ONLY HUMAN 

CHP. II: KETAYA

by Alara Rogers; published by Aleph Press

The following is section 1 of 12 of ONLY HUMAN, my alternate universe
Q novel.  If you've missed any parts, the entire story is available
through anonymous ftp at ftp.netcom.com, in the directory /pub/al/
aleph/trek, under the name HUMAN2.ZIP.  HUMAN1.ZIP, the first chapter
of this story, is also available there.  The files are pkzipped using
PKWARE's version 2.04g.

Other sites where you can obtain the rest of this story:

ftp://ftp.europa.com/outgoing/mercutio/alt.fan.q
ftp://aviary.share.net/pub/startrek/incomplete
http://www1.mhv.net/~alara/ohtree.html
http://www.europa.com/~mercutio/Q.html
http://aviary.share.net/~alara

This is an alternate universe novel, and it's long. I mean *looong.* In 
this chapter and all future ones, we will learn things about the 
Continuum which are contradicted by the Voyager episode "The Q and the 
Grey". This is because that was a miserably bad episode which 
contradicted so much Q canon that I have decided that, for my purposes, 
it didn't happen. None of the "facts" about the Continuum established in 
that episode have any bearing on the Continuum background shown in Only 
Human.

For those who have not read Chapter 1 and want to jump right in anyway,
the story is based on the episode Deja Q, where Q lost his powers; except
that in this alternate reality, he never got them back.  It's been
three years since then, and there have been some changes.  In exchange
for protection from various enemies he made while omnipotent, Q has
been selling his services as a scientific advisor to the Federation for
the past three years.  He assisted the Federation in developing a weapon
against the Borg; as a result, casualties were lighter at Wolf 359, and
Picard didn't become Locutus, someone else did. On the other hand, recently 
Picard died when a plasma grenade fused his artificial heart. This know-
ledge was the final straw to push an already-deeply-depressed-and-  
borderline-suicidal Q over the edge into a fairly nasty suicide attempt
by drinking hydrochloric acid.

Fortunately or unfortunately, Q survived, perhaps by the graces of his
personal guardian angel/demon, the Q who got him kicked out of the Con-
tinuum.  This Q has "hired" a mortal psychologist for Q, a Vulcan woman
named T'Laren who was raised on Earth (in Texas, to be precise.) Thus
far, T'Laren is something of a mystery; we know that the other Q, whom
she calls Lhoviri, saved her life and sanity and offered her something
she could not refuse in exchange for taking on this assignment. Lhoviri
also gave her a ship, called Ketaya, basically a luxury yacht with a
souped-up engine. It is T'Laren's belief that Q's depression is in part
caused by the fact that everyone on Starbase 56, where he's been living
for the past three years, hates him, and that he needs to leave the base
in order to recover. Though Q is not entirely sure he believes her-- he
believes his depression is simply caused by the fact that he is, in com-
parison to before, "blinded, maimed, exiled, and condemned to die--" he
is willing at this point to try anything.  As Chapter 2 opens, Ketaya
has just left Starbase 56 with Q and T'Laren aboard. 

	*			*			*

     To her surprise, he was not asleep when she came to get him.
He was sitting on the floor with the replicator partially
disassembled around him, scowling intently at it. "Excuse me,"
T'Laren said. "What *are* you doing?"
     Q looked up at her and grinned embarrassedly. "Oh, hello,
T'Laren."
     "Am I to take it that you're doing something I would
disapprove of?"
     "I don't believe you ever said I couldn't try to bypass your
security lock," he said, the picture of innocence. 
     T'Laren shook her head slightly. "How long will it take you
to put that back together?"
     "Two minutes if I give up on the bypass. This is cleverly
done. Did Lhoviri set up this security system for you?"
     "No. I put it in myself."
     "I thought you said you weren't an engineer." He started to
replace the pieces he'd removed.
     "I'm not. But I used to--" She hesitated, thinking how to
phrase this. "On my old ship, the chief engineer was a fellow
Vulcan, and at one point he placed a software security lock on
the replicator in my quarters. I had a friend bypass it for me.
So he put in a hardware lock. In order to get access to my
replicator, I studied replicator technology and asked another of
the engineers to teach me how to disassemble the lock. In the
process, I learned how to assemble one as well, as well as a good
deal of other mostly useless information about replicators."
     "Why did the chief engineer do that?"
     She shrugged slightly. "Probably for the same reason I put
the lock on your replicator. He... was aware that I was unwell,
though he could not quite identify how. Are you finished?"
     "More or less." He stood up. "I really need access to the
replicators, T'Laren. You can make up some kind of list of
dangerous items you don't want me to have-- you can download the
list from Starbase 56 if you want to-- but I've got to have
access to the replicators."     
     "I'll consider it," T'Laren said. "Come on."

     She had thought about cooking a meal for them both, but it
seemed like a great deal of effort to go to for someone who was
not yet capable of appreciating the gesture, so they both ordered
from the kitchen replicator. The kitchen was a small, cozy thing
with a table big enough to seat six, two replicators, a full set
of cooking equipment, and staples in a stasis cabinet. The supply
of staples was low-- T'Laren kept meaning to replicate
replacements, and never got around to it. She had three sayings
in Vulcan hanging on scrolls in various locations in the kitchen,
imitating her mother's habit of putting up homey mottoes without
the incredible sappiness of the mottoes her mother had used.
     "What's that say?" Q asked, pointing at one.
     "Mmm." T'Laren studied it, trying to think how to render it.
"It's a poem from a children's story-- a work by T'Neer, the
Vulcan equivalent of Lewis Carroll."
     "There *is* a Vulcan equivalent of Lewis Carroll?"
     "Not quite, but close. Her work is considered either absurd
or disturbing, and usually said to be unsuitable for children,
despite which children read all of her books."
     "What's it *say*, though?"
     "I'm trying to translate... I'll have to render it in prose,
I'm no poet. `"But don't you like my gift?" Lhoviri asked. "This
is what you wanted, isn't it? Why, I distinctly recall you asking
for this in particular. Don't tell me you don't want it now!" And
no one did tell him that. Because there was no one there who
could speak anymore.'"
     "Oh." Q nodded, grinning. "Your  benefactor must find that
one vastly entertaining."
     "I wouldn't know. He never mentioned it."
     "What about that one?" He pointed at another.
     "It's a witticism. I'm not sure it would translate well into
English."
     "Try." 
     "`Those who spend all their time examining their own logic
really ought to have their logic examined.'" At Q's look, she
explained, "It's funny in Vulcan."
     "I'm sure," Q said blandly. 
     T'Laren bent over her meal, focused on eating. A minute
passed in silence. Finally Q said, "What do people talk about at
these things?"
     "Generally one avoids talking about anything unpleasant.
Aside from that, however, any topic is acceptable." She looked
up. "For instance, we could discuss the fact that you are about
20% underweight, have no muscle tone to speak of, and desperately
need to build up your strength, and yet you are eating nothing
but a small bowl of linguine in butter sauce and a sugary
chocolate drink."
     Q shrugged. "I wasn't that hungry. Does the replicator know
about the supplement I need? Li says I won't be able to digest
properly on my own for a few months, I have to have a supplement
in my food to help digest it."
     "Yes. Do you realize you have no vegetables, no meat, no
dairy products-- nothing but starch and sugar and a smattering of
fats in the butter sauce? There's not a vitamin to be found in
what you're eating."
     "I'm sure there's one or two."
     "Q, you're badly underweight. You were thin before you
destroyed your entire intestinal tract and needed to be placed on
life-support for two weeks, and you're close to skeletal now. Eat
some meat. Vegetables. Something. That meal would not satisfy
*me*, and my ideal weight is half yours."
     Q sighed. "I told you, I'm not that hungry. Besides, I
thought starch was supposed to be good for gaining weight."
     "I thought so too, until I met a man who eats nothing but
carbohydrates and looks like he's starving to death." T'Laren's
eyes narrowed. "I think this is another of your subconscious
self-destruct attempts. Tomorrow you're going on a diet and
exercise regimen."
     "You want me to *exercise?* In my condition?" Q stared at
her as if she'd just told him to breathe water. "T'Laren, I can't
stay on my feet for half an hour without getting winded and you
think I should *exercise?*"
     "How do you expect to get into better shape?"
     "Let my body heal itself. It's good at that. That's what
it's evolved for."
     "You need to build up muscle and stamina. Your body can't
heal itself if you don't give it raw materials to build with, and
it'll heal faster if you use it." She shook her head. "That is
not a young body, Q. It's by no means an old one, but it's
physiologically at least in its 30's. It can't take this kind of
abuse."
     "It is so a young body. It was in perfect health three years
ago. Well, except for a tendency toward a bad back, but aside
from that it was in perfect health, and it's only three years old
chronologically."
     "That doesn't matter. Physiologically it was past its peak
when you got it. Why did you choose to be in your 30's? Why not
pick, say, 18?"
     Q picked at his food. ""If they'd given me time to think, I
certainly would have asked for it younger. And with no bad back.
And no tendency to hair loss. And while I was at it, I'd have
given it an ESP rating considerably higher than human average,
built up its muscular structure and increased its senses to human
maximum. If I'd had time, I might even have chosen a completely
different body. I might have chosen to be female. Women get a lot
more sympathy than men, I've noticed." He looked up. "But they
didn't give me time. 
     "I'd taken this body originally for a completely different
purpose. I wanted a form specifically designed to be intimidating
and challenging on an intellectual and authoritarian level, and I
was aiming it at Picard. I chose a male body, younger than Picard
but old enough to have some authority, taller and stronger-
looking than Picard, because human men instinctively respond to
strange human males as potential threats, especially stronger,
taller ones closer to their physical peak. This is a subconscious
thing, mind you-- most men aren't aware they do it, but they do.
They also learn equally subconscious techniques for defusing the
threat that they themselves present to other men. Unfortunately,
I never bothered to study those techniques when I was a Q, and
now I'm stuck. While the body of a challenger is ideal when one
intends a challenge, it is a very bad idea when one wants
sympathy. As a human, I'd have done a lot better in a weaker-
looking body-- as I said, perhaps a female one, perhaps an
adolescent one, though adolescents don't get much sympathy
either. Alternately, I'd have done better if this body actually
was the specimen of physical perfection that it was when I was
omnipotent. I didn't check for genetic booby traps back when it
was irrelevant to me, and when I said I wanted to be human, they
automatically put me in the human form I'd most often manifested
in, without giving me time to fix it up."
     "Where did you get this form?"
     "Stole it. I picked this one up about a hundred years ago.
There's a story behind it, but not one I much feel like telling.
Suffice it to say that with minor modifications it's genetically
identical to a man who died more or less a century ago."
     "I thought your first contact with humanity was six years
ago."
     Q smiled thinly. "I have rather given that impression,
haven't I."
     "Time travel?"
     "Or outright lies. Take your pick. I prefer to be mysterious
and secretive, myself." He leaned forward, widening his eyes
slightly. "And I don't appear to be alone. Every time you've told
me anything about your own background, you've phrased it in as
vague terms as possible. Believe me, as a master of vagueness
myself, it's an impressive performance. But it does lead me to
wonder what you're hiding."
     T'Laren frowned. "Hiding? It's less that I'm hiding
something than that my life is simply uninteresting."
     "Oh, come now. A Vulcan raised in Texas, working as a
psychologist, drummed out of Starfleet for mental illness, and
you say your background is uninteresting? How can it be anything
but interesting?"
     Perhaps it was a good thing that he was showing an interest
in other people's histories-- it usually did indicate that a
person was becoming less self-centered. T'Laren did wish,
however, that it wasn't her history in particular that he was
interested in. "What do you want to know?"
     "To begin with, why Texas? Were your parents diplomats or
teachers of some sort? What were they doing on Earth, and more
importantly, what were they doing in Texas?"
     "They lived there," T'Laren said dryly. "My parents were
humans."
     Q stared at her for several seconds with a disbelieving
expression before the light dawned. "Ah. *Adoptive* parents. I
see."
     "Yes. I was adopted by a human couple."
     "Why?"
     This story was harmless enough, and if she could keep him at
the table a while longer, perhaps he would finish his food.
T'Laren turned to the replicator, called up rolls and dessert
pastries, and put them on the table, hoping that Q would take one
to snack on. She then leaned back and began the story. 
     "My natural mother, T'Lal, was a Starfleet officer. At the
appointed time, she took leave on Vulcan--"
     "The appointed time?" Q interrupted, picking up a cheese
pastry. 
     "The time of marriage. Most Vulcans are bonded to their
mates in childhood, and at the appointed time, they come together
on Vulcan. She went to Vulcan and married my biological father,
but... something happened, and he died during their first week
together."
     Q interrupted again with his mouth full. "By hedging about
and saying `something happened', do you mean you don't want to
tell me what happened or you don't know?"
     "I don't know. My parents didn't know, because T'Lal never
told them, and my Vulcan family wouldn't talk about it. It was
undoubtedly something too shameful to discuss with a child or
with outsiders. This sort of thing occasionally happens in Vulcan
marriages; there are a number of possible causes. In any case,
she returned to her ship, pregnant with me. At that time, it was
Starfleet policy to allow children under five, if the Starfleet
parent was custodial or if both parents were in Starfleet.
Civilian adult spouses were permitted aboard only if they could
perform some useful function, for instance scientists. T'Lal had
a close platonic friendship with my father, the chief engineer,
and with his wife, a civilian geologist. Starfleet required-- and
still does-- that custodial Starfleet parents declare a guardian
for their child in the event of their death. Since my natural
mother's family was scattered throughout space, and she had no
contact with the family of her mate, she asked my father to be my
guardian, and he agreed.
     "When I was four years old, T'Lal died on an away mission.
The Dorsets took me in, and when I turned five my adoptive mother
moved to Earth with me, back to the family's estate in Texas.
When I was eight, my father was promoted to an administrative job
on Earth, supervising the design of new starships. So they raised
me together until I was sixteen, at which point my natural
father's family tracked me down. They asked for custody of me, on
the grounds that I could not possibly be fully exposed to my
Vulcan heritage if raised on Earth by human parents, and my
parents saw... the logic in that. So I went to Vulcan."
     Q frowned. "Wait a minute. You were sixteen? I admit to
knowing little about human childhoods, or Vulcan for that matter,
but I would think the damage would have been done by that time."
*It was*, T'Laren thought, but didn't say. Q continued, "Did you
have any say in this? Did they just hand you over, just like
that?"
     "No. I..." Emotions rose to the surface, emotions she'd long
thought she'd eliminated. "You cannot understand what it's like
to grow up an alien. To be raised surrounded by people who on a
very fundamental level are not like you. I loved my adoptive
parents, and I had friends on Earth, and I was happy there.
But... Vulcan was my homeworld. I had dreamed about it all my
life. I wanted desperately to be a proper Vulcan, to learn the
disciplines fully, to be like I imagined my dead mother to be.
When my father's cousin Sepat came to claim me, I went with him
quite willingly."
     "You sound as if you think it was a bad idea."
     T'Laren hesitated, studying her hands. "Perhaps it was."
     Q leaned forward. "I asked Sekal about the Vulcan
disciplines once. He told me that while humans can't learn the
disciplines at all, even Vulcans need to start very young, or the
attempt to control their emotions leads to instability and
insanity." He met her eyes and held them. "Is that what happened
to you?"
     After a moment T'Laren dropped her gaze again. "I don't
know." She looked up. "I wasn't completely undisciplined when I
went to Vulcan. Since I was five, I'd been going to a Vulcan
tutor every week. He lived in Dallas, about half an hour by
maglev from my home, and he taught me the fundamentals. But...
Vulcan discipline isn't something you can pick up in two-hour
lessons once a week. It's something you have to live. It's
reinforced by everyone around you. And in my case, it wasn't." 
     She picked up one of the rolls and bit into it, continuing
as she ate. "My parents wanted to be very supportive. They paid
for my lessons, they told me that if I wanted to be Vulcan they
were happy with my choice, they got me books on Vulcan and even
took me on a few vacations there. But on Vulcan, if a little girl
spontaneously throws her arms around her father and hugs him, she
is gently reproved for her emotionality. When I did it, my father
smiled indulgently and hugged me back. Intellectually they
understood that I should achieve emotional control, but... they
were only human. When I was properly controlled, they perceived
me as being cold to them, and it hurt them. And my friends were
far worse. They didn't even make an attempt to make allowances
for my being Vulcan-- if I wanted to play with them, I had to act
like a human being. So I studied the disciplines, but I didn't
use them to master my emotions. I couldn't. There was too much
pressure on me to be emotional. Instead, I learned how to hide my
emotions if I chose, and how to project different emotions than
what I felt. I studied human behavior constantly, obsessively,
and I learned to pretend and to lie, to wear a thousand different
masks. That isn't Vulcan behavior."
     "And trying to imitate real Vulcan behavior drove you nuts?"
     "It wasn't that simple."
     "T'Laren-- if it was that hard for you to be a Vulcan, why
did you even bother? Why didn't you just quit trying?"
     That approached territory she definitely did not want to
discuss or talk about. "I was under... pressures that you cannot
possibly understand. I had to be Vulcan. It was immensely
important to me." She thought of how it had been, stretched so
thin between Soram's demands that she be a proper Vulcan and her
own desperate emotional needs. Her Vulcan act had always been
flawed, because it was emotion that drove her to such an act, an
emotion so violent and consuming that it had snapped her in the
end. If not for Lhoviri, it would have destroyed her.
     Actually, it *had* destroyed her. When Lhoviri had found
her, she had been dead.
     "T'Laren? Are you all right?"
     She came back to the present. "Fine. Just... remembering."
She shook her head. "I would really rather discuss something
else, Q."
     "I think... I can understand how you felt," he said. "Which
would be a first, I admit. I don't normally understand anything
anyone feels. But... I do know a little bit about what that's
like."
     "Do you?" she asked. "Did you grow up an alien? Do you know
what it's like to finally be part of your own kind, and discover
that they are more alien to you than the aliens you were raised
among?"
     "I didn't grow up an alien," he said. "I grew up as part of
something that later decided I was inferior, unsuitable, and
threw me out to live among aliens. The situation's not identical,
I know. But I can sympathize." He smiled ironically. "In terms of
the Q lifespan and our stages of development, I am approximately
at the same stage you were when you went to Vulcan. You, at
least, chose to go."
     "You're sixteen? Approximately?"
     Q shrugged. "There's no exact analogy. We measure
development by maturity itself, not an artificial indicator like
chronological age. And those at my stage of development are
considered adults, in the sense that our children don't
participate in the Continuum overmind and I do. Did. But as I
understand it, the closest human equivalent to my stage of
development would be the stage of adolescence, yes. The stage in
which one makes the transition from child to mature adult,
attempts to find one's place in one's society... and runs the
greatest risk of self-destructing, one way or another. That's
adolescence, right?"
     "Yes."
     "Then that's me." He looked down. "I should say, `was me'. I
don't know what I am in human terms, but what I am in Q society,
right now, is a failure, an outcast, a lesser being. The great
experiment that was me failed. Back to the drawing board."
     "The great experiment? Were you-- in some sense designed
differently than your fellows?"
     "Oh, no, no, no. That's not what I meant." He leaned
forward. "Every infant Q created is an experiment. We don't
reproduce to replace ourselves-- only our adolescents can
possibly die, and that only if the rest of the Q weeds them out.
We produce new Q to provide different points of view, new
perspectives, to add to the range that the Continuum covers. And
if a particular perspective turns out to be not worth the trouble
it causes, it gets weeded out in adolescence. Failed experiments,
time and effort down the drain. Either a flawed design, or
something in the errant entity's life experience, has caused it
to become useless or dangerous to the Continuum. So we kill it,
or reabsorb it..." He stared down at the table. "Or make it
mortal and let it die of natural causes. I'm not the first this
has happened to." His voice had a wavering edge to it, and a
heavy dose of bitter pain.
     "Have any of the others ever been taken back?" T'Laren asked
gently.
     Q looked up at her, eyes bright with unshed tears. "Not that
I can remember," he said, his voice beginning to break.
     Then he pushed away from the table and stood, shaking his
head violently. "This is stupid. I'm obviously overtired. Can I
have my sedative now?"
     T'Laren shook her head. "You do look exhausted," she said.
"But if you're that tired, you shouldn't need a sedative."
     "It doesn't matter how tired I am, I can't sleep without a
sedative. Could you just give me one, and save the argument for
tomorrow?"
     "I don't like you constantly taking sedatives. Your health
is poor as it is. It sounds as if you've grown dangerously
dependent on them." She stood up. "I think it would be best if we
got you off them as soon as possible. I don't want you taking
sedatives when you're this weak."
     Q stared at her in disbelief. "You're not going to give me a
sedative."
     "Correct."
     "But I *need* it." He sat down heavily and swallowed. "Do I
have to beg?" he asked harshly.
     "Explain to me why you need a sedative. What symptoms do you
experience that prevent you from sleeping?"
     "Well, to begin with, I'm in constant pain." His voice was
sharp and challenging. "I told you already, I'm constantly
plagued with aches and pains. My neck, my back, my head, my
stomach, all hurt all the time. I can ignore them when I'm awake
to a small extent, but they take over when I'm trying to sleep.
If you won't let me have a sedative, can I have a painkiller?"
     "I don't want you dependent on them, either." T'Laren walked
around behind him and reached toward his shoulder. Q flinched.
     "What are you doing?" he demanded, sounding frightened.
     "Checking something." She took his shoulders in each hand
and felt for tension with thumbs and fingers. His neck and back
were rigid, his muscles like duranium cables. "Try to relax."
     "But what are you *doing*?"
     "A large part of your pain seems to be coming from tension.
Q, I'm not going to hurt you or do anything you'd find
unpleasant. Please relax."
     He relaxed slightly. She could see it in the set of his
shoulders, hear it in the soft release of held breath. But she
could barely feel the relaxation at all-- his back muscles were
still rigid. His spine was badly out of alignment, the muscles in
his back having gradually tugged it into an unnatural
configuration. 
     T'Laren released him and stepped back. "All right. I believe
I know how to fix the problem."
     "Really." His voice was flat and disbelieving. 
     "Come with me." She left the kitchen. Q stood up and
followed.
     "Are we going to sickbay? I don't need an adjustment. I just
need a painkiller. Or a sedative. Either would do."
     "We're not going to sickbay," she said, and palmed open his
suite's door. 
     "Why are we going to my room?" he asked nervously, following
her inside.
     "Lie down."
     "I-- no." He backed away from her toward the exit. "Tell me
what you're going to do."
     "I'm going to fix your back so you can sleep. Now lie down."
     Q scrutinized her suspiciously. "This doesn't have anything
to do with sex, does it?"
     T'Laren blinked in surprise before she could control the
reaction. Where had he gotten that from? "No. It has nothing to
do with sex, I assure you. I'm just going to fix your back."
     That seemed to lessen his nervousness, but not eliminate it
entirely. He sat down on the bed, but made no move to lie down.
"Do I have to take off my shirt?"
     The answer, T'Laren suspected, had to be `no' or he would
balk again. "It isn't necessary. It would make things easier, but
I can work with your shirt on. And no, you do not need to remove
any other articles of clothing either, though I suspect you would
be more comfortable with your shipboots off."
     Q lay down on his back, making no move to take his boots
off. T'Laren wondered why he was so incredibly nervous. Medellin
and his file had both said that he was celibate by choice, and
that he claimed this was because he considered sex disgusting and
beneath him. He had never demonstrated any problem with the
relief of pain, however, and there was nothing in his files to
indicate a phobia of being touched. Perhaps he'd been reading too
many books where a massage led to seduction-- though even then,
this wasn't disgust. This was fear.  It occurred to T'Laren to
wonder if someone had molested him somehow in the past three
years-- surely sexuality would not carry sufficient value to
members of the Q Continuum that he should be terrified of the
possibility.
     "You have to turn over," T'Laren said. "I can't reach your
back."
     He did so. "Are you sure this has nothing to do with sex?"
he asked, his voice somewhat muffled against the bed.
     "Positive. Backrubs can be used as a form of foreplay or
seduction, but by themselves they are completely platonic. I
assure you, there is nothing sexual in this. Now relax."
     She reached down and found the nexii of tension under the
shoulderblades with her fingertips, digging in slowly. Q made a
sharp noise, jerked and turned his head with an expression of
outrage that quickly faded to puzzlement. "That felt good," he
said, surprised.
     "It's supposed to. Lie still and let me finish."
     He lay his head back down on the bed, pillowing it on his
arms. "I've gone to sickbay to have my back fixed in several
extreme cases. The remedy usually was almost worse than the
problem."
     "This is a massage, not a chiropractic adjustment-- although
I think you need that, too. Once I've relaxed the muscles, we'll
adjust your spine. It only hurt you before because you were too
tense." She probed the area around his shoulderblades with
slender fingers, varying the pressure as she located the worst
points. The tension in the muscles slowly started to ease under
her fingers. Q sighed.
     "Mm. I thought the only kind of massage that was supposed to
feel good was the sexual kind. The other kind was supposed to be
painful, or it wasn't a good massage."
     "You're talking about rolfing. That's only one school of
thought. Most people acknowledge that a therapeutic massage
should feel good." She moved up from the shoulderblades to the
collar and neck area.
     "Ohh. This really feels quite astonishingly good. Where did
you learn to *do* this?"
     T'Laren herself relaxed slightly. She enjoyed making people
feel good, and it was considerably more pleasant when they
acknowledged that it was working, instead of challenging and
resisting her. "Part of Vulcan training. In order to properly
control our bodies, which is necessary for mastering our
emotions, we need a thorough knowledge of our own neuroanatomy.
As it happens, Vulcan spinal neuroanatomy is virtually identical
to nearly every other humanoid race's. That's why the nerve pinch
works; it is actually just a side effect of our training. Only
Vulcans in Starfleet and in security positions are really good at
it, since we're the only ones who practice it a lot. The same
goes for backrubs; while any Vulcan would know the techniques in
theory, few have practiced it. Vulcans use self-relaxation
techniques instead. I, however, lived among humans, so I ended up
practicing a great deal, first on my parents and then my
classmates at the Academy."
     "Well, you're very good. If you ever decide to quit the
psychology business, you have a brilliant future as a
chiropractor. Or a masseuse. I'll personally write you a letter
of recommendation. Ohh. This is *astonishing*."
     He sounded almost dazed, as if he couldn't believe he could
possibly feel good. T'Laren wondered how much pain he'd actually
been in, and if that could have anything to do with his
depression. If he really had been suffering physically for some
time, that could well be a component of his desire to escape his
life. "I'm glad you find it pleasant," she said, and moved up to
the bare skin on the back of his neck. Here she could feel the
tension more powerfully than through his clothes, with the
distant currents of his mind tantalizing the edge of her
consciousness, a faint shadowy wash of pain receding to pleasure.
With a small effort, she shielded her mind.
     Q suddenly tensed, his head moving up. "You people are
touch-telepaths, aren't you."
     "We are, but I've shielded my mind against you," she said,
wondering why he brought that up now. He couldn't have sensed the
brief almost-contact; she had been passively receiving, making no
active attempt to link, and Q's ESP rating was no better than
human average. He would have had to have been reading her mind to
know that she could have opened a link to his, and that was
beyond his capabilities now. "Also, unshielded physical contact
itself doesn't form a link; an active effort of concentration is
needed to open a telepathic channel, preferably at one of the
meld points. And if I tried to form a meld, you'd know it. My
touching your skin alone doesn't permit me to read your mind, Q."
She wasn't going to mention that the back of the neck was a meld
point. What he didn't know wouldn't needlessly frighten him.
     "Oh." He relaxed. Probably he hadn't noticed anything at
all; he was just paranoid about having his mind read. T'Laren
imagined she would be in his position, too. To be so immensely
powerful on a telepathic scale that others' minds were an open
book, and yet they could only sense you at all if you chose; and
then to be suddenly stripped of that power, one's mind naked and
psionically defenseless... that *would* be somewhat horrifying.
     The brief moment of fear had caused a mild tensing-up all
throughout his back again. She moved down from his neck-- he
could probably use a temple massage, too, but things like that
would have to wait until he was more secure with her telepathy--
and down his back again, finding the muscle clusters and rubbing
them into submission. Probably he could use her ministrations on
his buttocks and the backs of his legs as well, but that again
would have to wait until he was more secure. 
     "I think I'll teach you some elementary biofeedback and
relaxation techniques," she said. "There's no reason you should
have to be in such pain."
     "Could I learn that?" he asked.
     "I don't see why not. Humans have developed relaxation and
meditative techniques themselves, so I know there's no biological
reason you can't do it. You'd never be able to achieve a Vulcan
level of control, but I think you would feel much better about
your life if you had any modicum of control over your own body,
however small."
     "I agree. Ohh. Yes. Right there." He moaned as she pressed
her fingers into the small of his back, on either side of his
spine. "This is unbelievable. Why don't Starfleet medics learn
how to do this?"
     "Most of them do, but it's something done for friends, not
as a treatment. Starfleet personnel are all trained in some sort
of personal relaxation technique, so they don't need this sort of
thing as badly as you apparently do, and most of them have
friends."
     "Really. It never occurred to me that having friends
provided any sort of physical benefit. I'd always thought the
advantage was mostly emotional."
     "Body and mind are linked. You should know that by now."
     "Mine aren't."
     That was such an outrageous thing to say that T'Laren had to
assume he meant it as a joke, though he'd spoken in a perfectly
serious tone of voice. She didn't reply directly. "Humans have a
deep psychological need for physical contact with their fellows.
It's one of the major differences between humans and Vulcans.
Vulcans have a deep psychological need for telepathic contact
with their fellows, but if that requirement is fulfilled we have
no real need to touch each other. Humans, having no telepathy,
need physical contact."
     "And what if they don't get it?"
     "They generally become very unhappy, which has a profound
physical effect. Unhappiness can cause tension, stomachaches,
headaches and muscle spasms. Over time, it can cause drastic
weight loss, accelerate hair loss, and increase the apparent
speed of aging."
     "Oh, very funny," Q muttered. He turned his head to look up
at her. "Are you trying to say that I'm unhappy because I lack
physical contact with human beings?"
     "Not at all. You are unhappy for multiple and complex
reasons, primary among which is the fact that you have been
deprived of most of your abilities and exiled to a life you are
unsuited for. No one would deny that. But your lack of positive
social contact is another of the reasons, exacerbating the
problem, and the lack of physical contact is merely a small
aspect of the lack of social contact. I doubt having friends
could make you happy, but it could make your life bearable enough
that you could continue to hold on in hope of reinstatement. And
if your life were more bearable, you wouldn't be under so much
stress, and so you wouldn't be in so much pain. Doesn't that make
sense to you?"
     He sighed. "I'd like to argue with you. I hate the idea that
I could be so dependent on other people. Bad enough I need them
to protect me, I have to have them like me too? But it's far too
obvious that-- ohh-- you've just demonstrated that-- put it this
way. I have obviously been missing out on something. And if any
of this positive social contact nonsense could make me feel half
as good as you are doing now, it's definitely something I want to
look into. Ohhh. Why didn't anyone ever *tell* me this was
possible?"
     T'Laren raised an eyebrow. Medellin had been trying to get
the idea that he should try to make friends through his head for
three years. Apparently all it would have taken was a skilled
backrub. She would have to call Medellin and suggest the
technique for future reference. "People told you several times it
was possible for you to feel good. You ignored them or dismissed
their suggestions as disgusting, unnecessary or impossible."
     "You're right," he murmured. "I'm an idiot, T'Laren. But I'm
so used to hurting now that if something comes along that sounds
like it might be pleasant, I think there has to be a catch
somewhere. Or I think about what it's going to end up costing me
in the long run. Ohhh. I never thought-- I could get so used to
pain-- that its relief would seem so exquisite. I really can't
get over how good this feels. I'm trying to remember if I ever
felt this kind of pleasure when I was omnipotent, and you know, I
must have, but I can't remember a single incident. This is just
*unbelievable*."
     T'Laren frowned slightly. Backrubs were pleasant, but not
*that* much so. She wondered if Q overreacted to pleasure to the
same extent that he did to pain, or if it was because he had been
desperately starved for humanoid contact. Or possibly both. He
was reacting more like a virgin who had just discovered sex than
a man receiving his first massage. On the other hand, if it could
get him to freely admit that she was right and he was an idiot,
perhaps she should not complain of his overreaction.
     She had worked her way back up to his neck by this time, and
now slowly started to rub his scalp, running her fingers through
his hair as she gradually worked over to his temples. She wanted
to see if he was ready to trust her yet. He had to know that the
temples were some of the primary meld points; Vulcan mindmelds
were featured often enough in fiction and holofilms that she
didn't think anyone who read as voraciously as he did could avoid
knowing it. But when she reached to rub his temples, cautiously,
he didn't jerk or flinch or do anything except lie bonelessly
under her hands. At least for now, he seemed to trust her not to
invade his mind. 
     She lifted her hands away from his temples. "I'm going to
straighten your spine now," she told him. "It won't hurt, but it
will feel a little bit unusual. I don't want you to become afraid
or tense up."
     "If you wanted to break my neck right now, I'd let you," Q
murmured. "Do what you will with me."
     T'Laren pressed one hand against the small of his back, held
his left shoulder with the other, and pulled. Q released his
breath explosively, but made no attempt to resist as she pressed
the heels of her palms against his spine, pushing the vertebra
into place. She repeated this several times, moving up his back,
then took his head in her hands and twisted it hard,
straightening the spine in the back of the neck. Then she
released him and stroked his back lightly, soothing any residual
tension as she checked her work. "You need to increase muscle
tone in your back, and to learn some relaxation exercises, for
this to be permanent. But for the next day or two, I think your
back won't give you any trouble."
     "Mmm." He turned his head to face her, a lazy, happy smile
on his face. "Thank you. That does feel much better."
     T'Laren walked over to the replicator and ordered a cup of
hot cocoa for him. "Here. Drink this."
     Q sat up, leaning back against pillows that he'd propped
against the wall behind his bed, and took the drink. "Not that
I'm complaining, but why?"
     "Warm drinks have a natural sedative effect. Especially warm
drinks with high trypsin levels. This is essentially heated
chocolate milk. Humans have used it as a natural sleep aid for
centuries."
     "What's the difference between a `natural' sedative and a
hypo with a sleep drug in it? It seems like you're somewhat
inconsistent. If one kind of sedative is bad, why is another
good?"
     "Comparative levels and strength. Warm cocoa can't put you
to sleep against your will. If you're already relaxed and
prepared to go to sleep, however, it can help speed the process.
A hypo with a sleep drug in it imposes sleep on you; a warm drink
helps your body do the job itself. Besides, it'll help settle
your stomach."
     "All right." He sipped at the drink. "T'Laren-- thank you.
Really. It's amazing how much better I feel now. I don't even
have stomach pains, and you didn't do anything to my stomach."
     "Everything's interrelated."
     Q nodded. He seemed unusually open and suggestible, almost a
normal human being in comparison to his usual reflexive
stubbornness. "I suppose it must be. I-- thank you. I think maybe
I will be able to go to sleep now."
     "I'm glad." She turned and walked over to the door, which
opened to release her. "Good night, Q."
     "Aren't you going to tuck me in?" Q asked.
     T'Laren turned back, startled. Q smiled winningly. He really
could look boyishly charming if he tried. "After all, I'm onwy
fwee."
     "I thought you were sixteen."
     "That, too."
     "If you have your heart set on being tucked in," T'Laren
said, one eyebrow raised, "I can arrange to oblige."
     Q laughed. "No, no. You've babied me far too much already
tonight. I'll get spoiled," he said. He put down the cocoa mug,
his expression sobering. "I owe you, T'Laren."
     "You don't owe me," T'Laren said. "This is my job. If you
prefer, you can consider that Lhoviri has pre-paid your debt in
full."
     "Then I'd owe *him*, and I'd rather not." He shook his head.
"Not that I can avoid it, since all of this is through his doing,
but still. I'll find a way to pay you back personally. I
promise."
     "Try your best to cooperate with me in healing you, and that
will be payment enough."
     He nodded. "All right. Good night, T'Laren."
     "Good night."