Only Human: Part I,  Section 7 of 10

Only Human

An ST:TNG Alternate Universe Novel by Alara Rogers

ONLY HUMAN is a work in progress, and it's very, very long.  I
have broken Part I (I think there will be six parts, total) into
10 subsections for ease of posting, and ease of other people
reading; Part I is over 300 K, so I've broken it into sections of
between 10 and 60 K so no one's newsreader vomits. These sections
are done with some eye to logical breaking points, such as major
scene changes, but the story was not originally written with the
need for breaking points in mind. The separate subsections do not
have individual titles; the chapter name for Part I, total, is
"Starbase 56/Enterprise".

This is, as yet, something of a draft-- if I find it necessary to
revise based on what happens in parts IV-VI, or however many I end
up writing, I will do so. The most recent version is available
from various archive sites. Check out:

ftp://ftp.netcom.com/pub/al/aleph/trek
ftp://ftp.europa.com/outgoing/mercutio/alt.fan.q
ftp://aviary.share.net/pub/startrek/incomplete (though maybe I will move
it from incomplete, if I can figure out whether it belongs in TNG or other)

http://www.europa.com/~mercutio/Q.html
http://aviary.share.net/~alara
http://www1.mhv.net/~alara/ohtree.html

ONLY HUMAN is an Aleph Press production, not-for-profit, and not
intended to infringe on anybody's copyrights.  The universe, the
Enterprise crew, and the main character were created by
Paramount; most of the secondary characters were created by me,
with the exception of yet more Paramount characters and some
other people who know who they are. Any resemblance to real
people, living or dead, is probably intentional. Send comments,
criticism, praise and flames to aleph@netcom.com. Or post your
comments here-- I have a very thick skin.


        *                   *                        *
     Data had helped him with so many things, but about the
starbase, he'd been dead wrong.
     Q would be the first to admit that he had, perhaps, not gone
as far out of his way as he could to be pleasant when he'd first
come to Starbase 56. He hadn't been able to shake the feeling of
being abandoned, and he'd been in a miserable mood when he'd
arrived-- besides, humans expected too much of him. They had all
spent their entire lives interacting with each other in a social
context, trying to make fellow humans-- or fellow sentients, in
the case of non-humans-- like them. Q's social experience was
entirely different. In the Continuum, everyone automatically knew
what everyone else was thinking. Often relationships with fellow
Q were superficially antagonistic-- it was one of the ways the
younger Q maintained their individuality against the pressure of
the Continuum overmind. As for his relationships with mortals,
while he had in the past taken on some outwardly pleasant roles,
most of his experience was with playing the devil's advocate, the
trickster, the tester of limits. That had been his chosen role,
to study mortals by challenging and antagonizing them. Now that
he *was* human, few people made allowances for where his
experience lay. They were too limited to recognize his attempts
to make emotional contact. After a while he stopped trying, by
which time he was thoroughly despised by every last soul on the
starbase.
     There was also the fact that the work he'd taken on was
outrageously difficult. His intelligence had, of course, been
lowered tremendously by his transformation. There were concepts
he had understood with ease once, that now he could no longer
even remember. Anything his mortal brain couldn't handle, he had
lost the knowledge of. So anything he remembered and understood
had to be something that it was at least theoretically possible
for humanoid mortals to comprehend. 
     It was something of a boost to his ego to discover how much
more he understood than the scientists who came to him; he might
be human, but at least he was a human genius. However, as much of
an ego boost as it might be, it was a definite disadvantage in
teaching. The Federation had said it would send its best and
brightest. In Q's opinion, they were either lying or their best
and brightest were utterly pathetic. Only a very few people could
understand most of everything he tried to convey without a dog
and pony show for explanation. Most of the scientists who came to
him needed to have things explained, and explained again, and
explained in different terms, and still they didn't get it, until
Q wanted to drop-kick them into the nearest black hole.
Discussions of history and anthropology were somewhat better; if
he remembered an alien culture well enough to discuss it, he was
usually able to explain it in terms the historians could
understand without too much difficulty. But physics was a
nightmare. 
     There were a few bright spots. On the rare occasions when
the scientists sent to him could follow him without difficulty,
discussing physics, or anything, was intensely pleasurable. He
enjoyed being the center of attention, and he enjoyed stimulating
conversations. Perversely, that made it so much worse when he had
to teach stupid people-- perhaps if he'd never known teaching
could be enjoyable, it wouldn't have been so unbearable when it
wasn't.
     Other problems plagued him. He had never gotten used to
sleeping, or to dreams. Constant nightmares made him an
insomniac, terrified by sleep, and so he needed to take sedatives
almost every night. And then there were the perpetual tiny aches
and pains that apparently came with being human; he'd almost
forgotten what it felt like not to hurt. At first, he consumed
painkillers as if they were candy; when he started needing higher
and higher dosages, though, Dr. Li had restricted his access to
them. Fearing that Li would do the same with the sedatives, or
that Anderson would use control of his drug supply to control
him, he had started stockpiling sedatives in his quarters, which
meant there were several nights when he had to go without, and
either stay up all night or suffer his dreams. The lack of his Q
senses had never stopped bothering him. There were times when he
would look out at the stars and realize he would never see them
in their true beauty again, never watch the dancing ions at the
core of the nuclear bridal chamber in the stars' hearts, and he
would come perilously close to weeping. He would never create
anything again-- he had tried his hand at holosculpture and a few
other creative arts, and destroyed his own creations in rage at
how far they fell short of what he'd once been capable of. 
     The first year, he'd felt like he had a purpose. Following
his warning about the coming Borg invasion, Starfleet took him up
on his offer to help them prepare. He had worked feverishly in
cooperation with Starfleet scientists and engineers, helping them
design shields that might hold against the Borg, weapons that
could damage the machine entities; had talked to Starfleet
tacticians, telling them everything he knew about the enemy.
Studying the Borg had been a minor hobby of his, as studying
humanity itself had been; his knowledge of the cyborg race was
extensive. He had been glued to his viewscreen with everyone else
on the starbase as the battle reports from Wolf 359 came in. And
when the Borg invasion had been driven back, the Borg themselves
crippled and possibly destroyed forever, he had felt a tremendous
sense of accomplishment. He had helped save his adopted species
from destruction. Better still, they knew it. His role in the
battle was acknowledged and thanked. For a while, even on
Starbase 56, where familiarity had long ago bred contempt, people
were genuinely grateful to him, and it showed.
     Things had gone downhill after that. The emotional high of
the successful fight against the Borg gave way to an emotional
low, as his life seemed to lose purpose. That was when his
teaching work started to become unbearable, when Starfleet seemed
to inflict truly stupid people on him in droves. One night, as he
prepared to take his sedative, the pointlessness of it all
overwhelmed him, and he took the entire amount of sedative he'd
stockpiled, planning to sleep forever.
     He'd woken up in sickbay, having been found unconscious by
Commodore Anderson and a security escort. For a while after that,
everyone went out of their way to be kind to him. That helped. He
enjoyed the attention and the solicitude-- it made him feel much
better, enough better that he no longer wanted to die. But things
got bad again before long. He had been placed on medical
restriction, no longer permitted to replicate or stockpile any
medical supplies in his quarters-- he had to go to sickbay every
time he needed a painkiller or sedative, which got very tedious
very fast. When a well-liked officer was killed protecting him
against yet another alien with a grudge, the mood on the starbase
turned ugly. Q began to fear that his protectors no longer wished
to play that role, and might themselves kill him. Once again
overcome by despair, Q took an antique ceramic mug that he kept
in his quarters, smashed it, and slashed his wrists with the
sharp edges.
     Later he found out he'd done it wrong. Not only were the
cuts too shallow, but he'd cut across his wrists, not along them,
making it much easier for him to be saved. 24th century medical
technology took away even the scars. This time he got no
sympathy. People-- Commodore Eleanor Anderson and Dr. Brian Li in
particular-- seemed to think he'd done it to get attention.
Medellin had rescued him from the pits of despair only by
pointing out to him that the Continuum still might take him back.
That tiny hope had been all that kept him going for months
afterward. And gradually, he lost even that.
     Over time, Q sank into a terrible numbness, a soul-
destroying ennui. The acute desperation of those two terrible
nights faded, replaced by a lack of ability to feel much of
anything at all. He made Anderson's life hell just to give
himself something to do. He tormented the scientists who came to
him because he wasn't allowed to refuse to see them-- like a
prostitute with an unforgiving and greedy pimp, he had no choice
about who used his services. His movements were restricted,
ostensibly to keep him safe, and his quarters were stripped of
sharp and breakable objects. For a while, they'd even put a
monitor in, but he'd gone on a hunger strike until they took it
out. He had done his best to hide his growing disgust with his
life-- none of them had the power to help him, and he'd grown
sick of their useless pity. And their incompetent attempts at
counseling, like Medellin's suggestion of a vacation. As if a
vacation could help. As if anything could help.
     Q had planned and researched this, determined not to be
saved from himself this time. He had searched for a loophole in
the interdict on medical supplies or sharp objects, and found
that he could still get recreational materials out of his
replicator, such as art supplies. Back when he'd experimented
with creative arts, he'd used a highly corrosive acid as an
etching solution, and he remembered the danger warnings on the
bottle. If there was a more poisonous substance available, he
hadn't heard of it. He'd gotten the stuff a week ago, and had
spent the time considering his decision, weighing the pain it
would cause him against the pain of staying alive.
     His mind was made up now.
     *All you folks out there in the gallery, it might be a good
idea to get out your popcorn and peanuts and sit down to watch.
No doubt you'll find this vastly entertaining.*
     "Cheers," he said, raised the bottle to his lips, and drank.

     Medellin stopped by Anderson's office on her way to her own.
Anderson glanced up. "Did you have your conversation with Mr.
Sunshine?" she asked.
     "Yes." Medellin sat down. "I think Sekal was right to be
worried, Lea. He's pretty bad. I'd like your authorization to
send him on vacation."
     "On vacation." Anderson mulled it over. "Vacation where? And
are you sure that'll help any, Nian?"
     "I don't know if it'll help-- but he's not enjoying his
work, he has no social life here--"
     "That's hardly our fault," Anderson said, somewhat
acerbically. "If he wanted a social life, he might consider being
fractionally less of an asshole."
     Medellin sighed. "No, it's not our fault, but we're not
really the ones paying the price for it. Q is. It was stupid and
shortsighted of him to antagonize everyone, but I'm not sure he
understood how important it is to have good relations with one's
co-workers... and now, of course, there's a snowball effect
involved. It would take such a herculean effort for Q to change
his image on the starbase now that I don't think he's capable of
it, even if I convinced him that that's what he needs. No, I
think he needs to get away for a few weeks. Do you realize that
everyone on this base except for him has either taken leave or a
vacation in the past three years?"
     Anderson frowned. "I thought everyone was required to take
leave at least once a year."
     "Everyone in Starfleet is. Q's not Starfleet. All our other
civilians have spent *some* time off the base in the past three
years-- he hasn't. I'd like to send him to Earth, Commodore--
there's no way some alien assassin is going to get through
Earth's defenses. He should be as safe there as he is here."
     "On the other hand, Earth's hardly a place we want alien
assassins to be trying to get to. There's a reason we're out in
the middle of nowhere, you know."
     "Three weeks or so isn't really enough time for anyone to
track him down. Especially if he goes incognito, we can prevent
anyone from tracking him through mundane means. There are all
these psionic aliens and beings that manage to find him by what
might as well be magic to worry about still, but... for three
weeks? Don't you think it's a justified risk? He's so miserable,
Lea. We've got to do *something*."
     "I'm not convinced Earth's the best place. And what about
all the people I've got lined up with appointments to speak with
him?"
     "If he kills himself, they won't get to talk with him
either."
     Anderson nodded. "That's true. We'll just have to--"
     The intercom interrupted her. "Ops to Commodore Anderson."
     She sighed. "Hang on to that thought, Nian." She touched her
combadge. "Anderson here."
     "We've got a visitor-- a Dr. T'Laren off the Ketaya-- here
to see Q."
     "She's not scheduled, is she?" If she was, there had been a
phenomenal screw-up somewhere along the line, as Anderson hadn't
been notified of the appointment. She had given Q the next few
days off on the assumption that he had no visitors scheduled.
     "She's got a priority code from Starfleet."
     Anderson's head was starting to throb. "Dock her and let her
in to see me. I'll decide if her business warrants seeing Q
without an appointment or not."
     Medellin stood up. "Do you want me to go see if he's in any
shape to take visitors?"
     "Yes, good idea." Anderson pressed her hand to her head and
massaged her throbbing temples as Medellin left. Sending Q on
vacation was sounding like an awfully good idea, since it would
give Anderson a vacation from Q. She'd have to consider whether
or not it was too risky to send him to Earth, but certainly it
seemed a gift from heaven to have him go *somewhere* else.
Anywhere that wasn't Starbase 56.

     Medellin headed away from Anderson's office, toward the
section of the base where Starfleet personnel, VIPs, and Q were
quartered. Something was nagging at the back of her head,
something she'd done, or hadn't done. She reviewed her
conversation with Q earlier this morning. Was there something
she'd left undone there? Something she hadn't said?
     What if his condition was even worse than she'd guessed?
     A sudden horrible premonition struck her. Medellin broke
into a run, charging down the corridors. Though her ESP rating
was minimal, barely above human average, though she'd never
suffered a premonition before, she *knew* that something terrible
had happened. 
     She ran through the foyer to Q's suite, skidded to a halt in
front of the door and touched the panel to open. The door
remained shut-- locked. "Computer, open door. Medical override,
Counselor Medellin!"
     The door slid open. Medellin ran inside, through the living
quarters of the suite, back into the bedroom. Q lay sprawled
face-down on the floor of the bedroom, a half-empty bottle of
colorless liquid lying near his hand, its contents spilled in a
pool on the floor. It smelled strongly of acid. There were
splashes of blood lying in and around the acid pool, fresh and
bright red. Medellin ran to Q, hitting her combadge. "Medellin to
transporter room, medical emergency! Transport Q and myself to
sickbay immediately!"
     A moment later there was no one in the room. The etching
solvent continued to spill slowly onto the floor, eroding the
rug.

     Anderson stood to greet T'Laren as the visitor entered her
office. As the name suggested, T'Laren was a female Vulcan, with
the typical swarthy skin and dark eyes of that species. She was
striking, interesting-looking, but far from beautiful. Her eyes
were big and wide-set, her nose was a tad too long for human
standards of beauty, and her chin was a bit on the strong side.
She was tall, though not nearly as tall as Anderson, and her body
was somewhat gawky and thin, dressed in a blue civilian shipsuit
that emphasized her gawkiness. She appeared to be in her late
twenties, which probably translated to late thirties or early
forties for a Vulcan. What saved her from complete nondescript
plainness was a pair of magnificent Vulcan cheekbones and a very
un-Vulcan pile of curly black hair, cut in only the vaguest
approximation of the typical Vulcan bowl cut. Anderson stared for
a moment. She had met Vulcans with odd coloring, such as blonde
or redhaired Vulcans, but she'd never met one without
relentlessly straight hair. T'Laren's hair was short, but it was
most definitely curly. Unruly wisps of it fell down, partially
obscuring the points of her ears.
     Anderson bowed slightly, the accepted form of greeting with
Vulcans. "Dr. T'Laren. I confess this is something of a surprise-
- I hadn't been notified you were coming."
     "I hope it wasn't any inconvenience," T'Laren said. Anderson
had to fight to keep a straight face. T'Laren spoke English with
a Texas accent. Faint, but unmistakable.
     *Who is this woman?*
     "Not an inconvenience-- exactly," Anderson said. She
gestured at a chair. "Sit down if you like." 
     T'Laren seated herself, and Anderson did likewise. "If it
wasn't exactly an inconvenience, I have to assume it was
something close to one, or you'd have said, 'No, not at all.' So
in what sense is my visit presenting problems?"
     "Well, your timing is bad. Q's been very depressed lately.
The situation's been worsened by some recent bad news-- his first
contact with humanity, Captain Jean-Luc Picard, recently passed
away, and Q asked me for a few days off to mourn him. Or to do
something. You have to understand, Doctor." What was she a doctor
of, anyway? "Q is difficult enough to deal with when he's feeling
well. I could order him to see you, but he's depressed enough to
make your life and mine hell for it. Especially since I promised
him a few days off."
     "By all means, give him time off. I would like him to hear
me out in a reasonable mood."
     "You might have to wait a while. Q's very rarely in a
reasonable mood."
     "I know. I've studied his psychological profile in detail."
     Anderson frowned. Few scientists who came to speak with Q
bothered to look at his psych profile. Actually, few would even
have access to it. "What exactly is your business with Q?" she
asked. 
     T'Laren raised an eyebrow. "Starfleet didn't notify you,
then. You not only weren't told I was coming-- you weren't told
who I am." 
     "They didn't tell me a damn thing, Doctor. You're not on our
schedule-- I don't even know what your specialty is."
     "Xenopsychology, specializing in human."
     Anderson stared at her blankly. "Then what do you want to
talk to Q for? He knows less about human psychology, or anyone's
psychology, than anyone you're ever likely to meet."
     "Ah. You mistake my purpose here. I'm not here to see Q in
the sense most of your visitors are, Commodore-- it would be more
precise to say I'm here *for* Q." T'Laren steepled her hands in
front of her. "Starfleet Command's psychology division has grown
somewhat concerned that we may lose him. I'm sure you're aware of
what a valuable resource Q is for the Federation--"
     "A day doesn't go by without him reminding me," Anderson
said dryly. "Let me get this straight. You're a psychologist for
humans, and you're here to counsel Q?"
     "I am a xenopsychologist. My specialty is humans, but I'm
acquainted with the psychology of numerous species. And I'm not
precisely here to counsel Q. I'm here to take him with me."
     "Mind telling me why?"
     "Not at all. It is the opinion of Starfleet Command-- and
having studied your Counselor Medellin's reports, I concur-- that
Starbase 56 is doing an admirable job of protecting Q from
physical dangers, but is itself an unhealthy environment for his
psyche. It's obvious that you dislike him, from the little you've
said in our conversation so far."
     "Everyone dislikes him, Doctor-- he's not a likable person.
He goes out of his way to make people's lives hell. He's
obnoxious, insubordinate, amoral, and unbelievably selfish. If he
has a good point, I can't think of it offhand."
     "And is this opinion shared by others on your starbase?"
     Anderson sighed. "Counselor Medellin is a bit more forgiving
than I am. Commander Sekal is a Vulcan and can put up with him.
Other than that-- yes, I'd have to say everyone shares that
opinion. Dr. T'Laren, you don't know him. You haven't seen what
he can do."
     "I've studied his psych profile-- which concurs with you. He
has no social skills. Unfortunately for him, he comes from a
social species and has been adopted into one. He has as much need
for social contact as any human-- he simply has no idea how to
get it."
     "And taking him off the starbase is supposed to give it to
him?"
     "He's not only suffering a lack of friends, Commodore. He's
suffering a loss of freedom as well. We're discussing an entity
who at one point had complete freedom of the universe. We have
confined a being who is accustomed to traveling between galaxies
to a single starbase, and expect him to adjust to it."
     T'Laren had said nothing in an accusatory tone; everything
was even and matter-of-fact. In the case of Vulcans, however, it
was usually more what they said than how they said it, and
Anderson was detecting a lot of accusatory implications.
Defensively she said, "It was his choice! He agreed to come here
for protection-- he couldn't survive away from the base's
defenses!" 
     "I'm not accusing you of anything, Commodore Anderson."
T'Laren looked startled that someone would make that inference.
"You've done the best you could in a very trying situation. But I
believe that right now, the greatest danger to Q is himself. I
believe that the environment on Starbase 56 is causing or at
least exacerbating his depression, and I believe that I can't
hope to treat the condition until he's been removed from the
situation. I--"
     Medellin's voice over the com interrupted T'Laren.
"Commodore, this is Nian. We've got an emergency in sickbay with
Q."
     Anderson was on her feet. "He tried to kill himself again?"
     Medellin's voice was grim. "He might have succeeded this
time."
     "On my way."
     T'Laren stood also. "I'd like to come as well, Commodore."
     "Right." Anderson had no intention of standing around and
arguing. If the woman was supposed to be Q's new psychiatrist,
she might as well see what she was up against. "Come on."

     Sickbay was in chaos. Dr. Li and a sizable portion of his
medical staff were clustered around one bed, presumably Q's--
even as tall as Anderson was, she couldn't see over the mass of
heads and bodies surrounding the bed. Medellin was by the door,
hands clasped together in front of her. "It's my fault,
Commodore," she said, voice wretched with guilt. "I should have
had him on a suicide watch immediately. I missed the signs
completely."
     "We'll assign blame later, Counselor. I want to know what
happened."
     "I had a premonition that something bad had happened to him-
- maybe I sensed my mistake earlier. I ran all the way to his
room. When I got there, I found him on the floor. He'd drunk half
a bottle of acid etching solution." Her recitation was calm,
focused, at odds with her miserable expression. "He couldn't have
done it more than thirty seconds before I got there. If I'd been
a fraction faster, I could have gotten to him before he had a
chance to drink."
     "It was suicide, though. Not another mistake." In Q's first
few months at Starbase 56, he had turned up at sickbay more than
once with a case of gastric upset from eating something he hadn't
known not to eat-- though none of his mistakes had been of this
magnitude. 
     Medellin shook her head. "It was most definitely suicide. Q
hasn't made mistakes like that in years. Besides, he had to have
gone out of his way to get that bottle. He hasn't done anything
like etching in two years."
     "All right." Anderson tapped her combadge. "Anderson to
Engineering."
     The chief engineer answered. "Goetz here, Commodore."
     "Get someone to find out for me when and where Q got hold of
a bottle of etching solution."
     "Yes, sir."
     T'Laren asked, "Are you accustomed to having premonitions,
Counselor?"
     "Not at all." Medellin flushed slightly. "I guess it wasn't
logical-- I've got no esper rating worth speaking of. But I was
just overwhelmingly *sure*--"
     "I would hardly call it illogical, since you proved to be
right. Few Vulcans acknowledge the value of intuition, Counselor,
but I've found one can't be more than a mediocre therapist
without it. Undoubtedly you subconsciously realized the strength
of his suicidal tendencies."
     "Maybe that was it," Medellin agreed, without sounding very
convinced.
     "Never mind how you found him," Anderson said. "The question
I'm worried about is if you found him in time. What's Li say his
chances are?"
     Medellin shook her head, the miserable expression creeping
across it again. "I don't know. They haven't had time to brief me
yet."
     "Right." Anderson looked over at Li, trying to see his face.
She recognized that look of grim desperation. Q's chances for
survival were just barely this side of impossible, if Li's face
was to be believed-- and Anderson would have staked more than her
own life on her ability to read the people under her command, and
on Li's diagnostic skills. "Let's wait out here. Dr. T'Laren,
assuming he *does* pull through, what was this plan of yours
again?"
     "I plan to take him with me. Ketaya is a small prototype
vessel with the capacity for extremely high speed; it's not
heavily armed, but it's capable of running away from almost
anything. We could outrun a Galaxy-class starship as if it were
standing still. Q would be almost as safe from external threats
aboard Ketaya as he is here. He would also be out of the
atmosphere of Starbase 56, which I think is essential as a first
step."
     "You want to take him on vacation." Medellin managed to
produce a tiny smile. "I was just recommending that to him and to
Commodore Anderson."
     "Not vacation, precisely. I think it would be bad for him to
have no work to do."
     "But he hates his work."
     "More precisely, he hates the sort of people he's been
seeing lately in his work. From your own reports, Counselor, it
seems obvious that he would take considerably more pleasure in it
if he could choose who he saw. There are several places I had
thought to take him, if he wished it-- the wormhole near Bajor,
the singularity near the Abister system, the annual
archaeological conference on Chatimore. An opportunity to see the
wonders of the galaxy once again, to travel freely and provide
his knowledge to beings of his own choosing..."
     "You do realize what you're setting yourself up for, though,
don't you, Doctor?" Anderson leaned forward slightly. "Even
Vulcans aren't immune to him. He just has to work harder to annoy
them. I can promise you, though, he'll do it. I've never seen
anyone so dedicated to making other people's lives miserable."
     "Has it occurred to you that a large part of that is because
he is so miserable himself?"
     Anderson shook her head. "Have you read the Enterprise
reports on him? He's spent millions of years making people
miserable. It's got nothing to do with his own state of mind. He
just enjoys it."
     "I will draw my own conclusions," T'Laren said, with a
slight tilt of the head that might have been a Vulcan shrug. "I
can assure you that he cannot offend me unless I choose to be
offended. I am sufficiently empathic to understand his pain and
sufficiently Vulcan not to be vulnerable to his personality. My
hope is to teach him how to behave as a social being, so this
sort of thing doesn't happen again."
     Anderson's combadge bleeped. "Goetz to Commodore Anderson.
We've found where he got the etching solution from."
     "Go ahead."
     "Personal replicator. It's not properly cross-listed; the
computer lists it under recreational art supplies, not dangerous
chemicals. He just asked for it. About a week ago."
     "Damn." Anderson's fair skin darkened with anger. That was a
tremendous oversight on someone's part. Until they had the system
suicide-proofed, they couldn't let Q anywhere near a replicator.
"We're going to have to restrict him from using the replicators
at all except under supervision."
     T'Laren frowned slightly. "That wouldn't be wise. Commodore,
the problem is that Q is suicidal. Putting him on a suicide watch
and protecting him from dangerous objects can only go so far.
Sooner or later, he will end his own life, unless we treat the
cause and not the symptom."
     "Assuming he lives at all. We're all assuming he'll pull
through this." Anderson glanced up as a nurse approached. "Did Li
send you to report?"
     "Yes, Commodore." The nurse was a young man, probably fresh
out of the Academy. He looked bone-weary. "The chances aren't
very good, I'm afraid. Dr. Li's trying to stabilize his condition
long enough for us to replace the damaged organs, but... Q
managed to take out most of his intestinal tract with that stuff,
and he's badly damaged his windpipe and hurt his lungs. Even if
we get all the relevant organs cloned and transplanted in time,
the shock might still kill him. Dr. Li said to tell you that
frankly, it'll be a miracle if he pulls through."
     "Damn," Anderson whispered. Despite Medellin's eagerness to
accept blame, she felt personally responsible. Q was a person
under her command, dammit. He had come here for protection, and
she'd failed him.
     Medellin bit her lip. "Commodore, I hereby offer my
resignation as base counselor. I've failed in my duty."
     "Don't be stupid, Nian. This is my fault as much as it is
yours. Sekal warned me last night, and I didn't suggest you talk
to him until this morning."
     "I would not give up hope," T'Laren said suddenly.
"Considering who we're dealing with... I wouldn't consider a
miracle to be an impossibility."
     She stood up. "I will return to my ship, if that's
acceptable, Commodore," she said. "I'd like to be notified if
there's any change in Q's condition."
     "That's fine." Anderson stood as well. "If Q does survive,
Doctor, I'm willing to implement your proposal. You can't
possibly do a worse job than we have."

     Back aboard Ketaya, T'Laren first checked her ship's status.
Maintenance procedures were going smoothly, no cause for alarm.
She looked up at the ceiling and spoke to emptiness.
     "You would hardly have invested this much in preparing me if
I were only to arrive too late," she said. "Am I to assume that a
miracle will take place on schedule?"
     *You take a lot for granted*, a voice in her head said.
*What makes you think we're planning to intervene? Maybe we'll
just let events take their course.*
     "I know you, Lhoviri," T'Laren said sharply. "It might not
have cost you much effort to save me, not in your terms, but it
cost effort nonetheless. You wouldn't have done it if you didn't
plan to use me. And as I have not been placed in a position to
counsel the dead..."
     "Touch‚." Lhoviri materialized in a burst of light,
appearing as a ruddy-faced, blond human male leaning insouciantly
against the back wall of Ketaya's bridge. "Let's put it this way.
There won't be any *obvious* miracles. He's going to feel like
hell for quite a while-- as well he should. That was a stupid
stunt if ever he pulled a stupid stunt."
     "Did you give a premonition to Counselor Medellin, or was
that her native ability?"
     Lhoviri grinned. "Hey, I can't tell you *all* our secrets.
You figure it out."
     "Did you know he would do this before I could talk to him?"
     "It was a possibility," Lhoviri agreed. "There were other
possibilities as well that we took into account, but we
definitely considered this one pretty plausible. Interesting
suicide method he chose-- fits in with his flair for melodrama,
but I wouldn't have thought he'd be able to face that much pain.
Do you have any idea how much it hurts to drink liquid corro-
sive?"
     "Having never done so, I cannot say I do."
     "No. You picked a pretty melodramatic method yourself, mind
you, but this one's positively grotesque." Lhoviri pushed off
from the wall and wandered over to the console. "Looks pretty
good. I suspect you'll be able to talk to him in three or four
days. He won't be able to talk back too well, not after he
destroyed his throat, but then there's millions of beings that
would consider that an ideal situation for dealing with him." He
flashed another grin at T'Laren. "So. Holding up pretty well
under the pressure? Your little talk with Surak still helping?"
     "Immensely. Thank you."
     "Maybe you'd like to give me a more appropriate name?"
     T'Laren looked at him, and deliberately smiled. "I find
Lhoviri to be a thoroughly appropriate name for you," she said.
     "You still don't trust me."
     "I never will. I will serve you until I die, to the best of
my ability. But I never will trust you, Lhoviri. The power
inequity between us is too great. If I trusted you, I would have
to worship you, and you are not the aspect of the All I would
choose to honor."
     "I like a woman who knows who her gods are," Lhoviri said.
"You're right-- you shouldn't trust me. I'm about as ruthless a
creature as you're likely to meet, and your welfare isn't my top
priority. But then, you knew that. And it's not as if you've
gotten no benefits from me."
     "No," T'Laren said softly. "I didn't say I hadn't. I owe you
an incalculable amount."
     "You owe me your life," Lhoviri said. "Don't forget it."
     "I owe you my sanity," T'Laren said, "and that is a far
greater debt. Don't worry, Lhoviri. I will do what you expect of
me, as well as I can."
     "Hey. That's all I can ask. You're only mortal, after all."
     He vanished in another burst of light. T'Laren headed for
her quarters aboard Ketaya. There would be some waiting to do.