Only Human: Part I,  Section 5 of 10

Only Human

An ST:TNG Alternate Universe Novel by Alara Rogers

ONLY HUMAN is a work in progress, and it's very, very long.  I
have broken Part I (I think there will be six parts, total) into
10 subsections for ease of posting, and ease of other people
reading; Part I is over 300 K, so I've broken it into sections of
between 10 and 60 K so no one's newsreader vomits. These sections
are done with some eye to logical breaking points, such as major
scene changes, but the story was not originally written with the
need for breaking points in mind. The separate subsections do not
have individual titles; the chapter name for Part I, total, is
"Starbase 56/Enterprise".

This is, as yet, something of a draft-- if I find it necessary to
revise based on what happens in parts IV-VI, or however many I end
up writing, I will do so. The most recent version is available
from various archive sites. Check out:

ftp://ftp.netcom.com/pub/al/aleph/trek
ftp://ftp.europa.com/outgoing/mercutio/alt.fan.q
ftp://aviary.share.net/pub/startrek/incomplete (though maybe I will move
it from incomplete, if I can figure out whether it belongs in TNG or other)

http://www.europa.com/~mercutio/Q.html
http://aviary.share.net/~alara
http://www1.mhv.net/~alara/ohtree.html

ONLY HUMAN is an Aleph Press production, not-for-profit, and not
intended to infringe on anybody's copyrights.  The universe, the
Enterprise crew, and the main character were created by
Paramount; most of the secondary characters were created by me,
with the exception of yet more Paramount characters and some
other people who know who they are. Any resemblance to real
people, living or dead, is probably intentional. Send comments,
criticism, praise and flames to aleph@netcom.com. Or post your
comments here-- I have a very thick skin.


       *                   *                         *

     His quarters were boring, impersonal, identical to every
other spare bedroom on the ship and close to identical to every
occupied quarters. Troi brought him there, giving him a civilian
combadge. "Ordinarily, civilian combadges are only used in
emergencies, and for their locator function. You're a special
case, however. You shouldn't use them to hold a conversation, but
if you need something, touch the badge, give your name and the
person or place you're trying to reach."
     "I'm not stupid, Counselor. I've figured that much out from
watching the rest of you."
     Troi shrugged. "I don't know how much you know-- and since
there's so much you don't know, perhaps it would be better to
give you too much information rather than too little. You can use
the computer to read, listen to music, look up information, and
many other things. It's voice-activated, so just tell it what you
want. The clothing replicator is over here--" she gestured.
"Simply step inside and it'll take your measurements. After that,
any clothes you want replicated, call up on the menu."
     "What about Starfleet uniforms?"
     "You're not Starfleet, so those aren't on your menu. Once
you're on the starbase, you'll have access to clothing shops, and
you can get anything you want-- except Starfleet uniforms." She
smiled. "I'm sorry, but we worked to wear those outfits. As for
here, I'm afraid you're limited to what's on the menu, but
there's a wide variety. Clothing for women only is marked with an
'f'-- you'll look rather silly if you call one of those up."
     "I figured that one out too. And if you worked so hard to
wear a Starfleet uniform, why aren't you?"
     "This is more comfortable-- and I think it makes me look a
little bit more relaxed, more like someone to talk to than a
member of a military structure. I think it's important for a
counselor to seem personally open, and I think wearing a
Starfleet uniform would detract from that a bit." She touched a
pad, and another door opened. "In here is the bathroom. Let me
show you how to use the fixtures."
     As she explained the plumbing and the reasons for it, Q felt
a surge of nausea. He'd forgotten entirely about this aspect of
human existence. "How unbelievably vile," he muttered, thoroughly
disgusted. He was grateful to Troi for realizing that he'd need
to know these things-- he wouldn't have thought to ask until it
became necessary, and if it had become necessary he would have
died of embarrassment-- but it was information he heartily wished
he could have done without. He also wondered how soon it would
become necessary, whether he would know it when it was time, and
if he had time to kill himself first.
     "It's just a fact of human existence, Q. There's nothing
inherently disgusting about it."
     "Can we *please* discuss something else?"
     "All right." She showed him the shower controls and the
amenities-- toothbrush, beard repressor, skin cleanser, hair
cleanser, that sort of thing. "They're all plainly labeled-- if
you read the bottles first, you can't get mixed up."
     "What if I did get mixed up?"
     "Depending on what you did, anything might happen from
accidentally shaving your head to poisoning yourself. So be
careful and read the bottles first."
     "Right. Sure. Got it." Anything to get off this topic. He
had to know these things, but the longer they talked about it,
the more he felt sick with humiliation and disgust. At least it
was Troi doing the explanations. Data probably wouldn't know what
many of these things were and Q really would die of embarrassment
if he had to talk to any of the others about this sort of thing.
"Anything else I need to know?"
     "Not really. Call for an escort if you want to go somewhere-
- you're not a prisoner in here, but it's not very safe for you
out in the halls without an escort. And if you need anything,
feel free to call. I'm going off duty now, but I'll still be up
for a few hours."
     "Right. Thanks. See you later."
     After she had gone, Q had the replicator make him an entire
new wardrobe, in halfway decent colors. None of the available
clothes on the menu were terribly interesting-- what was this
fetish for one-piece jumpsuits? He hated one-piece jumpsuits.
They were uncomfortable and awfully unflattering. When he
excluded one-piece jumpsuits from the menu, there wasn't much
left for his wardrobe-- on the other hand, if he was only going
to be here a few days he wouldn't have time to do much dressing
up. It was probably time to wash-- he had gotten the impression
from Troi that humans showered or bathed every day, and he had no
desire to be dirty. 
     He stripped off the gray jumpsuit and tossed it in a chute
that he hoped led to the incinerator, went into the bathroom and
attempted to figure out the shower. Troi had shown him how the
controls worked, but that didn't stop him from first drenching
himself in freezing water and then scalding himself before he
figured out how to modulate the temperature properly. He then
discovered that getting either hair cleanser or beard repressor
in one's eyes was agonizingly painful, something Troi had
neglected to warn him about. Terrified that he had just blinded
himself, Q staggered out of the shower, slammed his knee on the
toilet, slipped on the way out and fell on his face on the carpet
in the bedroom, and fumbled around desperately for his combadge,
with burning eyes tightly closed. When his fingers finally closed
on the device, he called sickbay, panicked, and was told that he
could solve the problem himself by running clean water over his
eyes. Still blind, he stumbled back into the bathroom, slipped on
wet tiles and cracked his head against the sink, and finally
managed to crawl back into the shower, where he discovered that
the remedy was almost as painful as the problem itself. After he
eventually managed to get his eyes open again, he discovered that
they were a bright and nasty red. And they still hurt besides.
     Overall, it was not the most successful of his experiments.
     As he dried himself, trying to be careful of the bruises
he'd just collected, he discovered a new symptom-- an
uncomfortable pressure in his lower abdomen. It didn't feel
anything at all like hunger. He thought of calling sickbay, and
then remembered Crusher's tone of long-suffering patience about
to wear out. Maybe he didn't want to call sickbay after all. He
had the computer here-- perhaps he could figure it out for
himself.
     He asked the computer to display a schematic of human male
anatomy, with the various systems and their functions labeled and
described. He then compared the location of  the uncomfortable
pressure to the schematic, figured out what part of his body was
generating the sensation, and felt sick again. Now he was awfully
glad he hadn't called sickbay. 
     Trying very hard not to think about what he was doing and
how utterly repulsive it was, he attempted to use the facilities
in the bathroom. This was even less successful than the showering
experiment-- he somehow managed to splash urine on himself. That
was the last straw. His stomach heaved, his throat burned, and he
found himself vomiting up the food he'd eaten before. The sight
and smell of the partially digested food sickened him further. He
retched again, and again, until there was nothing coming up
anymore.
     Sick and weak, overwhelmed by the horror of his new
existence, with his gut twisted and burning, he curled up in a
fetal ball on the floor of the bathroom and whimpered for several
minutes. Eventually he realized that he couldn't simply lie
here-- someone had to clean this mess up, and he was too utterly
humiliated to ask anyone else to do it, though he supposed there
were probably janitor robots or cleaning people or somesuch. He
turned the shower back on, crawled into it to rinse himself off,
and then stepped back out, gingerly avoiding the puddles on the
floor. The toilet had already cleaned and rinsed itself. He took
the towels, put them into the shower, and then threw them sopping
wet on the floor, covering up the puddles of vomit. Carefully he
scrunched them together, trying to make sure he got all the
material and didn't have to touch or look at any of it, rolled up
the towels with the filth inside, and threw them down the chute
as well. There were puddles of water all over the floor now, but
he could live with that.
     Now, of course, he had no towels. He limped back out into
the bedroom and requested towels from the replicator. Half of
them he threw on the bathroom floor again, to soak up the water;
he dried himself with another pair and then threw those onto the
floor as well. He dumped the dripping towels down the chute and
got more clean dry ones from the replicator, which he hung up in
the bathroom. He then left the bathroom and pressed the button to
shut its door, closing the place and the horrors it had generated
away and wishing its door could be slammed. It would feel very
satisfying to slam a door around now.
     Back in the main room of his quarters, Q got dressed and
threw himself on the bed. He felt weak and shaky, and he spent
several minutes staring at the ceiling and trying to blank his
horrible experience out of his mind. After a few minutes, he
managed to regain a bit of his equilibrium, and his mouth
twitched into a half-smile. At least it couldn't possibly get any
worse than that. He had just experienced the depths of human
existence; nothing could frighten him anymore. That was a
positive thing in some lights, he supposed.
     Though his stomach still hurt from throwing up, he became
aware of a different, more familiar pain in it. He was apparently
hungry again-- which made sense, since he had just lost any value
he'd have gotten from his meal earlier. Resolutely he got up and
called up a map of the Enterprise on the computer, tracing a
route to Ten-Forward. After what he'd just been through, dealing
with Guinan would be child's play. On his way out the door, he
remembered that Troi had suggested that he go nowhere without an
escort-- that it "wasn't safe". He snorted. *Is she afraid I'll
make my way to the transporter room and accidentally beam myself
into space, or what? *He didn't need an escort-- as long as he
kept the route memorized he'd be fine. 

     On the way, he tried to decide what he'd get to eat. The
thought of eating anything from the meal he'd had before
nauseated him-- even the chocolate sundae, which was a damned
shame. He'd really liked the chocolate sundae, at least until his
head started to hurt. By throwing up his meal, though, he seemed
to have convinced his body that the food he'd eaten before was
inherently nauseating. He hoped this was a temporary effect--
he'd hate to think he'd never get to eat a chocolate sundae
again.
     None of this answered the question of what to eat. He had no
idea what was available outside the foods Counselor Troi had
ordered for him. When he got there, he looked around, trying to
determine what other people were eating. Ten-Forward was fairly
full at this hour, but most people were nursing drinks. Finally Q
located a crewman in a gold uniform eating something that didn't
look nauseating. He approached the man and asked, "Excuse me,
what are you eating?"
     The man looked up at him. "A ham sandwich."
     "Okay. If I wanted to get one of those, what would I say?
Just ask for a ham sandwich?"
     "A ham sandwich with lettuce and tomato." The crewman's eyes
narrowed. "Aren't you Q?"
     "Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. However did you figure that
one out?"
     The crewman-- from his pips he was an ensign-- said,
"Because the only other person who'd be that clueless about how
to do something would be Commander Data, and he doesn't eat. I
heard he and LaForge nearly got killed trying to protect you."
     "Data got hurt. Nothing happened to LaForge."
     "Uh-huh." The ensign took a bite of his sandwich. "What I'd
like to know is why they bothered. After what you put us through,
you deserved to get fried."
     Q scowled. It angered him that a person he didn't even know
would so casually pass judgment on him. "Thank you. It's good to
know I have friends I can count on here," he said sarcastically.
"What's your name, ensign?"
     "Nichols," the man said through a mouthful of food.
     "Well, Ensign Nichols, when I get my powers back I'll be
sure and remember you, and your kind words."
     "You won't get them back," Nichols said. "You're too much of
an asshole."
     "If it makes you feel secure to believe that, go right
ahead," Q told him. "You humans are so good at self-delusion. Far
be it for me to stand in your way."
     He turned aside, smiling. Hopefully that would give the
wretch something to lose sleep over.
     There was no sign of Guinan, which was encouraging. Right
now he wasn't particularly afraid of Guinan, but there was no
sense borrowing trouble. Q walked up to the counter and asked the
waitress for a ham sandwich with lettuce and tomato.
     What she gave him bore no resemblance to what Ensign Nichols
had been eating. Q stared at the bowl-- noodles and bits of meat
in an orange-colored sauce. "This isn't what I ordered."
     "It's a house specialty," the waitress said. "Compliments of
the hostess."
     Which meant Guinan. Q stared at it. "Now I have to worry
about it being poisoned," he complained. "Or repulsive in some
fashion."
     "It isn't poisoned and it isn't repulsive," the waitress
said tightly. "You want me to take a few bites and show you?"
     "Be my guest." He pushed the plate back at her.
     The waitress took another fork from under the counter and
scooped up some of the noodles, which she ate with apparent
gusto. Of course, Guinan could have trained her to do that.
Cautiously Q sniffed the food-- it smelled perfectly good. He
took a tentative forkful. Tasted good, too-- but this was Guinan.
There had to be something wrong with it. "I don't want this."
     "Then you're not getting anything," the waitress snapped.
"Take it or leave it."
     He was very hungry. Q took another tentative bite. Nothing
seemed to be wrong with it. "If this turns out to be a plot to
humiliate me, I'm going to complain to Captain Picard," he
announced, and pulled the plate back.
     The waitress snorted and left. Q ignored her, concentrating
on the food, trying to figure out what the catch was. Maybe it
was infected with some annoying human disease, like the common
cold-- nothing dangerous, but humiliating and unpleasant. He was
uncomfortably aware that this was Guinan's territory, her arena,
and if he wanted to eat he was going to have to face whatever she
had planned for him. Suddenly it no longer seemed like such a
good idea to have come to Ten-Forward-- there had to be somewhere
else on the ship he could get a meal. Did the towel and uniform
replicator make food too? Probably it did, he realized. He hadn't
needed to come here at all. He could leave and get a meal in his
quarters.
     A shadow fell on him from behind. He turned, and tensed. Too
late to leave now. "I knew you'd show up sooner or later."
     "How do you like the meal?" Guinan asked coolly.
     "It's quite good, actually. What's the catch?" He narrowed
his eyes, studying her. "A disease? A slow-acting drug? Some
ingredient humans are allergic to?"
     "Nothing like that. I'm not you. Don't you recognize it?"
     "Can't say I do. Am I supposed to?"
     "It's from my homeworld," she said softly. Then she said
something else, in another language, and Q cursed inwardly. He
knew perfectly well what the language was. He could remember a
time when he spoke it fluently, with Guinan herself, under the
name she had had then and in the body and name he had worn at
that time. But he couldn't remember it, and he had no idea what
she had just said. His lack of comprehension must have shown on
his face. "You don't remember that either?"
     There was no way to dissemble. "Apparently not," Q said,
hating to make the admission. Of all people to show weakness to!
     "Guess you're getting senile in your old age," Guinan said.
     "Obviously it wasn't a priority with me, or I would have
remembered," Q replied, matching her coolness.
     "Obviously." Guinan leaned over him. "I said, it's a meal
from a dead world, now."
     "If you're trying to make me feel guilty, you're being
resoundingly unsuccessful. I did far more for you than your
miserable world deserved."
     Her voice turned ice-cold. "You gave me a completely useless
warning."
     "Hardly completely useless. You were off-planet when the
Borg came, weren't you?"
     "Trying to find out the nature of the disaster that was
coming."
     "Even still. If I hadn't told you what I did, you wouldn't
have realized there was a disaster coming at all. You would have
been on your homeworld, and you'd have died with the rest of
them. I saved your pathetic life."
     "Which makes us even." Her eyes narrowed. "Or did you forget
that too?"
     "That? No. I'm hardly likely to forget *that*."
     "Didn't think you would," she said. "I terrified you. You
had no idea you could be threatened."
     Q shrugged. "Disturbed me. That, I'll admit."
     "You were disturbed before you saw what I can do. You were
terrified after."
     Q did not like the turn this conversation had taken. He had
wanted very much to forget that Guinan existed, after his first
encounter with her. He had also wanted very much to get revenge--
he could not forgive what she had done to him, and yet he hadn't
dared to take any direct action. Guinan's powers were limited in
comparison to his, and not nearly so versatile, but her people
had abilities even the Q didn't share-- abilities that made her
capable of destroying, or at least neutralizing, him. He had been
forced to agree not to interfere with her people, pressured by
both the Continuum and Guinan herself; there was no direct way he
could move against her.
     A few years later he'd seen the perfect opportunity. He had
warned her, in as vague terms as he possibly could, of an
upcoming disaster that would destroy her people, and offered to
save them if she would meet his price. Of course she wouldn't, as
he'd known she wouldn't. Her own abilities could confirm the
little that he'd told her-- she could see that most of her people
would die, but not why, or how. So she'd gone off-world,
desperately searching for a way to avert the disaster, and while
she was gone the Borg had come and destroyed her home. From a
safe distance he'd watched the agony of her guilt, and been
gleefully satisfied-- she would always be tormented by the fact
that she'd refused his offer. And there was no way that what he'd
done-- give a warning, offer to help-- could possibly be
construed as against the terms of the treaty the Continuum had
made with her people. He had had the perfect revenge, and his own
hands were spotless.
     He had never expected to be in a position where she could
pay him back.
     Q stood up and pushed his chair away, facing Guinan. "Is
there some point to this?"
     "I knew this was going to happen to you, you know," she
said. "I've known it for some time."
     He stared at her. "What do you mean?"
     "I saw this when I first met you. I didn't know what to make
of it then. Then last year, when you came to the Enterprise, I
realized you were going to become mortal."
     Once, he had known exactly how she could have "seen" this,
though his own powers over time had been very different from
Guinan's. Now they were just words that he had to take for
granted. "So you knew. I'm impressed."
     "I arranged for you to come here."
     That was a different story. Q was incredulous. "*How?*
There's no way-- You couldn't have done that. I was still a Q
when I decided to come here-- you couldn't have influenced me..."
     "Believe what you like. I told you, I know more than one
trick."
     He swallowed, and stepped back slightly, the counter
pressing into his back. If she had *that* kind of power... well,
it wasn't his concern anymore. Let the Continuum worry about it.
"I'm sure Picard will be thrilled to hear that you brought me
here."
     "Captain Picard would understand my reasons."
     "And those are? Simply the desire to gloat over my
misfortune?"
     "That, too," Guinan said candidly. "Mainly I wanted to do
this."
     Without warning, she brought her knee up hard into his
crotch.
     His entire abdominal region imploded, a black hole at the
core of him tearing his flesh inward. For a split second, there
was no pain, just awful numbness. Then the pain hit, a crippling
wave of nauseated agony. His knees buckled, and he sank to the
floor doubled over, with a gasp that would have been more like a
scream if he'd been able to get a breath. It was impossible to
breathe through the horrible pain and nausea-- what air he could
get came in as gasps, and what he could breathe out left as
whimpers. Guinan had killed him. He had to have massive internal
injuries, be hemorrhaging to death-- it was the only explanation
for the hideous pain and sickness, worse than anything he'd yet
experienced. He had completely misjudged her. Even knowing how
much she hated him, it had never occurred to him that she would
kill him.
     "I haven't killed you," Guinan said coldly-- had he said
anything? He didn't think he had. "It's not my way. Besides, the
longer you live, the longer you'll suffer."
     She bent down, coming toward him. Q flinched away violently,
curling into a ball and gasping, "--*Don't--*"
     A look of contempt crossed Guinan's face. She straightened
up. "You really do have 'victim' painted on your forehead," she
said. "If I didn't know better, I'd almost feel sorry for you."
     She turned and walked away. Q lay on the floor, trying
desperately to breathe regularly again. Despite what she'd said,
he was still positive he had massive internal injuries. He had to
get to sickbay. He tried to struggle onto his feet, or at least
his knees, but the pain wouldn't let him move properly yet. 
     "Uh, Guinan?" It was LaForge's voice, close by.
     "Yes?" Guinan's voice replied.
     "Someone's going to have to take him to sickbay now."
     "He's not hurt-- but go right ahead."
     A hand landed on Q's arm. He turned his head and saw Geordi
LaForge, kneeling next to him. "Q. Can you walk?"
     "She's killed me," Q gasped. "I'm dying."
     "I doubt it. Now come on. Get up and walk." LaForge tugged
his arm. "I'm not carrying you to sickbay."
     With LaForge's help, Q managed to stagger to his feet. "I
don't think... I should walk. I must have tremendous internal
injuries."
     "No, you probably just feel like you do. Come on."
     "How... do you know? This pain... it's unbelievable.
Something's got to be broken inside."
     LaForge actually smiled. "Welcome to the wonderful world of
testicles, Q."

     With an obvious lack of sympathy, LaForge forced Q to walk
to sickbay, where they met Dr. Crusher on her way out the door.
She sighed in exasperation. "What's wrong with him this time?"
she asked LaForge.
     "Guinan kicked him in the crotch. I don't think he's badly
hurt, but I thought someone should check."
     "What do you mean, not badly hurt?" Q demanded. He was still
hunched over, leaning on LaForge's shoulder for support. "I'm in
agony! The Calamarain didn't hurt this badly and they were
*killing* me!"
     "Right," Crusher said. "Lie down over there." She pointed at
a bed and turned to LaForge. "Thanks, Geordi. You can go now if
you want."
     "No problem." LaForge helped Q to the bed, then left.
     Crusher took her own sweet time in coming over to the bed.
Q, curled up on his side, glared at her. "I'm glad to see you're
in no rush."
     "I was on my way out the door to go off-shift, actually."
She ran the medical tricorder over him. "You're fine, nothing but
bruises. You'll be sore for a few hours, but that's the extent of
it."
     "If there's nothing wrong with me then how can it possibly
hurt so much?"
     "A lot of nerve endings," Crusher said distractedly. She
studied her tricorder readings. "Where did you get all these
other bruises?"
     "Which ones?"
     "You're covered with them."
     "Falling three meters to the floor of Engineering probably
had something to do with it," Q said, unwilling to admit how
clumsy he'd been in the shower. Besides, falling three meters to
the floor of Engineering probably was where most of them came
from, anyway.
     "According to this you need to get some sleep. You feel
tired?"
     Q scowled. "I'm in too much pain to feel tired," he said,
trying to determine whether he did or not. "I don't feel anything
like I did when I fell asleep."
     "When did you last sleep?"
     He thought about it. "I don't remember. I was asleep when
the first Calamarain probe happened, if that helps."
     "That was over 20 hours ago." Crusher frowned. "Describe
what you felt when you first fell asleep."
     "I was afraid I was dying." He thought back, remembering. "I
felt weak... my limbs were too heavy to move. I felt as if the
life were draining out of me. I couldn't see straight... I think
I fell on the bed and lost consciousness. This was in the brig.
Picard said I fell asleep."
     "You didn't," Crusher said. "You were drugged."
     "*Drugged?*" Outraged, Q tried to sit up, and fell back down
again as the pain stabbed through him. "Aah!"
     "I think the captain's going to want to have words with the
security guard on duty when you were in the brig," Crusher said,
half-smiling. "There's trace elements of a soporific gas in your
system."
     "Then-- I didn't fall asleep. I *haven't* experienced sleep
yet."
     "Not real sleep, no." She walked around the bed, so he had
to roll over to continue looking at her. "You're overdue, though.
Go home and get some rest."
     "How can you tell?"
     "To begin with, your blood fatigue poisons are up. Your
neurotransmitter levels are showing an exhaustion pattern. Most
importantly, though, you've been up for over 20 hours, with only
a drugged nap before that, and you've had a strenuous day." She
put her tricorder away.
     "I don't feel tired."
     "Do you have any idea what being tired feels like?" Crusher
said, again in that tone of long-suffering patience.
     Q realized belatedly that if he couldn't go by his
experience in the brig then he probably did have no idea what
being tired felt like. "I don't know."
     "Arms and legs starting to feel a bit heavy? Is it more
comfortable to lie and rest?"
     "Yes, but I thought that was because of what Guinan did."
     "Your voice is a little hoarse. Can you hear the
difference?"
     "I'm not sure--"
     "Difficulty concentrating? Difficulty focusing vision?
Headache?"
     "Some of those."
     "You're tired," Crusher said firmly. "I'd suggest you get
into a schedule. When you wake up tomorrow, check the time, and
go to bed sixteen hours after that whether you think you're tired
or not. Being tired's rather subtle-- human children have to be
put to bed on a schedule, because they often can't tell when they
should sleep and overtire themselves. You'll probably have the
same problem for a few weeks."
     "Oh, marvelous. What happens if I get overtired?"
     "You'll be more irritable than usual-- which in your case,
probably means you'll provoke someone into punching you. I'd
advise getting regular sleep. I'd also advise that as soon as you
have some free time, look up a book on the computer called "Man's
Body-- An Owner's Manual", and read it. It'll save you a lot of
useless trips to sickbay." She turned to a nurse. "Take Q back to
his quarters, please."
     "Right."
     "Aren't you going to give me a painkiller or something? I'm
still in terrible pain."
     Crusher sighed. "All right." She picked up a hypo and
pressed it against his arm. "Now, I'm going home for the night.
Try not to have any medical emergencies-- Dr. Raskin's on night
duty, and he's likely to be a lot less sympathetic to you than I
am."
     "Is that possible?" 
     "He lost his lover when the Borg attacked," Crusher said
tightly. 
     "Oh." Q nodded. It was probably a good idea to avoid sickbay
tonight. It was unfair for the Enterprise crew to blame him for
the lives lost to the Borg-- but they weren't half as strong on
fairness as they liked to pretend.