Only Human: Part I,  Section 10 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.


         *                   *                     *

     She had left Q alone to consider her offer for two days now.
It was more than time to talk to him.
     Q smiled as she approached. At this point she suspected it
was more because he'd now be allowed to talk rather than
happiness at seeing her. She flicked on the speaker. "How do you
feel?" she asked.
     "Li says I'll be able to get out of this bed and start
eating real food in about a week. I just care about the bed,
myself, but apparently it's a package deal. They can't let me get
up until they can stop feeding me through a tube in my stomach or
whatever they've got under this arcane device." He meant the
diagnostic unit, indicating it with a weakly waved hand.
     "Very good. How do you feel?"
     "Harry Roth was in here to visit yesterday. He had some sort
of maudlin nonsense about how he hoped I felt better and that
sort of thing. Did you put him up to it?"
     "No. He asked if it would be permitted, and I said yes. It
was entirely his own idea, however."
     "Oh. Because it's embarrassing. Quite frankly, I'd forgotten
Harry existed. It might be just as well that I couldn't talk,
because I imagine he'd have been rather upset at what I'd have
had to say. I don't *like* that sort of thing."
     "Don't you? I've always had the impression you were rather
fond of getting attention."
     "I-- well, yes, I do. But this is *embarrassing.* I barely
know the man."
     "I assure you, he's not under the impression that the two of
you are best friends. He simply wished to let you know that there
are some people aboard this starbase who care whether you live or
die for your own sake and not for your value to the Federation."
     "Yes, well, that's all very wonderful, I suppose, but it
wasn't necessary. I put up with enough of that sort of thing from
Counselor Medellin."
     T'Laren wondered if Q's embarrassment might be because he
was, consciously or unconsciously, picking up on what Gretchen
Wernicke had seen in Roth. "Exactly why does that embarrass you?"
     "Because it's silly and sentimental and I don't need it."
     Or perhaps he was embarrassed because he *did* need it and
was trying not to let it show. She would have to explore this
with him later. "You have twice now avoided the question of how
you feel," she said. "What are you trying to avoid telling me?"
     "Physically I feel fine. Bored out of my mind, numb between
the chest and knees, and weak as a starving Znarian spiderweb-
dancer, but I'm not in any pain. I don't even itch anywhere-- I
think they're giving me some kind of drug that suppresses that. I
may be covered with bedsores when I get out of here, but I can't
feel them now. Is that what you wanted to hear?"
     "That's part of it. There's another part."
     "Ah, yes. My mental state." Q smiled unpleasantly. "How odd
that you should ask that. I've been doing a bit of research, Dr.
T'Laren. Some very interesting things have come to light. And
I've also been doing a good bit of thinking about your offer."
     T'Laren resigned herself. There were some patients that
simply would not stay on the subject. Besides, she needed to know
what he thought of the offer anyway. "And what have you decided?"
     "Well, it seemed like an excellent idea when I last talked
to you. In fact, the only reason I didn't say I'd go with you
then and there was that I was tired and I knew I might miss
something. And so yesterday I was very bored, and not very tired,
and so I lay here thinking over your marvelous offer. And for the
first time, it occurred to me to wonder. What is a psychologist,
a former Starfleet officer, doing with a spiffy prototype
spaceship?"
     "Did it occur to you that perhaps Starfleet gave it to me?"
     "No, that didn't occur to me at all, for the simple reason
that it's impossible. I may be a civilian, but considering that
I'm a Starfleet scientific advisor their technologists keep me
abreast of current warp theory, that sort of thing. Being what I
am, and doing what I do, I have to be on the cutting edge of
Starfleet warp technology. Or at least to know where, exactly,
that edge is. And no new developments have been made in power,
endurance, fuel efficiency, or any other factor that would lead
to a significant improvement in speed since I worked with them to
defeat the Borg. The maximum Starfleet vessels could handle then
is still the maximum. And of course, all this doesn't address the
question of what a psychologist would be doing with a prototype
ship, anyway-- I looked up your records, and you're no engineer.
And my ego may be immense, but even I know I'm not *that*
important to the Federation-- they wouldn't waste such a
prototype on me. So either you're lying or you got the ship
somewhere else. And considering that on a Starfleet salary you're
unlikely to have bought it at a Ferengi yard sale, I would very
much like to know where you *did* get it."
     "That's a fair question." She considered her words. "I would
rather not give the intimate details. However, the essence of the
story is that the ship was given to me, after I left Starfleet,
by a powerful member of an alien race, more advanced than the
Federation. It was payment for services rendered, the treatment
of the individual's younger brother."
     "Which alien race?"
     "I'd rather not say. Some of their number have in the past
been hostile to the Federation, and while you may not care, there
are security monitors in here."
     "There are a number of alien races that want me dead.
*Which* alien race?"
     No more room for half-truths; it was time for an outright
lie. "The Yoma," she said.
     "I've never heard of them."
     "I doubt even you know every single race in all the galaxy."
     "And how did you come upon them?"
     T'Laren pressed her lips together. "A personal matter. I do
not wish to discuss it."
     "Well, how convenient."
     Apparently the usual tactics were not working. T'Laren
didn't expect that this one would work, either, but she had to
try it. "Are you accusing me of lying to you?"
     "Sounds like it, doesn't it?"
     "I am a Vulcan."
     "And Vulcans can lie when it suits their purpose. As you
must know far better than I."
     Well, she'd been right. It *didn't* work. "What exactly is
so unbelievable about what I've said?"
     "Oh, I am so glad you asked that." He moved his hand on his
computer's tracball. "Thank you, by the way, for browbeating Li
into giving me my computer back. I would never have found any of
this without it. Exhibit A!" 
     The screen showed T'Laren's Starfleet record, the
unclassified version. "T'Laren of Vulcan, formerly T'Laren Dorset
of Texas, Earth," Q said. "I notice you didn't use your Terran
last name when you entered the Academy. Excellent grades, though
on the low side for a Vulcan, abysmal math scores for a Vulcan
but still reasonable for a psychology major, meritorious service
blah blah blah." The screen scrolled down to the bottom, her
discharge record. "Medical discharge from Starfleet, two years
ago. Counselor T'Laren of the starship Benjamin Franklin is
granted a discharge for medical reasons and so forth. Signed by
Captain Don Freeman of the Franklin, Chief Medical Officer M'Lei,
also of Franklin-- and Commander Janifer Stout of Starfleet
Command, Psychology & Morale Division." He turned his head and
looked up at her. "Now under most circumstances, you only need
two signatures on a medical discharge-- the captain's or
commodore's or whatever, and the chief medical officer. The only
circumstances where you need three is when it's a psych
discharge, in which case the counselor's name is on it if there
is a counselor. With me so far?
     "But here's a case where the third name *isn't* the
counselor's, it's a desk jockey's. And then it occurred to me
that *you* were the counselor. What does one do when one's
counselor goes bonkers? Assuming that she's lucid enough to try
to hide her condition, the CMO might not be authorized to
discharge her. After all, CMO's get psych training, but maybe
they're not quite good enough to catch a psychologist with Vulcan
training who knows how to hide what's wrong. This Dr. M'Lei would
have been authorized to relieve you of duty-- not to discharge
you from Starfleet. For that, they'd have to bump it up to a
higher authority, preferably a psychologist. And what do you
know? Commander Stout is also Dr. Stout, a practicing
psychologist. So the precise reason for your precipitous
departure from Starfleet may be classified where I can't get at
it. But I can make a reasonable guess that you left for mental
illness. Especially since you told me you tried to kill yourself
two years ago, which-- surprise, surprise-- is right around the
time you left Starfleet. Sound good?"
     "Your detective work is well-done, but a bit pointless. It's
no secret that I left Starfleet for mental problems  I would
hardly have told you of my suicide attempt if I wished to hide
that from you. You could have asked."
     "Oh, really. Let me ask, then. Why did you leave Starfleet?"
     "Mental instability. As I think you just found out."
     "No, no, no. Not a catch-all phrase. What did you *do*? Tell
your commanding officer that gremlins were conspiring to destroy
the ship? Run down the corridors nude? Kill someone?"
     It took all of her Vulcan control to keep from reacting to
the last. "Nothing as obvious as that. I was... unstable. My
control over my emotions was gone. I needed to return to Vulcan
to relearn the disciplines. As you can see, I was successful."
     "Not that successful. Who did you kill?"
     The human-normal environments aboard most Starfleet
facilities were cold and made Vulcans somewhat lightheaded
anyway, from the lower gravity. But T'Laren had grown up on Earth
and never felt it before. Now all of a sudden the starbase was
very, very cold, and she felt as if she might float away. Oh, he
was good at this. He knew no practical way to make people like
him, but he could see through defenses as if they weren't there.
Perhaps the Empress should consider getting new clothes, T'Laren
thought, and forced composure. "Myself," she said softly. "But
that was after I had already returned to Vulcan. I wasn't
discharged for a suicide attempt." She would not tell him about
Soram. Half-truths, outright lies if necessary, but she *would*
not tell Q, of all people, of her shame. 
     "And you're supposedly all better now?"
     "In all the senses that matter, yes." She sat down next to
the bed. "You saw that I am... still sensitive over some parts of
it. My control is far from perfect there. But I am not dangerous
to myself or any other, I am in full control of my actions, and I
act on logic, not on what I may feel. Because I do feel. I grew
up without the disciplines, and I may never master them fully. I
have emotions. But I choose to ignore them when they are
irrelevant, which is most of the time."
     "Wait, are those violins I hear playing in the background?" 
     Now she was on somewhat more familiar territory. Q's insults
couldn't hurt her; it was his insights she feared. "Does that
answer all of your concerns?"
     "Far from it. You see, I also went looking for your orders."
He glanced at the computer again. "Something you have to realize
is that, to amuse myself, I have been teaching myself your
Federation computer system, and its security, and how to bypass
it, for the past three years. Considering my intelligence and
affinity for this sort of thing, it's a measure of quite how good
Starfleet security systems are that I can't get at high-security
classified material. But I can access about what a lieutenant
commander in Starfleet without a pressing need to know could get
at, which covers most things. And I can't find your orders
anywhere. Which means one of two things." He looked at her with a
hard expression. "If you truly had orders from Starfleet to help
and heal me and all such wonderfulness, they would not be
classified beyond my reach. So either you don't have any orders,
or your orders say something else."
     "I'm a civilian. I wouldn't have orders."
     "Your authorization, then. Whatever it is Starfleet hired
you to do, it would be in the records here unless it didn't exist
or was classified. I find it hard to believe that Anderson would
simply take your word for it, so I'm inclined to believe the
latter, but then you're a Vulcan and a former Starfleet officer
and people would be inclined to trust you."
     "And you conclude from all this?"
     "Well, there are several possibilities." He studied her
intently as he spoke. "Number one. You're an alien shapechanger
posing as the Vulcan psychologist T'Laren. You've come to try to
lure me away from the safety of the starbase, where you can
dispose of me at leisure. Two, you are T'Laren, but you've been
hired to do what I just said. Three, you are T'Laren, you're
insane, and you think you have orders from Starfleet for whatever
demented reason. Probably you also think you have a fast ship,
too. If I go with you, I'll find myself out in the middle of
nowhere with inadequate protection. Four, Starfleet hired you for
some sinister purpose that they don't want to risk my finding
out, so they classified your orders. Perhaps you're to perform
psychological experiments on me or something. In any case, if any
of these are true I'd be foolish to go with you. I have every
intention of dying soon, but I'd like it to be quickly, cleanly
and by my own hand. I have no desire to be handed over to some
unfriendly species to be tortured to death." 
     "My orders were given to me in person. It's entirely
possible that the requisition from Starfleet hasn't arrived yet;
however, I do have Starfleet priority codes."
     "Which can be faked."
     "As can orders."
     Q shook his head. "Try it on someone a bit more naive. You
convince me that you're not an agent for some hostile power, not
insane, and not lying about your orders, and I *may* go with you.
Right now, though, I am sufficiently unconvinced that I'm tempted
to call security on you and have you questioned." He looked up at
her with narrowed eyes. "So. Convince me."
     T'Laren considered. Lhoviri had warned her to avoid telling
Q the truth for as long as she could... but it seemed there was
no longer an alternative. "If you don't believe the half-truths
I've been giving you, there's little chance you'll believe the
whole truth," she said.
     "Try me."
     "Very well. When I told you where I got Ketaya, nothing but
the name of the race that my benefactor belonged to was an actual
untruth. If I had told you the name of that race, I suspect you
would recognize it," she said dryly.
     "Fine, then. Who *are* these marvelous aliens that give out
spaceships for services rendered?"
     "The Q Continuum," T'Laren told him.
     Q's mouth opened and closed. No sound came out of the
speaker. 
     Somewhat amused, T'Laren continued. "To be precise, I was
approached by an individual I call Lhoviri, eight months ago.
'Approached' is perhaps the wrong term; he imposed his presence
on me and dramatically interfered with my life. At the time I was
not pleased. Once he'd persuaded me to listen to him, he
requested my services for his, quote, 'little brother',
explaining your situation. I was offered as payment... something
I could not refuse. The details are somewhat personal. Suffice it
to say that he saved my life, and helped me to regain my sanity.
Ketaya was given me to help protect you; it isn't actually
payment."
     "Then you lied when you said Starfleet sent you," Q said,
regaining some of his composure.
     "No, actually. You asked me who hired me, and I said that
Starfleet had grown concerned for your welfare. Which was true.
Lhoviri told me he would arrange for me to receive orders from
Starfleet, but if they're not in the computer perhaps he hasn't
gotten around to it yet."
     "You're right. I'm not at all sure that I do believe you."
     "Why not?"
     "Because it's too perfect." His face twisted bitterly.
"Essentially you're telling me that the Q Continuum hasn't
forgotten about me. That I'm important enough to them that they'd
hire a mortal psychiatrist for me. Which is something that, for
obvious reasons, I'd very much like to believe, and I'm always
very suspicious when someone tells me something I'd like to
believe."
     "What *can* I say that would convince you?"
     "I don't know." He shrugged slightly. "This Q you call
Lhoviri, what did he look like?"
     T'Laren frowned. "Why does that matter?"
     "It does. Trust me. Did he appear to you as a Vulcan?"
     "No. A human male, blond, of medium build, with a slightly
chubby face--"
     "Talks with his hands?"
     "Yes."
     "I know him," Q said grimly. "All right. Now I believe you."
     "How can you know him by a physical description? I was told
your people could appear as anything they wished."
     "We can. But within a certain species, we almost always take
a certain form, and no one else is allowed to use it. The form
you describe... is the human form reserved by the guy that got me
thrown out of the Continuum." He shook his head. "If any of them
would be watching me, he would."
     "You don't sound particularly happy about it."
     "I'm not. This adds a new dimension to the problem. You've
almost managed to convince me that *you* are sincere. The
question is, is Lhoviri?"
     "I'm not sure I follow. He's your own kind. He hired me to
help you--"
     "So he said. But you see, once again we have different
possibilities. It could be that Lhoviri feels somewhat
responsible for me, being the author of my current predicament,
and in his omniscient wisdom genuinely feels that you can help
me. Or it may be that Lhoviri, who got me thrown out of the
Continuum and has entertained himself since by watching my
suffering, is planning a further turn of the screw. There isn't
much lower than this that I can go, after all. He may be planning
to let you build me back up again just so he can delight in
crushing me even more utterly. And I have no way to know which."
     "You must know him fairly well. You've spent millions of
years with him--"
     "This is how well I know him. I thought he was one of the
few members of the Continuum on my side. It was a unanimous
decision to exile me, of course, but reasons varied from
individual to individual. Some viewed it as my just desserts,
others as getting me out of their hair, and still others as a
learning experience that would be good for me. Some would be more
willing than others to see me come back. I thought Lhoviri was
one of my champions, one who would argue after I was gone that
the Continuum should relent and forgive me. Instead, I found out
that he was the one who *proposed* that I be thrown out."
     The speaker didn't render intonation very well. Even still,
T'Laren could hear a wealth of bitter resentment and bewildered
pain in Q's speech. "That must have hurt a great deal," she said
gently.
     "Oh, I'm not talking about how much it hurt. I'm used to
betrayal by now, I don't even think about it much. But now I have
to consider his motives. Because I know now I don't know him at
all, I never did. And I'm a mortal. There's no way I can outthink
a Q." He frowned. "Which answers my question, come to think of
it."
     "Answers your question? In what way?"
     "I *can't* outthink a Q. If Lhoviri wants me to go with you,
I'm going to end up doing it anyway whether I like it or not. My
gods have spoken, I must obey." He sighed dramatically. "So I
suppose I'm going with you."
     "Q, I wanted you to come because you believe I can help you,
not because you think you're being forced into it."
     "Which is why you didn't want to tell me about this charming
development?"
     "Yes."
     He shook his head. "*If* Lhoviri has my best interests in
mind, you probably *can* help me. He'd know better than any
mortal could. And if he doesn't... what can I do? They're
omnipotent, and they're my family, and they're my only hope. I've
got to do what they say, whatever it costs. So..." he shrugged.
"I'll try to convince myself that Lhoviri means well. What's it
mean, by the way? Is it Vulcan?"
     "The name Lhoviri? It's a god, from pre-Reform mythology.
Lhoviri was a god of gifts, but... questionable ones. The
personification of the human adage, 'Be careful what you wish
for; you just might get it.' The wishes and gifts Lhoviri granted
could backfire very badly on the recipient if the recipient
wasn't very careful."
     Q grinned. "Good name. I'll have to remember it. I'm rather
fond of trickster archetypes myself."
     T'Laren nodded. "Apparently Lhoviri-- the myth, I mean--
survives in cautionary tales told to children beneath the age of
logic. I found out about him by reading books of Vulcan myths,
when I was a child on Earth searching for my roots. Ketaya, by
the way, is also named after a trickster archetype. The name
translates vaguely as 'raven'-- a trickster bird associated with
death and transformation." She stood up. "Q, I don't know what
Lhoviri's motives are. As should be obvious from the name I've
given him, I don't trust him any more than you do. But he hired
me to protect you and help you adjust to being human, and
whatever his real purpose, that is what I'm going to do if it
kills me. As far as I can, I'll protect you from whatever he has
planned."
     Q looked up at her seriously. "Thanks for the offer... but
T'Laren, you *can't* protect me. He's omnipotent. If he wants to
get me, he will." He shrugged again. "I'll just have to assume
the best. Which doesn't come easily to me, you know; I'm far too
cynical. But..."
     "But?"
     "Well, if he's out to get me, I still couldn't sink much
lower than I am right now. And if he's not... maybe this is what
he wants me to do to get my powers back. Maybe that's what it'll
take. So... all right. When do we leave?"
     "As soon as Li lets you out of bed," T'Laren said.

     It wasn't quite that simple, of course. Q was out of bed and
walking-- and complaining about it loudly-- for short periods
before four days were out. But Li wouldn't certify him well
enough to leave the resources of Sickbay and *stay* out of bed
for another ten days. T'Laren showed up for a few hours each day
to talk to Q. By the time he was ready to leave, he had begun to
look forward to the trip. T'Laren had demonstrated that she was
an entertaining conversational partner, if a bit dangerously
insightful, and she actually seemed to care about him somewhat,
without being sappy like Medellin. Or secretly despising him and
trying unsuccessfully to hide it, also like Medellin. If T'Laren
despised him, she hid it with the skill of Vulcan discipline; but
he didn't think she did, as he doubted a Vulcan could fake the
subtle signs he was registering that she did, in fact, give a
damn about him personally. He had come to the tentative
conclusion that for now, at least, he could trust her.
     So he had begun to let himself hope again, and with hope
came a certain lifting of the numbness. When Commodore Anderson
came to say goodbye, on the day he was to leave, he found to his
surprise that he was glad she'd thought to do it.
     "I can't say I'll particularly miss you," she said, "and I
doubt you'll much miss me. But for what it's worth... I haven't
enjoyed seeing you in this much pain, and I hope that you manage
to find whatever happiness you can out of life. If for no other
reason than that you're a lot less obnoxious that way."
     Q grinned. "I love you too, Eleanor."
     "I wouldn't go *that* far."
     "Neither would I." He sobered. "For whatever *this* is
worth... I realize I haven't exactly been the most pleasant of
guests to have around. Undoubtedly *you'll* be a lot happier with
me gone. And I can't say I've enjoyed myself here, but... I do
know that isn't really your fault. And I am sorry. More or less."
He smiled again, caustically. "Which doesn't mean I'd do any of
it differently, mind you."
     "No, of course not." She shook her head. "Get up to your
damned ship and off my starbase, Q."
     "Without saying goodbye to all my friends? What do you think
I am?"
     Anderson snorted. "Seriously," Q said, "I'm stuck here for
at least another hour or so. Dr. Li wants me back in the torture
chamber. Something about a last-minute examination to make sure I
don't collapse on my way to the ship."
     "You'd better get going, then."
     Medellin came by an hour later, right after Li had finished.
Q sighed inwardly. Now *she* was going to be maudlin, count on
it.
     She didn't disappoint him. "I'm sorry your time here has
been so awful," she said. "And I'm sorry I couldn't do more for
you."
     "I'm sorry too," Q said blandly.
     Medellin blinked. "For what?"
     "That you couldn't do more for me."
     Medellin opened her mouth and closed it resolutely without
saying anything. She took a deep breath. "You have to keep doing
this?" she asked. "On your last day here?"
     "What do you want? Me to forgive you for being a terrible
counselor? Fine, I forgive you. It's not your fault you're so
inept."
     "Now that's exactly the sort of thing that you should work
on," Medellin said in a forcedly calm voice. "I'm trying to
apologize. You could be gracious about it."
     "I could be," Q agreed, "but I'm not. Okay, I take it back.
You're not completely inept. You're just completely inept at
dealing with me. Probably because you despise me. Am I right?"
     For the first time in three years, Medellin finally lost her
temper-- perhaps because she was no longer his counselor, and no
longer had to be nice to him. "Why shouldn't I despise you?" she
exploded. "All I'm doing is trying to help you, and you just keep
attacking me and attacking me! What's there to *like* about
someone who does that? How could you possibly expect me to help
you when you keep saying things like that?"
     Q smiled broadly. "Oh, Nian, you don't know how I've wanted
to hear that from you," he said happily. "You should get angry
more often, you know. People would respect you more." 
     Medellin blinked. "You--"
     "Thanks for trying to help," he said, with genuine
sincerity. "I really do forgive you for everything-- you did at
least try, which is more than most of them did. And try not to be
so easily intimidated. Get some backbone and maybe you'll get
onto a real starship someday."
     Because he knew it would confuse her utterly, he hugged her
briefly. Then he left for the docking area and Ketaya, whistling.
Someday Medellin might figure it out.

     T'Laren met him at the airlock. "You have everything?"
     "I left most of my antiques to whoever wants them," he said.
"I don't think I'll need them anymore. Everything else should've
been brought aboard some time ago."
     "It was." She extended a hand to him. The brief walk had
tired him, and he was glad for the support. "Let's get going,
then."