ONLY HUMAN 

CHP. II: KETAYA

by Alara Rogers; published by Aleph Press

The following is section 4 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. 


*                              *                                *

     Q seriously considered going without breakfast long enough
to take apart the replicator and bypass the security control
T'Laren had put on it. His head hurt and his eyes were sore, and
after his disgraceful behavior last night he would really rather
not face a cheerful Vulcan, the way they all seemed to be in the
morning. On the other hand, he also didn't feel like doing all
the work necessary to bypass the control, and while he wasn't
particularly hungry he did require coffee, as quickly as
possible. So much for T'Laren's theory that he drank coffee to
counteract the effects of his sedatives; he was exhausted, having
woken several times in the night with unpleasant dreams. Tonight
he was getting his sedative, and he didn't care what he had to do
to get it.
     After a sonic shower-- Ketayawas equipped with water
plumbing, since most humans preferred the less efficient water
showers, but Q wasn't most humans-- and other morning ablutions,
including a reapplication of makeup to hide the effects of last
night's crying jag, he felt marginally capable of facing a fellow
sentient. He walked to the kitchen and strode over to the
replicator, ignoring T'Laren. "Coffee."
     "Decaffeinated," T'Laren piped up before the replicator
could start materializing the cup.
     He turned on her. As he'd expected, she seemed obscenely
cool and wakeful. "What is the point to decaffeinated coffee? Do
you think I drink coffee for the taste?"
     "It's possible," she said. "Decaf doesn't taste any
different, you know."
     "I know. I just don't care. What gives you the right to
dictate what I drink?"
     "I am responsible for your health." She stood up. She was
wearing a yellow pantsuit, a crime against fashion if there ever
was one-- how could anyone raised on Earth have so little sense
of aesthetics as to wear yellow over Vulcan skin? "Breakfast
platter," she said to the second replicator, and withdrew a plate
full of various foods.
     Q raised eyebrows at it. "I always thought overeating was
some kind of sin for Vulcans. Or at the very least illogical."
     "This isn't mine," she said, and set it down at the table
across from her place. "This is for you. I want you to finish all
of it."
     "You're not serious." Her steady gaze indicated that she
was, in fact, perfectly serious. "I can't eat all that! I could
maybe manage *half* that, on a good day. But I'm not anywhere
near hungry enough--"
     "Sit down and eat," T'Laren interrupted, with no more than
her usual calm in her voice. "If you truly cannot finish, we'll
simply dispose of the remainder. But I want you to eat as much of
it as you can."
     Q sat down, not entirely sure why he was bothering. The
foods before him were all foods he'd liked, back when he still
got any modicum of pleasure whatsoever out of eating. That itself
made him less willing to eat. How much information was in his
files, anyway? Had Medellin or someone been recording what he got
out of the replicators and the frequency of individual foods? "I
don't want any of this."
     "That's unfortunate," T'Laren said, standing at his
shoulder. "It is sad when one must do something one doesn't wish
to do."
     Or in other words, he still had to eat it. "Can't I get
something else?"
     "I've analyzed your nutritional requirements and created a
program to devise meals that satisfy them. If you ask for
something else, the replicator will produce it, but it will also
generate complements for it to make a balanced meal, and you'll
have to eat them. You might be better off just eating this."
     With bad grace, Q took a forkful, wondering in some part of
his mind why he wasn't fighting harder. Weakness, perhaps. He was
putting up less resistance than he had to Anderson's constant
demands, and T'Laren had put much less pressure on him than
Anderson ever had. Maybe he was just too tired to fight anyone.
     "I'm worried about this power trip of yours, T'Laren," he
said. "Forcing me to eat what you want me to eat sounds to me
like you're overcontrolling. I got enough of that from Anderson;
I'm not putting up with it from you. And I want my sedatives
back. I slept miserably last night."
     "I can tell," T'Laren said.
     Was that a pointed reference to his hysterics last night? Q
flushed angrily, and snapped, "A good portion of which was your
fault. If you hadn't barged in when you did, I'd have gotten back
to sleep without-- oh." T'Laren's fingers pressed into his back
just under the collarbone, probing for and loosening painful
knots there. It was difficult to maintain his train of thought.
"Without... I'd have gotten back to sleep normally and...
whatever."
     "Maintaining all that anger must be a difficult job,"
T'Laren said. "You've made yourself tense again. Is it really
worth it?"
     He really should not allow this. Q remembered how he'd
behaved last night-- not the crying jag, but his almost obscene
pliability and defenselessness under T'Laren's ministrations. She
could have done anything to him, anything at all, and he wouldn't
have been able to muster up resistance until it was too late.
Obviously he was as vulnerable to pleasure as he was to pain, and
he should avoid it for the same reason. He could too easily
succumb to this and make as big a fool of himself as he had last
night-- he must have looked so incredibly naive and idiotic,
going on and on about a backrub as if it were the most
pleasurable thing in existence. Far too dangerous. He had to tell
her to stop.
     In a few minutes.
     "I'm not sure I understand you, Q," she said. "You increase
your own pain, you know. You fight battles with the wrong people
over trivial things, depleting your resources for the important
battles. You project anger and disdain at the universe, almost
constantly-- don't you realize that that weakens you? You devote
so much of your strength to holding up your defenses that every
so often your strength runs out and you crumble. If you were more
discriminating about what you defended yourself against, you
would lose your defenses completely less often."
     She didn't understand. Which was good-- she shouldn't
understand, she already understood far too much for Q's liking.
For a moment, her words reawakened the anger, strengthening him
against her. But it was impossible to retain anger or even
annoyance at her as her fingers so expertly forced relaxation on
him. Q could feel the anger seeping away, stolen away from him by
slim fingers, leaving him defenseless.
     He jerked away from her. "Don't do that," he said harshly.
     "Do what?"
     Q turned to face her. T'Laren looked genuinely puzzled.
"Don't touch me. Not without asking permission first."
     "I-- very well. Forgive me. It was an invasion of your
privacy, and I should have known better." She sat down. "Why did
you wait so long to tell me to stop, if I was making you
uncomfortable?"
     That was exactly the sort of question he never wanted to
have to answer. What was he supposed to say, "Oh, I liked it too
much to make myself ask you to stop?" That certainly lent
credibility to his refusal. Humans took statements like that as
an excuse to try to persuade one against one's better judgement.
He imagined Vulcans-- normal Vulcans, at least-- would take his
refusal at face value, and not press further. He had no idea what
this one would do. "Drop the subject," he said.
     It was one of the weakest attempts to avoid a topic he'd
ever produced, and it didn't work. "I can't," she said. "It's
important that I know. I cannot simply drop subjects that make
you uncomfortable if I'm to help you."
     Q sighed. "If you must know, it took me a few minutes to
recover from the shock of being touched without permission at
all. I'd thought you were more professional than that, T'Laren.
You made me very anxious."
     T'Laren's expression didn't change. From a Vulcan, he had to
take that as a good sign. If he hadn't hurt her, she wouldn't
have bothered to keep her face so controlled, and she would have
shown some reaction. "You have not previously struck me as
someone who freezes in unpleasant situations."
     An old bitterness welled to the surface. "No, didn't you
hear? I got someone killed by freezing up once. It made me
infamous. Well, more infamous than I already was."
     "I see," she said, nodding. "You found the situation so
unpleasant that you froze. The fact that you relaxed completely
and leaned into my touch was an unfortunate side effect of my
advanced techniques of Vulcan mind control, which were also
responsible for the happiness you experienced last night, the
acute depressive attack you experienced later last night, and in
fact were responsible for your suicide attempt in the first
place."
     All of this was said in the same calm, reasonable tone of
voice. If Q hadn't listened to the words, he would never have
recognized the statement as sarcasm. "Aren't you laying it on a
bit thick?" he asked. "The Vulcan mind control line was enough, I
think. The rest of it was a bit over the top."
     "I *am* sorry I invaded your privacy without asking,"
T'Laren said. "I perceived that you were tense, and moved to
correct the situation. It had not occurred to me that you have
such a desperate need for your anger and tension-- and pain--
that you would be upset with me for easing them for you."
     "Need?" Q frowned. "Why would I *need* pain? I've told you,
I'm no masochist. I don't like pain. I also don't like being
touched casually. That's all."
     "Your files show no sign of such an aversion," T'Laren said.
     That was the last straw. Q pushed out of his chair and stood
with such force that the chair fell over. "What, do you have
*everything* on record about me?" he demanded. "What I eat and
when, who I eat with, what I talk about with them, what I say
about them when their back is turned? Do you have monitors
running when I go to the bathroom, too? Insights into the psyche
obtained by stool inspection? Do you watch me at night and count
my dreams from REM movements?"
     "The hyperbole is unnecessary," she said, "and will not
distract me from the point. We were discussing why you felt the
need to reject something you obviously derived enjoyment from,
not what is or is not in your files."
     "Maybe that's what *you're* discussing. I'm more concerned
about those files. This meal--" He lifted the plate. "All of
these are foods I used to like before I stopped liking anything.
Do you have that on record too? How much privacy do I have
*left?*"
     "Your favorite foods are not on any record I ever saw. Foods
you are allergic to or dislike strongly are listed in your file,
where known-- anything Medellin saw you have an extreme negative
reaction to, meaning that the list probably covers only a
fraction of the total. I selected common human breakfast foods,
such as eggs and fruit, for your meals, and excluded what I know
you don't like. If these happen to be foods you particularly
like, it's by coincidence only. And I'd advise you to sit down
and finish eating them."
     Q put the plate down. "I'm not hungry," he muttered.
     T'Laren studied him. "Very well. In that case, come with
me." She stood up and walked toward the kitchen door.
     "Why?" T'Laren had an annoying habit of making demands
without explaining her reasons, and Q decided he was going to
break her of it. He stood where he was.
     T'Laren turned again to face him. "Since your appetite is
low, now would be an ideal time to begin a physical training
regimen. You have a great deal of tension and hostility that
might be more profitably channeled into physical activity, and
such activity would increase your appetite."
     He wasn't hearing this. He couldn't be. Q looked down at his
hands, the only part of his body he could see that he hadn't
concealed under clothes designed to tell flattering lies. The
fingers were bony skeleton appendages, more like a Mestavan than
a human, and the knuckles stood out like a Klingon's forehead
ridges. Underneath the gracefully lying fabric he'd hidden
himself in, the rest of his body was just as bad-- he had taken
pains not to look at himself naked in a mirror for months now,
and his condition had gotten considerably worse since his failed
suicide attempt. Incredulously he looked up at T'Laren. "You
can't seriously want me to exercise in my condition."
     "I believe we discussed this last night, Q. Did you believe
I'd forgotten?"
     Actually, Q himself had forgotten. Now that she'd reminded
him, he did remember that she'd threatened to make him exercise.
It was as unbelievable now as it had been then. "I thought maybe
you'd have come to your senses."
     "I don't plan to make you run a marathon," T'Laren said.
"For now we'll start with simple stretching exercises. If you can
walk, you can do that much."
     He supposed that was probably correct, though the idea of
doing any kind of exercise whatsoever made him feel immensely
put-upon. Sulkily he followed T'Laren to the gym, wondering why
he was bothering. "Look, I really don't think I'm up to this.
Can't we wait a week or so, until I'm a little stronger?"
     "How do you expect to get stronger when you don't eat?"
T'Laren went over to the clothing replicator. "Exercise suits."
     "All right!" Q threw up his hands. "I'll finish the damned
breakfast. Will that make you happy? Are you satisfied?"
     T'Laren handed him an exercise suit. "Change into this. You
can use the change room over there if you would rather do so
privately."
     "I already said I'd finish breakfast. What more do you
want?"
     "You misunderstand," she said. She had gone completely
Vulcan; he couldn't read her at all. "I am not Anderson,
attempting to coerce you through threatened punishments. This is
not a punishment, Q. You are going to exercise. It would be very
nice if you would eat as well, but it will not change anything.
Now change your clothes-- what you are wearing is too confining
for exercise."
     "You said it was just stretching."
     "It is difficult to stretch when one's clothes will not
stretch with you."
     "And what if I refuse?" he asked belligerently, folding his
arms and glaring at her. "What will you do to me if I walk back
to my room right now?"
     "Please don't," T'Laren said calmly. "I would not wish to
resort to threats."
     "Oh, so you *are* like Anderson. What threats are you not
wishing to resort to? Take away my replicator privileges? Oh,
wait, it's been done before. Why don't you cut off my computer
access? *That* would be truly original."
     "That would be unnecessary," T'Laren said, moving around him
to stand in front of the door. She placed her exercise suit in a
neat bundle on the floor. "There is only one exit from here, Q.
You have three choices: you may stay here in the gymnasium and do
nothing, you may attempt to force your way past me, or you may do
as I have asked. If you attempt to force your way past me, you
will fail. I am a Vulcan, Starfleet-trained, and in perfect
health. You would then be left with the previous two choices, and
undoubtedly some bruises. So I might suggest limiting your
consideration to those two, keeping in mind that I am far more
patient than you."
     Q stared at her. "You're actually threatening me with
physical violence."
     "Not at all. I am threatening to turn any attempts of yours
at physical violence back at you. I threaten no violence myself."
     "Semantics," Q muttered. Had he really thought it would be
any different? Wherever he went, people would try to dominate
him, to control him, and as long as he had such a glaring
weakness as his inability to tolerate boredom, they would
succeed.
     With extremely bad grace, he took the exercise suit from her
and undressed, quite deliberately doing so in front of her.
Normally he would have sought privacy to undress-- he had no
sense of modesty in the usual sense, but he was ashamed of how
thin he was right now, and usually tried to avoid letting anyone
see him without clothes to hide the damage. Right now, though, he
wanted to flaunt his weakness. Let her see how truly pathetic he
looked, and she would realize that he couldn't possibly indulge
in any physical exercise now. Out of the corner of his eye, he
glanced over to see what her reaction was-- but she, too, was
changing, paying no attention to him. Q quickly looked away.
Experience had taught him that it was dangerous for him to look
at nude attractive humanoids, and while he thought he was
probably too ill for it to be a problem right now, there was no
sense taking chances. He didn't need to risk humiliation and
discomfort right now; he was already uncomfortable enough.
     By the time he was done changing, T'Laren was dressed and
waiting with arms folded, her stillness conveying the patience of
stone. He faced her sullenly. "Now what?"
     "Touch your toes without bending your knees."
     This felt immensely stupid. Half-heartedly, Q attempted to
touch his toes, came to the conclusion that if he couldn't bend
his knees his toes might as well be in another solar system, and
straightened up. "I can't."
     "Try."
     He made a few more half-hearted attempts, feeling self-
conscious and idiotic. His body simply would not bend that way.
It was painful to make the attempt. "Fine, I tried. Happy now?"
     "You aren't trying."
     "I am too!"
     "We will do this until you do it properly. Again."
     Q sat down on the floor, arms folded. "I can't do it."
     T'Laren looked down at him for several seconds. Q stared
back at her, challenging her to do something. Without breaking
the stare, T'Laren said, "Q. It is necessary that you learn how
to defend yourself physically. I am Starfleet trained, but I am
only one person-- I may not always be able to save you. What
would you do if your life depended on your ability to hold off
some assassin a few moments until I could arrive?"
     Q shrugged. "I suppose I'd die," he said blandly. "Which
frankly, at the moment, doesn't strike me as an overly unpleasant
prospect."
     T'Laren continued to stare at him. Q, still unwilling to
back down, stared back, studiedly expressionless. Finally T'Laren
stepped away from the door, ceasing to block his path out. "Get
up and come with me."
     He stood up. "What now?"
     "I have something to show you." 
     Q made an exasperated noise. "Like *what?* I'm getting very
tired of these vague directives of yours, T'Laren."
     "It would be meaningless if I told you what in advance," she
said. "I believe it will be something of interest to you."
     "I doubt it," Q muttered, but went with her. Curiosity had
always been one of his greatest weaknesses. 
     They walked a short distance down the hall to the lift.
"Deck 4," T'Laren said, and they descended.
     "What's on Deck 4?"
     "Airlocks, maintenance and supply."
     "Oh, you've got a present for me, hidden in the supply
closet. How nice. T'Laren, you shouldn't have." No response. Not
even a "Shut up, Q." This was beginning to frighten him. It was
fine to offend people, but not to the point where they stopped
talking to him.
     "Is it bigger than a breadbox?" Q persisted, as they stepped
off the turbolift. "Or perhaps you're going to show me the
skeletons in your closet. Are there dead bodies down here?
Victims of some arcane Vulcan rite?" Still no response. Q was not
used to being ignored, not when there was no one else to talk to,
and it was making him desperate. What did he have to do to get a
reaction out of her again?
     T'Laren palmed the door to the main airlock, and it lifted.
Now Q was getting extremely nervous. "T'Laren?" he asked, backing
away. "Why are you opening the airlock?"
     "I have some knowledge of death by vacuum," she said calmly.
"It is a quick death and a merciful one. There are a few brief
moments of pain, but the cold quickly robs one of consciousness.
I imagine it is far less painful than drinking etching solution."
     She was completely insane. Q's blood went cold with fear. "I
imagine so," he said weakly, and then turned to bolt desperately
for the lift.
     He never even got close. The moment his back was turned, the
moment he began to run, T'Laren's arm grabbed his and snagged him
back. He stumbled, windmilling with his free arm, trying to pull
free, but it was useless. T'Laren reeled him in to her and turned
him toward the airlock, pushing. Q dug in his heels, not that
that did much good with shipboots on an uncarpeted ship's
corridor floor. "No-- don't-- please don't--"
     "Why are you resisting? This is what you want," T'Laren
said. She lifted him slightly, so he could no longer brace
himself against the floor, and shoved, releasing him. Q
staggered, falling forward into the airlock. As he caught himself
against the far wall, he heard the hum of the door lowering
behind him.
     "*No!*" He turned and lunged at the airlock door, too late.
It shut with a clang that sounded unpleasantly like a death
knell. The top half of the door was transparasteel-- Q could see
T'Laren outside the lock, standing by the release button with the
same lack of expression she'd shown before. Terrified, he pounded
on the transparasteel. "Let me out! Please! *Please!*"
     T'Laren raised an eyebrow. "I do not understand what you are
afraid of," she said. "Not five minutes ago, you expressed
complete unconcern at the possibility of your own death. I no
longer wished to torment you by forcing you to remain alive
against your will."
     He had known she was mentally unstable, and he had gone with
her anyway. Stupid *fool!* There was no one here to save him-- he
was trapped alone in an airlock with a mad Vulcan on the other
side and no one else around for light-years. Q sank to his knees,
terrified, hands and face pressed firmly against the
transparasteel. "Please. Please, let me out. Don't kill me.
Please."
     "You do not, in fact, wish to die."
     "No. No. I don't. Please, don't kill me, *please*..."
     "But you do understand that this would be a far kinder death
than you could expect from some assailant. That *is* clear to
you, I hope."
     She was going to kill him. It was obvious that she'd made up
her mind. His life was moments away from ending, and he couldn't
think of what to say, what to do to make her let him go. He had
expected to be killed by some revenge-craving member of a highly
advanced species unknown to humanity, not an insane citizen of
the Federation to whom he'd done nothing personally. "Yes, yes, I
know, I still don't want to die! T'Laren, *please!* Let me out!"
     "It is your decision," she said. "Consider it carefully."
Her hand hovered near the airlock release. "If you live, you will
continue to be plagued by aches and pains, at risk for a worse
death, lonely and crippled. Death will end your suffering, you
understand. Simply tell me your decision, and I will carry it out
for you."
     It was hopeless. She wasn't listening to him. Q sagged, his
head sinking below the level of the transparasteel, where he
could no longer see his tormenter. He began to sob helplessly,
despairingly. "T'Laren, don't kill me, please don't kill me,
please..."
     "Very well," her voice came, echoing in the airlock. A
moment later the door he was leaning against moved upward.
     Q crawled out of the airlock as soon as the opening was big
enough for him to fit through, away from T'Laren, and sat up
against the far wall of the corridor, hugging his knees as he
tried to control his breathing. He still didn't feel safe. He
didn't know what he'd said that had finally gotten through to
her, and he didn't know what he'd said that had precipitated the
attempt in the first place, and so he had no way of knowing that
it would not happen again or that she wouldn't carry through her
threat next time.
     Footsteps approached. He glanced up, saw T'Laren coming over
toward him, and flinched, curling inward more tightly. "Q," she
said gently.
     "Changed your mind?" he asked raggedly. "Going to finish me
off anyway?"
     "Q, I wasn't actually trying to kill you."
     That statement was too outrageous for him to devise a
suitable reply. He looked up and glared at her. "No?" he finally
said, a wealth of disgust and disbelief in the one word.
     "The airlocks have safety interlocks on them. They can't be
opened to vacuum if there's a life form inside, not unless one
bypasses the interlocks-- and I'm not an engineer. I'd have no
idea how to go about bypassing the safety features. I couldn't
have spaced you if I'd wanted to."
     The words sank in slowly. She hadn't been trying to kill
him. She had been trying to make it look as if she would, to
humiliate and terrify him, to make a complete fool out of him.
Terror began to transmute to rage. "How dare you?" Q asked,
getting to his feet. Rage built up uncontrollably, hazing his
vision. "How *dare* you!"
     Fury overpowered him completely, and he lunged at T'Laren,
pinning her back against the wall. Had he the power, he would
have thrown her into the heart of a sun, dismembered her cell by
quivering cell, cast her into a hellish pocket dimension to
suffer eternities of agony. He couldn't do any of those things
anymore, so he locked his fingers around her slim neck and
squeezed with all the strength of his rage, lifting her off her
feet and slamming her into the wall. "How *dare* you humiliate me
like this! Who-- do you-- think-- you-- *are?*" he screamed,
punctuating the question by repeatedly smashing her head back
into the bulkhead.
     Even the power of his rage, however, was not quite enough to
match a Vulcan's strength. Perhaps it would have if his body had
been stronger. As it was, though, T'Laren's fingers wrapped
around his and pried him loose from her throat. She pushed him
back and sank to the floor, gasping. Q staggered backward, the
aftermath of the sudden adrenaline rush catching up with him.
Weakness overwhelmed him, the counterpoint of the rush of
strength a minute ago, and he too had to sit down on the floor.
     He had never been so angry. Not in his entire mortal life
had he felt such fury at someone that he had attacked them
physically. In his entire existence, he could remember only one
other time that his rage had so overpowered his reason, and that
had been a cold, slow rage, burning for years. That had been with
Azi... and Azi had betrayed the friendship of millennia, had been
far more to him than T'Laren could ever be. But the way he felt
now, the weak helpless fury, the betrayal... was as close an
approximation to how he'd felt when Azi had attacked and nearly
destroyed him as he thought he could get in mortal form. T'Laren
should be afraid, he thought. T'Laren should be very afraid. No
one hurt him like that without suffering for it.
     "Impressive," T'Laren said hoarsely, struggling to her feet.
"I'd been informed you have no natural instinct for physical
violence. Somebody was mistaken, it seems."
     "If I weren't so weak, I would kill you," Q said, getting up
off the floor himself.
     "If you weren't so weak, it would have been far harder for
someone to threaten your life in such fashion. Q, my point here
has not been to needlessly humiliate you."
     The look he gave her could have fused hydrogen into helium.
"No?" he asked, not loudly, but with white-hot rage behind it.
"Clarify for me. What *was* your point here?"
     "You essentially said you didn't care if someone killed you.
I believed you were lying, if not to me then to yourself, and
decided to prove my theory. Obviously you do not, in fact, wish
to die."
     "I do, in fact, wish to kill *you*."
     "Irrelevant," she said sharply. "We aren't discussing your
views on my continued existence, but on your own. My original
point was that, if you do not learn to defend yourself, you are
likely to be killed. You told me you didn't care. I believe we
have just proven that that is untrue."
     "Oh, no," Q snapped. He stepped closer to T'Laren, and she
took a half-step backward. "If you only wanted to prove that I
didn't want to die, you *could* have let me go the first time I
asked you to. But no. You waited until I was completely broken,
on my knees begging and sobbing, before you relented. That was
unnecessary by anyone's standards. No, you got angry at me and
decided to humiliate me. Admit it."
     "I'm above that," T'Laren said frostily.
     "Oh? Are you, now. How intriguing. The Vulcan whose
emotional control is so incompetent that she got thrown out of
Starfleet and ended up trying to kill herself is above getting
angry. Really. What a fascinating notion."
     T'Laren moved sideways, putting space between herself and Q.
"I am not above getting angry," she said. "I am, however, above
humiliating a patient because I am angry. I would advise you not
to judge the entire universe by what you yourself would do."
     He raised his eyebrows. "Obviously you're not above taking
cheap shots," he said. "Really, T'Laren. References to my past
history? You can do better than *that*, I'm sure."
     "This isn't a contest."
     "No, you're quite right. This isn't a contest. This is much
more serious." Q imposed on her space again, backing her into the
wall. "This is a question of trust, and I'm very much afraid you
just lost mine."
     "I explained that I had no intention of killing you. You may
examine the safety interlock if you choose."
     "Oh, I believe you. I know you didn't plan to kill me. What
you planned-- and what you *did*-- was to play games with my
head."
     "As if you have never done such a thing yourself."
     "Of course I have, that's not the point! *I* am not a
psychologist! You abused the power I gave you--"
     "I did no such thing!" T'Laren twisted away from him again
and took a position half a meter away. "You are obstructionist,
defeatist and a liar, both to yourself and to others. I perceived
that you needed to be made aware of the vulnerability of your
position--"
     "No, no, and *no!*" Q could shout over anyone when he tried.
He grabbed T'Laren's arm and loomed over her again, getting in
her face. "I offended you, hurt your feelings or whatever you
have that passes for them, and *you* decided to get even.
Frightening me was probably intended to teach me a lesson, yes,
I'm sure you had good and noble reasons when you first got the
idea. But you dragged it out far too long for that to have been
all it was. No, T'Laren, I know revenge when I see it."
     She yanked her arm out of his grasp. "I acted as a healer,
in the best interests of my patient. I do not care what delusions
you choose to believe, but that is the truth."
     Q laughed unpleasantly. "Oh, don't try to *lie* to me,
T'Laren," he said. "I have uncounted millennia of experience with
deception. I know a lie when I see one, too."
     "It is obvious to me why you would choose to believe your
own version of events," T'Laren said in a voice like liquid
nitrogen. "What is less obvious is why you would find that
version so offensive. You endeavored so forcefully, so
skillfully, to offend me and to cause me to react against you
that it would undoubtedly be very disappointing to you to believe
that it did not work. You would far prefer to believe yourself
successful. I understand this. I fail to understand, however, why
you insist on the pretense that *your* feelings are hurt, that
*you* are offended, by your belief that I took revenge against
you. Why would you be so displeased at an effect you worked so
hard to achieve?"
     "Then you admit it was revenge."
     "I admit that you believe it was, and that I am bewildered
at your reaction to your own belief. The actual facts are as I
have previously stated them."
     Q stared at her. "You're worse than me," he finally said.
"When I get caught out, I generally admit it. You refuse to
acknowledge that I'm right."
     "It is irrelevant whether or not you are right. What is
relevant is that you are making a great show of being disturbed
by your belief that I attacked you for revenge. I do not
understand why."
     "Because I trusted you!" Q shouted at her. "And you
humiliated me! I thought you were going to *kill* me, T'Laren.
Have you any *idea* how frightened I was?"
     T'Laren raised an eyebrow. "Why would you have so feared
death?" she asked. "Death is what you thought you wanted, isn't
it?"
     "In *my* time, on *my* terms, at *my* hands, yes! Maybe! But
I don't care *what* you say about how quick it is and whatnot, I
don't want someone else throwing me out an airlock!" The effort
of shouting was making him dizzy. He took a deep breath. "And
that's beside the point, anyway. The point is that I trusted you
and you humiliated me, for your own personal satisfaction, and I
don't want to be trapped on a starship depending on someone who
does that kind of thing."
     "Indeed. Your solution, then?"
     "Turn this ship around. I want to go back to Starbase 56."
     She nodded and turned away, walking toward the lift. "Very
well. If that is what you wish."
     He had expected more of an argument about it. "You're just
going to take me back?"
     T'Laren stopped, but did not face him. "This excursion was
intended to benefit you. If you intend to derive no benefit from
it, there is no point. I will return you to your old life on
Starbase 56." Now she turned to face him. Her face had gone
through cold and expressionless out the other side. The wintry
devil's mask she wore bore little resemblance to a humanoid face.
It was like a legendary beast's, or a demon's, a rage that burned
as cold as frozen oxygen. "And when you die, when you take your
own life out of boredom and despair, you will be unmourned. Your
people will have written you off as a failure, for refusing to
grasp at your only chance; those who know you will consider
themselves well rid of you; the Federation will regret the loss
of a resource, but no more than that. I will grieve for my
failure. No one else will think of you at all."
     The words were a knife in his heart. Q smiled cruelly,
hiding his pain. "I don't think you'll be grieving," he said
softly. "I don't think you'll do anything at all. Lhoviri gave
you his `gifts' as payment for something it seems you're not
going to do, now. And the Q don't tolerate failures. Lhoviri will
almost certainly take his gifts back." He let the smile broaden,
as he studied her face for any sign of pain or fear or anything
at all. "Didn't you say he gave you your life and your sanity? If
he's very merciful, he may let you keep *one*."
     The utter lack of reaction told Q everything he needed to
know. He stood there wearing a smiling mask, as an expressionless
T'Laren turned from him and went back up the lift. He took the
lift himself as soon as it came back down, still wearing the
mask, and went into his room. Only then, safely unobserved, did
the mask break. Q collapsed onto his bed, feeling despair
encroaching again. T'Laren had been absolutely right. He would
die unmourned, forgotten, his existence rendered irrelevant to
everyone he had ever cared about. Alive, there was nothing left
to him but hopelessness. Dead, there would be nothing left of him
at all.
     He stared at the ceiling, breathing deeply, trying to
control himself. Anger and self-pity and encroaching despair
roiled around inside, fighting for domination. It was in his best
interests to make sure anger won-- despair led to tears or
suicide attempts, while anger gave him strength. So he focused
his attention on being angry at T'Laren. 
     *This*, he thought furiously, was why he hadn't wanted to
trust her in the first place, why he hadn't wanted to believe she
could help him or hope for anything at all. There was nothing
more painful than shattered hope. And he knew he had begun to
hope-- the depth of his terror when he'd thought T'Laren would
kill him told him that. It wasn't as if he'd lied to her-- no, he
didn't want to be killed by someone else, and no, he didn't want
to die by going out an airlock. Two weeks ago, however, both
alternatives would have been completely acceptable. She was right
that death by vacuum was easier than death by drinking acid. He'd
observed mortals dying in vacuum often enough to know that shock
drove them unconscious very quickly, and the pain they suffered
before that time was simply not in the same league as the pain of
having etching solution devouring one's guts. 
     That was odd, actually. Two weeks ago, he had been willing
to put himself through excruciating torment. The agony he'd
suffered, while brief, had been more intense than any pain he'd
been through yet, and it had been something he'd done to himself.
He would have jumped at the chance to go out an airlock, then;
would have been overjoyed to find a method of dying as sure as
the acid and less painful, and he wouldn't have *cared* who did
it to him. Part of the reason he'd provoked the Klingons, aside
from the fact that it was fun to provoke Klingons, had been a
secret, half-hearted hope that they'd bash his skull in for him.
He had been entirely willing to be killed, as long as the method
involved less pain and humiliation than he'd planned for himself.
     Yet not half an hour ago, he had been broken, groveling,
sobbing with terror because he'd thought he would be killed. That
went far beyond not wanting to be murdered. He had genuinely not
wanted to die.
     Somewhere along the way, without his noticing it, he must
have decided he wanted to live. He must have succumbed to hope,
and begun to actually believe T'Laren would help him. And that
brought him around in a circle to the utter cruelty of her
betrayal. If she hadn't made him hope, it could not possibly hurt
so much to see that hope destroyed. If she hadn't come into his
life--
     --he would still be on Starbase 56, where he was headed back
to now. And nothing would be any different from what it was
before.
     "Damn you, Lhoviri," Q whispered. He'd seen the trap, had
walked into it with his eyes wide open, and now he was caught.
"*Damn* you."
     In a month, or maybe less, things would get unbearable
again, and he would find a way to kill himself. It would have to
be even more sure than the acid was, something that could not
fail barring a flagrant violation of the laws of physics, which
Lhoviri would be loath to do. Probably it would end up being even
more painful as well. And after he was dead, no one would mourn
him. The Continuum would write him off as a failure. Someone who
rejected his last chance for survival didn't deserve to live.
Humanity hated him and would be glad to be rid of him. Everyone
else in the universe hated him worse and would be even more glad. 
     He would not get another chance. If he rejected T'Laren,
Lhoviri wouldn't send anyone else. This was it, his last
opportunity. After what she had done he could not possibly trust
her-- but if he didn't, at least to the extent of staying aboard
Ketayawith her, he would have no hope at all.
     But she couldn't possibly *actually* turn the ship around
and return to the starbase, he thought. She knew what was at
stake-- he had warned her. If she let him step off this ship and
go back to the place where he'd die, without any argument, any
attempt to stop him or persuade him, she would have failed. And
Lhoviri was not forgiving. He disliked interfering with things.
If he had saved T'Laren's life and T'Laren didn't hold up her end
of the bargain, it would make perfect sense to Lhoviri to erase
the effects of his own interference and eliminate T'Laren, let
the death that should have claimed her get her two years late.
T'Laren knew that; Q had warned her. She would have to come back
in here to apologize, to beg him to give all this a second
chance. Then he would magnanimously forgive her. 
     If that was the plan, one presumed they were traveling back
to the starbase at some ungodly slow speed, warp three perhaps,
to give her plenty of time to talk him out of it. "Computer," he
said, "what's our ETA to Starbase 56?"
     "ETA three hours," the computer said.
     *Three hours!* Q jerked to a sitting position. That
*couldn't* be right. "What speed are we traveling at?"
     "Warp nine."
     That made no sense. Why would they travel *back* to Starbase
56 three orders of magnitude as quickly as they'd left it, when
T'Laren's survival depended on them not actually returning at
all? Why would she take them so quickly? Did she *want* Lhoviri
to kill her? Or maybe, like so many other mortals Q had known,
she wouldn't quite understand the depth of the Continuum's
ruthlessness until it was too late. Maybe, for all her
protestations otherwise, she really did trust Lhoviri.
     Trusting *fool!* Q knew better than anyone how trustworthy
the Q were, or were not, especially Lhoviri, who in many respects
was an older version of himself. He had to make her understand
the danger she was in. Q got up and strode out of the room,
heading for the lift to the bridge.

     He strode out onto the bridge. "Why are we traveling at warp
9?" he demanded.
     T'Laren didn't look up at him. "One would not wish to waste
time," she said.
     Q walked over to her seat and leaned over the back of it,
speaking to the top of T'Laren's head. "You do realize that your
life ends the moment we get back to the starbase. I told you,
Lhoviri won't be forgiving."
     "You told me that, yes."
     "Well?" He glared down at her. "Aren't you going to try to
talk me out of wanting to go back?"
     "Why?"
     "Because!" Exasperated, he circled her chair and faced her,
since she was refusing to look up at him. "If we actually return
to Starbase 56, you'll die! Don't you want to live?"
     "In the first place, I have only your word for it that I
will die. You may be mistaken, or lying. And secondly, I do not
consider it a worthwhile idea to beg you to do something that
would primarily benefit yourself. You have a hard enough time as
it is comprehending that actions have consequences."
     "The consequences of this particular action would be your
death. Or at the very least you'll go insane again. It seems to
me like *you're* the one who's ignoring the consequences of your
actions."
     T'Laren finally looked up at him. "I will not coddle you,"
she said. "You are well aware that your life will be desperately
unhappy on Starbase 56, and that you will undoubtedly end up
attempting suicide again. You may well succeed this next time;
after refusing the help the Continuum sent you, I doubt they will
be eager to help you again. Yet it is your desire to return to
that. I cannot argue with such profound irrationality."
     "You don't understand. Lhoviri will *kill* you." Q snapped
his fingers. "Like that, out like a light. You're nothing to him.
He'll just get rid of you to keep things tidy."
     "*You* do not understand. That is irrelevant."
     "Well... not to me." Q turned away. If she refused to beg
him to stay with her, there were still ways to accomplish the
objective and save face. "Right now, I'm still furious at you, I
still think you humiliated me needlessly, and I still don't trust
you. But you don't deserve to die for any of that." He turned
back to her. "Turn the ship back, T'Laren, we'll go to the
conference. I don't need your death on my head."
     "It would be on Lhoviri's head, not yours."
     "Still."
     "Q, if you do not trust me there is no point to our
continuing with an empty charade. We would accomplish nothing, I
would still have failed, and Lhoviri presumably would still kill
me. I would prefer to get it over with."
     "All right!" he snapped. "I don't have a choice, do I? It
doesn't matter how many times you betray me, I have to trust you
because you're the only game in town. So turn the ship around.
We're going to the conference." He turned back toward the lift.
"I wouldn't want to miss a chance to harass so many scientists at
the same time anyway."
     Behind him, he heard her sigh. "That's not a very
constructive reason to want to go someplace."
     Q grinned. He had her. She was back now.
     He wiped the grin off his face and turned back. "Probably
not. But I'm not well-known for my constructive reasoning."
     T'Laren studied him for a moment or two without speaking.
"If you have decided to trust me, on whatever provisional basis,
will you also trust that I have your best interests in mind when
I require that you eat? And exercise? And learn some modicum of
self-defense?"
     Q thought about it. She *was* right. He knew that, even as
his mind rebelled against the knowledge. It was simply that he
couldn't stand being told what to do. "Give me back replicator
access and some amount of veto power over *what* I eat, and
you're on."
     Her face, in the slow process of thawing, went stone again.
"Bargains?"
     "Whatever works," Q said. He leaned forward, propping
himself on the railing. "T'Laren, if you're such a control freak
that you can't allow me *any* power over my own life, then this
won't work and we may as well go back. I will try my best to be
reasonable-- I just don't like being told what to do. It makes me
very, uh..."
     "Stubborn?" The stone cracked with the arch of an eyebrow.
"Unreasonable? Obnoxious?"
     Q shrugged, grinning in mock abashment. Abruptly T'Laren's
face relaxed, and he was once more dealing with a living sentient
being, not a statue of one. "All right, Q. As long as you can be
reasonable about it, I'll let you control what you eat. I
downloaded the list of replicator restrictions from Starbase 56,
so you can have access to the replicators immediately, under the
same restrictions as you had before. But I'd still like you to
eat with me, and we still have to go do those exercises."
     He sighed, sitting down abruptly. "It's so hard, T'Laren.
I'm tired, and I'm weak, and I feel like an idiot when I try to
do anything with my body. I just won't stretch that way."
     T'Laren stood up, walking over to him. "There are two
solutions I can see. One is that we try water exercises instead.
Your weakness and lack of flexibility won't matter as much in
water, the pool won't let you drown, and you need to learn how to
swim as well. The other is that you let me massage the tension
out before we start the stretching, so that you'll be able to
stretch with a minimum of pain."
     Q put his chin on his hand and made a great show of thinking
about it. "Hmm. Let's consider... a difficult question, this. On
the one hand, I could get cold and wet, inhale large quantities
of water through my nose, wear a bathing costume of some sort
that shows off my skeletal limbs to maximum boniness, and make a
fool of myself splashing about through a medium that this body is
most certainly not evolved for. On the other hand, you could give
me a massage. Let me ponder." He looked up at her with a
perfectly deadpan expression. "Could I have a few hours to think
about it?"
     For a brief second, almost too quickly for him to notice it,
T'Laren smiled. Then the expression was gone, but left in its
wake a considerably friendlier face. "I take it you're leaning
toward the massage?"
     "I think I favor that alternative, yes."
     She helped him to his feet. "Let's go to the gym," she said.
"If bribery is what it takes to get you to exercise, I have no
moral problems with bribing you."
     "How wonderful. I have no moral problems with being bribed,
so this will work out fine. Lead the way, dear doctor." They
stepped onto the lift. "If I'm going to go through all the pain
of being forced to exercise, after all, I should get *something*
pleasant in exchange..."