Path: tivoli.tivoli.com!tadpole.com!news.dell.com!swrinde!cs.utexas.edu!uunet!panix!not-for-mail From: cmfaltz@panix.com (Christine M. Faltz) Newsgroups: alt.sexy.bald.captains,alt.startrek.creative,alt.fan.q Subject: NEW STORY: THE TRIAL NEVER ENDS (1/1) Date: 13 Mar 1995 23:17:59 -0500 Organization: The Q Continuum Lines: 827 Message-ID: <3k35dn$fdo@panix.com> NNTP-Posting-Host: panix.com Xref: tivoli.tivoli.com alt.startrek.creative:7138 alt.fan.q:1210 THE TRIAL NEVER ENDS Copyright (c) 1995 by Christine Marie Faltz; cmfaltz@panix.com Dr. Crusher's eyes sparkled; Picard hadn't seen her so animated and enthusiastic in a long time. "Wesley will be paying us a visit, Jean-Luc," she said, sweeping their croissants from the replicator tray. "Well, that certainly explains your exceptionally exuberant mood so early in the morning." "Are you saying I'm not generally a morning person?" she chided good- humoredly. "Certainly not in your presence, Doctor," Picard answered, trying not to smile too broadly. He failed. Dr. Crusher gave him an "Oh, you" look of mock exasperation. "How will young Mr. Crusher be joining us? I don't believe we have any scheduled stops for several days." "He'll be intercepting us in a few hours in a probe of sorts. I believe he sent a message alerting --" "Riker to Picard." "Go ahead." "Sir, I've just received a transmission from Wesley Crusher. He will be --" "Yes, I have already been informed, Commander. When shall we intercept?" "Five hours, thirty-seven minutes at present speed, sir." "Very good, Commander. Picard out." *** *** *** "I don't understand why you're meeting with me, Counselor Troi." "Well, your mother is a newly-assigned ensign and as ship's counselor I always interview new personnel -- more as an informal introduction than anything else. And she spoke of you and I was interested in meeting you." "Are you interested in meeting with the children of all newly-assigned personnel?" "No, not usually," Troi admitted hesitantly. "Then why should you have a special interest in me?" "I am sensing rising anger from you, Sten." "Don't try to evade my question. I'll explain my anger if you explain your interest." "All right," Troi sighed. "A physically disabled person who does not respond to available medical measures to eliminate or ameliorate a disability is a rarity on Earth -- indeed on most Federation planets these days. You are in a tinier minority than were physically disabled people in the past. Though disability is still occurring at a constant rate because of accident, illness or congenital defects, the inability of corrective measures to have any effect is extremely rare." "Your point being that I'm an anomaly to be scrutinized? That I deserve extra attention from the ship's counselor because I'm not an 'enhanced' disabled person?" "Your hostility is really not warranted, Sten." "Is that so, Counselor? Then explain why you're interested in me other than for the novelty of it all." "I want you to be happy on the Enterprise, Sten. I want you to be included fully in the activities available to other people your age on the ship." "You don't want it as much as I do, Counselor. But your desires won't change a thing, and neither will mine." "Why do you want to enter a situation feeling that it is hopeless, that you will not be included?" "You Starfleet people amuse the hell out of me, you know that? I love my mother, but I hate the act she has to put on for all of you half the time, especially when she's 'on duty'. The holovids on Starfleet Academy and its personnel are truly enlightening. You all carry around that mask of tolerance and perfection, and you impart to the galaxies the fantastic triumph of the United Federation of Planets. You're all so disciplined and able-bodied, so prepared for anything and everything. You carry the banner of the Federation: no poverty, no serious crime, no wants for food or shelter. But you don't have a clue. Not a solitary clue how it is for the majority of Earth citizens. I can't speak for the other planets, but I can tell you that our supposedly perfect society is far from perfect. Do you think conditions that existed in the Sanctuaries of the twenty-first century don't still exist in a different form? Do you think the billions of people who aren't part of the military, academia, Starfleet, the ocean projects, etc., etc., aren't running amok, leading utterly dull, purposeless lives? They don't have to work for a single thing; nothing for them to strive for. Everything they need to survive is given them. Everything except purpose, meaning." "What are you saying? There are hundreds of hobbies and interests one can immerse oneself in?" "Hobbies. Interests. Bettering oneself. I've heard all the rhetoric, Counselor. There may not be much 'serious crime' on Earth, but have you any idea how much vandalism there is among us common, unemployed folk? Why? Take a group of teens who destroy replicators. They are sentenced to several months learning how to construct replicators just to give them something to do -- they have no real desire to destroy the damned things -- they just need something to do. Do you think that just because I can learn a different instrument with the help of a computer one right after the other, or because I can read millions of pages of poetry in my life that that makes me better? What the hell is the meaning of that? There is so much frustration boiling up amongst those of us who can't take part in the significant aspects of life that it won't be long before it blows up in your self-righteous faces." "What has this to do with you, Sten? Or are you saying you are simply one of the many who feels this frustration?" "I feel it *more* than many others, because I *want* to be part of one of the 'purposeful' professions. And it has been acknowledged that if I were sighted, or at least could be 'enhanced' as I hear your Chief Engineer has been, I would have been accepted into a medical assistants' training program. I don't have the discipline or grades to get through medical school, but I could and have always wanted to be a medical assistant. I have argued that enhancement doesn't have to be direct, that robots, computers and holographic assistants could aid me in the work that requires vision. And yet, I get stonewalled and am told that leaves too much to chance, that computer error is much more likely that way. No more likely than Commander LaForge's visor falling prey to some unexpected anomaly. No more likely than a sighted doctor accidentally misusing a laser or tricorder or cell regenerator." "I think you're being a little overly sensitive, Sten. There was a time when I lost my empathic powers. I felt bitter, angry, and unable to do my job. A friend pointed out that I should still be able to use other cues and my experience to be a counselor. But to me it was a terrible loss. To others your disability represents certain undeniable limitations that make others uncomfortable. It isn't always fair, but you have to try to look at the situation from another perspective." "I've been *forced* my entire life to see things from the perspective of the sighted, the able-bodied, the supposedly superior. It's interesting that when I ask you to view things from my perspective, you can't do it. How is my utilization of external assistance different from Enterprise crew members using the ship's sensors to detect danger or other information? Why is technology incorporated into Geordi LaForge's brain superior to external technology?" "Mostly, it's a psychological difference, but not altogether so. For example, if Commander LaForge is off the ship but requires the use of his visor, it isn't a problem. If you, however, encountered a situation where someone required medical assistance and you were without your robot or did not have access to a holographic medic, you would not necessarily be able to help." "And if Commander LaForge's visor were taken from him, he would require help. And if Dr. Crusher's tricorder failed to work for whatever reason, she would have to do her best to adapt." "They are not entirely analogous." "Counselor, I have decided that this meeting is over. If I actually require counseling for a problem that is mine and not yours with me, I will let you know." "Geneva, please escort me to the turbolift." The robot activated and extended an arm to Sten and walked him out of the room. *** *** *** Ten Forward wasn't particularly noisy. Not terribly surprising; it was only mid-afternoon. "Computer," Sten said, "Please describe Ten forward's layout in a fashion that does not require sight to comprehend." "Please clarify." "Describe the location of the bar, replicators, tables, etc." "There is a visual representation of Ten Forward available." "I'm in Ten Forward right now! If I could see, I wouldn't need the bloody representation; I would just look around." "Please repeat command." Exasperated, Sten turned toward a group of voices and said to Geneva, "Take me to the nearest empty chair." The robot could only respond to rudimentary commands. Though it was excellent and reliable for preventing Sten from bumping into obstacles and/or people, it couldn't give him more significant information. At home and at school, the computers had been programmed to relay information to a visually impaired person. Because this need was barely felt by society at large, this easily implementable program was not available globally. The cost was minimal, but no one thought about it. No one thought about people like Sten unless they were forced to, and then, they didn't like facing that task one bit. Sten sat in the chair Geneva brought him to and listened. Two others sat at the table -- at least two people were talking. In a room of this size, it wasn't easy to determine whether there were others at the table who remained silent. Naturally, when he had first approached, the woman who was talking had shut up mid-sentence -- a common response to his initial presence. "Hello," Sten smiled in their direction. "I'm Sten. My mother just joined the crew as an ensign." "Hi," one of them answered quickly. There was an uncomfortable pause. Then they continued their discussion. Typical. "Hi. May I be of assistance?" The voice was friendly, genuinely so -- a woman's, somewhat low. It asked to be trusted and liked. It wasn't just an offer to save him from a difficult, embarrassing situation; it was a request she would have offered anyone. "Yes, ma-am," he smiled. "My name is Sten. I'm new on the ship and I am blind, as you probably can see. If it isn't inconvenient, I would like to order lunch and get an idea of the layout of this room." "Certainly. My name is Guinan. It's very nice to meet you, Sten. Now, first: what can I get for you?" *** *** *** "Wesley!" "Hi, Mom," Wes smiled. "You look wonderful, Wes! It appears that whatever you're busy absorbing agrees with you." "Well, I'm overwhelmed half the time, but yes, I'm glad I made the choice I did. But it's great to be back on the Enterprise for a while." *** *** *** "Deanna, what is it?" "I just had a very disturbing encounter with Ensign Lu's son, Will." "The blind one, right?" Yes, that's right. How did you know?" "Oh, news travels fast around here; you know that." "What have you heard?" "That Ensign Lu's son is blind since birth; nothing can be done. The expected commentary: that it's a shame; that it must have been hard on Ensign Lu raising a disabled child alone." Deanna stirred her hot chocolate distractedly, nearly fast enough to spill it. "Deanna?" "I'm sorry. I was just -- I don't know. I think I may have said some very unfair things to Sten -- and furthermore, I'm wondering if a lot of what you heard wasn't also unfair. Understandable, sure. But why is it understandable? Are the perspectives which deem it understandable distorted by misunderstanding and prejudice? Is this treatment of Sten, this discussion of him as something defective, justifiable -- or is it out of proportion to his actual limitations?" "Deanna, he *is* disabled, and he can't be helped by medical science. He lacks a powerful sense, the sense of sight. That's our most important sense." "But is sight necessary to a full life, and does its absence justify judgments such as those we've been discussing? We do have technology available to greatly reduce Sten's limitations. What makes them different from Geordi's visor?" "Deanna, without his clunky robot and the constant assistance of others, Sten wouldn't be able to live a full life." "That isn't true, Will! Sten went through school the way other children did, using the computer to assist him further when it was required. Do you know there are programs available which specifically address the needs of the visually impaired, which explain things differently, in a less visual sense?" "No." "The Enterprise doesn't have any such programs, despite Geordi being on board." Though Geordi was *born* blind, Deanna. He is no longer blind, for all intents and purposes." "Why? Because he wears a piece of technology over his eyes? What's so different about his visor and Sten's use of special programs, a robot or other techniques for doing what we do and take for granted?" "Am I interrupting something?" "No, Worf; please join us." Worf seated himself with them and sipped at his prune juice. "I seem to have entered the middle of a serious discussion," Worf stated, looking somewhat uncomfortable. "We were discussing Sten Lu, Ensign Lu's blind son." "You see? You keep referring to him as blind, every time you introduce him as a subject to someone," Deanna said. "So? He *is* blind, Deanna. First you argue it's no big deal or that it shouldn't be, and now you're acting as if I should be ashamed to use the word." "No, that's not it. Don't you think it would be strange if every time someone asked who the Chief Security Officer was, you answered, 'Lieutenant Worf. He's a Klingon.' or 'The Klingon, Worf.'?" "It's not the same, Deanna." "Isn't it?" "All this controversy over an unfortunate child who should have been killed at birth." "Worf!" Riker turned slowly toward him. "Killed?" "He cannot be of any value to his family or his community. In Klingon society, he would have been euthanized as soon as it was determined that he was deformed. Even allowing for human tolerance of such defects and the willingness to try to integrate such an individual into society, once it was determined that even medical means could do nothing, his mother should have shown him mercy and --" "Worf," Deanna said quietly, her voice trembling slightly, "You know I respect your viewpoints and that though I don't always agree with Klingon law and custom, I try not to judge. But Sten Lu is *not* Klingon and he is also not helpless. He is intelligent and articulate. He can travel independently with the help of a robot that has no sentience to speak of, probably less than a well-trained, intelligent dog which many visually impaired people utilized as guides a few centuries ago." Worf snorted. "Imagine being led around by a dog? What kind of credibility could one have when one must place his well-being, his life, in the hands of a mongrel?" "The dog didn't lead the blind person, Worf. It responded to verbal directions and hand signals. The blind person had to know where he was going -- had to listen to traffic patterns and decide for himself when it was safe to cross streets. The dog was given some training in avoiding obstacles and dangerous situations if the person misjudged, but dog guides were not given to people who were not able to travel on their own." Worf did not appear convinced. "Worf," Deanna added, her voice rising an octave, "Do you believe that Geordi is necessarily inferior to a sighted engineer?" "Geordi is arguably superior; he has a visor which allows him to see better than we can." "Does that make Geordi a better engineer than the average sighted engineer?" "In certain circumstances, it does." "Most circumstances?" "No, under most circumstances, Geordi's extra-sensitive visor is not required to do his job." "And if Geordi's visor were broken, does that diminish his capacity as an engineer?" "Naturally. If he didn't have assistance for whatever reason -- an emergency, a --" "If the Enterprise computer were equipped with a program which would assist him in such a situation --" "Relying on the ship's computer is fine, but not on a regular basis. Perhaps an engineer who is not in charge, but certainly not the Chief Engineer." "Do you remember the time Geordi's visor was rendered useless and he had to give instructions to a Romulan to get them both out of an emergency situation?" "Yes, but that was an extraordinary situation. If Geordi had to rely on others on a daily basis to do his job, he wouldn't, and certainly shouldn't, be in a position of authority." "You rely on sensors to assist in your job, Worf," Deanna said. "If the sensors are damaged, are you a less capable tactical officer?" "Functionally, yes. But I would make do as best I could. Again, that would be an extraordinary situation, Deanna, not a standard state of affairs." "He has a point, Deanna." "I don't know, gentlemen. I just don't know." Deanna left her cup of hot chocolate, now room temperature, untouched on the table, and walked out. Riker shrugged. "So, Mr. Worf. Up for some holodeck combat?" *** *** *** After challenging his mother to a holodeck swimming contest, Wes took a shower and headed to Ten Forward for supper. Deanna Troi had asked to speak to his mother privately so he decided to check out the prospects for dinner companionship. He glanced quickly about the room and noticed Guinan, busy at the bar, casting disappointed glances at a group of kids at a corner table. Noticing him, Guinan smiled, raised a hand, and nodded toward the table, shooting a disapproving look again in that direction. Wesley wandered over and noticed a young man seated somewhat apart from the others. He was fumbling to the right side of his plate. "Did you lose something?" Then Wes noticed that there was a robot guide folded by the side of the stranger's chair. "I ordered a glass of rheaberry juice, and I put it right here," the man answered, his face flushed with embarrassment. Wesley saw a girl of about sixteen slip a glass quickly beneath the table after it was passed to her by the boy sitting closest to the blind man. "Excuse me, what's in that glass?" he barked. He hurried to the end of the table and took the glass somewhat roughly from the girl's grasp. "Looks like rheaberry juice to me," he stated. "Did you take this glass from beside his plate?" "Hey, man, cool it, will ya?" the boy who was the apparent instigator said. "We're just having a little fun." "Me, too, buddy," said Sten, hurling his plate of food directly into the boy's face. "Just a bunch of pals having fun, right, everyone?" "Hey, you blind freak!" "You're the freak," Wesley said, reaching across the table and yanking the boy back into his seat as he leaned toward Sten. "You're not six years old! What gives you the right to think you are entitled to play games like that with someone?" "What gives him the right to sit near us?" the girl who had attempted to hide their misdeed piped up. "Who the hell wants him here anyway? No one asked him to sit here. His little toy sat him here, and we have to accept it?" "I want your names, now," Guinan said, appearing suddenly at the head of the table. "This instant." Wesley turned toward Sten. He was gone. *** *** *** Sten Lu paced his quarters. His mother was still on duty, some mandatory introductory thing, and wouldn't be back for another hour. "Great first day, Geneva," he whispered. The robot chirped its willingness to take him somewhere. Sten snorted. "Sometimes I wonder why they replaced dogs with robots," he murmured. "At least a dog would be something." The door beeped. "Yeah?" "Sten Lu?" "That's right. Who's asking?" He had heard the voice recently, but where? A chill raced up and down his spine. It might be one of the jerks from Ten Forward. He tensed, ready to call for Security. "I'm Wesley Crusher. I was just present at that disgusting display of childishness in Ten Forward. May I come in?" Sten hesitated. The voice held real sympathy, but it was overridden by pity, not real interest to get to know him. Sten wanted friends, but friends who wanted to get to know him for another reason other than his disability or related reasons. But what the hell -- a start was a start. And the guy was well-intentioned, after all. "Sure. Why not? Enter." "Hi." The room was neat; it looked like any other young man's room. "You can call me Wes. I'm Dr. Crusher's son." "Hello, Wes. You know my name." "I'm holding out my hand, Sten. The right one." Sten reached out to grasp the hand. That hadn't happened in a long time; people who didn't know him rarely could talk to him easily, let alone touch him -- and as far as being comfortable accommodating his visual impairment so easily . . . "I gather that your first day on the Enterprise hasn't been pleasant." "You gather correctly," Sten smiled, but the smile was sad. "Look, I don't know a thing about what it's like to be disabled, not really. And I don't want to make it the center of discussion if you don't want to. But if you want to blow off some steam, I'm willing to listen." Sten fought back tears. Counselor Troi hadn't even taken that step. "Thank you, Wes. That's one of the nicest things I've heard in a long time from a person who just introduced himself." "I may screw up somewhere along the line," Wes said, "But I won't be upset if you let me know when I do." *** *** *** "I haven't seen Wesley on the bridge much this week, Beverly. Is he well?" "Yes, he's well. He has been spending a significant amount of time with Ensign Lu's son. He installed a program specifically designed to assist the visually impaired into the ship's computer; gave him a tour of the ship and has been teaching him card games using cards with raised numbers he replicated for the activity. He also tried to convince Worf to give Sten martial arts lessons and is very upset that he refused. He has been following up on a situation where some children were harassing Sten -- aren't you aware of any of this?" "No, I had no idea." Dr. Crusher frowned. "Wes and Deanna are right. This whole ship is in a state of denial with regard to Sten's existence. He's a very nice boy, delightful when one bothers to get to know him. His mother is lovely. Have you had a chance to meet her yet?" "Just very briefly." "Wes told me he --" "Data to Captain Picard." "Yes, Data." "We are receiving a distress call from a Klingon scout ship. Apparently, they are only minutes away from core meltdown." "How long will it be before we are in transporter range, Mr. Data?" "At worp eight, seven minutes and eighteen seconds, sir. They have a little over nine minutes, according to their estimates." "Take us to transporter range, worp eight-point-six." "Aye, sir." *** *** *** "This is the Transporter Chief. Medical emergency." Dr. Crusher looked in horror at the Klingon woman as she was rolled into sickbay. Her breathing was shallow; her face, arms and neck were severely burned and she was clearly due to give birth at any time. "I've begun," the woman cried out. "My baby. Please." A Klingon male entered, looking surprisingly shaken. "There was an explosion; I have no idea why. It appears to have had nothing to do with the meltdown. She was right next to it. The baby --" "I'll have to get the baby out myself; her sac has been damaged and isn't responding to her body's prompts to deliver." "It has to be all right," the woman cried, after screaming in Klingon at the man. Dr. Crusher couldn't tell if she was more frightened or angry. Wes and Sten suddenly appeared. "Mom, I wanted to -- oh!" "Wes, please, go into the other room. As you can see, I can't talk now." Medical assistants scurried about the patient, wetting her face, talking reassuringly. "I've almost got -- him," Dr. Crusher sid. "I've never delivered a Klingon baby before, but it looks pretty straightforward." The woman was silent, the painkillers having set in. Dr. Crusher held up the squealing baby. Wesley peered over her shoulder. In unison, they both breathed, "Oh, no!" The doctor turned and met her son's gaze. He quickly stepped between her and the father of the baby, blocking his view as best he could, as his mother reached for what she needed. "Stop! What do you think you're doing?" "Worf, what are you doing here?" Dr. Crusher snapped. "It's madness in here; please keep the baby's father company until I've finished with the postdelivery tests." "That child is deformed! One foot is shorter than the other." "Don't be absurd. He's newborn; how many newborns have you seen, Worf? Please, let me do my job." "Let me see my baby!" the mother had regained consciousness. "Let me see if he speaks the truth." "I must run a few brief diagnostic tests first. Just give me a minute." The woman raised herself from the bed and grabbed the child clumsily from the doctor's arms. "My son! My son is -- he's --" A stream of hysterical Klingon words followed. Dr. Crusher turned to see the brief look of pain flash in the father's eyes. Then he kissed his wife stiffly on the cheek and reached for the baby. "No! This child is not deformed! I can fix his foot in literally ten seconds. He is completely healthy, strong and healthy." "We do not use medicine to fix what wasn't meant to be!" boomed the father. "The child must die." "No!" Dr. Crusher snatched the crying baby from it's mother and raced for the door. Worf roared behind her and lunged. At the last moment, Dr. Crusher leaped to one side and Worf stumbled forward. Dr. Crusher shoved an unforgiving knee into his ribs as he tried to rise, then leaped over him and raced into the hall. *** *** *** "Doctor, please let me in! Don't force me to use the security override! Please." Captain Picard's eyes were sad and serious. He gently forced her to give him the baby, prying her hands away from the bawling child. "It wants its mother," she sobbed. "He's hungry. And instead of feeding him, she's going to kill him." "Beverly, please. You know we can't force our views on this. They are the parents; they are Klingon. They have the right to do what they are permitted to do on their world, what is expected of them under the circumstances." "Let me talk to them. I'll take the baby. Jean-Luc, he's fine! He's healthy! His foot can be fixed in a matter of seconds. Even if it couldn't --" "Beverly," he whispered, cradling her with one arm while awkwardly holding the child in the other. "Worf has asked to be present at -- the ceremony," he said. "I have forbidden him to participate directly." "I won't comment on that," she snapped, moving away from him. *** *** *** "Why don't you talk to him? How can you stand by and accept his actual *desire* to be there, his full and unwavering support for them? How could you sleep with a man who --" "Beverly!" "I'm sorry, Deanna. At this moment, the sight of Worf, the thought of Worf, what he's condoning, makes me sick." "Dr. Crusher?" She turned, not wanting to talk to anyone. She just wanted to retreat to her quarters and hide for who knew how long. "Thank you." "For what, Sten?" "For showing me that there are still people who are willing to say that such things are wrong. For taking an active part in trying to stop this continuing madness." "But I couldn't stop it." "That's all right. You tried, which is more than I can say for most people. -- Dr. Crusher?" "What, Sten?" "You weren't able to save that child. And maybe if he were truly handicapped, you wouldn't have felt so obligated to save him. But I have a request." "Yes?" "I'm a grown man. I try every day to change the perceptions held about me and others like me. But that struggle on my part is one of spiritual survival, of self-identity. I have to stick up for myself; I don't feel I have any other choice. Those who aren't handicapped themselves or who don't know anything about the handicapped have no personal stake in trying to convince people that their outdated perceptions are harmful. If people like you, people who look beyond flaws to seek potential, would take an active role in supporting people like me, my struggle would be validated in the eyes of those who simply don't understand, those who don't even bother trying." "What can I do?" "You could allow me to learn as much as I can about being a medical assistant. You could allow me to attempt to find ways around my limitations. If I succeed at a satisfactory level, you might be able to help me get accepted into training." "I'll think about it, Sten," she said quietly. "Right now, though, I really must be alone. I have to find a way to move past what happened today." He reached out and took her hand in a tight grasp, relaying in a short squeeze his full understanding of her need. ******************************** "So, you see, they are a bunch of hypocritical, sanctimonious gits. They have judged us harshly -- all right, judged me harshly -- accusing the Q Continuum of immorality and amorality, of our tendency to throw our omnipotence in their faces. Picard says he will hold human morality up to ours any time. Yes, our friends the humans do indeed have high ideals and lofty principles. They're proud of their moral progress. Not proud and sure enough of the objective truth of those morals to interfere when every fiber of their being screams injustice, not when treaties or messy politics are concerned. They hold me and you to a higher standard because of our omnipotence, and yet though they insist that their morality is a superior one, they lower their standards for the Klingon, the Ferengi. The very noninterference they have practiced now for 'the greater good' troubles them today, but they will let it pass, forgiving themselves by rationalizing and justifying their behavior. Yet when you or I choose not to interfere for what to us are equally valid reasons, we are called to task. "And observe how they treat one of their own because he isn't perfect; he isn't enough like them to be accepted as a whole person. All of them have significant limitations in the right situations, yet they pick and choose the limita tions they feel should make a member of their own species expendable, or at least discountable. In essence, they say to their 'imperfect' beings: 'Because we do not have your limitations, we can choose to accept you or not, to assist you or not. Our superior powers make us better and you should accept our judgment and our treatment, whether bad or good.' For all their protestations to the contrary, is there any doubt in your mind what would happen if the average human being had the powers of the Continuum? Their thirst for competition, order, for a superior morality, for a more 'human' universe would certainly make them no better or worse than we appear to them. As their 'defective' members often feel threatened by the treatment they receive from the allegedly superior, able-bodied humans, those fine, upstanding moralists are threatened by us. Not because we don't conform to their idea of morality: how can they hold us to such standards, when they immediately revert to tolerance for moral relativism as soon as Federation politics and the Prime Directive are at stake? No, it is because they feel so limited around us; we remind them of what they might be, if they were truly as steadfastly high-principled as they like to think they are. Their fear and hatred for superiority is as strong as their fear and hatred of inferiority. If you aren't exactly like them, you must be judged and tolerated or judged and damned. They tolerate those they judge as their equals when it is in their best interest to do so, even if it breaks every law of their high and mighty human principles. But let them judge a far superior group of beings, and watch out! There is no end to their derision, their scrutiny. They balk at us for daring to put them on trial, for daring to question their morality and their behavior, while they in their primitive way do the very same thing to far inferior species, hiding in the clouds of planets and observing as hunter-gatherers struggle to survive, as their children die of horrible diseases. If those hunter-gatherers could judge them, would they not view them as they view us? "There is hope for them, especially in certain individuals like Picard, who truly struggle with these contradictions. But they have a terribly long road to travel, and somewhere along that road, they will need to face themselves in a harsh spiritual mirror and face the whole truth of what they are, not just what they want to see." THE END -- "I really do enjoy you, you know." -- Q