From ereshkgl@cyberg8t.com Mon May 04 22:03:26 1998 Path: news10.ispnews.com!news11.ispnews.com!news1.ispnews.com!ais.net!newsfeed1.earthlink.net!nntp.earthlink.net!usenet From: ereshkgl@cyberg8t.com (Ruth Gifford) Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated,alt.startrek.creative,alt.fan.q Subject: New: From the Great Above 1/2 (TNG, Legend, P/Q, violence & non-cons) Date: Tue, 05 May 1998 05:03:26 GMT Organization: Better Living Thru TrekSmut Lines: 501 Sender: ascem@earthlink.net (ASCEM) Approved: ascem@earthlink.net Message-ID: <354e9634.20496690@news.earthlink.net> Reply-To: ereshkgl@cyberg8t.com NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.178.5.107 X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.11/32.235 Xref: news10.ispnews.com alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated:7588 alt.startrek.creative:18787 alt.fan.q:1360 From: ereshkgl@cyberg8t.com (Ruth Gifford) Subject: New: From the Great Above 1/2 (TNG, Legend, P/Q, violence & non-cons) Title: From the Great Above Author: Ruth Gifford Series TNG, Legend Story Content Codes: P/Q, rated R for violence and implied non-cons Summary: While sitting in judgment on Q, Picard is forced to confront his own Dark Side. Star Trek is the property of Paramount, but the myth is ours. By telling each other these stories, we learn. We learn about our friends, the characters, and ourselves. So Paramount can have the money, I'll take the insight. WARNING: This is not a nice story. It's about power, the abuse of power and the lessons we learn from the abuse of power. If rage and rape are subjects you'd rather avoid in your TrekSmut, bail out *now*! Technical note: I use the symbol :: to indicate a recorded sound other than speaking. The title of this story is a reference to the descent myth of Inanna. The first line of Innana's descent is: "From the Great Above she opened her ear to the Great Below" (as translated in the excellent book "Inanna" by Diane Wolkstein and Samuel Noah Kramer). My thanks, as always, go to Atara for her beta reading and proofing, and to Varoneeka for her beta reading. I call this a legend story although I'm choosing a somewhat different way of presenting it. Legends aren't always told around the fire. Sometimes we learn of them from ancient scrolls and forgotten histories. They hide in the shadows and then, when you least expect them, they are brought out into the light, and there we are, surprised and amazed at the insights afforded by a more "primitive" era, or startled at the people who lie behind the legends. From the Great Above A TNG Legend by Ruth Gifford (c) 1998 For atara, who is Astarte/Inanna to my Ereshkigal, and Light to my Shadow. "They published your diary And that's how I got to know you. A key to the room of your own And a mind without end Here's a young girl On kind of a telephone line through time The voice at the other end Comes like a long lost friend" "Virginia Woolf" Indigo Girls It was late at night and the young woman was bored. She looked at the stack of ancient isolinear chips and at the reader that sat in front of her. Sighing, and wishing she could be out dancing with her friends instead of stuck in this boring library cataloging the latest cache of documents from a forgotten era, she picked up a chip at random and slid it into the reader. If only she didn't have to summarize the whole documents; if only she could just note the contents. The display flickered as the reader announced that the chip was readable. The young woman sighed again and dutifully called up the chip's directory. The words that flickered, unsteadily at first, across the screen made her gasp in sudden amazement. Her fingers shaking with excitement and awe, she hastily tapped the information from the chip's header into her compadd and then she took a deep breath. How long had it been since anyone had actually heard this voice, she wondered. Her second thought was: *This is going to make my career.* Laughing at herself, she disengaged her translator. She'd struggled for two years to be able to understand Standard as it was spoken when this tape was made and she was damned if she was going to let some machine change the words of a man many scholars thought had never existed. Another deep breath and she touched the key that would play the chip's contents aloud. There was a faint hiss and then across the untold centuries, a voice began to speak. The voice was deep and smooth, like brandy on the tongue or dark velvet to the touch, and the scholar forced herself to keep breathing as she listened. Captain's Personal Log: I don't even know where to start . . . It's been three nights and I still haven't been able to sleep without dreaming of . . . everything that happened. Beverly would give me something if I asked her for it. Deanna would listen to me talk if that was what I wanted. What I want. How ironic. What I want is what I've always wanted: to *understand.* Only this time it's not an alien mind set, or a complex treaty that I have to try and understand; it's myself. I looked in the mirror tonight after my shower. How can I look, to my own eyes at least, the same way I looked four days ago when I innocently checked my appearance in the mirror before beaming down to the planet below? I've seen something few people ever see, and I feel as though I should be forever changed by that sight. And yet there I am in the mirror, a short, 66 year old starship captain with no hair and a beak of a nose. I look for shadows on that face; I look for some hint of darkness in my eyes, but they look back at me and I can't see any difference. Four days . . . Four days since we found ourselves at Oriault. Three days since I awoke, back on the Enterprise with a memory that won't let me rest. ::sigh and pause:: The student frowned and hit the pause button. Beaming down? What did that mean? Oriault? Where had she heard that name before? Who were Beverly and Deanna? She thought of researching all her questions through her compadd, but then decided that she would rather hear the story all the way through before she started looking up obscure references. This chip would pass out of her hands soon enough, and, for all that her name would be forever linked with its discovery, she wanted to treasure it in secrecy for a while longer. The Oriault have a very ritualistic culture and when they called for Federation mediation with a problem, I was happy to be of service. One of the things that makes me love my job is the chance to spend time in places that have always fascinated me. It was, I told myself at the time, the reason I want to be out here. The reason, as Will would put it, that they pay me the big money. If I'd known then what I know now, I'd have . . . What would I have done? ::pause and the sound of clinking glass:: Enough, Jean-Luc, tell the story, get it over with. Process it, as Deanna would suggest. Oriault. The first thing I noticed was the light, or, more accurately, the patterns of light and dark in the Council Hall. Through some marvelous combination of technology and art, Oriault architecture is surprisingly reminiscent of Europe's High Gothic style. Well, High Gothic if it had been influenced by the Persian Empire of the 1600s and executed by Buckminster Fuller. Being inside the Council Hall is like being wrapped up inside a rose window, one that arches over you and focuses the light in jeweled blue arabesques at your feet. ::pause:: My, that's poetic. Must be the Armagnac. The Oriault had a problem. They had captured a criminal and in investigating him, had discovered that he was a god from their past. As this was explained in the careful words of the Council Leader, a vision of Ardra flashed through my head. Not another con artist, I thought, hoping I would not find myself running around in my pajamas again. Council Leader Arvi must have seen my disbelief, for she shook her head and told me that the miscreant truly was a being who had been worshipped on Oriault over three thousand years ago. This being had commanded the Oriault to make fearsome sacrifices and undergo bizarre tests of faith. I should have known then, as the Council Clerk read from the histories, who I was dealing with, but I was caught up in the rhythm of the text and the way the light poured over everything. I heard of people killed without reason, and of marriages forced on the unwilling. I heard about tests of combat for the glory of the god, tests that ended with a slow painful death for the losers and a moral death for the victors. All of these things are present in Earth history, of course, but hearing about them in this context, inside the heart of blue light at the center of Oriault space, left me feeling angry. I felt as if the Clerk's words made the light around me grow somehow dimmer. It was nothing compared to what I would hear later. ::pause and the sound of glass against glass. A sigh, and the voice begins again.:: Oriault has a complicated treaty with the Federation, one that allows the Oriault to request a Federation official to sit in judgment in cases thought beyond the scope of the Council. How that clause crept in, I don't know, but it didn't matter to me. When asked, I agreed, although I was already wondering about my ability to be an objective judge. The actual hearing took place in one of the temples of the old god. It was another jewel of a building, but instead of blues, the glass panes that made up the dome were primarily red. Between the dark metal that held the glass in place and the dark stone of the temple's floor, the whole thing looked like an antechamber to hell. As I listened to the evidence presented to me, I had to remind myself that I needed to set aside my own cultural baggage and try to be objective. It wasn't easy as the suns set and the fading light threw long pools of blood colored light across the floor. I should have wondered if I was being consciously manipulated, but I was too caught up in the horror of the testimony. I found myself anticipating the appearance of the prisoner, who according to custom would not appear until all the evidence against him had been reviewed. The young woman stood and walked out of the study carrel. She'd delayed as long a she could, but now all the jola she'd drunk was catching up with her system. The Library itself was quiet; she had special dispensation to work late that night. As she walked back to the carrel, she didn't see the huge stacks of books, tapes, chip holders and crystal memory slivers, instead, she saw the long bars of cold blue moonlight that reflected off the polished black and white tiles of the floor. She'd never been one to pay much attention to the patterns light made, but now, after listening to the voice of the long dead captain, she found herself wondering how much influence light had on people. She found him fascinating, and quite removed from what little legend had to say about him. Here was no Teacher, no Bringer of Light, but a man who was sitting all alone in a dark room somewhere (she was sure that he sat in the dark), drinking and talking to a recorder. Her trained ear had caught the minor hesitancies and the almost unnoticeable pauses as he sought for words to put his experience into perspective. She could almost feel it; every time he tired to distance himself from whatever had happened, he somehow got pulled back into his memories. She laughed at herself as she sat back down again. How could she possibly ascribe motives to someone who had died so many thousands of years ago that most people thought he was merely a metaphor? Annoyed with her unscholarly thoughts, she leaned forward and pressed play, letting that rich voice take her back to a temple bathed in red light. There was a break after the testimony of Oriault's history. I suppose it was designed to enable the judge to change his perspective, but it had the opposite effect on me. Not only did I continue to brood on the myriad wrongs done to the Oriault, but I thought about the cruelty I'd seen on other worlds. From those thoughts it was easy enough to drift into of all the things I deplored in the history of my own world, and then, by extension, I thought of the wrongs I had suffered throughout my own life. How right Q had been, I thought, sitting alone in the darkening temple, to put us on trial. Even that thought didn't make the impression it should have . . . But, no, Jean-Luc, you're getting ahead of yourself. Hindsight can certainly make a man feel like a fool. When the temple had darkened so that I could hardly see, the lights were lit. They were woefully inadequate, lighting only portions of the building, and leaving most of it in the dark. There was a pool of red-gold light over the ancient altar and one surrounding the throne-like chair I had sat in to listen to the evidence. It had felt odd to sit in a chair that had been the throne of the god who had brought so much suffering to this planet. Now, as one of the Oriault officials came back into the temple, I knew that I would soon be facing that god, or whatever he was. I knew the upper hand I could gain from being seen in that throne, a black uniformed shadow in that place of blood red glass, black stone and red-gold light. I had no interest in objectivity; in the shadows of the temple I could almost see the victims and, to tell the truth, I could feel my own rage and pain at the hurts I had suffered throughout my life. If I'd had the sense a starship captain is supposed to have, I'd have called the whole thing off. Perhaps I was fooling myself with the idea that I still had some objectivity. When they brought the prisoner in, I forced myself to sit still. Knowing that my face was an impassive mask, I waited with all the patience I could muster. I wanted to confront this monster and pronounce judgment on him at once. How could he say anything that would excuse the mountain of evidence against him? I hoped he would not dare to insult me and the thousands who had died in this very temple and in others like it by trying to talk himself out of whatever sentence I chose to pronounce. I like to think that, half a second before the prisoner and his escort stepped into the light, I felt . . . something . . . some hint as to who it was I was dealing with. Perhaps it is merely the comforting pretense offered by hindsight, but as the light fell on that dark hair and the prisoner's face tilted back to look up at me, I wasn't surprised. Angry, yes. Furious with a wrath that I have never before felt, but surprised? No. Of course, I told myself as I grew cold with rage; who else could be guilty of such crimes? What he expected of me, I still don't know. Perhaps he thought I would leap to my feet and demand that he end this game, as I had demanded on earlier occasions. Maybe he thought that I would feel some sort of sympathy for him. In that place, in that time, I felt nothing but a cold, deep, satisfaction. I thought of the injuries he'd done to me and to my crew. I thought of the deaths that could be added to the evidence I had already considered. Or perhaps, I did not *think* at all. ::pause and sigh:: All I know is that I told them that I would see the prisoner alone. It was apparently within my rights as judge to demand this, for all the Oriault in the temple simply left. We remained frozen in place as the hollow boom of the temple doors closing washed over the building. I looked down at him and finally, enjoying the fear on his face, I spoke. It wasn't much, just his name, just one single letter of the alphabet. Q. The student couldn't help herself; she hit the pause. Q. Q? Somehow, in some way, the letter as a name struck some distant chord of memory. Q. The Q. The answer wouldn't be in her compadd, she'd have to do her research on a deeper level, and, if she did that, everyone would know about her discovery. She wanted to hoard the chip longer, at least long enough to hear the whole story. Shaking her head again at the unorthodox path her thoughts were traveling, she pressed the play button again. We looked at one another and to my surprise, and . . . gratification, I suppose, he flinched. "Well," I said, "at this point, you're supposed to present evidence in your defense." He looked at me and then looked around the temple. Now that I think back on it, I would almost call the expression he wore a thoughtful one. "Will it make a difference?" he asked, spreading his arms and then letting them fall to his sides. It was only then that I noticed that he was wearing a plain black robe instead of his usual Starfleet uniform. In the faint light all I could clearly see was his face. He shook his head wearily and spoke again before I could say anything. "There's nothing I can say. I was here. I did those things." He laughed bitterly, a harsh sound that somehow fit the surroundings. "I'm guilty, Your Honor." Once I would have asked him if he was serious. Once I would have wondered if this was all some sort of Q game. Once I would have thought before acting. ::sigh:: I don't know if this is really helping or not. I don't know if *anything* can help. After the Borg . . . after Locutus, I thought I'd gotten better at self-analysis. Now, I wonder if this is just an indulgent exercise in self pity. ::longer pause:: Self indulgent exercise or not, now that I've started it, I find myself compelled to continue it. Compelled . . . I also find myself hoping that I was compelled there on Oriault. To be more precise, I want to believe that I was compelled by something other than my own pain, my own anger. I sat silent for a long time, half staring at Q, half seeing images from the past. I remembered Q causing the deaths of my own people, Q playing games with the fate of a whole quadrant, even Q making a fool of me in front of my lover. And finally, I recalled Q, in a room no less horrific than this temple, putting me on trial for the crimes of Humanity. "You dared to try me for the crimes of the past," I said quietly. He flinched again and I smiled. I know, I've always known, that my voice is one of my most formidable weapons, and I was using it like a knife. "You have called Humanity savage, and you have mocked us for our primitive ways." I stood and glared down at him from the height of the throne platform. "With *this* in your own past, you presumed to judge *me* for the crimes of my race?" He seemed to shrink in on himself; the temple's acoustics were impressive and I had shouted the last question. My words echoed faintly around the dome, and I wondered what it had been like when Q had held sway here. And now, he stood before me, helpless in a way I didn't even try to understand. Now, I can't believe that it never occurred to me to wonder about his powers. Or, I should say, his lack of powers. Somehow, I knew that *I* had all the power in this place. I can still remember how it felt . . . how . . . satisfying it was to see Q humbled before me. Yes, that's the perfect word to describe how I felt: satisfied. Oh God, how is it that I look the same in the mirror? I *know* what I should look like . . . :very long pause:: The pause in the recording was enough that the listener stopped the playback and checked the directory. No, this wasn't the end of the recording; there was more here. For the first time, she felt uneasy. She was listening to a man in pain, a man struggling with the aftermath of some sort of horrifying experience. For the first time in all the cycles she'd spent studying the past, she felt like an eavesdropper, like she'd brushed past a Privacy icon. Telling herself that the man who made this recording was long dead did no good at all. She looked at the chip reader for a long moment, troubled and uncertain. Then she realized that, like the captain, she felt compelled to continue. She *had* to know the end of the story. For a moment I felt frozen in place, standing on the raised throne platform, surrounded by the blood edged gold light, staring down Q. He too seemed trapped in some unnatural timeless moment. It was as if everything in the Universe had stilled and was balanced on the sword edge of this second . . . was waiting along with us. And then, in a gesture I'll remember forever, he shrugged. It was a gesture that held just a hint of his old defiance, just enough to cause the rage that had burned coldly inside me to flare like a wild fire. I have no idea of how I ended up in front of him. All I know is that I was standing on the bottom step of the platform, still looking down on him. There was one difference; he was suddenly within reach. Without thought, I struck him. I don't even remember trying to hit him all that hard, but, regardless of my intentions, it was hard enough to cut his mouth on his teeth. He brought a shaking hand to his mouth and then held it out and we both stared at the blood. I want to say that a part of my mind rebelled at the sight, that part of me was arguing that this had to be a dream, that Q would never bleed in front of me. I wish I *could* pretend that I hesitated, that the voice of reason spoke to me. I can't. There was no voice of reason, none of that compassion I pride myself in having. In fact there was only satisfaction . . . and anger . . . and something else, something that coiled in my stomach like a plasma stream. I looked at Q's blood and then looked at his face and smiled. He stepped back, eyes wide, but I reached out and grabbed his arm, trying to prevent his escape. The move caught him off balance and he fell against me. At the press of his weight against me, that thing, that plasma, coiled in my stomach, spread to my veins and I knew it for what it was. ::a pause and the sound of several harsh breaths:: Lust. I can't sit here and try to make it sound better by calling it desire . . . or need or . . . God help me . . . longing. It was as if every bit of anger I had, all the rage, narrowed down into one blinding feeling. It burst over me in a horrible revelation . . . How I could, after all those years and all the times he'd stood behind me, his voice in my ear, his breath teasing my skin, and made me feel vulnerable . . . practically threatening me with his size and his power . . . I could punish him for the threat he posed. I could humiliate him for all the fear he'd made me feel. *He* had made me feel things I didn't want to feel and now it was my turn. And I knew one other thing . . . I was going to enjoy it. If only he'd tried to appeal to my reason. If only he'd thrown all the speeches I'd made to him throughout the years back at me. If only . . . I can't believe that I'm still blaming him for this. If only *I* had remembered all the things I claim to hold sacred. If only *I* had thought about something other than revenge. If only . . . "You can't possibly . . ." he said to me, trying to pull away. "I can't possibly what?" I asked, feeling my fingers tighten around his arm. "You don't seriously think that you can . . ." The scorn on his face lashed at me and I narrowed my eyes. "Think?" I could hardly hear myself over the painful roar of blood in my ears. "Right now, I don't think you can stop me from doing anything." I was suddenly hot and I could feel the heat radiating out of me. It was unlike anything I've ever felt . . . or wanted to feel. All my life, I've prided myself on a good number of things. Robert was right to refer to me as an "arrogant son of a bitch" more than once. One of those things I've prided myself on was the care with which I approached sex, the concern I felt for my lovers. Now I wonder if I can ever have a lover again . . . No that's not right. It makes me sound too . . . sure, or too . . . something. The thing I'm trying hard not to say is that I can still feel an echo of that heat. I loathe it now, instead of welcoming it the way I did then, but I still know that it exists in me. And I *did* welcome it, just as I welcomed his look of shock and alarm as I moved closer to him. "Do you remember leaning over me?" I asked. "Do you remember making me feel helpless?" "I remember you wanting me," he replied snidely. I slapped him again, lashing out because he'd told me the truth. "You should be happy," I said, maintaining my iron grip on his arm. "I want you now, too." I didn't give him time for an answer as I pulled the robe off him with one easy rip. If I had felt powerful before, enthroned above him, I felt even more powerful now, seeing him truly naked in front of me. He was obviously afraid of me, but he was also trying to maintain some dignity, a dignity that I felt he didn't deserve. "Go ahead," I said, pulling him close until our faces almost touched. "Beg me not to do this." ::pause and the sound of ragged breathing:: I wonder if I'll be able to get through this without being sick? I haven't told anyone about it, not even Deanna. She knows something happened to me and sooner or later . . . I can't . . . I just can't tell her . . . ::sound of an unsteady breath:: Come on Jean-Luc, tell the rest of the story. Come on, damn you! End 1/2 -- *************************************************** * Ruth | Visit GiffStein Productions * * Gifford | http://www.cyberg8t.com/ereshkgl/ * *-------------------------------------------------* * alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated * * Resistance is possible, but why bother? * *-------------------------------------------------* * Better living thru TrekSmut--See for Yourself! * * http://home.earthlink.net/~ereshkigal * *************************************************** "All right, Callisto. You like little ditties? Fine. I got one for you: You're acting so strangely that I hardly know ya, But still I wouldn't trust you as far as I can throw ya." Xena in "The Bitter Suite" From ereshkgl@cyberg8t.com Mon May 04 22:03:38 1998 Path: news10.ispnews.com!news11.ispnews.com!news1.ispnews.com!ais.net!newsfeed1.earthlink.net!nntp.earthlink.net!usenet From: ereshkgl@cyberg8t.com (Ruth Gifford) Newsgroups: alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated,alt.startrek.creative,alt.fan.q Subject: New: From the Great Above 2/2 (TNG, Legend, P/Q, violence & non-cons) Date: Tue, 05 May 1998 05:03:38 GMT Organization: Better Living Thru TrekSmut Lines: 464 Sender: ascem@earthlink.net (ASCEM) Approved: ascem@earthlink.net Message-ID: <354e9651.20525705@news.earthlink.net> Reply-To: ereshkgl@cyberg8t.com NNTP-Posting-Host: 209.178.5.107 X-Newsreader: Forte Free Agent 1.11/32.235 Xref: news10.ispnews.com alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated:7587 alt.startrek.creative:18786 alt.fan.q:1359 From: ereshkgl@cyberg8t.com (Ruth Gifford) Subject: New: From the Great Above 2/2 (TNG, Legend, P/Q, violence & non-cons) From the Great Above by Ruth Gifford 2/2 The young woman paused the playback and took several deep steadying breaths. She was trying to understand what she was hearing, and was having a hard time reconciling the log with what she knew of the man who spoke on it. How could this be the same man who . . . And yet, she knew it was him. Earlier in the log he had mentioned something that established his identity. She thought about going back and researching all the things she *didn't* understand, but she felt the compulsion to listen to him come over her again. He was fighting in order to talk about this and she had to wonder if anyone other than himself had ever heard this recording. Had he talked to Deanna (whoever she was) about this? There was only one way to find out. As her fingers hit the resume button, she caught the faint slurring in his voice. The alcohol he had been drinking while he talked was finally beginning to catch up with him. His speech wasn't actually impaired, but he spoke more slowly, as if he was not only fighting the alcohol, but his feelings as well. When he didn't say anything, I laughed. "Maybe you're right," I said. "Maybe you know that you're guilty and you know that you deserve this." I moved forward, still gripping his arm, still almost nose to nose with him. He had nowhere to turn and no way to move except to back away from me. When he finally bumped up against the altar, I noticed that his breath was as unsteady as mine. "How does it feel, Q?" I asked "How does it feel to be afraid and helpless?" I can't believe that I didn't remember than I'd seen him afraid and helpless before. I suppose it isn't surprising; at that point all I was aware of was the prisoner in front of me and the overwhelming waves of heat that coursed through me. "How does it feel to be just like your victims, at the mercy of someone stronger, more powerful? Someone who can do anything to you?" He looked at me for a long time and then he nodded. Odd . . . Now that I think about it and play the moment over in my memory, I remember his expression being almost . .. dignified? No, not that, but . . . perhaps regal and even accepting, as if he actually *agreed* with me, or somehow gave his consent. But how could he . . . how could anyone . . . Oh God, I'm indulging in the worse sort of justification for it. I'm telling myself that he wanted it or accepted it or consented to it, as if that somehow makes what I was doing all right. NO! It *wasn't* all right . . . and it never will be all right! ::heavy sigh:: I have to go on with this. I shoved him back onto the altar, and he landed, sprawled out and awkward. All of his flamboyance was gone as was that predatory grace that I'd seen in him more than once. But his eyes . . . They were clear and they never stopped looking into mine. In fact, I can't recall either of us even blinking. Even as I opened my uniform with one hand (never letting go of his arm with the other), we never looked away from each other. For a moment, I expected him to struggle, to try to get away from me, but he must have seen the resolve on my face. If he had struggled, I have no doubt that I would have struck him again, whatever it took to get him where I wanted him. When I finally let go of his arm, I could see the bruises already darkening his skin where I'd gripped it. I almost staggered at the rush of power and lust brought on by the sight. If I could bruise him, then I could hurt him. And if I *enjoyed* bruising him . . . Why did I . . . how could I . . . oh God . . . ::pause and the sound of a deep breath being drawn:: I backed off to look at him then. He was on his back, arms and legs spread just like a sacrifice. And that is exactly what I saw him as. A sacrifice to his own guilt, his own deeds. I was actually convinced that I was not only going to deal with my own hatred of him, but was also there as an instrument of justice. Justice . . . Before I can tell the rest of it, I have to say the thing I haven't said until now. ::the sound of more deep breaths, almost gasping:: I wanted to rape him. I was ready . . . more than ready, I was eager to do it. A big part of my mind was anticipating what it would feel like, what *he* would feel like. In that frame of mind I moved forward and suddenly things got blurry. As I loomed over him it was almost as if I was looking at him through water or flawed glass. I could still see his body spread out before me but everything looked different. Impatient with this new strangeness, I reached out for him, one hand grabbing one of his thighs and the other resting against his neck. Through the ripple effect, I could see those dark eyes looking back at me and . . . He nodded. He nodded and tilted his head back. Then . . . as I shoved his legs open further and moved between them . . . ready to . . . His eyes changed. I don’t know how I could tell in all that red-gold light and shadow, but they seemed . . . they got lighter . . . more gold . . . maybe even green . . . all I could see were those eyes . . . and I finally blinked . . . and then I knew . . . ::pause and the sound of sobbing:: It was . . .a mirror . . . the blurring between us . . . I was looking . . . at myself . . . but . . . it was still . . . Q . . . or actually . . . *I* was Q . . . looking down at myself . . . and he was me and . . . he wouldn't let me . . . and I didn't want to do it anymore . . . or I couldn't . . . oh God . . . I can't . . . I don't know who I was . . . don't know what to do . . . how to live with . . . help me . . . Shhhhh . . . it's all right, Jean-Luc Almost unaware of the turmoil in her stomach or the tears on her face, the scholar hit the pause button in shock at the sound of another male voice coming from the machine. It was lighter than the captain's, but filled with some of the same pain. She resumed the playback, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. Just cry . . . no . . . it's all right to cry . . .Jean-Luc . . . How could I . . . how could you let me . . . I had to . . . we both had to . . . No . . . let me go . . . I don't deserve . . . Oh Jean-Luc, neither of us deserves anything or we both deserve each other or we deserve everything. Q . . . how can you be here after that . . . Listen to me Jean-Luc. *Please?* All . . . right . . . You don't know who to blame any more. Ever since that trip back to the 21st century, you've been in so much pain, and you can't deal with the pain. Half the time you blame me, half the time you blame yourself, and you've never let go of any of it. You thought that one bout of crying back in La Barre all those years ago would cure you. One release, and some counseling from Deanna and no more Locutus. You always expect too much of yourself. Q, I . . . Listen. To. Me. Hang on and listen. No one person bears all of the blame for what you've been through with the Borg, not you, not me, *no one.* So you did . . . that . . . all of it . . . to help me get over . . . the Borg? No. Well, not exactly. I did all of this to help *us* get over the Borg. You think you're the only one who hurt? You think you were the only one manipulated by circumstance and timing? I've tried for years to tell myself that it was all your fault; that I have *nothing* to do with your pain. I've told myself that the pain I felt over the whole thing wasn't real. Then I would turn around and tell myself none of it would have happened if not for me, that you would have been safe from them and untouched by them. ::long pause:: And Oriault? Oriault is real. The things I did there all that time ago are real. My reasons for doing them may actually make sense to you if you're willing to try to understand. Right now . . . I can't understand anything. Q, what happened just before I passed out? We changed places. Well, sort of. It's complicated. What happened to your powers Q? There in the temple, would you really have let me . . . Oh God . . . Stop that, Jean-Luc. Your rage and my guilt were expressed in that way because we've both had those kinds of thoughts about each other. ::sigh:: Let me explain what I did, all right? ::pause:: I created a pocket of . . . the universe . . . where our mental energy, our thoughts, our emotions took form. You wanted to see me powerless, but it wouldn't have been enough if I hadn't wanted to be powerless. You set your powers aside? I . . . abandoned them to . . . no, *because* I wanted to come into your world. Q, next you're going to tell me that you *wanted* me to . . . to rape you. As much as you wanted to do it. In the end, neither of us could allow that to happen, and we both did what was necessary to stop it. You changed me into you, because I was changing you into me. We were trying to reach each other, and the mirror was what we came up with as both a barrier and a window. I'm sorry, Q, but right now this doesn't make any sense. I understand what you say you did, but that we became each other to stop each other . . . Don't you see, Jean-Luc? We became each other in order to see each other, to *understand*, maybe even to trust each other. You had to know by becoming me, if I would or could actually rape you. You've always been afraid of me that way. I had to keep you from hurting me and I had to know that you wouldn't let me hurt you. That you'd really fight back if you had to. Q? Are you saying that you thought that I wouldn't fight you if you tried to rape me? Not exactly. I'm saying that I had to be sure that you wouldn't let me overwhelm you in *any* way, that you will always fight to remain yourself. It's hard to explain and you'll understand more someday . . . I'm not talking down to you, really, Jean-Luc. So, when I pulled away, I was partly you? . . . I remember . . . knowing I couldn't hurt . . . either of us and then you pulled away and then . . . At the end, I was trying to reach you . . . or something . . . I'm sorry, I'm still trying to get this all settled in my mind. At the end, you were trying to send me someplace safe, and I was doing the same for you. It was the last thing we did together and it was pretty instinctive. I sent you back to the Enterprise and you sent me to . . . Well, it doesn't matter; there's this planet I like to visit, maybe someday I can take you there. As for Oriault, or at least the pocket version I'd created, everything unraveled because the *reason* for that pocket was unraveling. ::pause:: Jean-Luc, do you hate me anymore? No. ::pause:: I'm still angry . . . And I still feel a certain degree of guilt. But you'll be able to talk to Troi about how you feel about the Borg and you'll be able to sleep at night without having nightmares every night. And you, Q? I won't feel like a . . . baby-sitter who let the baby run into the street. I've . . . I've had to admit that you're an adult and that I'm not 100% responsible for everything that happens to you. Maybe I can even learn from *you.* ::long pause:: Also, there in the temple . . . I didn't you doing something you'd feel guilty for afterwards. I do enough of Too late; I already feel guilty. But you feel better for having hurt me, don't you? Well . . . what is it about you that makes me so honest? It used to be that you figured I was reading your mind. I was too, but I don't any more. You're dodging my question. I suppose I do feel better for having hurt you. ::pause:: I also feel better for having heard you admit some guilt. You should. I've certainly carried it around long enough. ::pause:: You have no . . . Q? You have no idea . . . how hard it was . . . to admit that I was . . . wrong . . . guilty . . . You don't have to say it. I'm an adult, remember? I understand. I shouldn't have left you alone for four days. Q, I thought that one of the points of all of this was to get you over the guilt. Besides, those four days never happened. I knew you'd forgive me. That's been the worst of it. Q, it's all right. No it isn't! I played on your rage because I wanted to be punished. I should never have . . . Q! Stop it! ::pause:: That was underhanded of you. What was? Going on like that when you don't entirely mean it, just to prove to me that I can still yell at you. You can't continuously test me if we're going to be . . . Be what? By the way, do you really want all of this recorded for posterity? Damn! End recording. ~~~ Two weeks later, the young woman paced the small anteroom nervously as she waited for the last decision to be made. Her discovery had thrown her life into chaos and had, as she had suspected it would, made her future bright. Now however, as she endured a wait that she hadn't expected to endure for another seven or eight cycles, she was frightened. The surgery hadn't hurt at all, but everyone had heard rumors about what happened to people who couldn't take the rest of the procedure. What if she was one of those people? What if she became insane or died because of her chance discovery? *This is voluntary, * she told herself for the millionth time. But the reassurance did no good. If she wanted to know the truth, and, more importantly, the rest of the story, she had to undergo this process. The doors before her opened and, barely breathing, she moved through them. Everything around her was black, lit by green lights except for one pool of white light directly before her. As eerie as it was, this place felt familiar and she found herself searching her memories for a time when she had been here before. As she did so, she realized that she was not alone, either in the room, or in her mind. *Here there are no Privacy icons.* She jumped at the voice, or rather voices, that echoed in her mind. *Here there is only the Song.* She gulped and then nodded firmly as four black and white figures walked to the pool of white light. They did not step into it, but remained at its edge, shadowy and slightly menacing. "Why are you here?" they asked, their voices in perfect unison. "I am here of my own free will," she said, beginning the ritual response. "Knowing the danger, aware of the risk to my mind and my life, I am here." She drew a deep breath and forged ahead. "As is my right, I request assimilation into the Collective." One of the figures stepped forward, and the harsh white light looked as if it were being absorbed by her archaic black body armor. "Your body could still reject the implants." "I am aware of that." Another figure stepped forward. "You could lose your life." "I am aware of that." A third figure stepped forward. "You could lose your sanity." "I am aware of that." The fourth figure stepped forward. "You could lose all sense of selfhood." "I . . . I am aware of that." The four did not even look at one another, but the young woman knew that they were communicating. When the fourth figure spoke again, he spoke in the mode of the echoing Song. "We are One of Four. We are Four. We are the Collective. We are the Borg. Once We sought to improve Ourselves by understanding the species We met. Our methods changed over thousands of cycles and We sought to improve ourselves by assimilating the species We met. We sought to bring order where there was chaos. Our unity made Us strong and yet it made Us inflexible. We suffered defeat. We discovered Our Selves and thought that individuality was the way. We almost died until We found the Balance. Balance is not an easy thing and yet we exist in Balance, a Balance that cannot be acquired through assimilation of everything around us. We have achieved Balance between the unity that gives Us strength and the individuality that gives Us the ability to grow." "And he helped the Borg find that Balance, didn't he?" She knew she wasn't supposed to say anything at this point, but she couldn't help herself. "Somehow we hurt him terribly," and she thought of the layers of guilt and blame she'd heard on the recording, "but he still came back and helped us." One of Four held out his prosthetic arm, and the archaic jack on his wrist gleamed dully in the hash white light. Without any hesitation, the young woman stepped forward and fitted her jack into his. The Song poured through the conduit, bringing with it history, and memories of times long gone and names (Picard-Locutus-Lore-Hugh-The Queen) of people long dead. ~~~ Much later, looking into a mirror, she studied her implants and newly pale skin and found them strange. They were not without their own beauty however, and, as she brushed a hand over her naked scalp, she knew that she had made the right decision. As part of the Collective and yet still an individual, she was now a full Historian. In her resided the past and it was her duty to preserve and add to that record. Already, every Historian in the Collective knew the contents of the chip she had found. In fact, at this very moment, a debate was going on between a group of Historians as to exactly when the events Captain Picard had spoken of took place. She listened with only partial concentration, thinking about her own unanswered questions. Who were the other people Picard had mentioned? Friends? Members of his crew? The answers might be found in the rest of the chips in the cache she'd been cataloging. She became aware of a request for her specific attention. *I had thought of pursuing research into those names myself,* a voice said to her. *I would be honored if you would consider my offer of assistance.* *Who . . .?* The original speaker sent a burst of Song as identification. *i-think-in-green//my-studies-are-of-the-Time-of-Balance//small-family// spice-and-sand//i-work-with-stone//red-brown-and-vocals//eager-to-understand//will-laugh-at-wrong-moments//I-am-the-Borg.* And the newest member of the Collective sent back her own Song. *i-notice-light-and-shadow-all-the-time//trying-to-learn-everything//lightning-and-random-chance//guitars-drums-silver//many-friends//too-persistent-for-own-good//i-grow-plants//i-have-heard-the-voice-of-pain//I-am-the-Borg.* ~~~ You want to what?! Jean-Luc, are you out of your mind? Think of all the things they know, Q. Because of everything that happened to me, I ignored the potential, but now I agree with the Council. Opening a dialog with Hugh is a perfect idea and I'm the person who should do it. ::pause:: Damnit, why are you always interrupting me when I'm trying to record a log? I can't resist the sound of your voice. Don't look at me *that* way; I'm trying to think. ::pause:: Oh, all right. Computer, end recording. The End -- *************************************************** * Ruth | Visit GiffStein Productions * * Gifford | http://www.cyberg8t.com/ereshkgl/ * *-------------------------------------------------* * alt.startrek.creative.erotica.moderated * * Resistance is possible, but why bother? * *-------------------------------------------------* * Better living thru TrekSmut--See for Yourself! * * http://home.earthlink.net/~ereshkigal * *************************************************** "All right, Callisto. You like little ditties? Fine. I got one for you: You're acting so strangely that I hardly know ya, But still I wouldn't trust you as far as I can throw ya." Xena in "The Bitter Suite"