ONLY HUMAN 

CHP. II: KETAYA

by Alara Rogers; published by Aleph Press

The following is section 9 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. 


*                              *                                *
     
     In the end, they ended up on Deck 2, the observation lounge-- 
the kitchen was too small to pace in, and Q couldn't sit down.
A nervous energy coursed through him, forcing him to pace circles
around the table where T'Laren sat. She had gotten herself better
composed now, sitting in expectant quietude. It occurred to Q
that what he had seen a few minutes ago had to have been a
genuine lapse in control-- normally he could tell when T'Laren
was feeling emotion because her surface became totally
emotionless. He had never before seen her badly shaken enough
that she actually showed a bit of it. What had frightened her so
badly? Surely it wasn't *that* strange that a man who'd recently
attempted suicide might find relief in his own murder. He didn't
feel that way anymore-- was she afraid he was going to go back to
his room and strangle himself or something?
     "I asked you once why you tried to kill yourself the first
two times, and you tossed the question back at me. You and I have
discussed a bit of the reason for your first attempt-- that it
was very much a spur of the moment thing, that it was born from a
sudden surge of despair late at night-- I feel I understand your
motives, at least a bit. But I've always meant to ask you about
the second attempt again, because it doesn't seem to fit. It
seems very much like a gesture, and yet I don't think you
intended it as such." She stopped following him with her eyes.
"Q, please stop pacing in circles. It makes it difficult to talk
to you."
     He stopped, standing in T'Laren's line of sight. "So you're
asking me why I did it."
     "Do you actually know?"
     "Of course I know, I've always known. I tried to kill myself
because I was afraid of being killed."
     "On the surface of it that makes little sense. Can you
explain?"
     "I intend to." He resumed pacing, this time keeping inside
T'Laren's line of sight. "Undoubtedly in the course of all your
interviews you've heard many versions of this story. It all began
with the death of Lieutenant Commander Masaru Ohmura. You've
heard about this, no doubt?"
     "Other people's versions of the story, yes."
     "Ah, but other people aren't me. And I really do believe I
know a good bit more about what happened than anyone else does.
So let me begin from the top, all right? With me? Good."
     Q faced her. "You've undoubtedly heard that Ohmura was a
good man, the salt of the earth, a marvelous checkers player and
a wonderful security chief, all that nonsense. And I'm not going
to contradict any of it. Ohmura was actually rather good to me,
all things considered, and saved me from some truly crushing
humiliations in my early months on the base. But he made a fatal
mistake in letting the antiques dealer aboard-- a mistake he
couldn't have known he was making, a mistake that wasn't his
fault, but a mistake nonetheless. It killed him, and very nearly
killed me."
     He started to pace again. "The man's name was Tom Lindon,
and he claimed to be an antiques dealer. Since at the time I was
staving off the crushing boredom of my existence by the pointless
acquisition of material goods, and since Starbase 56 had a fairly
large budget devoted to keeping me, if not happy, at least
functional, his motive for coming here was utterly transparent--
the lure of money. It was so obvious, any other motive might have
seemed unthinkable. And in fact, for Ohmura and anyone else who
listened to Lindon's little statement of purpose, any other
motive *was* unthinkable. Ohmura let Lindon aboard with a cargo
of twentieth-century guns, one of which was loaded."
     "Anderson said it was loaded later."
     "Anderson wasn't there. I was. Ohmura started to examine
each weapon; then Lindon said something like, `They're all
unloaded-- surely everyone can see that', and that, it seems, was
enough for our doughty security chief. Now, Ohmura was a good
security chief. He made mistakes-- thinking the Ceulan
shapechanger was Dr. Wagner, for one, but who knew how to
calibrate the sensors to detect a shapechanger? And a mistake
like simply taking someone's word for it that weapons were
unloaded was not in his repertoire. But I was there, and that was
what he did." Q picked up a salt shaker to fidget with, peering
intently at it. He glanced back at T'Laren. "And do you know
what? It didn't strike me as strange at all at the time. It
seemed quite self-evident that the weapons were, in fact,
unloaded. And I don't make mistakes like that, either. Not after
two years of paranoia and several million of watching the evil
that men do."
     "Are you implying some outside force was involved?"
     "I'll get to it. Patience, my dear doctor, is a virtue.
Didn't they teach you that in Texas?" He put down the salt shaker
and sat down on the table, putting a napkin ring around his
finger and twirling it around. "In any case. Some time later,
Commander Ohmura, Commodore Anderson, a whole gaggle of spear-
carriers, and I were all in one of the conference lounges,
examining Lindon's wares. Lindon had gone across the room to get
a new toy for me, or so he claimed. He then pulled out a pistol
and announced-- and I remember his exact words quite clearly--
`Q, I'm going to kill you.'"
     Q slid off the table and put the napkin rings down. It was
an effort to remain nonchalant, an effort to keep calm,
remembering the horrible injustice that had been done him.
"Undoubtedly you've heard the next part. I froze up, in either an
unparalleled act of cowardice or a malicious attempt to get
Ohmura killed, depending on who you talk to. And on cue, Ohmura
died to save me, an act generally considered to be phenomenally
wasteful on his part and a cruel joke played by the Universe on
the denizens of Starbase 56. Right?"
     "The story I heard was a bit less biased than that, but the
facts were fairly similar," T'Laren said.
     "Well, here's an interesting fact for you. I don't freeze
when I'm frightened. I don't necessarily do something
constructive, mind you. I shriek, or run away, or curl up on the
ground with my arms over my head and grovel. But I have never, in
my entire mortal existence, frozen out of fear. Never. Which,
being the remarkable psychologist and armchair sleuth that you
are, should lead you to the conclusion that I froze for some
other reason. And we'll get to that. But there's another point I
want to make.
     "Consider. An antiques dealer, a trader, who'd never done
anything more morally strenuous than undercut a competitor or
purchase possibly stolen goods, throws his career and his freedom
away and gets sent to a rehab colony because he decided to kill a
complete stranger on another complete stranger's say-so. Now let
us factor in that his client was a woman of the Physm, a species
of surpassing ugliness by human standards. Even given that humans
are famous for screwing anything, it would take a human perverse
to the point of mental illness to find a Physm attractive-- they
have faces like weeping sores. Let us further consider that this
woman, who has just engineered the death of a popular officer,
needs only to tell a sob story to the denizens of Starbase 56,
and everyone is firmly convinced that all the blame belongs on
*me*, for victimizing her twenty years ago. And never mind the
fact that the Federation determined that I couldn't be held
responsible now for what I did as a Q, and never mind the fact
that all of them were well aware that I did not exactly spread
peace and love throughout the universe. I mean, what *did* they
think all those beings wanted to kill me for? Did they think I
owed them money? What?"
     "It was explained to me that no one had been directly
confronted with the knowledge of your crimes, except those you
committed against humanity."
     "Whoever told you that is a liar, or else has a memory like
a sieve. The Mirou announced what they wanted me for, quite
clearly. A few others accused me in front of witnesses.
Admittedly, the crime Melex accused me of was considerably worse
by standards of human morality than what I did to the Mirou or
any of the others that accused me. So let's give our Starfleet
friends the benefit of the doubt, and assume that they really
were shocked and horrified at my actions. And we can factor out
the ugliness because Starfleet members are so tolerant and
xenophilic and wonderful. But why would a man with no particular
history of violence throw his future away to kill a man he didn't
even know on the request of a hideous alien whom he had no reason
to trust?"
     "I'm not sure I see your point."
     "I haven't made my point yet. There's one vital fact you
need to know to make sense of this picture, a fact I myself had
forgotten until a week or so after the attack. And that is: the
Physm use psionic devices. You may know something of these kinds
of things, since the ancient Vulcans also developed psionic
devices-- amplifiers that could enable non-psis to do what psis
can do." He put a hand on her table, standing over her. "Now do
you see the pattern?"
     "You believe some sort of... mind control was involved?"
     Q nodded. "Melex probably had some sort of subtle persuader-
- not mind control, per se, but something to influence people
into agreeing with her. To increase their sympathy for her.
Lindon, however, had obviously been given a direct mind control
device, something that operated on spoken cues. When he said,
`The guns are unloaded,' it became so self-evident that they were
in fact unloaded that an experienced security guard didn't think
to check. And when he said that he was going to kill me... well,
you see the progression."
     T'Laren nodded slowly. "I do indeed."
     "It was as if I'd heard it straight from God. He was going
to kill me. It was utterly obvious and completely unavoidable.
Have you ever experienced the sense of... convergence? That a
certain event is destined, inevitable?"
     "No, I don't believe so."
     "I have, frequently. I think humans experience this in
hindsight mostly. Because the Q can see so many more of the
variables involved, we can see something inevitable ahead of
time-- without actually looking into the future, which is a
complicated and annoying process and I very rarely did it. We
almost never see convergence with ourselves-- we don't generally
have enough objectivity. This time, though, I experienced a sense
of convergence as a human, regarding myself. It seemed that it
was my destiny to be killed this way, that my entire mortal
existence and possibly my entire existence as a Q had been
leading up to it. I heard Anderson shout at me to get down,
but... there didn't seem to be any point. It was inevitable,
after all. And I wasn't afraid, not at all. I was about to
fulfill my destiny." 
     His expression darkened, an inward focusing. "And then
Ohmura threw himself in the way, and there was a gunshot... and I
was lying on the floor with Ohmura on top of me, both of us
covered with his blood. And the spell broke. I realized how close
I had come to being the one whose brains were decorating the rug,
and it terrified me. I couldn't understand what had happened--
why I hadn't resisted, why I had been so stupid as to simply
stand there. When Anderson screamed at me that I'd disobeyed a
direct order and as a result a good man was dead, I couldn't
defend myself-- I remembered that I'd done it, but I could no
longer comprehend why." He shook his head. "I *didn't* want to
see Ohmura dead. I owed a lot to him. And... I've seen mortals
die before, hordes of them, but never in my arms, when I was
mortal too, when the fatal blow had been aimed at me. I think I
was in shock. My stupidity had gotten someone I respected killed,
and I knew it. My memory isn't what it used to be; I didn't make
the connection with the Physm's psi devices until a week or so
after Melex's confession, far too late for it to do me any good."
     "When was Melex captured?"
     "Later that day. She was oh, so contrite. She'd been in a
little ship just out of range of our sensors, waiting for Lindon
to come back with the metaphorical equivalent of my head on a
platter. Apparently it had never occurred to her that something
could go wrong and an innocent man could die. The Physm are very
intelligent, but they have no common sense whatsoever."
     "Did you do what she accused you of?"
     "Yes." He refused to justify his actions-- he was tired of
explaining everything he'd done out of the moral context he'd
done it in. "But I'm not entirely sure that would have been
enough, if not for some sort of persuader device. I could see
people deciding that I'd done something really rotten and they
despised me for it-- but they did more than despise me. They
blamed me personally for Ohmura's death, and they turned on me.
     "A few days after the attack, I decided I wanted to get away
from everyone, and so I went for a walk. I was doing this
frequently around that time-- I knew perfectly well that everyone
hated me then, and I wanted to put some distance between them and
me. But I was responding to a vague, rather amorphous threat, and
so I did exactly the wrong thing-- by putting distance between me
and most people, I ensured that anyone who really wanted my blood
could have perfect privacy to draw it in. And since my path was
fairly regular-- there just weren't that many places on the base
that I was authorized to go that wouldn't involve walking through
population centers-- it was easy for someone to ambush me. I came
around a corner and there were two men with masks on, and at that
moment I knew I was almost certainly going to die."
     "Why?"
     "Well, the masks, for one thing. Human beings are not one of
the deadliest species in the galaxy; they're moderate, average, a
boring little species for the most part. They're far less
passionate, or dangerous, than the Klingons, or the ancient
Vulcans-- which is of course why your people had to go so hyper-
rational and humans didn't, that biologically you're far more
irrational than humans. But there are times when they rival the
most dangerous races in their class for sheer scariness. When
humans aggregate into a mob, they are among the most frightening
of entities on their evolutionary level in this quadrant of the
galaxy. And when they put on masks, especially civilized, highly
moral humans, it's an indication that they plan to do something
absolutely heinous, something they would be ashamed of if they
were not hiding their faces. So when you meet two masked male
humans in a dark hallway far from centers of population, and they
grab you, shove you up against the wall, and rip off your
combadge, you know it's time to be terrified out of your mind.
You know that they've waited in ambush for you, that they're
planning to do something hideously awful to you, and that they're
not going to let you call for help."
     "Did you try to fight back?"
     "I *couldn't!* I made a few feeble attempts to resist, yes,
but these two were experienced with violence. They wouldn't give
me a moment to think, to defend myself-- they just kept hitting
me. I discovered some time ago that begging helps get one out of
that sort of situation-- under normal circumstances, someone
who's beating you just wants acknowledgment that they've defeated
you, and if you beg for mercy it serves the purpose. I tried
begging this time, and they told me to shut up and then kicked me
in the head... I was positive I was going to die. I don't think I
have ever before or since been so afraid. All the other times
I've been attacked, I've known that humans were around somewhere,
willing to rescue me-- even at times when I wasn't sure they knew
*how* to rescue me, as with the Ceulan, I knew they would at
least try. But this time... it was my protectors themselves who
were attacking me, and what kind of a chance did I have against
that? It was obvious that they had planned this so that Security
wouldn't interfere-- in fact, I was sure they *were* Security,
from the way they moved and the fact that they said they were
doing this for Ohmura. So if Security wanted me dead, there was
no chance whatsoever that someone would rescue me  my only hope
was if they decided to be merciful, and after they kicked me in
the head for begging them to stop there didn't seem to be much
chance of that." 
     He shook his head. "Something else about humans, they're
remarkably inefficient killers. Not when they decide to be
rational, of course. When humans set their minds to cold-blooded
murder, they're awfully good at it. But when they become a mob,
when they sink to the level of instinctive violence, they aren't
efficient about it at all. Which you would think would be a good
thing, but it's not. A human trying to beat you to death will
take twice as long and inflict twice as much damage on you as a
Klingon would, with the result that you hurt four times as much.
I've suffered injuries that were far more painful or damaging in
and of themselves-- actually, when I drank the acid I inflicted
such an injury on myself. But when one factors together quantity,
quality and duration of pain, I'd have to say that that beating
was the most agonizing experience I've ever suffered through,
exacerbated considerably by the fact that I never completely lost
consciousness. Mostly they left my head alone and concentrated on
the rest of my body, which can generate just as much pain as
being hit in the head if not more, but is less likely to kill you
and also less likely to knock you out. I wouldn't say I was lucid
through most of it, but I was definitely aware."
     Q began to pace again. "When they left me, I couldn't quite
believe it. I knew they knew I was alive--" he had still been
whimpering, so they must have known-- "and I was still sure they
wanted to kill me, which left the idea that they were toying with
me. I could see my combadge, about a meter away from where I lay.
It might as well have been a light-year. I lay there on the
floor, paralyzed with indecision and terror-- if I stayed where I
was, without medical attention, I'd die. But if I tried to reach
my combadge, I was sure they'd step out of the shadows and kick
it out of my hand as soon as I was about to grasp it, and then
finish what they'd started. Or that I'd call for help, and
whoever I called would be in on it-- or even not in on it, simply
a part of the mob mentality-- and would kill me or hand me back
over to my tormentors."
     "What did you do?"
     "Well, in the end, I went for the combadge. And that was a
seriously unpleasant experience. It must have taken me a half
hour or more to crawl that meter-- I think objectively it
probably took a half hour, but it felt like a geological epoch.
And when I finally managed to call sickbay, and Li showed up, I
kept begging him not to kill me, and he kept telling me that he
was Li, the doctor. I knew he was a doctor. But he was human, and
I was frightened of all humans right then. When they put me under
sedation, I tried to resist it, because I really didn't expect
they'd let me wake up.
     "After I did wake up, I told Anderson I was sure it was
Security, and she had a fit. She refused to even entertain the
possibility. That was when I knew she was part of it too, that I
couldn't trust her any more than I could trust any human, which,
right then, was only as far as I needed to."
     "Sekal said you believed there was some sort of conspiracy
against you?"
     "Sekal said that?" Q frowned. "He didn't understand, then. I
never thought it was a conspiracy-- if there had been an
organized conspiracy to kill me aboard Starbase 56, I would be
dead. No, what I thought I was dealing with was a mob. Not an
organized, rational, conscious decision to kill me-- simply a
general consensus separately held by each individual on the base
that I was responsible for Ohmura's death and thus deserved to
die. Though, come to think of it, if T'Meth thought I thought it
was a conspiracy it would explain a lot."
     "You asked her to protect you, I know."
     "Yes. I figured that a Vulcan would be able to resist the
pressure of the mob mentality-- T'Meth might not like me very
much, but she would do her duty. And I was convinced that the
rest of Security was going to kill me sooner or later. The two
men who attacked me were still at large, at first; even after
they were caught and court-martialed, it was obvious that public
sympathies were on their side. Now, not only had I gotten Ohmura
killed but I'd provoked two officers into ruining their careers.
At first, I had T'Meth watching over me, and while I didn't feel
safe, exactly, I felt considerably safer than I would without
her. After the court-martial, though, T'Meth said I was being
paranoid, and no one else in Security would break their Starfleet
oaths that way. T'Meth couldn't see that Security had become a
mob-- she wasn't their target, and they were her friends, and she
was too rational to fully understand how irrational human beings
can get. If she thought I thought it was a conspiracy, I can see
her point-- that *would* be being paranoid. But no, I expected a
lynching party.
     "I doubt you can imagine what it felt like, to spend every
moment in mortal terror. I was convinced Security was going to
get me-- it was just a matter of time. I stopped taking
sedatives-- I was afraid to sleep, I kept thinking they would
come for me at night and I wanted to be awake for it, though what
I thought I could do if I was awake I don't know. I couldn't eat,
I lost weight. I was sick with fear-- my head and stomach hurt
constantly, I couldn't keep food down when I managed to eat it at
all, and I lived in a constant haze of exhaustion, punctuated by
spikes of pure terror. I tried to tell Anderson what was going
on-- how they would stare at me, telling me with their entire
body language that they were going to kill me soon-- but how do
you explain a thing like that? She couldn't see that they were
conveying murderous intent-- she probably had too much murderous
intent of her own to see it. Anderson wanted me dead too, she was
just too disciplined to do it herself. Medellin couldn't see it,
T'Meth, Sekal, no one could see it but me, either because they
didn't want to or they weren't familiar enough with murderous
humans. I was afraid of everyone, but I didn't dare be alone,
because they could come for me when I was alone. But crowds
didn't offer any safety, either-- crowds could become lynching
mobs. Except when I was working, and sometimes even then, I was
constantly wondering if this was the last moment, if it was about
to happen now. My work suffered-- well, you can imagine. I felt
like anything I said, anything I did, could be the spark that
ignited the firestorm. 
     "And even if they didn't kill me, even if T'Meth was right,
I depended on these people for my life! They didn't actually need
to touch me. All they needed to do was wait a few weeks until the
next aliens with grudges showed up, come a little bit late to my
rescue, and I'd be dead. `I'm sorry, Commodore, there's been a
terrible accident. Q's combadge was apparently malfunctioning--
we didn't even realize he was in trouble until the Miblians had
finished eating him. But hey, he was an asshole, so no big loss,
right?' With that factored into the equation, I effectively had
no chance at all of surviving more than a few more weeks.
     "I was waiting for security to come escort me to a meeting
in a few hours, in a state of terror as usual, when I realized
that fact-- when I fully understood that I had no chance of
survival-- and it made me understand what my options really were.
I could continue the way I was, waiting to be murdered in some
hideous fashion, spending my last few days of existence in a
state of constant terror. Or I could take my death into my own
hands, and make sure that my passing was as pleasant as possible.
After I put it to myself that way, it became obvious that my best
alternative was suicide.
     "Once I had made the decision, I felt an enormous sense of
relief. I had to work quickly, so they wouldn't interrupt me and
take my death away from me, but aside from that urgency I felt no
pressure at all anymore. They used to let me have a topical
anesthetic spray back then-- it wasn't poisonous and it wasn't
ingestible, so they couldn't figure out how I could kill myself
with it. I sprayed my wrists until they were quite numb, and ran
a bath as hot as I could stand it. Then I lay back in the tub and
relaxed, and when I felt I was ready I took a ceramic mug-- there
wasn't any breakable glass in my room, for the same reason there
were no sharp edges, but I did have ceramics-- smashed it, and
cut my wrists with the edge, as deeply as I could before it
started to hurt.
     "Bleeding to death's not a bad way to go, as long as the
injury that's killing you isn't causing you much pain-- the loss
of blood itself makes you dizzy and cold, but if you're not
resisting it and you have some source of warmth other than your
own body heat it's actually very nice. And the relief-- it was
incredible. After all that time of being terrified, to be finally
free of fear... words fail me at how wonderful it was. It wasn't
actually that I was glad to be dying so much as that I was
overjoyed to be free of the fear that I'd be killed. In some
ways, it wasn't as nice as the incident with the pillow-- I
didn't feel euphoria, and I certainly didn't feel gratitude. But
the release of tension was almost an ecstasy. I was so tired, and
it felt so good to finally be able to yield to it." He smiled
ironically. "I suppose you could say I'd have died to get a good
night's sleep."
     "But you didn't die."
     "No. I found out later I did it all wrong. I didn't cut
deeply enough or over enough area to bleed to death before they
found me. Apparently you're supposed to cut along the wrist, not
across it, and you're supposed to cut deeper than that. Of
course, I didn't have any really sharp edges, and I was trying to
avoid pain as much as possible-- after I got below the level
where the anesthetic had taken effect, I couldn't keep cutting.
And I didn't allow enough time-- security came for me in an hour
or so, and apparently I was still alive then." An old bitterness
welled up. "Li kept insisting that I'd done it to get attention,
that I'd done it too poorly if I'd genuinely wanted to die.
Anderson thought it was some kind of grandiose melodramatic
gesture, taken straight out of fiction. I don't suppose it ever
occurred to either of them that I *got* it out of fiction, that
human methods of ending their own pathetic existences had never
interested me enough when I had my powers that I remembered any
practical ways of doing it. I didn't have access to drugs or
sharp edges or large bodies of water-- what did they expect I was
going to do? Hold my breath? In fiction, people cut their wrists
in bathtubs. I thought there might be some reason why it would be
more pleasant to do it that way-- perhaps the hot water numbs the
pain somewhat, or maybe it's the relaxing qualities, or maybe you
get waterlogged and that somehow makes it easier-- *I* didn't
know. And I don't know why they expected me to know. I didn't do
it to get attention-- why would I want attention from people I
thought wanted me dead? I wanted to get away from them, not to
get sympathy."
     "Did you tell them so?"
     "They wouldn't have listened," Q muttered angrily. "They'd
already made up their minds. I could live with Li being stupid
and wrong-headed-- at least he didn't try to confine me to bed
without computer access like he did this time. But Anderson
decided to punish me for trying to escape. She took away most of
everything I owned and then tried to take my privacy away too.
Anyway, I *did* tell them. I had no intention of trying it again,
not right then-- for one thing, Medellin reminded me of why I was
bothering to stay alive at all, and for another, things got
easier after that. It was security that saved my life, after all.
It felt like the crisis had passed."
     T'Laren nodded slowly. "Now I understand. I had been
wondering for some time-- as I said, that attempt had always
seemed like some sort of gesture to me. But it was a test, wasn't
it?"
     "A test?"
     "You believed that security was out to kill you. If that
were so, you would be better off dead at your own hands-- but you
didn't truly wish to die. So you attempted suicide in such a
fashion that security would almost certainly find you before your
death. If they saved you, it would prove that you'd been wrong,
they weren't out to kill you, and therefore you could afford to
live. If they didn't... then you were right, and you would rather
be dead." She nodded again. "Logical, actually-- surprisingly so.
Were you consciously aware of what you were doing?"
     "I... don't think so." Q tried to remember if he'd ever
reasoned along the lines she described. "I'm not entirely sure
that that *is* what I did, T'Laren. I mean, I would like to
believe it was-- it's always gratifying to think I had a good
reason for doing something that everyone thought was stupid-- and
the testing aspect certainly sounds like me. If anyone would put
his life on the line to test someone else, it would be me. But I
don't actually remember thinking things out the way you describe.
I just wanted an end to the fear. I didn't really understand that
I wouldn't die quickly enough to avoid being rescued."
     "But you didn't actually want to die. You wanted to be able
to relax, and you were willing to die for it if you had to, but
you didn't genuinely want death."
     "That's true, yes."
     "I imagine your subconscious mind is as capable of setting
up a test as your conscious, considering how long you've been
testing people. I believe you that you didn't reason things out,
but you had been mortal for two years by that time-- two years in
which you suffered a tremendous amount of damage. Even if you
weren't consciously aware of how much damage it would take to
kill you, or how quickly you'd die of a given injury, I suspect
your subconscious mind has a much better idea than you think it
does. I think on some level you *did* know you wouldn't die
quickly, and you were counting on that." She frowned. "Which then
leaves the question, when did you become genuinely suicidal?"
     "I could have told you that I wasn't really suicidal when I
cut my wrists. Not in the sense I was this last time. But when it
changed... I really have no idea. I think it went back and forth
for several months, and finally settled down on `die' about two
weeks before I actually did it."
     "Why the time lag, then?"
     "Mustering up the nerve." He grinned sardonically. "And
trying to find some method that was just as sure as drinking acid
and a lot less painful. I really didn't want to go through that
much pain; I just couldn't find any other options."
     "You described a feeling of tremendous relief when you tried
to kill yourself the second time. Did you also experience any
relief this last time?"
     Q considered that. "Not really. I was in too much pain. I
was relieved when I realized I was losing consciousness, but
before that... I just kept thinking over and over, `This will
pass soon. It'll be over soon.'"
     "Did you regret it, then? After you'd already taken the
acid, and the pain began, did you have second thoughts?"
     "Not about killing myself, no. I do recall thinking that
there had to have been an easier way than this... but I wasn't
actually thinking anything very coherent right then, if you want
to know the truth."
     "Yes. I can imagine." T'Laren stood up. "This sounds strange
to say about one whom I am treating for a suicide attempt,
especially one as extreme as yours, but I've come to the
conclusion that you actually have a much stronger will to live
than anyone, yourself included, gives you credit for." She
turned. "You've told both Medellin and myself, at length, exactly
what reasons you have to feel suicidal, and I must admit they're
potent ones. I can imagine few sentient beings who, when faced
with being `crippled, maimed and exiled' to live among aliens
they are socially incompatible with, condemned to a fraction of
their natural lifespan and to suffer pain far greater than they'd
ever known, would not contemplate suicide as a viable option. In
the past three years, you've made three attempts... and yet, when
one analyzes those attempts closely, you did not become genuinely
and deeply suicidal until shortly before this past time. The
first time was a sudden overwhelming depression, probably brought
on in part by backlash from the battle with the Borg; the second
time was an attempt to escape what you believed would be a far
worse death in the very near future... It took you three years of
what you describe as utter misery before you became entirely
convinced you wanted to die, and less than three weeks after the
attempt the thought of being killed terrified you."
     "Oh. Well, the thought of dying *always* terrified me, when
I wasn't actively seeking it out."
     "You sound as if you're ashamed of that."
     "Should I be proud of being a sniveling coward? Be
realistic, T'Laren."
     "Define `sniveling coward'."
     "Me. Someone who's constantly terrified, who whines and begs
because he's afraid he's going to die."
     "Most people are afraid to die, Q. It's perfectly normal to
be frightened of death, especially for someone who's had so
little time to come to terms with it. I think you're comparing
yourself to Starfleet personnel-- who are disciplined and trained
to deal with the possibility of their own deaths, and who have
voluntarily placed themselves on the line. You didn't volunteer
to be endangered. And with all that, you know, you have
occasionally transcended your fears-- it was not the act of a
coward to try to give yourself up to the Calamarain, back when
you first became human, you know."
     "Oh, I know that... but that was different." He sat down,
weary of pacing; his legs were beginning to ache. "The first time
the Calamarain attacked me was the first time I'd been truly
faced with the possibility of my own death. I'd come close, once
or twice in the past-- someone once threatened to neutralize me
in such a fashion that I might as well have been dead, and then
there was the time Azi tried to tear me apart... but no, this was
really the first time I'd been faced with death. At first I
didn't quite understand that I was in mortal danger. It felt
like... like pins and needles all throughout my body, with
occasional electric shocks, or like insects crawling all over me-
- I kept thinking I could brush it off, get it off me, but of
course it was energy. It wouldn't go until the Enterprise
adjusted its shields. And then... I felt violently dizzy, and I
couldn't stay on my feet. I fell on the floor, drowning in waves
of dizziness and nausea, and I realized for the first time that I
might actually be dying. And it... that thought, the fear, was
more painful than the attack itself. When Crusher showed up, I
kept asking her if I was dying, begging her not to let me die.
I'm sure she thought I was an idiot." He considered. "I take that
back. I *know* she thought I was an idiot. There's never been any
love lost between Dr. Crusher and me.
     "I managed to get myself under control before I had to face
Picard again... mostly. I was trying very hard not to think about
the future, narrowing my focus on getting through the next few
minutes. Because if I thought about the fact that I could now
die, that chances were not poor that I *would* die, very shortly,
it would overwhelm me. But after it attacked me the second time,
and Data was injured in saving me... I couldn't stop thinking
about it. The fact of my own mortality had imprinted itself, and
I couldn't get it out of my head. I'd come awfully close to
dying... and the Enterprise couldn't save me and the planet they
were trying to rescue at the same time, which effectively meant
everyone was going to be killed... That would be stupid.
Sacrificing everyone else so that I could live a few years might
have been a viable option, but sacrificing everyone so that I
could live another half day wasn't. I realized that I'd
miscalculated, and that because of it I'd put myself in a
situation where I couldn't survive. And if I had to die anyway, I
might as well do so without taking a large number of irrelevant
mortals with me." He shook his head. "Plus, while I didn't want
to *die*, I most certainly wasn't thrilled with the notion of
being alive right then. I was sure I would never adjust to being
mortal and that I was setting myself up for a life of misery and
agony by remaining alive. If I'd felt better about my life, I
might never have been able to do it."
     "That doesn't change the fact that it was not the act of a
coward."
     "No, maybe not. But..." He made an exasperated sigh. "How do
you mortals *do* it? If I think about the fact that-- barring my
reinstatement, which I really don't think will happen-- I'm
inevitably going to die, it overwhelms me. It makes my current
state of existence seem pointless. How do you handle knowing that
you're going to die?"
     "Most humans don't. They deny it, or they don't think about
it."
     "I suppose Vulcans are perfectly well adjusted to the
concept of death."
     "Most adult Vulcans have come to terms with their own
mortality, yes." She sat down. "For one thing, the discipline of
logic requires self-knowledge, and facing facts. Ideally, Vulcans
are not supposed to deny truths to themselves. In practice, of
course, many do. But all Vulcan adults have faced the *Kahs-wan*-
- a rite of passage that can be fatal-- in childhood, and were
thus forced to face their own mortality very young. And besides,
Vulcans cheat."
     "By blocking their emotions?"
     "No, I mean we cheat at death. A dying Vulcan can-- and
will, if he or she has the opportunity to do so-- transfer his or
her consciousness, memories-- soul, if you will-- into another
receptacle, either another sentient being or a recording media we
developed for the purpose ten thousand years ago. This is called
the *katra*. Normally, aged Vulcans who sense that it is time to
die transfer their *katra* into a specially trained healer, who
then goes to the Hall of Ancient Thought and transfers the
*katra* to a recording receptacle. Telepaths can commune with
such receptacles. Thus, over three-quarters of all dying Vulcans
do not entirely die." She looked away, staring into space. "I
think sometimes that makes it harder for Vulcans to accept the
notion of violent, sudden death. It is as if a devout Christian
were to die in a fashion that he believed would destroy his
immortal soul-- it negates the concept of the afterlife.
Sometimes I think the Vulcans that enter Starfleet, where the
odds are overwhelmingly high that their *katras* will be lost if
they die, are the bravest of all the species."
     "Such modesty."
     "I'm not speaking of myself. I came to terms with my own
mortality long before I ever heard of a *katra*, or had any idea
that some Vulcans can cheat death." She looked back at him. "My
mother died when I was four, before I had any notion what death
was. My Aunt Helene and Uncle Mike took me in and told me they
would have to be my mom and dad now, because my mother had died,
but I didn't understand. I asked when she was coming back, where
she had gone. They told me she'd gone to Heaven, a wonderful
place, and she wasn't coming back. But I loved my mother deeply,
and despite the fact that Vulcans don't talk about such things, I
knew she loved me. I knew if she had gone to a wonderful place
she would come back to get me and bring me there to join her. So
I continued to ask when she was coming back until I finally
sensed that it disturbed the adults, and stopped. But I still was
secretly convinced that she would. When we went to Earth, I was
very apprehensive-- Earth was a much bigger place than the
starship, I knew, and I wondered if my mother would be able to
find me there.
     "In the first year or so on Earth, we lived in New York, not
Texas. There are a vast quantity of squirrels in New York, and I
found them fascinating. Animals had always been rare and exotic
things for me, the sight of them a special treat, and the fact
that I had small animals in my back yard thrilled me. I used to
try to entice them to my hand by bringing them nuts-- and cheese;
somehow I'd gotten it into my head that squirrels liked cheese. I
think I was mixing them up with mice." Her expression came close
to a wry smile. 
     "One day I found a squirrel that wasn't moving. It was
curled up on its side, its lips drawn back and its teeth
protruding. I thought it looked sick. Perhaps it was sleeping, I
thought, and I poked it to wake it up, but it wouldn't wake. So I
carried it to my `mom'-- I called Helene Dorset `mom', but to me
it didn't mean mother, because I still knew my own mother would
come back for me-- and asked her what was wrong with it. She told
me it was dead. Its soul had gone to squirrel heaven, but its
body would never move again.
     "That was when I realized what had happened to my mother. I
could see her in my imagination, as lifeless and unmoving as this
squirrel, all the essence of her gone away forever. She was never
coming back. That was what death was.
     "And even though I knew that Vulcans weren't supposed to, I
cried hysterically as I finally understood that I would never see
her again."
     "How old were you?" Q asked.
     "Five. In Earth years. Vulcan children grow up a bit more
slowly than human children in many respects, so in human terms I
was probably the equivalent of a four-year-old." She folded her
hands in her lap. "I went about for months after that asking
questions about death. When I realized that someday I, too, would
be dead like my mother, I found the concept overwhelming and
morbidly fascinating. My poor foster parents must have thought I
was seriously disturbed. That was around the time we moved to
Texas. I started seeing my Vulcan tutor then, and he helped me
come to terms with the notion of death. He told me nothing about
*katras*. By the time I learned that, as a Vulcan, I could escape
the death of my mind when my body died, I was already quite
comfortable with the notion of my own mortality. I assumed that I
would die away from other Vulcans, and as inflicting a *katra* on
a non-telepath can damage the host's sanity, I had decided that I
would not do the transference unless there was a Vulcan to
transfer to. So the preservation of the *katra* didn't apply to
me, and I ignored it as a consideration. But it amazes me still
that Vulcans who grow up with that security can find the courage
to enter Starfleet, and risk their lives far away from other
Vulcans."
     "I can imagine. It amazes me, too. Especially since I have
some personal experience with what it's like to face death after
growing up immune." Q grew pensive. "I became somewhat morbidly
obsessed myself when I first turned mortal, though I like to
think I was a bit better controlled about it than you describe
yourself at five. I still am, actually-- I think about death
constantly. That I could stop *being*, that there could be an end
and then there would be no more me-- it's difficult to grasp
that. I have a much better idea than most mortals what death
entails, and I still can't quite grasp it. It's so... big. And
I'm used to dealing with big concepts... but this one floors me."
     "Why do you have a better idea what death entails?"
     "Well, I used to know exactly what mortal death entailed,
and how various species varied in their forms of death, where the
dead go and what they do-- I was practically omniscient, after
all. Concepts as vast as death were easy for me to comprehend,
once. But I can't quite remember... I know there is a form of
existence for most life forms after death. That there is
something analogous to what humans call a soul, and that it
survives the destruction of the body. But the manner of that
existence is nothing a human mind can comprehend. That which we
think of as ourselves, our personalities, our memories, our
identities-- that doesn't survive, most of the time. And I don't
remember what *does*. I can't *grasp* it any more." An old
frustration welled up. "It's like a dream that you forgot.
Occasionally there's a flash of something, reminding you, and for
just a moment you hold the memory in your mind... but you can't
attach it to words, and it's gone. It's terribly ironic, really--
I understood death back when I had no need to, when it had
nothing to do with me, and now that it's a vitally important
topic to me I don't remember what death is."
     "At least you know there is some form of afterlife. That's
more than most mortals do."
     "But it doesn't help. If my personality doesn't survive,
then is that me? I can't answer that anymore. As far as I know,
death could still be the obliteration of everything I am. And
that is an almost incomprehensible concept. How could I stop
existing? I can remember the beginning of the *universe*-- how
can the universe go on without *me*?"
     "You were around when the universe began?"
     "No. And actually, I don't remember the beginning of the
universe-- that was something I knew through the Continuum, so
I've lost it now. But I remember that I used to remember." He
shook his head. "At least you mortals can point to a time when
you hadn't existed yet, and analogize a time when you no longer
exist from that. I don't even really know how old I am. I can't
remember my own creation anymore, though I remember that I used
to. I think I can safely say that I wasn't around when most of
the solar systems around us formed, but I can't remember for
sure. I cannot positively identify a time before I existed, so
how can I comprehend a time when I will no longer be?"
     "I don't know." T'Laren clasped her hands on the table. "But
few mortals can. We can intellectually comprehend ceasing to
exist, but we can't truly understand it."
     "And then there's method." Q got up and began to pace again.
"Death might not bother me so much if it weren't for the fact
that dying is so unpleasant. I think about dying even more than I
think about death. See, dying I can comprehend. I have a lot of
experience with dying. It's actually being dead that I can't
handle. But the fact that I understand dying and have experience
with it doesn't mean I like the idea of doing it, and someday I'm
going to have to. I waste my time making up lists of what
qualities I most want my death to have-- as if I'm going to be
given any choice in the matter."
     "You might," T'Laren said. "Often one can have some control
over the manner of one's death. It depends on the circumstances."
She steepled her hands and rested her chin on them. "What sort of
qualities do you mean?"
     "Well." This was a decidedly morbid conversation, and Q
found himself wondering exactly how they'd gotten onto this
topic. It did give him a certain kind of perverse satisfaction to
be discussing it-- as he'd told T'Laren, death was something he
thought about an inordinate amount, but he rarely got a chance to
talk to anyone seriously about it. "My ideal death would be
completely painless and fairly short, but not instantaneous. I
would like to know what's happening, to have a chance to observe-
- it is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, after all." He smiled
sardonically. "A chance to say my goodbyes, assuming there's
anyone there to say them to-- and I would prefer not to be alone
when I die-- to make my peace with my existence, that sort of
thing. Ideally, somewhere between fifteen minutes and a few
hours-- longer than that and I'd get bored.
     "If there's pain involved, of any sort, then I'd like it to
be quick. Obviously, the more pain there is, the shorter I'd like
it to last. Dying of a stab wound, for instance, I think I could
stand about fifteen minutes of. If I'd lasted fifteen minutes
after I drank the acid, I wouldn't have been sane after Li
rescued me-- something like that has to be *very* short. 
     "And if it has to be painful and long, I would like it to be
meaningful." He stopped and stared out at the stars through the
transparent wall. "If I *had* died when I offered myself up to
the Calamarain, it wouldn't have been pleasant, but at least it
would have accomplished a purpose. I'm not eager to become a
martyr, and I'm far too selfish to try to be a hero, but I think
it would be nice to know that I wasn't dying in vain. That
someone else would live or thrive, someone better suited to the
life they're living than I am to this."
     "Those are fairly understandable preferences," T'Laren said.
     "But it's not going to happen that way." Q circled around
the table and sat down again, arms folded in against himself. "I
can't fool myself, as much as I might want to. I'm going to die
horribly, all dignity gone, screaming and probably begging, for
no better reason than someone's fixation on vengeance. If I'm
very lucky, they'll finish me off quickly, but I probably won't
be."
     "You can't know that."
     "You're right. I don't *know* how I'm going to die. But when
I extrapolate from all the times I've almost died in the past
three years, it becomes obvious that the overwhelming statistical
trend is toward really unpleasant deaths. About the only way to
give myself good odds at a reasonably acceptable method of
shuffling off this mortal coil is to shuffle it off myself."
Maybe it had been a bad idea to discuss this. He felt the despair
encroaching on him again. "It just seems so hopeless. Even when I
don't want to die, it's so obvious that a suicide death is
probably the best I can hope for. It makes an early check-out
seem very attractive sometimes."
     "You can't spend your life dwelling on the inevitability of
death, Q."
     "I told you I was a coward."
     T'Laren frowned. "You have a habit of putting the most
negative connotations possible on any given circumstance."
     "If I've learned one thing in my millions of years, it's
that pessimists are rarely disappointed."
     "They are also rarely happy."
     "I'd rather be unhappy and wise than a gleeful fool."
     "Pessimism is hardly wisdom. If you spend your entire life
dwelling on the horror of your own death, you will not evade it--
as you've said, your death is probably out of your control. You
will merely make yourself miserable."
     "How am I supposed to turn it off? I'm not a Vulcan, I can't
just stop thinking about things that bother me."
     "You can. If thoughts that disturb you intrude, think about
something else. And take matters into your own control as much as
you can. If you learn self-defense, for instance, you may be able
to save yourself from being killed-- or at the least force your
attacker to finish you quickly. You probably can't make peace
with most of the beings that want you dead, but you can increase
the odds that you'll be defended successfully by learning not to
antagonize your protectors. You were very clever in turning to
Starfleet for protection, but even members of Starfleet can be
pushed too far-- as you've learned. If you'd been able to manage
social relations properly, Security would not have attacked you
for Ohmura's death, you wouldn't have suffered for two weeks in
fear, you would not have been compelled to attempt your own life,
and you would not have been punished for the attempt if you had.
All of that because you handle people badly. Learn better
techniques for dealing with your allies, and you will be-- and
feel-- much safer."
     As usual, her argument made perfect logical sense. As usual,
Q didn't believe her, though he couldn't put his finger on
exactly why not. It seemed impossible that he would ever be able
to make himself likable. "I doubt it."
     "You doubt everything, Q. It's your nature." T'Laren stood
up. "You must, at least, concede that learning self-defense would
increase your probable life-span, and decrease the probability of
death by torture?"
     It was hard to argue with that one. "If I *can* learn, then
yes, I suppose it would."
     "You can learn," she told him confidently. "If you truly
wish to learn, you will."
     He sighed. "Sometimes... I don't know why. This sounds
utterly foolish, especially given how I've been whining about how
afraid I am for the past few hours... but sometimes it seems like
it's easier to be afraid than to hope anything could get better,
or work to fix anything."
     "I'm sure it is easier. Less effort. What you need to decide
for yourself, Q, is what your priorities are. Do you truly want
to get well? Do you want to stop being afraid? And do you want
those things badly enough to work for them?"
     If someone killed him in the next few months, and he thought
there was any chance T'Laren's training could have saved him if
he'd paid attention, Q would feel very stupid. "I think so," he
said. "At least, right now." He stood up. "I skipped most of my
lessons today. Any chance you might be willing to finish them?"
     T'Laren raised an eyebrow and stood herself. She seemed
unable or unwilling to keep her surprise off her face-- Q smiled
sardonically at her expression-- but all she said was
"Certainly."