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. 
             *                   *                    *   

	Q had had just barely four hours of sleep when his communicator 
chimed.
	The fact that he slept lightly in no way meant that he woke up 
quickly; he was easily roused out of sleep, but full mental capacity 
usually required massive infusions of coffee.  Q answered the comm in 
fine morning humor.  "What?"  he snarled, or would have snarled if his 
voice wasn't bleared with sleep.
	"Come over," Markow's synthesized voice said.  "I have something 
important to show you."
	Q rolled over and looked at the chronometer.  "It's 0800 hours, 
Daedalus!  Don't you ever sleep?"
	"Not at 0800 hours.  If you don't come over you're going to regret 
it.  I think what I've found is more important than your beauty sleep."
	Q sighed in an exceedingly put-upon fashion.  "I'll be right 
there."
	Seeing Markow hardly required full formal dress, and Q wanted to 
get this over with so he could get some sleep before the conference.  
So he dressed with uncharacteristic speed and stalked out.
	It was a comfort to him that Markow did not look bright and 
rested.  He wasn't even in his wheelchair, in fact-- he was lying in 
bed, in a dressing gown, looking up at various holographic displays on 
the ceiling.  "Prop me up against the pillows and I can move the 
display down."  His voice was coming from a speaker by the bed, but the 
subvocalizer was in a band around his forehead, not at his throat as it 
had been for Q when he had needed one.  The device would catch the 
neural signals Markow's brain sent out to the destroyed nervous wiring 
of his body, and translate that into speech.
	"Do I look like your assistant?"  Q asked sharply, moving to do it 
anyway.  It was hardly the first time Markow had made such a demand-- 
they'd all kept ludicrous hours while working against the Borg, and 
despite the hordes of eagerly worshipful scientists who'd have done 
anything Peter Markow asked with gratitude, Markow had tended to direct 
his requests to Q, mostly to annoy him, Q thought.  The first few times 
he'd done it, he'd been terrified of hurting Markow-- the human was so 
fragile that Q had felt like a huge clumsy ox, handling him, as well as 
mildly disgusted at having to touch him-- but now he could be casual 
about it.
	"Probably not.  He looks about twenty years younger than you, and 
not nearly as haggard."
	"Flattery will get you nowhere, Daedalus.  What was so vitally 
important that you had to drag me out of bed?"  He gently lifted the 
ravaged, light body and moved it back, propping Markow against the 
pillows.  "And where's your assistant, anyway?"
	"Still asleep.  It's good for your humility to have to do work 
with your hands every so often."
	"What humility?"
	"That's my point.  Take a look at the readouts.  Computer, move 
readouts perpendicular."
	The readouts moved to inhabit the space in front of Q and Markow.  
Q perused them for a minute and a half.  Nothing was clicking.  "I 
don't see--"
	"Computer, magnify grid alpha, fifteen, three."
	A part of the display grew large.  Q focused on it... and went 
cold.  "When did these readings come in?"  he asked harshly.
	"This morning.  I called you as soon as I had them."
	"There's got to be a mistake.  Eighth-dimensional waveforms should 
be reflected by the Anomaly.  They should *not* be able to pass 
through, even with a refraction index that high."
	"There probably is a mistake, Lucy, but it's probably yours.  I 
ordered the scans in triplicate to be sure."
	"The engineering department told *me* they couldn't broadcast 
eighth-dimensional waveforms."
	"I called in some favors from my postdocs and got them to convince 
the engineers."  He turned his head toward Q jerkily, more motion than 
Q had ever seen him perform; it set the rest of his body trembling 
uncontrollably.  Q sat down on the bed so Markow could look straight at 
him.
	"Do you need me to get your assistant?"
	"I'll live," Markow said.  "I'm sorry, Lucy."
	Q stiffened.  "Sorry for what?"
	"It was an elegant theory.  I'm sorry to prove you wrong."
	"Science is about proving people wrong, Daedalus, or hadn't you 
noticed?"  Q responded, still stiff, his mind reeling.  He was wrong.  
He couldn't be wrong.  "What made you think to look here?"
	"There's a flaw in your equation," Markow answered.  "Or rather, a 
place where it doesn't have to do what you say it has to do.  I plugged 
in a few other variables, altered a constant-- computer, display Markow 
notes, today's date, page 7-- and got different behavior."
	"And if you took the square root of c instead of the square, you 
could get e=mc squared to say that you can go faster than light in 
normal space," Q snapped.  "That doesn't make it true."
	"It turns out it is, though.  Look."  Markow's notes were 
displayed, with the damning altered equation that couldn't exist, that 
Markow had pulled out of thin air and that reflected nothing Q knew 
about the universe, that couldn't possibly be valid... except that it 
described the data far better than his own equation.  Q felt much as he 
had when Guinan had kneed him in the crotch, except that this time it 
was his mind, not his body, that was reeling, crippled, unable to 
breathe.
	"I suppose congratulations are in order," Q said coldly.  "You've 
just invalidated the results of millions of years of research."
	"You're not used to being wrong, are you?"
	Q had never been wrong.  Not about physics.  He *couldn't* be 
wrong.  Even now, his mind was insisting that there must be a mistake, 
some catch, this couldn't be, that given all he knew of the universe it 
just wasn't possible.
	And yet there it was.  Glaring at him.
	"Obviously you're a talented fellow, Daedalus.  Why don't you 
follow up on this like a good little researcher?  I want to get some 
decent sleep before the conference starts."
	He stalked out, hearing Markow repeat in his synthetic, monotone 
voice, "I'm sorry."
	That was even worse, the capper to a perfectly awful situation.  
Markow *pitied* him.  Markow, who thought pity was the most utterly 
degrading emotion in existence, felt sorry for him.  How much lower 
could he fall?
	In an absolute panic, he stumbled back to his quarters and went to 
T'Laren's room, leaning on the comm button for several seconds.  It 
took him a second to realize that she had said "Come in," a second in 
which the door was already swooshing open.
	T'Laren was sitting up on her bed, wearing a decorous white 
nightgown-- Q wouldn't have been awfully surprised if it was flannel.  
It didn't look as if she'd actually slept *in* the bed, barely as if 
she'd slept at all-- her curls were unmussed, the bed neat and only 
slightly indented in the center.
	"What's wrong?"  she asked.
	"What's wrong?  My life is over, that's what's wrong."  He 
gestured wildly, emphasizing his point, as he paced in a panic, terror 
driving him around the tiny room in circles.  "No one is ever going to 
listen to me again.  I'll be a laughingstock."
	"Why?"
	"Why?  *Why?*"  It was on the tip of his tongue to savage her for 
her obtuseness when he remembered that she didn't know.  As much as it 
seemed like a lifetime ago that he'd gotten the call from Markow, it 
really had only been a few minutes.  "Peter Markow has ruined my life," 
Q pronounced dramatically.  He sank down into a chair and tiredly 
pressed his hand to his forehead.  "And it's not even his fault.  
*He's* only doing what he's supposed to.  I wouldn't have expected any 
less."  He looked up.  "But he pities me!  He used to tell me that 
pitying someone was an announcement that you think they're desperately 
pathetic and beyond hope.  He certainly doesn't pity *other* people he 
proves wrong.  Only me."
	"He proved you wrong?"  T'Laren asked.
	"I *can't* be wrong.  I'm a Q!  I may not remember *everything* 
from the old days, but I certainly don't remember things *wrong*."  For 
a moment, the horrid thought struck him that perhaps he wouldn't know 
it if he did... but no.  He couldn't believe that.  "If I know 
something, I can't be wrong about it... but he's got data that says I 
am.  He's gone and changed my equations, did you know that?  Now they 
make no sense whatsoever."  He buried his head back in his hands, 
overwhelmed by despair.  "I'm ruined."
	T'Laren stood up and came over to his chair, her hand on the back 
of the chair, almost touching him.  "Tell me what happened," she said 
gently.  Part of him desperately wished she *would* touch him, wanted 
someone to hold him and comfort him.  The ascendant part, however, 
lashed out in rage.  He wasn't crying, wasn't broken, and he certainly 
didn't need hugs and kisses at the moment.  And that T'Laren would make 
an overture now was unbearable, proof that she, too, thought him 
pitiful and unworthy.  
	He jerked away from her proximity and up, out of the chair, pacing 
again.  "Markow's found data that disproves my theory.  Which up until 
twenty minutes ago I'd have said was a fact, not a theory, but it seems 
I'm wrong."  He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.
	"Could it simply be that you were mistaken about the application 
of your theory?  That what you believed to be true *is* true, but 
simply doesn't apply to this situation?"
	Q gave her a look.  "Of *course* what I believe to be true, is.  
That's not the point.  The point is, this singularity behaves exactly 
like one of our Anomalies, *except* that eighth-dimensional waveforms 
and probably higher can penetrate it, and nothing in all my experience 
tells me why such a thing should be or even how it *can* be.  It's 
impossible, is what it is, but there it is."  He paced frantically.  
"I'm ruined.  Totally ruined."
	"Why are you ruined?"
	"Don't be stupid!"  Q whirled on her, almost grateful for the 
stupid question, as it gave him an excuse to tear her apart and thus 
take out some of his frustrations.  "Do you think the Federation is 
going to devote an entire starbase to the care and defense of just 
another fallible mortal?  My only value is that I *know* the secrets of 
the universe, otherwise they'd be delighted to abandon me in the gutter 
somewhere.  There are people who would be positively thrilled if that 
happened.  And then I'd be able to count my life in weeks.  Once it 
gets out that I was wrong, I'm literally a dead man."
	"I think you're wrong.  Starfleet won't abandon you for such a 
small thing.  Just because you were wrong once doesn't seriously 
diminish your value."
	"You don't know what you're talking about!"  Q howled.  "My 
*value* is that I know everything!  If I don't know everything, I have 
no value!"  He was frighteningly close to tears.  Q took a deep breath, 
forcing them down, but the rage and panic were still with him.  "I have 
to leave.  Today.  I can't go back and face them.  Maybe we can use the 
ship, stay one step ahead of my enemies if I keep moving..."  Until 
such time as one of them intercepted him, he thought bitterly, and 
couldn't control his trembling.  His life was over.  
	"Q.  You're overreacting.  I know Starfleet, and the Federation, 
and I know they will *not* rescind your protection for one incorrect 
theory."
	"Why not?'  Q demanded.  She was just trying to make him feel 
better, to soothe him with comforting lies, and he hated that.  "Any 
mortal can give them theories.  *Markow* can give them theories, and 
they don't have to dedicate an entire starbase to protecting *him*."
	"If Markow had as many enemies as you do, they probably would 
dedicate an entire starbase to protecting him.  Q, let's be ruthlessly 
practical.  Have you any idea of the sheer monetary worth of the 
advances you have made?"
	"Monetary worth?"  Q looked at her disdainfully.  "The Federation 
doesn't use money."
	"That's a fairly common misconception."
	"No, I know people have credits and all, but *internally*, the 
Federation doesn't use money.  Credits are for dealing with outside 
societies."  Her expression troubled him.  Had he gotten this one wrong 
too?  "Isn't that right?"
	T'Laren sighed.  "No.  *You've* never needed to use credits, 
because you were living on a starbase.  Anderson could access your 
personal accounts to buy you the things you requested--"
	"Personal accounts?"
	"I take it they never told you that you have a personal account.  
With a sizable sum of money in it."
	"No, I..."  Q shook his head.  He would not be distracted.  Money 
was useless and wouldn't save him if the Federation threw him out.  "It 
doesn't matter anyway.  The point is that you can't *put* a monetary 
value on what I do."
	"Actually, it is possible, and it has been done.  I don't have the 
exact figures, Q, but I'm fairly sure that the scientific advances you 
are responsible for pay several times what your upkeep is worth.  Your 
value is far greater than 'never being wrong.'  You yourself pointed 
out the political advantages to the Federation in having you-- that the 
scientific advances you're responsible for resulted in better warp 
drives, better weaponry, better shielding than we had previously, 
giving us more negotiating room with other races.  Do you think that 
Starfleet Command would consider for a moment giving up the source of 
more such advances for one mistake?"
	"I..."  He wanted to believe her, desperately wanted to believe 
that his life had not just ended.  But he was so afraid of deluding 
himself, so afraid that he'd believe because he wanted to.  "You don't 
know Starfleet the way *I* do.  You know the pretty side, the side all 
its members want to believe in so badly.  They were your friends, after 
all.  You were never placed under house arrest for trying to assert 
your basic rights as a sentient being, or had most of your possessions 
taken away for the crime of trying to kill yourself.  Starfleet hates 
me.  They'd jump at the chance to be rid of me."
	"Don't be ridiculous," T'Laren said mildly.  "They did all those 
things to you because you were valuable, and they wanted to make sure 
you continued to produce.  Given a choice between letting you go 
entirely, where not only your personal enemies, but Federation enemies 
like the Romulans or Cardassians could get hold of you, for the sake of 
one mistake, or keeping you under protection even though they may need 
to run more analyses to validate what you tell them than they're 
accustomed to, no one at Starfleet Command would be stupid enough to 
choose the first."
	"Don't you mean 'illogical'?"  he snapped back at her.  "What a 
typical Vulcan reaction, assuming humans can't possibly be stupid."
	"You forget, I grew up among humans.  I know just how stupid they 
can be.  But Q, Starfleet Command doesn't know you personally, not like 
Anderson.  And they *will* make their decision based on your value, 
since they've never met you personally."
	He conceded that point and latched onto the next one, his fear 
entirely untouched by his acceptance of what T'Laren was telling him.  
"Well, the scientists here *do* know me personally."  Q paced in 
circles.  "I can't go to the conference.  I can't face them.  I 
*can't*."  
	"Why not?"
	"Because!"  How could she be so dense?  "*They* expect me to know 
everything, even if Starfleet doesn't.  How can I face them, with a 
mistake like that hanging over my head?"
	"Q, being wrong is part of science.  If they truly expect you to 
be an infallible oracle, they're setting both themselves and you up for 
a fall-- it's for the best that they learn otherwise."
	"You don't understand.  I've stood up in front of those people 
setting myself up as an authority, ridiculing them for their stupid 
little theories when they haven't thought things out properly.  Now I'm 
supposed to stand up in front of them and tell them *I'm* wrong?  How 
can I do that?"  He heard what he was saying and cringed.  Now T'Laren 
was going to give him a lecture about not ridiculing people.
	She surprised him.  "The same way they do it.  They can keep 
coming back to the meetings despite the fact that you ridicule them.  
You certainly can do anything they can do."
	*Can I?  *Q thought bleakly.  "It's different.  *They* aren't 
authority figures to *me*."
	"But they're authority figures to their peers, and having you tear 
them apart in public is bound to be very humiliating for them.  But 
they can take it."
	"All right!  So I'm a coward, a worthless person, I can dish it 
out but I can't take it.  T'Laren, I *can't* face them, I don't care 
what you say, I can't..."
	"I see."  T'Laren nodded.  "It's only to be expected, with your 
inexperience in these matters.  After all, everyone in the Continuum 
was always entirely loving and supportive every time you made a 
mistake, isn't that right?  You have no experience facing ridicule at 
all."
	"Where did you get that cockeyed notion from?"  Q asked, staring 
at her disbelievingly.  "*I* never told you the Continuum tolerated 
mistakes.  Quite the opposite.  If a child screws up, we consider it 
our sworn duty to make fun of them until they wish they were dead."
	"Really."  Her voice was completely matter-of-fact, but Q realized 
suddenly that he had just fallen directly into her trap.  He scowled, 
reddening.  If he hadn't been so distraught, he would have recognized 
the sarcasm in that statement a mile away; it was a further humiliation 
that he'd actually fallen for it.
	"But that's different!  That's the Continuum.  We all *know* our 
older siblings have our best interests at heart, even if we find it 
hard to believe when we're young and stupid.  It's a learning 
experience."  At her studiedly bland expression, his ire rose.  He 
exploded, "This is *not* a learning experience, T'Laren!  These people 
aren't my older siblings, and I don't need to put up with them 
humiliating me!"
	"What would you rather?  To be humiliated behind your back and be 
powerless to stop it, as everyone mocks you for not having the courage 
to face your accusers?  Or to be there and to be graceful about it, to 
show them that they cannot drag you down no matter what they say?"  She 
walked over to him.  "Q.  Most of them probably will not make fun of 
you.  They understand that science is a risky business for the ego, 
sometimes.  Remember that *most* of them grew up in a culture where 
it's considered proper to show compassion for those who have 
faltered... of all the cultures I've ever encountered, yours is the 
only one that makes an ideal out of humiliating people to teach them 
life lessons.  Some few may take the opportunity to insult you, but why 
would you care what they think?  If you accept your mistake graciously, 
they will look like petty little fools for attacking you."
	"T'Laren, *everyone* in academia is a petty little fool.  That 
won't stop them."
	"Then you'll succeed in making them look bad.  I wouldn't think 
that would bother you," she said dryly.
	"They won't look bad!  Everyone does it!"
	"They will indeed look bad.  Q,"  she placed a hand on his arm, "I 
understand that you're afraid of being embarrassed.  But you must 
understand that this is common in academia.  No one but you is likely 
to make a big deal about it.  However, if you do not go, you will draw 
people's attention by your absence, and then your enemies may realize 
that this issue is important to you.  You are far safer in going than 
not."
	"How could you possibly understand how I feel?  You're probably 
used to failing at things.  You've never been in a position where you 
couldn't imagine being wrong, and then you were."
	She sighed.  "I don't suppose the fact that I almost failed out of 
the Academy my first semester counts."
	"You almost failed out of the Academy?"  Get her talking about 
herself and then she wouldn't make him go.  Besides, Q liked to hear 
stories about T'Laren's sordid past... it made her more real to him, 
less the untouchable paragon of virtue she liked to pretend to be.
	T'Laren moved away from him and sat down.  "When I was in school, 
as a child, it was very easy for me to do well," she said.  "Vulcan 
discipline lends itself to eidetic memory.  I don't have that, but what 
I do remember, I remember forever.  And Vulcan discipline lends itself 
also to thinking out what one learns, working out the logical 
implications, making connections to the other facts you know.  So I 
consistently got A's, without working very hard at it.
	"When I went to the Academy, for the first time I was competing 
against other Vulcans, who were far better at the disciplines than I 
was.  And in those areas where I excelled in comparison to the typical 
Vulcan, many other students were superior to me.  I ended up failing 
almost every exam I took for four weeks, and barely passed the 
semester."
	She looked at him significantly.  "But it didn't happen again.  
Once I'd learned that the amount of effort I was accustomed to putting 
into my schoolwork wasn't enough, I simply changed my behavior, and put 
in more effort.  It was terribly humiliating for me to fail exams, 
especially as there was... someone... better at the disciplines than I 
was, who was watching over my shoulder and whose expectations it was 
very important to me to live up to.  But I learned from it, and didn't 
do it again."
	"Have you ever considered embroidering moral homilies?"  Q asked.  
"Or perhaps writing improving texts for children?"
	"Simply because the statement sounds like a moral of the story 
doesn't make it less true," T'Laren said.  "Q, you *can* do this.  And 
it will almost certainly be worse for you if you don't."
	He couldn't think of an objection to that, aside from the fact 
that he still didn't want to.  "I... suppose," he said grudgingly.
	"Come on.  Eat some breakfast, take a shower, put on one of your 
more attractive outfits, and I'm sure you'll feel better."  
			*				*				*
	Hours later at the conference, having taken a shower and put on 
one of his more attractive outfits, Q did not feel much better at all.
	It was far too early, for one thing.  Markow had woken him far 
earlier than he was accustomed, but even after his talk with T'Laren, 
going back to sleep had been out of the question, even if he'd had 
time.  For that matter, eating was out of the question, and though Q 
felt nauseous at the thought of food, he also felt a certain hollowness 
and a headache from not having eaten.  He was punchy, wired from the 
things he'd been through this morning, exhausted but far too tense to 
consider sleeping.
	That tension had impelled him to actually show up at the 
conference on time.  If he had to go, and T'Laren had insisted that he 
did, he couldn't handle the suspense of waiting.  That, of course, had 
been on the theory that *Markow* would show on time.  He was ten 
minutes late, and Q was wound like a clock spring, feeling like he 
might explode out of his skin at any second.
	They were reading the minutes of yesterday's meeting, an 
interminable process.  Why it was necessary when one could read the 
minutes oneself on the computer, Q had no idea.  He tapped his fingers 
on the desk restlessly, certain he was going to go out of his mind.
	Markow rolled in at a leisurely pace fifteen minutes late, 
followed by his entirely too bright-and-cheerful-looking  assistant.  Q 
almost jumped out of his seat and shouted "Where have you *been*?"  or 
something.  It was all he could do to hold himself still and wait, as 
Markow waited for reasons incomprehensible to Q for the minutes to be 
done.
	Sovaz looked up from her reading of yesterday's proceedings.  
"Does anyone have any new findings to present?"
	"I do," Markow announced.
	Q realized he was sitting on the edge of his seat, and forced 
himself to sit back and pretend to be relaxed.  It was, he discovered, 
every bit as challenging a task as pretending to be relaxed when he was 
waiting for enemy aliens to break through Starbase 56's defenses and 
kill him.  In some ways it was worse.  He had had a reasonable 
expectation, during the attacks, that Starfleet would *probably* 
succeed in protecting him.  Here, not only was he not certain he would 
not be shredded to bits after Markow's presentation, he was in fact 
positive he *would* be.
	"I twisted some arms in the engineering department and got them to 
run an analysis of eighth-dimensional waveforms," Markow was saying, as 
the image of various graphs that he and Q had looked at this morning 
came up on the holodisplay.  "As you can see, there appears to be a 
contradiction to our working theories.  I ran it past Q, and we agreed 
that the Anomaly is displaying... hem... anomalous behavior."  Markow 
needed to telegraph the joke with pauses and an artificial "hem", since 
he couldn't change the tone of his voice enough to express it that way.  
The artificiality of the pun grated like fingernails against Q's brain.  
"It's clear to us that for reasons we haven't yet determined, the 
anomaly is not behaving completely within the parameters Q set out in 
the meeting a few days ago."
	Who was this "we"  Markow kept mentioning, Q wondered?  And then, 
with sick horror, he realized *he* was the other half of that "we".  
Markow was trying to soften the blow by implying that Q had been 
involved in Markow's research beyond their tense meeting this morning, 
by giving some of his rightful credit-- the lifeblood of researchers-- 
to Q, when it was entirely undeserved.  Out of pity, Q thought, and 
felt suddenly, acutely nauseous.  How much humiliation was he expected 
to take in one day?
	"Why would that be?"  someone asked.
	"We don't know yet.  It appears that the value of the constant *b* 
is considerably lower than Q suggested.  Computer, enlarge grid 4."  
One of the graphs increased in size.
	Q sat there in a welter of agonized humiliation as the discussion 
continued around him.  Finally someone, in an exceedingly misguided 
attempt to draw him out, asked, "Have you any theories as to why this 
is, Q?"
	"How would I know?"  Q snapped.  "It's not behaving like anything 
in *my* experience."
	"How is that possible?"  Milarca asked.  "I thought your 
experience encompassed the entire physical nature of the universe."
	"It does."
	"Then how can this be outside your experience?"
	"When you find out, I'd be delighted if you'd tell me."
	"Are you saying that this Anomaly reflects something from outside 
this universe?"  Malo Ren, the Bajoran physicist, asked.  
	"Let me guess.  The Prophets appeared to you in a vision and gave 
you your degree in physics, right?"  Q asked with as much sarcasm as he 
could muster.  
	Malo flushed.  "Well, if you don't know what it is, what business 
do you have ridiculing people for proposing theories?"  he asked hotly.  
	"Because your theories are *stupid*.  Now, pay attention this 
time.  When the boundary of an entirely separate universe touches ours, 
gravity is annihilated.  Can you say 'gravity'?  It's just three 
syllables.  Maybe if you sound it out slowly--"
	"Q, this is totally unnecessary," Dhawan snapped.  "Since you 
don't know what it is, why don't you yield the floor to someone who 
might give us a direction to look in?"
	"Fine.  Look in however many wrong directions you want to.  Just 
don't come crying to me when all your theories turn out to be hogwash," 
Q declared, and folded his arms.
	"Oh, no.  Poor baby's going to sulk,"  Yalit declared toothily, 
with great glee.  
	Markow made an artificial throat clearing noise.  "What Q was 
trying to explain, in his usual tactful fashion, is that, since 
gravitation is annihilated at the boundaries of an intrusion of one 
universe to another, this can't be the gateway to another universe, as 
the gravitation isn't behaving appropriately."
	"How do we know that's true?"  LeBeau asked belligerently.  "We 
have only Q's word for it that gravitation really is annihilated at the 
boundaries between universes, and he's just been proven a less reliable 
source than we thought."
	Someone Q didn't know said, "The gravitational theory explains the 
observed phenomena, though.  When you do a tabulation of known 
dimensional crossings, the nadion concentrations really *do* drop."
	"According to *his* figures,"  LeBeau said.  "Has anyone done an 
independent analysis?"
	This was exactly what he'd feared, exactly what he'd expected.  Q 
retreated into himself and tried to pretend he was somewhere else while 
maintaining an unchanging contemptuous scowl on his face.  
	"Computer," Sovaz said.  "Tabulate the nadion concentrations 
associated with all spatiotemporal anomalies in the databanks.  Link to 
the Vulcan Academy of Science, the Daystrom Institute, the Makropyrios, 
and the Meldat School, retrieve all data regarding spatiotemporal 
anomalies, and include that in tabulation.  Address Memory Alpha to 
determine if Starfleet Archives hold any information on such anomalies 
that Yamato does not possess, and include any such information in the 
tabulation.  Divide tabulation into four columns-- anomalies known to 
be related to other universes, anomalies known to be related to other 
causes, unknown anomalies and total-- and index each."
	"Requested operation will take three hours to complete."
	"Begin."  Sovaz raised her head and addressed the group.  "I 
strongly doubt that information collected from all the Federation's 
major repositories of astrophysical data will differ much from the data 
already held aboard Yamato, which Q used in the tabulation he 
demonstrated to us several days ago.  However, if it will stop this 
unproductive speculation about Q's reliability, I am perfectly willing 
to address every single database accessible to *Yamato,* if necessary."
	LeBeau looked away.  "That's hardly necessary.  What you're doing 
should be an adequate check, Lieutenant."
	"Of course," Yalit said, "just because *one* independent 
validation bears out doesn't mean *everything* Q says is written in 
latinum.  After all, we've seen him carelessly overlook a full spectrum 
of testing for *one* phenomenon, and turn out to be wrong since he was 
so convinced he was right.  Sloppy work, if you ask me--"
	"--which nobody did,"  Harry Roth muttered.  
	Yalit ignored him.  "Maybe everything Q's ever submitted to the 
Federation should undergo a second review.  Just to be sure.  If his 
knowledge is capable of having such holes in it--"
	"And exactly who are you to talk about what I do and do not know?"  
Q asked coldly.  He turned toward her, almost grateful for the attack, 
for an opportunity to shred somebody into paste.  "It's interesting, 
Yalit, that you're usually the first one to complain about *my* 
knowledge, and yet you've imparted none of your own to the conference.  
You haven't presented a theory or even contributed considerably to any 
that have been proposed.  Do you want to know why?"
	"Do I care why?"  she snapped back.
	Q smiled maliciously.  "Perhaps you don't, but *someone* should," 
he said.  "I've reviewed your work, Professor Yalit, *all* of it, and 
the conclusion is inescapable.  You, madam, are a fraud."
	He had the satisfaction of seeing her turn purple.  "*What* do you 
mean by that?"
	"Who cares what he means by that?"  Dhawan asked.  "He's trying to 
get your goat, Professor.  I wouldn't fall for it if I were you."
	"No, I want to hear how he could *possibly* back up an outrageous 
allegation like that.  Well, boy?"
	"Oh, in your younger days I don't dispute you were a credible 
scientist.  Nothing particularly spectacular, but certainly you showed 
promise.  But then you went home... I can't imagine why; perhaps the 
notion of being imprisoned in your own home, nude, and subject to the 
whims of the men who all but own you sends a masochistic thrill up your 
little spine... regardless of *why* you did it, you went home, and you 
have produced since then... what?  Computer, display list of papers of 
Professor Yalit since 2309."
	The computer obliged.  "Take a good look at that," Q invited the 
gathering maliciously.  "Compare that listing to anything you 
yourselves have done, and ask yourself, 'Why has someone with fewer 
papers to her name than my grad students been invited to a conference 
that *I* was told was for the elite among physicists?'"
	"You don't have any of my inventions up there!"  Yalit shouted.  
"That only reflects a small fraction of what I've done."
	"Ah yes.  Your inventions."  Q's smile grew broader.  "Well, 
you're quite the little inventor, Yalit, no one argues that.  But I 
hardly think it's fair that someone who's spent her life channeling 
whatever talent she may have into the pursuit of profit, through 
inventions she's marketed through her sons-- and charged typical 
Ferengi flesh-gouging prices for them, I might add-- and contributed 
almost nothing to the free exchange of ideas amongst sentient races in 
the galaxy, should be considered an equal with people who have spent 
most of *their* lives and careers freely sharing information for the 
betterment of all.  You have to ask yourself-- what *is* Yalit doing 
here?  Is this a sop to the Ferengi government, or some such?"
	"That is distinctly unlikely," one of the Vulcans said.  "Since 
Ferengi women are forbidden by law to leave Ferenginar or its colonies, 
it is doubtful that the Ferengi government is aware of Yalit's presence 
here."
	"Oh, they know about me," Yalit said sharply.  "None of them will 
dare lift a finger.  I know things about Grand Nagus Zek that'll keep 
the auditors *far* away from me."  She turned to Q.  "You make it sound 
as if making a profit is a bad thing," she said accusingly.
	"Dear lady, it *is*," Q said smugly.  "This is not Ferenginar, you 
know.  The ideals of Federation science state that knowledge should be 
shared, and that science progresses most quickly when it is.  Isn't it 
a Cardassian ideal to share scientific knowledge so long as that 
sharing does not conflict with the State?"  he asked Tamal suddenly, 
turning toward her.  She nodded.  Oh, this was wonderful.  "And don't 
many Bajoran sects now believe that the Prophets granted the Bajorans 
with the intelligence to understand the universe around them, and that 
scientific pursuits are a form of worship to be freely shared?"  he 
asked Malo.
	"What does that have to do with anything?"  Yalit asked 
belligerently.
	"Is there any point to this?" Dhawan asked.  "Some of us--"
	Q interrupted Dhawan, ignoring her completely.  "What that has to 
do with is your right to be here, to say anything at this conference, 
to be taken seriously as a scientist by your peers," Q said, spinning 
back to Yalit.  "You are nothing but a businesswoman, a greedy, 
grasping creature who uses her skills of intellect for personal profit 
and not scientific knowledge at all.  So what are you doing here?  What 
*right* have you to be here?"
	"I was invited!  What right have you to be here?  Don't say 
*you've* never made a profit off your knowledge-- *you* managed to buy 
an entire starbase by selling your skills to the Federation, so who are 
you to talk to me about rights?"
	Q raised an eyebrow.  "My dear woman, I do think you're getting 
overemotional.  At your age, shouldn't you be careful of your heart?"
	"You know I'm right!  You know you have no right to insult me for 
trying to make a profit off my work!"
	"Well, I suppose it would be excessively rude of me to insult you 
for selling your body at the Makropyrios for spare change," Q drawled.  
"But--"
	"That's enough!"  Dhawan shouted.  "Q, Yalit, *shut up!*"
	"Certainly," Q said pleasantly, and sat back in his chair, 
enjoying the reactions he was getting, the expressions the scientists 
were mostly trying to hide.  In his early days as a human, he had 
learned that one thing almost all academics in the Federation held 
anathema was the notion of working in business, where the need to keep 
trade secrets prevented the free exchange of ideas.  Brilliant 
scientists like Noonian Soong were routinely labeled as nutcases if 
they kept their work to themselves-- a vicious cycle, since it made 
those scientists paranoid and even more unwilling to share their work, 
but then, Q never said it was a logical practice.  For Yalit, trying to 
make a profit off her work was probably second nature-- she *was* a 
Ferengi, even if she was a woman.  But for Federation academics, 
someone who did all her work for the business sector and shared very 
little of it through peer review was not an academic, and though they 
wouldn't openly admit to the prejudice, they definitely considered such 
people lesser than they themselves.  
	He had just destroyed Yalit's reputation.  The casual revelation 
that she'd been a prostitute-- something the Ferengi saw nothing wrong 
with as long as you were good at it, but that would strike these 
academics with some degree of revulsion-- was merely icing on the cake; 
the damage was done.  And it felt good.
	"If you're done with the histrionics on a subject no one cares 
about, Lucy, can we get back to the topic at hand?"  Markow asked 
dryly.
	Q even felt better about Markow.  Perhaps his own reputation had 
been damaged by what Markow had done, but that was nothing to the 
damage he could do to other people's if they dared question him, as 
he'd just done to Yalit.  "Go right ahead," he replied, waving his hand 
expansively.  
			*				*				*