Only Human by Alara Rogers  
  
Part III: Yamato  
  
With minor revisions to the parts posted before, here is all of  
Only Human Chapter III. 
  
Paramount owns Q and the universe; I own the original characters. 
No copyright infringement is intended.  Not to be sold for profit.   
 
ONLY HUMAN (for those who haven't caught the story thus far) is an  
alternate universe, based on the premise that Q lost his powers for  
good in "Deja Q."  In exchange for protection, he offered the  
Federation the benefit of his advanced knowledge, and was transferred  
to Starbase 56.  Three years later, miserable beyond endurance, Q  
attempted to kill himself.  
  
Dr. T'Laren, Vulcan xenopsychologist and former Starfleet counselor,  
turned up at this point, claiming that Starfleet had hired her as Q's  
therapist.  In fact, it turned out that she was really hired by the Q  
Continuum, in the person of the Q who got Q thrown out, whom T'Laren  
refers to as Lhoviri.  T'Laren persuaded Q to accept her help and  
allow her to counsel him through his depression.  To that end, they  
left Starbase 56 on T'Laren's ship Ketaya-- a gift from Lhoviri, with  
some surprising capabilities-- and headed for the starship Yamato,  
which was currently hosting a physics conference.  
  
Over the course of the past weeks of travel, Q has come to trust  
T'Laren, more or less, though they've had some knock-down-drag-out  
fights in the process.  At the end of Part II, Q decided that he no  
longer wanted to die.  Part III details 's adventures at the scientific  
conference aboard the Yamato, T'Laren's problems as her  
somewhat shady past comes back to haunt her in the forms of her  
young sister-in-law and her former lover, and the ups and downs  
of Q and T'Laren's relations with one another.  Section 14 also  
deals explicitly with sexual themes, though I consider it suitable  
for teens and mature Congresspersons (like Patrick Leahy, who  
opposed the CDA.)  
  
Note that elements of this chapter and previous ones contradict 
the Voyager episode "The Q and the Grey."  I remain convinced 
that my version of the Continuum is more interesting than the 
vision we were presented with in that episode, and so I have not 
revised to fit that episode, as it's too stupid to be canon. :-) 
 
Parts I - III are all available at the following sites: 
 
FTP: 
 
ftp://ftp.netcom.com/pub/al/aleph/startrek 
ftp://ftp.europa.com/outgoing/mercutio/alt.fan.q 
ftp://aviary.share.net/pub/startrek/tng 
 
Web: 
 
http://www.europa.com/~mercutio/Q.html 
http://aviary.share.net/~alara 
http://www1.mhv.net/~alara/ohtree.html 
 
Send comments to aleph@netcom.com. 
             *                   *                    *   

	T'Laren was seriously starting to annoy Q.
	He sat at his terminal, looking up the minutes of the conference-- 
which he hadn't particularly felt like returning to after leaving it 
today, but he needed to know what silly theories other people had 
proposed, and more importantly what analyses they'd ordered run, so he 
knew what he had to work with-- and attempting, as usual, to figure out 
what exactly was causing the singularity.  The idea that someone else 
might figure it out before he did drove him, as did the thought of the 
enjoyment he'd get from being the only one who knew the answer all the 
others were struggling to get.  Right now he was having a hard time 
concentrating, though.
	T'Laren was supposed to be on *his* side.  She was *not* supposed 
to bodily drag him out of the room when she disapproved of his 
behavior.  At the time he had still been "up"  from the incident with 
Yalit, and had managed to ignore the indignity in favor of making it 
look like it hadn't bothered him.  But now it angered him.  She had 
been behaving badly to him ever since they got here-- forgetting to 
wake him up, forgetting to *tell* him she wasn't going to wake him up, 
making eyes at her Bajoran boyfriend instead of doing her job and 
staying with him.  And being cruel to her little sister, who Q was 
quite certain did not deserve such treatment-- making fun of the girl 
was one thing, he would enjoy that himself, but betraying her, cutting 
her down in public like that... well, Q had no sympathy for older 
siblings who betrayed the younger ones that looked up to them.  Sovaz' 
naiveté begged for practical jokes and witty but lighthearted insults, 
not coldness.  And then acting like he had no right to support the 
girl, or to tell T'Laren what a putz she was being, because she was his 
Almighty Therapist.  Who *did* she think she was?  
	From a distance, he heard the door chime, but he had no particular 
desire to get up and get it.  It was probably Sovaz.  Good.  Let 
T'Laren face the girl, it would do her good.
	Then there was a chime at *his* door, and T'Laren's voice over the 
intercom.  "Q?  Dr. Roth is here to see you."
	Q blinked in surprise.  He didn't actually expect Harry to show up 
at his *room*.  Q had had a long-standing policy of not letting anyone 
come into his personal quarters, aside from Anderson, who he couldn't 
really stop; ever since Dr. n'Vala's head had been broken in for seeing 
an assassin in the process of killing Q, Q had maintained a distance 
between his off-duty life and what he thought of as being "on", being 
in public.  Roth, like everyone but T'Laren, belonged to his public 
life.  What was he doing *here?*
	"Let him in,"  Q said, curious.  And, if the truth be told, he 
wanted something else to do.  His work was not providing sufficient 
distraction from his anger at T'Laren's incredible density and recent 
coldness.
	The door opened.  "Hard at work, I see,"  Roth said cheerily.  
"Such dedication."
	"If I am forced to live with you people, my superior intellect 
obligates me to attempt to guide you from the ignorance and foolishness 
that is your natural lot in life,"  Q said, sighing deeply.  "A 
tedious, tedious job, but *someone* must."
	"How fortunate for us that that someone was you,"  Roth said.  "A 
lesser man might have given up such a Herculean task, but not our Q!  
Gamely you struggle onward to bring light to the masses, overworked and 
underappreciated."  
	"Exactly."
	"Well, as a token of our appreciation for your noble efforts in 
our behalf, I've come to invite you to dinner."
	Q blinked.  This was startling.  "Whatever for?"
	"Because I thought you might enjoy it, why else?  Or do you really 
prefer to stay in this stodgy little room?"  Harry looked around it.  
"Your quarters back home had *far* more class."
	"Quite possibly because I lived there.  Hardly a point to 
redecorating when you'll be gone in a week or so.  But you're quite 
right, Starfleet decor is abysmal."
	"An oxymoron, even,"  Roth said, leaning forward.  "Not that Ten-
Forward is all *that* much of an improvement, but we could sit in the 
back and make fun of people if you liked."
	Q considered the offer.  He was not stupid; he knew perfectly well 
why Harry Roth was making overtures to him, and knew it had nothing to 
do with anything truly of him and everything to do with an irrational 
hormonal reaction to Q's arbitrarily chosen form.  Back when they were 
working desperately to stop the Borg, when he was new to the station 
and humanity and when the incident with Amy Frasier was a recent raw 
wound, he had ignored Roth's overtures of friendship until the man had 
stopped making them.  He wasn't entirely sure why Harry was making them 
again now, but he felt considerably more tolerant of them; it felt good 
to have someone interested in him, someone who thought he was 
attractive and wanted to be with him, even if it was for one of those 
disgusting and meaningless physical reasons.  And Roth *was* an 
entertaining enough conversational partner, and having someone to trade 
witty banter with would get his mind off the events of the day and out 
of the downward spiral it was on.  "Well, when you put it that way, how 
can I refuse?"
	"Delightful!"  Harry beamed at him.  "So, shall we go?"
	"Like *this?*"  Q glanced down at himself.  The clothing he'd worn 
to the conference today, like all his best outfits, had been 
restrictive and uncomfortable, designed as it was to make him look 
about 10% bulkier and considerably more muscular than his actual 
skeletal form.  But he'd changed out of it when he came home, and while 
what he was wearing was flattering enough for entertaining room guests, 
and considerably more comfortable, it was insufficiently deceptive to 
be seen in public in.  "No no no.  I need to get dressed.  Shoo."  He 
flicked his fingers at Harry, gesturing at the door.
	"Not necessary at all," Harry protested.  "You're a vision of 
loveliness, believe me."
	Q sighed.  "I can't believe I've agreed to spend time in the 
company of a man with no taste whatsoever."
	"We'll have to do something about this self-esteem problem, Q," 
Roth said cheerily.  "It might actually fool people into thinking you 
don't think you're perfect."
	"Of course I'm perfect.  When I'm dressed.  If We had intended you 
people to look attractive without clothes to help out, We wouldn't have 
removed your fur.  Now get."
	"Ah!  So *you're* taking credit for it."
	"Well, not me personally.  I was invited to be on the committee, 
but I declined.  I thought, with remarkable prescience, that you'd be 
more trouble than you're worth.  Now *will* you get out and let me get 
dressed, or will I have to call in my muscle woman to remove you?"  Q 
was having a great deal of fun.  He really should have allowed this a 
long time ago.
	"Is this going to be one of those three-hour ordeals?"
	"The longer you stay and keep me from starting, the longer it 
gets."
	Harry sighed ostentatiously.  "Well, if you're going to be *that* 
way about it, I suppose I can wait."  He left the room and stood for a 
moment in the doorway, looking back.  "I shall be waiting patiently."
	"Good for you, Harry," Q said.  "Patience is definitely a virtue 
you should cultivate."
	
	It actually took Q only half an hour to get ready-- mostly because 
his makeup was already on and needed only to be freshened a bit.  He 
selected a black suit with royal blue accents fairly quickly, since 
he'd had it in reserve in his "wear soon"  area, and the physical 
process of dressing always took the least amount of time.  As he 
stepped out into the common room of the suite, Harry, seated on the 
couch, raised his eyebrows appreciatively.  "Oh, definitely worth the 
wait."
	Q smiled, accepting that as his due from his adoring public.  
T'Laren, sitting in the armchair across from Harry, looked up at him as 
Harry stood.  "Do you wish me to accompany you?"
	Deliberately and with malicious glee, Q pronounced, "No."  The 
effect was somewhat lost when T'Laren merely nodded and went back to 
reading, as if the request had merely been pro forma and she hadn't 
wanted to go in the first place.  
	As he and Roth left and the suite door shut behind them, Harry 
asked, "Did you two have a fight?"
	"A 'fight' would imply I was dealing with someone of sufficient 
intellect to present a challenge,"  Q said coldly, the cold directed 
more at the thought of T'Laren than at Harry.  "I hardly think T'Laren 
qualifies."
	"I don't know; she seems to have helped you a lot.  You seem a lot 
happier."
	Q did not want to discuss T'Laren, or what she had done for him.  
"That's merely a function of finally getting the respect and attention 
I deserve."
	"What about the fact that you have more people in one place to 
annoy than ever before since the Borg?"  Harry asked innocently.  "Does 
that play a role?"
	Q pretended to think about it.  "Mmm... I'd say that it's a 
definite factor, yes."
	This was fun.  He couldn't remember ever being invited to dinner 
before, or actually to any social function that didn't by necessity 
include him, like the victory party when they defeated the Borg.  And 
while he might once have been nervous at Harry's ulterior motives, he 
felt himself now to be completely safe-- his body was in no danger of 
betraying him here.  It had no physical interest in Roth, leaving Q 
free to banter and enjoy the man's company without any fear that his 
body would try to make him do something else.
	
	The Ten-Forward lounge aboard the Yamato was not nearly as dark 
and somber as the Ten-Forward lounge aboard the *Enterprise*-- though 
perhaps Q only remembered it that way because it was Guinan's 
territory.  The carpet was a light, relaxing blue, the walls were 
beige, and he was quite positive that the lights were simply brighter.  
He and Harry took a table near the transparent wall, next to the stars.  
	"Look at that," Harry said, pointing toward a spot at the far 
left.  There was a ring in which the stars appeared duller than they 
should be, circumscribing a circle in which there were no stars at all.  
"We don't normally get to see these sorts of things up close like this.  
Eerie-looking, isn't it?"
	"Not particularly," Q said, shrugging.  "It's just a singularity."
	"*Just* a singularity?"  Harry looked at him askance.  "A spot 
where the natural laws of the universe break down, where light itself 
is swallowed whole, is not *just* anything."
	"You forget who you're talking to," Q said.  "There's nothing 
special about a singularity to me.  I've seen thousands of them."
	"You have no romance in your soul,"  Harry complained.  
	Q laughed sardonically.  "You flatter me."
	"Every chance I get."  Harry grinned.  "Seriously, I find it hard 
to imagine that an intelligent man with a taste for physics could be so 
completely unmoved by the wonders of the universe."
	Q sighed.  "Oh, how terribly parochial.  'The wonders of the 
universe', Harry?  I used to *create* things like this.  The only 
emotion a singularity might inspire in me is perhaps a bit of nostalgia 
for my misspent youth."
	"Now you have me dying of curiosity.  Why did you go about 
creating singularities?  I can't help feeling that if *I* were an 
omnipotent being, I could think of some more interesting things to 
manufacture."
	"Such as tall young men to bring you wine and cater to your every 
whim, I'm sure."
	Harry laughed.  "How little you think of me, Q.  No, I think I'd 
come up with something a bit more useful... though the concept does 
have an appeal."  He leaned forward, eyes wide.  "Although, that being 
said, I've always been more enamored of maturity and intellect in my 
love objects."
	Q chose to ignore that.  "How would you define useful?  Going 
about spreading peace and understanding to the multitudes?  Saving 
lives, being worshipped, all that tedious nonsense?"
	"I had no idea you found being worshipped to be tedious nonsense."
	"It gets old about the thirtieth millennium or so."
	"I suppose you're going to want me to stop handing out the 
leaflets for the Reformed Church of Q, then."
	"The *Reformed* Church?  I'm insulted, Harry.  In the *old* days, 
my worshipers wouldn't *think* of reforming.  Besides, who else would 
you get to go to your meetings?"
	"I don't know, I thought Elejani Baii might be amenable.  Since 
you tricked her into thinking you rescued her planet and all."
	"Wonderful.  My worshipers include a deluded Laon'l and a 
degenerate with no aesthetic sense."
	"A degenerate?  I feel positively insulted."
	"You said you had reformed.  In my book, that makes you a 
degenerate."
	"I'll de-form, then, just for you.  What would you like me to 
deform into?"
	"All you need is to promise you will never do it again, and I'll 
consider myself satisfied."
	"Is that all?  I thought I was going to have to make virgin 
sacrifices or something."
	"No, you'll find me a very easygoing god.  Besides, what would you 
expect *me* to do with a virgin?"  
	"You prefer more experienced partners, hmm?"  Harry asked, 
innocent and wide-eyed.
	Q snorted to hide his embarrassment.  He'd walked right into that 
one.  "I have no interest in your petty little human reproductive 
rituals."
	"It's not done for reproduction, believe you me."
	"That's because something went frightfully haywire in the design."
	Harry tsked.  "Now see?  If you'd taken that spot on the committee 
they offered you, you could have made sure no such mishaps occurred.  
Don't you feel foolish now?"
			*				*				*
	Q and Harry spent an enjoyable hour or so talking about nothing of 
any importance whatsoever.  It was a lot more pleasant than dinner 
conversations with T'Laren, who insisted on talking about things that 
actually mattered.  Here, whenever it seemed like the conversation 
would start to become serious, one or the other of them steered it 
away.  Really, Q thought, he should have taken this up a long time ago.  
He could almost forgive Harry his embarrassingly maudlin meanderings 
when Q had been in sickbay.
	They were deep in an attempt to determine exact definitions for 
all the synonyms of "stupid"  and choose paradigmatic examples from the 
other conference attendees of each type of stupidity when Dr. Madeline 
LeBeau approached their table.  Her face was flushed, and she seemed 
just a trifle unsteady on her feet.  "I would definitely say 'idiot'," 
Q said lazily, watching her approach and anticipating some 
entertainment.  "Don't you think?"
	"Oh, definitely.  Not a moron, though."
	"No, not a moron."
	"I know why you're here," LeBeau said.  Her voice was just a 
little too shrill, just a little too hard.  She leaned on the table, 
supporting herself with both hands as she leaned forward into his face.
	"And I know why *you're* here, from the smell of it,"  Q said, 
waving his hand in front of his face as if to fan her breath away.  
"Couldn't you at least get drunk on a decent vintage, LeBeau?"
	"I'm not drunk," she said sharply.  "And you don't fool me."
	"Fool!  That's it.  That's even better than idiot," Q said 
brightly, turning to Harry.  "Perfect."
	She leaned forward a bit more, her elbow bumping Q's half-eaten 
dish of ice cream, but not spilling it.  "You are here to sabotage the 
conference," she pronounced, as if she'd just caught him out as a 
Romulan spy.
	"I certainly have nothing whatsoever better to do with my life 
than go about sabotaging some petty little scientific pow-wow," Q said 
with heavy sarcasm.  
	"But that's what you *do*, isn't it?"  LeBeau snarled.  "You go 
about insulting people, belittling their life work, all to make 
yourself seem important.  You are *not* important, Monsieur Q, not at 
all."
	"Obviously I'm important enough for you to feel the need to attack 
me.  Tell me, Dr. LeBeau, are you normally in the habit of conducting 
vicious and unprovoked attacks on people more intelligent than you are, 
or is it simply the wine?  I'd always thought the French were better 
able to handle their liquor than this."
	"You think you're so marvelous.  'Vicious and unprovoked attacks 
on people more intelligent than you are,'"  she mimicked in a sing-
song, whiny voice.  "You're overrated, Q.  I don't know why everyone 
hasn't figured that out by now."
	"Bribery?"  Roth suggested.
	"Obviously you're right, doctor.  I suppose, given a choice 
between listening to a being who is several million years old and has 
spent *all* of that time performing experiments in physics, and 
listening to a drunkard, *anyone* would choose the drunkard."
	"I'm not drunk!"
	"You mean you act like this all the time?  I'd be ashamed to admit 
it, were I you."
	"Do you enjoy these cruel little games you play?  Do they give you 
pleasure?"  she asked tonelessly.
	"I must admit that they provide a tiny bright spot of pleasure in 
the unbearable tedium of my life, yes," Q said cheerfully.  "You'd be 
amazed, really, at how much enjoyment one can get out of a few 
carefully placed witty comments.  Perhaps you should try it sometime... 
oh, but that was cruel of me, wasn't it?  I didn't mean to remind you 
of your crippling disability."
	"My crippling disability?"  LeBeau asked, brow furrowing in anger.
	This was wonderful.  She knew she was being set up and she *still* 
walked into it.  "Your complete and total lack of wit," Q said, eyes 
wide with false sympathy.  "I suppose it's simply not a pastime you're 
equipped to understand."
	"I heard about what you did to Dr. Christian,"  LeBeau hissed in a 
poisonous non sequitur.
	This was unpleasant.  "I did nothing to Dr. Christian," Q said in 
a bewildered tone, once again tormented by the slings and arrows of 
outrageous fortune without having done anything to warrant them.  
Actually he knew exactly what LeBeau was talking about.
	"You killed her son!"  LeBeau said, as if outraged that he would 
dissemble about it.
	A bit of genuine outrage sparked in Q.  "I did no such thing!"
	"Oh no?"
	"Let me disabuse you of this misapprehension," Q said coldly.  
"The Borg killed Dr. Christian's son.  Her delusions to the contrary 
are not my problem."
	"And you had nothing to do with it, I suppose."
	Q shrugged.  This was turning ugly.  "Space is not a safe place, 
m'dear," he said coldly.  "Dr. Christian's son had the misfortune to be 
on a ship commanded by an arrogant, short-sighted man with a Pollyanna-
esque belief in the essential goodness of the universe.  Without a 
lesson in harsh realities, sooner or later Picard would have lost his 
entire ship, as he lost his first command.  And without a lesson in the 
uselessness of Federation diplomatic tactics against the Borg, your 
entire miserable species would have been picked off by them in a matter 
of weeks.  It *is* unfortunate that Dr. Christian's son happened to be 
one of the very few who died for that lesson, but he and multitudes 
more would undoubtedly have died otherwise.  One can forgive dearest 
Anne her failure to see this, since she is emotionally involved, but 
one must assume that *you* are simply too stupid to comprehend 
reality."
	"And you can justify murdering 18 people to yourself that way?"
	"Actually, I don't need to justify it at all."  She had actually 
succeeded in getting Q angry.  He stared down at her coldly, as if she 
were an insect he had found on his shoe.  "How often do you really feel 
the need to justify stepping on ants?"
	"So you think of us as ants," LeBeau said triumphantly, as if 
she'd been fishing for that all along.
	The triumph in her voice made Q think he'd made a misstep, played 
into some trap she was setting.  But he could see how to salvage 
himself easily enough.  "Well, when I had my powers, yes.  Now I think 
of you as..."  He pondered ostentatiously.  "...mmm... dogs.  Somewhat 
annoying puppylike creatures, lolling your tongues, scratching for 
fleas... Some of you actually achieve an almost wolven cunning, but 
most of you are pretty much domesticated lap dogs."  He smirked.
	Her face flushed with outrage.  "That's all you know how to do, 
isn't it?  You're not here to help the conference.  You're just here to 
attack it."
	"*You* obviously have nothing better to do than walk up to people 
you barely know and start attacking them.  I'd advise you acquire a 
hobby, Doctor.  Obviously it can't be a *very* diverting hobby, as you 
lack the intellect necessary to pursue anything interesting... I'd 
suggest knitting.  Needlepoint."
	LeBeau clutched the edge of the table, red with fury.  She took a 
deep breath.  "You seem to think your ridiculous insults bother me."
	Q shrugged.  "I'd say it's a fairly good guess."  He stood up and 
went to LeBeau solicitously.  "Unless your face is such an unlovely 
shade of red from the wine alone.  Perhaps you've just had a bit too 
much to drink."  He put his hand on her shoulder in a mockery of 
friendliness.  "Maybe someone should take you home," he said, his tone 
utter innocence.
	She shook him off and faced him, furiously.  "I have not had too 
much to drink," she spat.  "And I don't believe I need *anyone* to 
'take me home'."
	"Pity," Q said coldly.  "It would at least get you out of the 
way."  He stepped back from her.  "You're boring me, LeBeau.  Why don't 
you run along and play?"  An evil inspiration struck.  He lifted a 
napkin off the table and tossed it.  "Fetch!"
	As LeBeau purpled, Harry was beginning to look nervous.  He edged 
toward LeBeau.  "I think he's right, Doctor.  I think perhaps someone 
should take you home."
	She laughed harshly.  "Oh, but you'd agree with anything Q said.  
Tell me, Dr. Roth, do you think that if you spend enough time playing 
Q's arrogant little games with him, he'll actually agree to go to bed 
with you?  I doubt he's very good."
	"I'll take my chances,"  Harry said mildly.
	"In *fact*,"  LeBeau said, drawing the words out, "I've *heard* 
that he's actually quite abysmal."
	She was saying it to get to him.  It was ridiculous for him to 
take the accusation seriously.  She had probably made it up on the spur 
of the moment.  The fact that she seemed very much like the sort to be 
one of Amy Frasier's cronies almost certainly had nothing to do with 
it.  It was preposterous for him to assume that just because she said 
something like that meant that someone had been spreading rumors about 
him.  Preposterous and stupid... and he couldn't help himself.  If she 
was just making it up now, that was one thing.  But if someone had been 
telling lies about him...
	"Oh, really," Q said coldly.  "And who would you have heard that 
from?"
	She smirked snidely.  Oh, she knew when she'd scored a point, all 
right.  "I think we both know."
	"No.  No, I'm *enormously* curious as to who you could possibly 
have talked to.  And why, exactly, they felt the need to make up 
elaborate sexual fantasies about me and lie to other people about 
them."
	"Well, there can't have been that many," LeBeau said, still with 
the snide tone.  "No one thinks you're very attractive.  Except deluded 
creatures like him."  She gestured at Roth.
	"Maybe you should go home now," Roth said coldly.  
	"I don't think so," LeBeau snapped back.
	Q dropped his voice and spoke to Roth conspiratorially, though 
certainly loudly enough for LeBeau to hear.  "She's obviously mad with 
jealousy."  
	"That must be it," Roth agreed.
	"Jealous?  Of *you?  * Don't make me laugh."
	But Q had something now.  He moved in with implacable coldness, 
intruding on LeBeau's space again, looking down at her.  "Tell me, 
doctor, are you in the habit of fantasizing about the sex lives of 
total strangers?  What is it about me that makes you feel the need to 
make up these egregious lies?  Sour grapes, perhaps?  You wish to 
convince yourself that I couldn't possibly be any good in bed, because 
you know you are far too shallow, stupid and primitive to attract me-- 
not to mention downright hideous?"
	LeBeau's hand shot out, slamming across Q's cheek.
	He saw it coming a split-second before it hit, and in that split-
second the usual terror overwhelmed him, the familiar gut-wrenching 
sensation as he realized he had gone too far and was about to be beaten 
to a pulp for it.  LeBeau's size and sex didn't factor into the 
equation-- most of the people that had beaten Q up in the past were 
smaller than he was, and more than a few were female.  He wanted to 
cringe, to beg, to scream for help, to run away.  But it was LeBeau's 
fault this time.  He had defended himself from an unprovoked verbal 
assault.  And why should *he* have to be the one to cringe in fear?  
Why should *he* have to humiliate himself by screaming for help?  It 
wasn't fair!
	The blow knocked his head to the side, sending pain through his 
entire face.  But T'Laren had taught him self-defense techniques, 
things he could use to disable an attacker, and fury drove him to use 
them to lash out.  In rage and humiliation, he grabbed the offending 
arm, twisting it out of the way where it couldn't strike him again.
	LeBeau shrieked.  It was a ghastly, horrible noise, the sort of 
sound security officers made when they were being murdered, and it 
startled Q into releasing the arm.  Immediately LeBeau staggered back, 
holding her arm, which hung at an odd angle from her elbow.  "You broke 
my arm!"  she screamed.
	He couldn't have.  "I did not,"  Q said automatically, shocked.  
How could he have broken her arm?  He'd felt something give when he 
twisted it away from him, yes, but he was weak, pathetically feeble.  
How could a human arm possibly be fragile enough for *him* to break?
	And then Security was standing there, uncomfortably close, the way 
they stood when they were about to drag him off to his room for another 
of Anderson's house arrests, only he hadn't done anything wrong.  He 
had only defended himself.  She would have beaten him up.  "What 
happened here?"  one of the security officers asked.
	"He assaulted me!  He broke my arm!"  LeBeau screamed, voice 
shrill with pain.  "Oh, God, I need a doctor..."
	She had to be faking it.  He *couldn't* have broken her arm.  "She 
hit me!"  Q said, feeling a rising sensation of panic.  No one would 
ever believe he hadn't instigated the conversation.  It wasn't fair.  
	"So you broke her arm."  The security guard's voice was cold.
	"I didn't!"
	"Then who did?"
	A sob escaped LeBeau.  Q glanced over at her.  Several people had 
clustered around her, and most of them were glaring at him.  Could she 
really be fooling all those people?  "I didn't mean to,"  Q said 
helplessly.  A hard anger overtook him.  "She hit me first.  I was 
defending myself."
	"Against a human woman half your size."
	They weren't going to understand.  It was Amy Frasier all over 
again, the hideous double standard that let human women abuse human men 
however they wished and punished the men for defending themselves.  Q 
folded his arms sullenly.  "What's the point to me explaining?  You've 
already judged me guilty."
	One of them was looking at Harry.  "Can you tell us what you saw?"
	Harry looked at Q pleadingly.  Q turned away from him.  Roth was 
undoubtedly going to betray him too.  Everyone took the human woman's 
side.  That was definitely what he should have picked.  A little bit of 
surgery would have taken care of the menstruation thing, and then he'd 
have had everyone fawning on him, jumping all over themselves to 
protect him no matter what he did.  A little late to change his mind 
now, though.
	"Dr. LeBeau was... um..  a little inebriated, I think.  She came 
over and started making vicious accusations against Q.  He defended 
himself verbally.  The conversation got ugly, and she, uh, she slapped 
him, and he grabbed her arm.  I don't think he was trying to break it."
	"He did a damn good job if he wasn't even trying,"  the security 
guard said dryly.  "Let's go."  He tugged on Q's folded arm.  From 
experience, Q knew that if he didn't go with them immediately, they 
would do something incredibly obnoxious and humiliating, like put 
manacles on him and drag him.  He went, sullenly and with bad grace, 
but cooperatively, trying to hold onto at least a few shreds of his 
dignity.
	If T'Laren hadn't taught him those damned self-defense techniques, 
this would never have happened.  It was all her fault.  He was going to 
kill her.
			*				*				*
	T'Laren was still reading when the door chimed.  She was startled-
- Q would have just entered, and she wasn't expecting anyone else.  
"Come in."
	The door opened, and Harry Roth came in, looking upset.  "T'Laren, 
something's happened.  I think... I think you'd better come down to 
security."
	She tensed.  "What's happened?"
	"I think it was an accident,"  Roth said, a slightly panicky edge 
to his voice.  "I'm sure he didn't mean to do it, but you know how he 
is, he's not explaining himself to security and I'm sure they've got 
the wrong idea--"
	T'Laren stood up.  "Lt. Roth.  *What happened?*"
	"Q broke Dr. LeBeau's arm."  
	She had *not* expected that.  "Explain on the way," T'Laren said, 
sweeping out of their quarters with Roth in her wake.  "How did it 
occur?"
	As Roth gave a somewhat disjointed explanation of events, 
T'Laren's mind raced, feverishly piecing together what must have 
happened.  Q considered physical violence barbaric and beneath him, but 
like most people who eschewed violence, he had a dark streak of it 
running beneath the surface.  She remembered when he had tried to 
strangle her for pretending to throw him out the airlock-- could that 
be related to what had happened?  But no, from Roth's story nothing had 
happened that would inspire Q to such anger.  LeBeau had hit him, but 
surely Q was used to being hit...
	...no, Q was used to being beaten up.  People generally didn't 
slap Q, they punched him, and usually they did it more than once.  And 
T'Laren had been training him to defend himself.  Either he had tried 
to block LeBeau from hitting him again, and underestimated his own 
strength, which given that he seemed to be convinced of his physical 
powerlessness and that he was used to having a Vulcan sparring partner 
was entirely plausible, or he had deliberately tried to break her arm 
as a terrified and outraged reaction to the thought of being beaten 
again.  Possibly some combination of both.  The fact that LeBeau was 
half his size would not have entered into his mind, T'Laren felt sure-- 
this *was* the same man who had called Security because he felt 
sexually threatened by a petite human woman, after all.
	They arrived at security.  The security chief, Lt. Ken Washington, 
was actually there, filling out some sort of report.  T'Laren did not 
mince words.  "I've come to see Q."
	Washington looked up.  He looked far too young, a pretty boyish 
creature with soft wavy chocolate-brown hair, a round face not yet 
devoid of baby fat, and big blue eyes.  Those same eyes were set in a 
calm, businesslike expression, though.  "You're his psychiatrist, 
correct?"
	T'Laren winced inwardly, remembering that she'd introduced herself 
as such when she and Q had first boarded, the first time she'd met 
Washington.  "'Therapist' is a more precise term," she said.  "I'm a 
xenopsychologist and former Starfleet counselor."
	"You're also Sovaz' older sister."
	"I've come to see Q," T'Laren repeated, unsure what her 
relationship with Sovaz had to do with anything, and annoyed that he'd 
brought it up.
	Washington nodded.  He stood up.  "You can speak to him outside 
the cell, or if you prefer, you can go in.  If you're inside, I can 
give you fifteen minutes with privacy modulation on.  After that, I'd 
have to turn it off."
	It took T'Laren a moment to remember what privacy modulation was-- 
the ability to make the forcefield to the cells in the brig soundproof, 
so a person could have privacy to discuss their case with an advocate.  
It was not a right, but a privilege, permitted in cases where it was 
unlikely that the safety of the ship or people on it would be affected.  
She was almost surprised that Washington had offered it though, having 
expected that she would need to fight for every concession.  "I would 
prefer the privacy modulation, thank you."
	Q looked curiously small in the cell, hunched over with one knee 
on the bunk, his arms wrapped around it and his chin resting on it.  
His expression was a hard mask, but T'Laren could read him well enough 
to see the loneliness and fear under his stony expression.  He looked 
up as T'Laren approached the cell.  "This is all *your* fault, you 
know."
	"My fault?"  T'Laren repeated, raising an eyebrow, as Washington 
let her through the forcefield and engaged the privacy modulation.  
"Can you tell me exactly what happened?"
	"Why bother?  I'm sure that you, like everyone else, have already 
made up your mind."
	"Have I ever made up my mind without even talking to you first?  
Be realistic, Q.  We have fifteen minutes in which the guards can't 
overhear us-- let's use them wisely."
	"Why?  Are we going to plot my escape?  Were you planning on 
charging in here with a phaser rifle and camouflage grays, perhaps?"
	"I thought you might appreciate being able to tell me your version 
of events *without* it getting all over the starship.  Or being left to 
Lt. Washington's discretion, for that matter."
	"A guilty conscience at work, I see.  You don't want to reveal to 
the entire ship your own ineptitude in causing this debacle.  Let's not 
try to pretend you're doing this for *my* sake, T'Laren."
	"Since, in fact, I *am* doing it for your sake, and I would 
consider my own role in what occurred to be minimal at best, I have no 
need to pretend anything."  She sat down next to him.  "Q, please tell 
me what happened.  I can't help you if I don't know what happened."
	"Talk to Harry.  I'm sure he'll gleefully tell the entire story to 
*anyone* who asks,"  Q said bitterly.
	"I need to hear *your* version of the story to help you."
	"I don't need your help," Q snarled.  "You have done quite enough 
damage as it is, *dear* doctor.  My captivity here can be laid entirely 
at your doorstep, and I do *not* need you to dig me in any deeper."
	There was no way to be conciliatory, no way to gently persuade him 
to listen to her when he was in a mood like this.  "You have no 
choice," she told him coldly.  "I am going to help you whether you like 
it or not.  The only decision you have to make is how much time it 
takes.  If I don't have your testimony, it may take me several days to 
come up with a sufficiently persuasive lie, and in the meantime you 
will be languishing in the brig, while Dr. LeBeau has full freedom of 
the starship.  If you cooperate, I should be able to get you out much 
faster, and possibly see LeBeau reprimanded or punished for *her* 
complicity in this.  Which would you rather?"
	He stared at the floor sullenly.  "What makes you think that if I 
tell you what happened, you'll be able to get me out any faster than if 
you just make it up?  You'd probably come up with a better story than 
the truth, anyway."
	"Possibly, but do you want your excuse to be solely in my hands, 
without any input from you?  Normally you're much better at keeping 
control of your own image than that."
	"Since you seem to be as incapable of coming up with a decent 
defense as you are incompetent at self-defense training, I suppose I 
have no choice," Q said petulantly.
	His version of the story, when one filtered out the gratuitous 
insults and the self-pitying whining, was not substantially different 
from Harry Roth's, and confirmed both her theories.  A bit of reading 
between the lines was necessary, but really, less than usual.  Q had no 
idea how strong he was.  He had acted both to prevent LeBeau from 
attacking him again and in anger that she had attacked him in the first 
place, had been convinced that she meant to do him serious harm, and 
had had no idea that he was capable of breaking her arm, let alone any 
intention of doing so.  Reading a bit deeper between the lines, T'Laren 
suspected he felt terribly guilty about it, and was transposing his 
guilt onto her, blaming her for what he'd done so he didn't have to 
face his own guilt.  
	"All right."  She stood up as Washington signaled her that he was 
turning off the privacy modulation.  "Give me a few hours to try to get 
you out of here.  If I can't get you out by then, I'll come back and 
let you know how I'm doing."
	"And what am I supposed to do for a few hours?"  Q asked harshly.  
"Just sit here and twiddle my thumbs?"
	"Take a nap," T'Laren suggested.
	"Have you any *idea* how hard and unpleasant these bunks are?  The 
last time I was in one of these dungeons, on the *Enterprise*, I fell 
asleep, and I regretted it for hours."  He considered.  "Actually, it 
turned out they drugged me.  I don't trust Security for a minute.  
Can't you get someone to watch them, to make sure they don't drug me?"
	"You had a history on the *Enterprise* when you were there," 
T'Laren said patiently.  "You have no history here.  And you're now a 
Federation VIP.  No one would dare drug you."
	"Well, I'm *not* going to sleep," Q said sulkily.  "And I'm going 
to be bored out of my mind."
	"I'll see what I can do."  
	She turned toward the force field.  "I'm ready, Lieutenant."