happen. The more pressing issue, however, was this idea she had about going away. "You still have an awful lot to do, you know."

"I'm working on it," Riller took another sip of her mugwort soda, "but I'm going to need your input on a lot of it."

"Explain," Q commanded idly. He pretended to be staring out the window, but he was listening carefully. He would use any excuse to keep her with him as long as possible; if she was simply going to hand him ammunition to use against her... he could balk and dawdle and delay so effectively that she would never get off Risa.

"The first thing we have to do is find you an accounting firm..."

Oh, thwarting this was a non-problem. Q couldn't imagine anything he'd loathe more than dealing with a stuffy little bean counter, and he said so.

"I've located a Zakdorn firm that's supposed to be pretty good."

"Fine," Q muttered. "See to it." Then he remembered he was supposed to be delaying her. "No, wait. I want to interview the firm's president."

"It's run by partners, Sir. There is no president."

A bureaucracy. Excellent. "Send for all of them, then. If they want to count my money for me, they have to convince me that they're worth it."

"Sir, there are three thousand partners on four hundred and nineteen different worlds. I've sent for the head of the Risan branch to come for an interview."

Q scowled. How much money did he have to make before people did what he wanted? He thought of Carter Winston, the dilithium dealer who'd once owned his house. Well, he knew where there was lots of dilithium. At least, he thought he remembered where it was, and he was going to go get it all and sell it and get lots and lots of money, then everyone would have to pay attention to everything he said.

Riller had no idea why the mention of accounting should upset him, so she slogged on. "You'll also need a personal secretary. I have to find some people for you to interview, but we'll do that after we get you moved in."

Another easy one. He was good at terrifying people. He pictured one person after another running away from the interview in tears.

"Next." In the window's reflection, he noticed the waiter hovering patiently just out of earshot in case Q should want anything else. Q let him hover, pretending not to see him.

"We have to hire someone to build you a laboratory."

Excellent. This could take years and years. Q smiled. Riller was amazingly easy to manipulate.

Three weeks later, Riller was ready to leave and Q was panicking. His personal secretary was scheduling a series of interviews with Federation scientists, his chef was cooking, his gardener was gardening and his roboserver dusted and picked up his clothes wherever he dropped them. He'd adjusted so well to the constant presence of his security guards that he didn't even see them anymore.

Now he sat in his office which was bigger than the Enterprise bridge, behind his handcarved vulawood desk which was the only one of its kind in the sector, staring blindly at his computer screen. He had access to every library database to which he was legally entitled (and, courtesy of Riller, a few he wasn't). He'd read up on Orionese history and culture, confirming his low opinion of them, and he'd snooped through all the files he could find on Riller Harris with patient thoroughness. So why couldn't he figure out why she had to go to Orion and pay taxes? Why couldn't she just send the taxes? Several times he'd almost broken down and asked her, but it would sound too much like he was worried about being by himself.

Q ignored the little voice that candidly pointed out that he *was* afraid. If he started thinking about it his eyes would leak again, like the time when the gardener (best in the business) hadn't heard of any of the plants Q mentioned. When Q remembered that most of the foliage he liked came from planets humans hadn't yet discovered, his eyes made that pesky fluid. The gardener looked at him very peculiarly then stiffly looked away like Riller always did.

Deliberately turning to a wholly different train of thought, Q called up the roster of scientists who were scheduled to visit him. He skimmed their published works and reviewed their bios, dividing them into two categories: real people and chowderheads. He was very unforgiving. The list of chowderheads was very long.

When Riller came in to tell him she was leaving, she found him hunched over his desk making notes to himself.

"I'm going with you," he said without looking up.

That took her completely by surprise. "Really? You... really?"

Q hadn't known what he was going to say until he said it, and he'd spent the last three seconds in absolute terror of her refusal. Now he looked up at her, utterly amazed by her reaction.

"Is there any reason why I shouldn't?"

'No,' Riller thought, 'except I was really looking forward to being away from you for a little while.' Then she saw the fear behind his overbearing pomposity. "You might not like it," she warned.

"Well there's nothing to do here until the scientists come," he pouted, "and besides, I can't hear myself think with all that racket."

There was no racket. The builders had dropped a noise- curtain around the site and only the merest whisper of sound penetrated their living quarters. Not only that, some of the scientists were already on Risa waiting for him, but any excuse was better than admitting he was scared to be by himself.

Riller was resigning herself to being stuck with him when she realized this might be a blessing in disguise. Lone women did not have an easy time of it on Orion, and if Q were with her she would not have to bargain for an escort. She looked at him and smiled. "That would be fine. If you don't mind. I mean, it *really* is not a very nice place. Really."

Q watched in disbelief. For Riller the Stoic this was practically babbling. He wondered uneasily if Orion really was as bad as it sounded. He'd seen fit to avoid it, so he didn't exactly know what it was like. She might very well be exaggerating. "I'm sure the security guards will protect us from any untoward happenings," he murmured.

"Oh that's right, the guards!" Riller exclaimed happily. She'd forgotten they'd have security. "This will really be terrific."

'Great,' Q thought sourly. He hated this already.

***

The starliner Tarpian was easily the most luxurious vessel Riller had ever travelled in. Their suite was so large that she, Q, their six guards, and Q's gigantic collection of datachips all fit inside it with room to spare. Sometimes, when she was alone, she simply walked around the rooms, thinking, 'Look at me. A slavewoman's daughter actually travelling on the Tarpian. Who ever thought this could happen?'

It was a wondrous thing, and she was grateful for Q's careless generosity towards her though she knew he'd done this more for his own comfort than hers. Her original travel plans were much more modest: a berth on a cargo carrier and a five-day meal chit. Q flatly refused to set foot on it, and scolded her for booking passage on such a rancid old boat, truly incensed that she'd elected such a miserable mode of transportation. He made his secretary postpone all his appointments and find them a decent ship; the Tarpian as it so happened. Now he was off running around the hallways, playing the role of the mysterious, unapproachable stranger. Riller was content to let him. She enjoyed playing pretend, but not like this--not among so many people who truly were what they seemed to be. She was out of place here, and even though she loved watching the beautiful, wealthy people who mingled and tried to catch Q's eye, all the imagination in the world couldn't make her one of them.

Q, on the other hand, was like an adventurous little boy. Guards in tow, he roamed from deck to deck, coming back every few hours to tell her why this ship was so much better than the Enterprise, and to demand explanations for things he heard, overheard or mis-heard. When he wasn't asking questions, changing clothes, or looking things up on his computer, he was harping at her to come out with him, buy new clothes, go to the beautician and get her hair done like the other women did.

Riller liked to see him enjoy himself, and she ignored the nagging. "What you forget," she told one of the guards who derided his silly behavior, "is that he's only about a month old."

Besides, when she thought about his naivete, she felt guilty, especially in light of his generous offer to accompany her to Orion. She wanted to tell him how much it meant to her, but she was already losing her professional mien around him, and that was unpardonable. Their formal relationship would only disintegrate further if she unburdened her feelings on him. Q was a pain, but that was no excuse. 'No more sarcasm in your voice,' she told herself sternly, 'and no more losing your temper like you did on the Enterprise.' He should have fired her for such a flagrant breach of professional ethics. He probably would have if he'd known he could. 'But you're letting him come with you to Orion, something you shouldn't do at all,' she scolded herself.

But even though she couldn't have left him alone, she wondered if he would understand the nuances of what he was about to experience. She should at least tell him what to expect, but somehow she couldn't, even though her omission shamed her. Besides, what exactly could she say? 'Q, it's not fair or honorable of me to let you do this, but I'm going to do it anyway.' His commanding presence really might make all the difference between success and failure, and this was too important for Riller to risk failure.

'Getting a penis,' she thought, and smiled to herself. It was an Orionese woman's slang for acquiring the means to do something on her own; either indirectly: getting permission from the male who was responsible for her, or more straightforwardly: bribing a male to take her someplace she wasn't allowed to go alone. Riller could imagine Q's response if she told him she needed him for his arrogance and his genitalia. The thought was almost enough to make her laugh out loud.

***

By the time they'd gotten through customs, Q was angry with Riller and made no secret of it. First, she refused to get into the spirit of enjoyment, flatly declining to wear the pretty, shiny things he bought for her. Then she stayed alone in their suite almost the whole time, forcing him to make up for her reticence by mingling almost nonstop with the other passengers. She'd conveniently forgotten to tell him that people would smirk when he informed them he was destined for Orion, and then to add insult to injury, she'd actually brought him down here without warning him that the place was a reeking sty. Especially so when contrasted with a lovely vessel like the Tarpian, *the* starliner of choice for people in the know. Now he stared out the window of their rented all terrain shuttle, unable to fully express the depths of his revulsion.

"Why don't these people kill themselves?" He meant it.

"They don't know any better," she answered tersely. She hadn't known any better either, but she'd had a chance to escape. What misleading homesickness made her mother even think of coming back here? If she could, Riller was going to convince her to sell her place and leave.

Q was in an unforgiving mood. 'I should have wiped this planet clean and given some other species a stab at evolution,' he told himself. Then, as his eyes started leaking, he thought, 'Uh-oh, another one of *those* thoughts.' Moving quickly to another subject, he asked how long before they got to their hotel.

"We're not going to the hotel," Riller answered. "We're going straight to the tax assessor's office and we're going to pay the taxes and then we're going to get out of here."

That was fine with him. His belongings and the other two sets of guards were still waiting at the port, the better to hop on the first ship out of here, and this time he wouldn't be choosy. He was buying a ticket on the first thing that could get him away from this grimy excuse for a planet.

Conversation ceased altogether as they travelled deeper into the city. Every passing kilometer seemed to bring some new horror: a screaming child receiving a beating while onlookers watched passively; masses of beggars, each with their own creative disfigurement; decrepit, burned-out buildings; young children, some barely crawling, displayed for sale in slave markets. Every once in a while Riller would feel Q's eyes sidle over towards her. It took no great power of deduction to realize he was thinking, '*This* is where you come from?' She was embarrassed for her birth planet and wanted to explain that she hadn't lived like this, didn't like this. She knew, however, that talking about it only made it worse.

Finally they reached a large, municipal building with a pair of lethargic security guards standing in front of it. One of them approached and held his hand out.

Riller handed Q a credit chit, indicating with a gesture that he should hand it over. Q opened a side panel and dropped the money out the window. The guard caught it and motioned them through. Behind her, Q's guards made faint noises of protest and disgust.

"Welcome to Orion," Q sneered. For once he did not care about the impression he made: he simply wanted to leave. He wondered how Riller had endured this squalor, and he was supremely happy that he didn't have to live like this. He missed his house and now he wished he'd never left. 'It's better to be rich,' he figured out. He decided to get more money, buttress himself against the possibility of ever having to see a place like this again.

He stepped out of the ATS with his sneer firmly planted in place, glaring at the gatekeeper who, like everyone else on this planet, had his hand out for a bribe. Q dropped a large tip in his hand and the man exclaimed his thanks with a toothy grin. Something moved in the shadows of his gatekeeper's hut; a woman of indeterminate age, dressed in a tawdry slave-girl's costume. She tilted her head at him seductively and smiled.

Q felt his flesh crawl. "Can we please get this over with as quickly as possible?"

Riller didn't answer. She seemed to be folding in on herself, but she stumped along grimly, leading him through a rabbit's warren of hallways and cubicles until they got to the tax assessor's office. The man didn't even bother to look up.

"Wait outside," he ordered.

Never one to miss the opportunity for a grand gesture, Q reached into a pocket and dropped a scant handful of hundred- credit chits on the man's desk.

In the space of a heartbeat the assessor's attitude changed from truculent to servile. "What can I do for you, Sir?"

Q gestured to Riller, stiffening at the man's open appraisal of her.

Riller had no time to explain that by Orionese standards, the man was being cordial. "We've come to pay the assessment on Lathklaah ninety-three." She hoped Q did not mind her saying 'we' rather than 'I', but by now he surely understood she wouldn't get far if she appeared to be doing anything of her own volition.

He called the information up, his eyes widening slightly. "Oh, *that* Lathklaah!" His face took on an expression of sly amusement. "You know the taxes were raised on that moon. I doubt you'll ever have the money to pay what you owe."

"How much is it now?" Riller asked.

"Seventeen million, nine-hundred and eighty-three thousand."

Riller pulled out a data chip and silently handed it over.

Q watched in amazement. That was almost all the money she'd earned from him. It was almost as much as his house cost. Why was she doing this?

The man's smile grew uglier. "You sure about this?" He was almost openly smirking at them.

"Why?" Q and Riller asked simultaneously.

"No reason." He shuffled towards the door. "I'll get you your copy of the removal of lien."

Fifteen minutes later he was back, his attitude changed for the worse. He threw the document at them and smiled nastily, as if indulging in some secret joke.

Q snatched up the document and stalked out. Riller and the guards had to run after him.

"We *can* leave now," he said when she came abreast of him, "can't we?"

Riller shook her head apologetically. "I have to give this to my mother, then we can go."

He gave her an expression of outrage and amazement.

"Q, I have to. This was the whole reason I came. It won't take very long."

Q re-entered their vehicle with bad grace. It would serve her right if he took his guards and went home that very instant. The last thing he wanted to witness was a touching mother- daughter reunion--another thing she hadn't seen fit to tell him. Nasty, sneaky, underhanded Riller. He should really find a better lawyer. He opened a channel to the shipyard, asking for a list of all outgoing passenger ships. By the time he'd finished listening to the computerized recital of the current day's departures, Riller was pulling into parking orbit around a most unprepossessing little moonlet.

Q glanced out of the window, ready to be unimpressed, when his eyes widened and he did a double take. The large patch of burned ground was obvious to him, even from high above, and he knew at once what it meant. He turned to Riller, but her face held only happy anticipation. Q got the sudden feeling that she might be deeply and abruptly disappointed sometime in the very near future.

But that was not his problem, was it?

"You know," he began conversationally, "I accidentally lost a planet once..."

"What?" She was peering out the window now, looking for something that didn't exist. Q watched her check and recheck the coordinates, then bang her fist on the console in frustration.

"Stupid piece of machinery," she muttered.

Hating this, Q told her the coordinates were probably correct.

It took a moment before that sank in, and even then she resisted the truth. "They can't be. There's houses here. My mother lives here."

Q pointed. "Not anymore. She must have moved."

"No," Riller still disbelieved. "Not without letting me know." She brought the ATS in closer. The large burned patch was now obvious to her as well. They could make out foundation lines, and occasional patches of burnt rubble that had once been structures of some sort.

Q glanced over at Riller, fearful of some sort of outburst, but she surprised him. She brought the shuttle down at the very edge of the charred spot, then got out and walked into it, picking her way through the debris until she was out of sight.

Q and the security guards exchanged glances.

"Sir?" One of the guards asked, "You don't think she'll hurt herself in there, do you?"

"Of course not," Q answered dismissively, but he got out and followed the tracks she left. She was standing in front of what was left of a retaining wall, staring at a small break in the stonework. An entrance, Q realized.

He somehow couldn't make his voice work to call her away from there, so he walked up behind her.

She heard his footsteps. "My mother's house," she told him, not bothering to turn around.

Q knew what it was like to miss relatives. He didn't want to talk about it. "Come on," he nudged her. "There's nothing here anymore."

Riller nodded.

Q approved of her self-possession: no screaming and wailing, no wild imprecations to uncaring gods. Then she turned and he saw her face. She looked so lost, so broken, that Q had to quickly turn away, suddenly loathing the sight of her. Her expression reminded him of how he felt when he'd stood nude on the bridge of the Enterprise, making light of his reduced condition but wanting to scream with agony. The memories rushed over him, accompanied by scorching shame. He'd been like she was now--weak, without power--so unbalanced by his loss as to be almost numb with confusion and bewilderment.

'I can't feel this,' he thought desperately. He turned and strode back to the shuttle, wanting to put any distance he could between himself and her obvious grief. This did not touch him, wasn't touching him, couldn't touch him. He gazed at his reflection as he came upon the shuttle, taking reassurance from the image of the handsome, darkhaired man with the elegant bearing and beautiful clothes. That's who he was. He wasn't hurt. Didn't hurt. Past the lovely picture of himself, also reflected in the ATS' shiny exterior, he saw Riller double over under the weight of her anguish and sink slowly to the ground.

He turned and ran back to her before he had a chance to ask himself what he thought he was doing. She was going to get her clothes dirty, kneeling on the ground like that, so he leaned over, threw his arms around her shoulders and pulled her up against him. The minute he touched her he was caught in the storm of her feelings; his breath began shuddering in and out of him as he held on tightly. He was making hideous noises, but so was she, keening and snuffling against his chest and trying to pull away; a useless effort because he had her in a grip like a razorback clam.

"I'm sorry," Q wailed through his sobs. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

He wasn't talking to Riller. In fact, he had no idea who he was really talking to, but in the vague hope that apologies might remove pain, he offered them up to whoever was paying attention. Riller thought he was commiserating with her, and his apparent sympathy broke her down completely. She clung to him while they both cried and cried. The security guards looked out uneasily, searched for an identifiable threat, and when none was forthcoming, retreated to the back of the shuttle.

Q didn't see them. His face was buried against the side of Riller's head as he wept into her hair. This was frightening, this loss of control, and it was all Riller's fault. She was projecting her feelings onto him, causing an empathic reaction that made him feel her pain, forced him remember how alone he was, and how much he'd lost. She was a terrible lawyer, doing this to him, and he was going to get rid of her. He squeezed her more tightly, as if he would push the grief out of her body by main force.

Even in the throes of her sorrow, Riller couldn't help but be aware of how dangerously close Q was standing. She knew he was being subjected to her pheromonal discharge because his hands clutched at her, and even as he bawled, he was beginning to grind into her, seeking relief on several levels.

Riller finally managed to push him away. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "Q, I didn't mean to let that happen."

Let what happen? Confused and slightly nauseous, Q followed her back to their shuttle. He felt wearied by his outpouring of grief, but his body was strangely restive and jumpy. He wanted to do something physical, something hard and aggressive, and the strength of his feeling surprised him. He gave vent to it by excoriating the tax assessor.

"He took your money! He knew this had happened, had to know, and he didn't even see fit to warn you! Are you going to let him get away with that?"

Riller made a small gesture of helplessness. She had no stamina for another confrontation with the bureaucrats. "It doesn't really matter now, does it?"

"It most certainly does." With a concrete enemy, Q was galvanized into action. He took this very personally. "Take us back to the tax assessor's office."

Riller nodded and pulled the shuttle into the air. She looked broken, as if all light and life had left her body, but she was silent again, except for the occasional shuddering sob. Q on the other hand, was pacing restlessly, building up a full head of rage. When Riller put them down at the gate, Q jumped out and stormed off. His guards both let go a short oath and jumped out after him. Later he would be unable to remember how he'd navigated the twists and turns that led to the assessor's office, but he distinctly remembered bursting through the door, pinning the man to his chair with an expression of baleful outrage.

He knew he looked a sight, with his bloodshot, swollen eyes and tearstained cheeks, but he didn't care. He leaned over the desk, almost nose to nose with him. "Give her back her money or my guards will kill you."

The man gave him a contemptuous smile. "Too late. That money is already property of the government."

Q felt so angry it made him physically ill. He leaned over and grabbed the man by the collar, heedless of his lack of fighting skills, ready to pull the money out of him by main force if need be.

The assessor dropped a hand towards his knife, but he never got a chance to touch it. Q's guards shouldered past him, phasers drawn. Unlike the average Starfleet security types, these guards were more like programmed killing machines with artificially enhanced senses and reflexes. They were quick and aggressive, but they were not stupid. Their job was to protect Q from assassins and potential kidnappers, but not from interplanetary incidents, or from himself. By the time Riller came running up, one guard was trying gently but firmly to interpose herself between Q and the person he was trying to throttle. The other guard had disarmed the assessor and was holding a phaser to him while simultaneously dodging Q. The assessor was screaming and cursing.

It was an indictment of Orionese bureaucratic apathy that the tiny invasion force that was Q and his guards did not elicit a more immediate response. By the time Orionese security forces arrived, Riller and the security guard had pulled Q away from the assessor and he was actually fairly calm. Riller however, her emotions already close to the surface, was crying again, begging him to 'stop fighting, please.' The guards immediately assumed she was the cause of the trouble.

"Quiet, woman!" One of them raised a hand to her.

Q lunged. "Get away from her you piece of filth!"

Orionese custom saved him from being vaporized. The guard, assuming that as her owner, Q would naturally take offense if anyone else presumed upon his right to beat her, cringed and backed away, lowering his hand. Q took advantage of his retreat.

"Get his superior," he ordered, pointing to the assessor, "and get him now."

He planted his feet, folded his arms and stood waiting, authority incarnate. The Orionese guards stared, completely at a loss. Q raised an eyebrow, daring them to disobey.

"I'll go," one of them said. He left his fellow and disappeared down the hallway, but he came back with reinforcements. Q looked at them and shrugged. "I'm going to speak to someone in charge, and I'm not leaving until I do."

He was aware, as he stood there, that this was now a test of wills between himself and the Orionese bureaucratic machine, and he was beginning to realize that he could lose badly, but he couldn't back down in front of all these people, and he *was* extremely angry. He'd had very little experience of being thwarted, and he wasn't going to let some simple functionary get the better of him. It just wasn't going to happen.

The Orionese guard captain was more than slightly impressed with Q's intransigence. The man was either very rich, or a fool. He took in the human features and the anxious guards. He ignored the woman. "What's wrong?"

"We paid more than seventeen million credits in property taxes for property that doesn't exist. We want it back."

The captain looked at the assessor. "Give it back."

The assessor looked back. "They paid for Lathklaah ninety- three," was all he said.

The captain's demeanor changed instantly. "Ah." His expression became hard and contemptuous for a moment, and when he looked up at Q, it was obvious he was fighting his amusement. "Sir," he requested, "come with me, please."

He would have escorted Q off alone, but Q's guards would have none of it. Finally the whole lot of them crowded into a significantly larger office on a different floor where a peevish assistant administrator questioned them briefly before settling back to give Q a lecture on interfering with other cultures and customs.

"Women don't own property in Orionese territory. It simply isn't done, and they had to have known this. You, girl," He addressed Riller, "are not an Orionese citizen so you couldn't know, but you," he looked at Q with something bordering amazement. "You take a woman's word without checking and look what happens. Those women moved away of their own free will. The money is forfeit because the state is under no obligation to return monies owed on abandoned property. So you see, all is in order."

"Did they abandon it before of after you had it burned to the ground?" Riller asked.

The man didn't answer her until Q indicated with a quick jerk of his head that he should. "I'm sure that doesn't matter, does it?"

"So she's dead," Riller said woodenly.

"Of course not," the administrator answered impatiently. "We don't kill women. I'm sure she's around someplace, but it isn't my responsibility to keep track of delinquent taxpayers."

Q stared at him, trying to think of something vicious to say and coming up with nothing useful. "So," he said. "You raised their taxes to force them out, and when they didn't leave soon enough for your tastes you burned their houses down. Effective if not very subtle." He shrugged, smiling so malevolently that the administrator actually drew back. "So be it, but I hope for your sake her mother is alive and doing fine. If she's not..." He held the administrator's eye and let his threat trail off, knowing it would be much more credible if left unstated.

With that, Q gave the assembled Orionese one final contemptuous glance and stalked out, his entourage trailing behind him.

****

On the trip back, he and Riller tiptoed around each other, all the while pretending everything was the same as it had been previously. Embarrassed at having subjected Q to another one of her untidy pheromonal outbursts, Riller stayed away from him as much as possible. For his part, Q was humiliated at having lost control and broken into tears, and what's more, he couldn't seem to make himself stop. It was as if, having finally acknowledged his pain, he was fated to feel it forever. The memory of Riller's expression down on the Lathklaah was enough to make him his eyes start leaking again. The hopelessness in her face made him shudder--made him feel his own hopelessness, held at bay for weeks, now finally overwhelming him. Pain, tears, crying. He'd finally made the connection, and he wished with all his might that he could make them all stop.

Riller tried to be helpful--tried distracting him with things to buy, things to see and do, but it only reminded him of the time, not so long ago, when he hadn't needed to buy anything, when any experience in the wide galaxy was his by merely deciding to do it. And Riller was obviously holding on to her equanimity by sheer force of will. It hurt him, somehow, to see her limping through the days pretending she wasn't dying inside. In fact, simply looking at her sometimes was enough to make him break down all over again. It was Q's first experience of empathy, and he resented it. He would have lashed out at her, but she was so obviously wounded he couldn't bring himself to say anything.

They spent most of their time hiding in their respective cabins, but the night before they were due to disembark, Riller came to see him. She stood awkwardly just inside his door and stared down at her hands. "Q, I need to apologize to you for getting you involved with all that..." her sweeping gesture encompassed the whole of their visit to Orion.

"And well you should," he answered automatically. It never occurred to him that she should apologize since she wasn't responsible for the planet's advanced state of decay. Still, if she was going to give him any advantage he was going to take it. "And you never told me why we had to go pay your mother's taxes in the first place. I think you owe me an explanation."

"My mother earned a lot of money." Riller began in a monotone.

Q perked up. "How?"

"She was a prostitute." Riller mumbled.

"A what?" How was he supposed to understand what she said when she wouldn't speak up?

A prostitute, a whore." Riller tried to answer with equanimity, but harshness crept into her voice nevertheless. "A trull, a trollop, a hooker, a good-time-girl, a fancy-woman. You know. A prostitute."

Q cocked his head. Was Riller... ashamed? But why? Why should she think he cared about her mother's choice of occupation? Then he remembered that it wasn't considered a very exalted line of work. It might, in fact, account for Riller's obvious reticence in bringing up this topic.

"So your mother was a whore," he drawled, probing for a reaction. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Still mumbling, Riller explained that on Orion it was against law and custom for a woman to have control over her own finances. "And they knew that when they bought the moon, mamma and her friends. I guess they thought they could get away with it. Anyhow, they couldn't take her property away since she bought it outright, but they could raise the taxes so high she couldn't afford to keep it. I thought I'd be able to help her." Riller trailed off. "But I guess I was too late."

"So let me see." Q steepled his fingers, looking down at her judgementally. "Your mother--the strumpet--obviously so accustomed to using the nether end of her torso that she doesn't think this through, buys property she has no chance of keeping, on the off chance that a former god will happen by, need her daughter's help and incidentally provide her with the means to keep her property. A rather dicey proposition, don't you think?"

Riller shrugged and nodded, staring down at her shoes as if awaiting sentence. Q stared at her with mild frustration. Q liked picking on people when he thought they needed humbling--his fascination with one Jean-Luc Picard a case in point. When they folded beneath his attacks without putting up a fight, however, he was at a loss. He knew Riller to be a--what was the term he'd overheard his guards using--a feisty broad, so he didn't understand why she was knuckling under so helplessly. He did know, however, that it wasn't in him to attack where she seemed to have so few defenses. Where was the fun in that?

Q sulked. He was going to have to be nice, and he didn't like being nice. "I suppose it wasn't your fault," he offered grudgingly. "After all, you gave up almost all your money on the off chance that you could help her. What more could you have done?"

Riller looked up into his eyes with an expression of daring hope. Then she smiled so broadly that Q smiled back despite himself. "You know, Q, you're right. I *did* do everything I could." She shrugged again. "It didn't work out, and I'm *still* sorry I dragged you into this, but it wasn't my fault. Thank you for helping me see that."

She edged towards the door, nodding at him in mild perplexity. "You know, you're really okay, sometimes," she said as she stepped into the hall. "I'll see you in the morning."

Q stared after her, completely nonplussed. Pleasure at this one bit of friendly communication warred with outrage at being tagged merely 'okay'. He was not just okay, and he hated this confusing melange of emotion. He was sure she was being deliberately annoying just to make him confused and angry. He really didn't like her at all.

***

Once they got back home, the tension between them eased somewhat. Q caught a cold, and for the duration of his mild illness, became very dependent on Riller as she nursed him through it. With no experience of sickness, he panicked at his first symptom, rushing into Riller's office with news of his impending demise.

"I'm having a heart attack," he told her breathlessly. He was on the verge of tears, gasping and sweating so that she wondered for a moment if it really could be true. Then she realized that if he could get to her office on his own steam, he probably wasn't as sick as he thought.

"What makes you think that, Q?"

His expression was pathetically helpless. "My chest exploded. I can't explain it but I can feel it. It's going to happen again any minute now." His eyes lost focus, turning inward as he processed this horrifying new phenomenon. The scratch inside his throat began to build again, then the grinding feeling in his chest grew tighter and tighter until it burst out of him in a horrible paroxysm of noise and released pressure. It hurt. He bent over himself, clutching a hand to his heart. "This is how it ends," he gasped forlornly. "Laid low by some mortal fallibility. What a comedown!"

"Q, you sneezed." Riller fought to keep her voice even. In that moment she got a clear picture of the shape of her life if she continued her employment with him. 'You got the money out of him,' she tested the thought pragmatically. 'You could just leave.' She pitied him, and she knew he was coming to rely on her as much more than just a legal advisor, but she also knew what he would cost her in terms of sanity and peace of mind. Still, it wasn't Riller's way to simply walk out on someone who needed her. She recalled a day over thirty years ago when she stood in the hot sun and listened to her mother bargaining with a whorehouse proprietor. He'd been avid to have a real Orionese working in his pitiful establishment, but drew the line at letting Riller stay.

"Get rid of the kid," he'd told her mother. "She'll just be in the way."

In that moment, nine-year-old Riller knew with certainty that she belonged nowhere. "I'll go, mama," she'd volunteered. She'd seen plenty of other feral children around; perhaps she could join them.

"No." Her mother took her by the hand. "*We'll* go."

They'd lived on bread for over two weeks until her mother found work, but Riller, grateful not to have been abandoned a second time, did not complain of hunger. The fact that her mother valued her enough to keep her, even when the going was very rough, had gone very far towards healing the wound of her father's desertion. She would have betrayed a fundamental part of what she was if she now deserted Q just because he was hard on her nerves. Nevertheless, she couldn't help but suppress a sigh.

"Let's get you to bed." She pulled him up and put one arm around his waist, encouraging him to lean on her for support.

"Shouldn't we call a doctor first?"

"I'll take care of it. You're not dying Q, but I think I know what's wrong. You try to get some rest." She made him get in bed with all his clothes on and pulled the blankets up around him. Q watched her unhappily.

"I think I *am* dying, and you just don't want to tell me," he accused.

"Shhh." She put a hand on his forehead. "Try and get some rest, I'm going to get the doctor for you."

Riller came back less than an hour later, escorting the first doctor she found who would come to them right at that moment; a naturopath, whatever that was. She said she knew how to help, and that was what counted.

"Q, this is Doctor Condor. She's going to have a look at you."

Dr. Condor approached the bed, speaking in a soft, soothing voice. "I understand you're not feeling well, Q?"

"I had a heart attack," Q muttered.

"Well it sounds to me like you've got a cold." She frowned sympathetically. "That can be very upsetting if it's never happened before."

Riller must have told. Q glared her. Dr. Condor noticed his betrayed expression and patted his hand gently. "I made her tell me. I wanted to know everything about you so I could figure out the best way to make you feel better, okay?"

Riller caught her breath at that. Dr. Condor had taken her at her word when she said that, despite appearances, this should be treated like a pediatric case. She'd forgotten to mention that, for Q, dignity was everything. Fortunately the doctor didn't offer him the toy tricorder she'd brought along. She diagnosed a common cold with the usual recommendations of analgesics, vitamins, fluids and bed rest. And she told him how brave he was.

"Now I'm going to give you something to help you sleep. When you get up I want you to drink something hot. And Riller is going to get some vitamins and things that will help prevent this from happening again." She reached in her bag and came up with a small ball of scented cloth. "When you feel a sneeze coming on again I want you to hold this to your nose and inhale hard."

Q took it from her, clutching it close to his chest.

The doctor pressured a hypo against his arm, watched his head droop then got up to leave. Riller walked her back to the transporter pad.

"What was that thing you gave him?" Riller asked. She'd never seen one before.

"It's mostly a magic pill," the doctor answered with a grin. "It's got a little topical numbing inhalant, and it smells nice, but mostly I give it to my little patients to help them feel they have some control over their illness. And it cuts down on caregiver wear and tear," she smiled at Riller, "which seems appropriate in this instance." She changed the subject. "He's really only six weeks old? Too bad. I bet he's kind of cute when he's not sick."

Over the next few days, Riller had reason to wish Q's magic pill had real properties. The doctor's prescription list included things she'd never heard of, and she had to buy a special chip for the food replicator before it would give her things like extract of passionflower and ginseng root. Q's illness terrified him, and he was whiny and demanding, coming up with so many excuses to have her stay near that she finally gave up and simply sat by his bedside. Physically, Q recovered rapidly, but he had a very hard time adjusting to the idea that as a mortal he could now fall ill. He slept poorly, startling awake to call her name in a panicked voice.

"I'm right here, Q. If I have to go away I'll tell you first." She must have said that several dozen times a day.

"Okay." He would ask her to check his temperature, get him something to drink, bring his medicine, ask the doctor to come back (which Riller steadfastly refused to do), bring him a sandwich, get him another pillow, bring him a tissue. Then he would doze off again. During the few times he was awake he watched her with frightened, haunted eyes, saying nothing.

Riller assured him he was getting the best care money could buy. She called the doctor again, ending up with an even longer list of mysterious tinctures; schizandra, saw palmetto, astragalus, green algae, vitamins. The doctor's plan of supporting optimum health with a regime of herbs and supplements sounded very good, but what did Riller know? Q would either be the healthiest man on Risa or he would be dead.

To her surprise, Q took his vitamins with such gratitude and enthusiasm that Riller was touched. She didn't know whether it was the magic pill effect or if the supplements really worked, but he got healthier. His color got better and his appetite increased. The doctor was pleased, but Riller wished there was a way to convince him that mortality didn't have to be frightening. He never mentioned it to her, but she could see it in his occasional fits of brooding silence and the panicked expression that crossed his face whenever he coughed or sneezed.

As soon as he was better, the scientists who had been kept waiting crowded in on him the first chance they got. Their enthusiasm welcome went a long way towards pulling him out of his tendency to get morbid. It was a balm to him to be treated with such reverence, and he responded with--for Q--a great deal of magnanimity. True, their questions were mostly very stupid, but at least his supplicants knew where to come for relief from their pathetic state of confusion and ignorance. He, Q, the fount of all knowledge, at least as far as humans were concerned, felt it his duty to lift them out of the mire of misinformation. He skewered them mercilessly when he felt they deserved it; especially if they didn't grovel humbly enough or thank him abjectly enough to make him feel it was it worth his while. That was fun, but when he discovered that the memory of his pain receded as other things distracted him, that was even better. He quickly learned to put on manic displays of intellectual virtuosity that dazzled his little proteges and left them hungry for more. They loved him. They worshipped him. If he let them, they would keep at him with questions until they all fell over from exhaustion. His lab became a rowdy workshop, a free-for-all where select members of the scientific community enthusiastically played and worked in a wildly diverse, cross-discipline environment; a girls and boys club for researchers.

Pied piper, lecturer, performance artist and scout leader, Q was the club's epicenter, ruling his little world like a benevolent dictator. The work was hardly challenging, but he was praised so elaborately that he kept at it. He also experienced a surprising amount of satisfaction when one of his little students actually grasped a concept he explained. It was like watching a light turn on in a previously darkened portion of their minds, and although he couldn't share their wonder, he enjoyed being the focus of their gratitude. When one of the researchers suggested he publish a bi-monthly proceedings and offered to edit it for him, he thought it was a wonderful idea.

Riller, of course, had to find something wrong with it.

"Q," She called him by his name now, her one concession to the experience they'd shared during their trip to Rigel, "does he have any experience with this?"

"Yes, of course he does," Q answered snippily, angry at having to defend his idea. "I've seen a list of his publications."

Riller was still doubtful. "I don't know, Q. Let me find someone who's done this before."

"No," Q answered stubbornly. "I want him. Besides, what would you know about it? You couldn't tell a scientist from a Cressalian chocolate sundae."

Riller shrugged. "Yeah, Q, you're probably right."

She seemed willing to let the subject drop, but Q saw an opportunity to probe for another sore spot. "You're probably barely any good as a lawyer," he sniped, "but fortunately for you, I don't have the time or inclination to find a better one."

She looked down at the table without speaking. Q stared at her, frustration welling up. It was impossible to get a rise out of this woman. He'd done so once, but had never managed a second time. Insulting repartee was his standard mode of communicating, but if Riller wouldn't respond, Q was at a loss. Lacking an alternative, however, he persevered. "Don't you have any self- esteem at all? I just insulted your professional competence. Aren't you going to defend yourself?"

Riller shook her head, and Q pursed his lips in annoyance. He was not one to admit defeat. He remembered her one bright smile when they'd talked in his cabin on the way home, and he would have liked to make her smile again, if for no other reason than to demonstrate that he could. He fell back on tried but unsuccessful methods because he didn't know what else to think of.

"Anyway, I want you to put him on the payroll," he demanded.

Riller sighed. "Okay."

Q sighed. She was such a pushover. If he hadn't known better, he might have said he felt guilty about the way he tried to bully her, but, of course, he never felt guilty about anything. He wouldn't admit to looking for some way to assuage the gnawing unease he felt at riding her so hard. She flatly refused to accept the gifts he bought, claiming that he paid her a salary and that was enough. Her personal life, that he knew, consisted of working for him, and he didn't know what else, if anything, she liked to do. How was he supposed to do anything nice for a person like that? Not that he necessarily wanted to, but what if he did?

Eventually, however, he hit upon an idea that was so obvious he was chagrined not to have thought of it sooner. She was still much grieved about having misplaced her mother--he could see it in her subdued demeanor and the occasional fits of crying she tried to hide from him. Well, he would find her mother for her. If he had his powers back it would have been the simplest thing in the galaxy; just thinking about her would have located her. 'That was not to be,' he thought, firmly ignoring the rush of grief that inevitably accompanied thoughts of his former life. Nonetheless, mortals had organizations for just this very thing, didn't they? What were they called, detective agencies?

He locked himself in his office, not that she ever entered without asking, but he didn't want to take any chances.

"Computer, list all 'detective agencies' on Risa."

The computer obligingly spit out a list of thirty-seven companies. Q perused them and started making calls. He was very proud of himself and felt a spark of happy anticipation. He'd actually done something on his own, not waiting for Riller to think of it or take care of it for him. 'See,' he told himself, 'this business of being human isn't so hard.' And Riller had no idea he was doing this--she would be so surprised and pleased. He could hardly wait.

***

Three weeks later, Riller sat in her office with the door locked, weeping again. The accountant's monthly report had just been downloaded, and she'd discovered that Q had hired not one but two detective agencies. He was looking for her mother. He had to be, because, as the Zakdorn number-cruncher carefully enumerated, both agencies were charging Q for passage to Orion among their other expenses.

Riller's amazement bordered on shock. Q was doing this. For her. It was almost too much to take in. Riller had been on her own too long, had lived on Rigel too long, to expect arbitrary kindness to come without a price, yet Q appeared to be offering