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   Q Music

The following is a piece of fanfic I wrote because nobody else will. Well, no one I know personally, anyway. It stars Q and Picard and the gang, and it's pretty much a sequel to "From Me to Q." In other words, if you want to read the earlier story without already knowing how it ends, stop reading this right now and go to the first story. It's rated PG (insert standard disclaimer here about how I don't know the difference between PG and PG-13, which is true).

Paramount owns all the Star Trek characters, and so shouldn't mind me at all. Stella, however, is all mine.

And if you like it or not, I'd sure like to know what you think of my story at [email protected]. [This is not a working address.]

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There were two things wrong with Hell's Pitt, and only the regulars could spot them.

The uninitiated wouldn't have known what to look for. The glasses were chipped and poorly washed, the synthetic booze brought tears even to eyes unequipped to cry, and the smoke from a variety of unhealthy vices had caused some of the less hearty to don their breathing gear. There was little light, less space, no room, and not even an attempt at a lull in the ear-pounding blend of music and shouting. The automated table servers took the place of any bartender, and the manager was only rumored to exist.

The patrons were themselves what you would expect: spacers and smugglers, loaders and fuelers, drug dealers and untalented engineers. Little business went on in Hell's Pitt, because the clientele rarely had more money than what was needed to meet the cover and get drunk. Occasionally one of the couples would lurch up from a table and head to one of the rooms upstairs, only the seriousness of the eyes betraying which of the pair was the professional. Sometimes a fight started, but unless someone were hurt badly, no one noticed. The furniture wasn't breakable.

There was certainly nothing unusual about how the crystal singer looked. She was human, but many singers were in this part of town. And she had the same well-insulated body they all did, and the same glazed look in her eyes as she did the typical bump-and-grind to the song she was playing. Her little dress, the high skirt showing off her pale and heavy thighs, was some dark color of cheap cloth, and even the double ring of crystals around her right ankle were the same shape, color, and size as every other singer who'd worked the Pitt. There was a little dirt on the feet planted over the large crystal in the stage floor, and a little blood in her noseclip.

To understand the first thing wrong that night, one had to listen to the singer. Only then would one notice that she was far too good for the place. The song, Terran and obviously quite old, had none of the tinny, flat, garbled, or mis-matched quality one should have expected in a place like the Pitt, and the emotional impact on the crowd suggested, despite her humanity, a surprisingly strong reverb. In fact, her entire concert was exceptional.

Which led to the second wrong thing. The Pitt was always crowded, but tonight it was absolutely crammed. Those used to a bit of elbow room were snarling almost constantly at the "tourists," and the unbreakability of the furniture was being put to an unprecedented test.

All of which suited Stella fine. The more reverb she got from the crowd, the better, even if she were swallowing more blood than usual. She loved this song, and as it turned towards the home stretch her whole body was arching back in the power of it.

I can't show you how I feel,
My heart is like a wheel.
Let me roll it!

One of the smaller crystals around the base gave out with the beat, and some of the patrons knew enough to applaud or stamp their feet. Stella dimly felt her legs tremble as she shimmied ever closer to the floor. Back and forth, her arms up, her head back, eyes open and seeing nothing but the colors of the music in her aching head.

Let me roll it to you!

Then there was the part she loved, the double beat and the little scream, and then the final play of chords, and then the quick fade out.

Her set over, Stella dropped her arms and stepped back out of the spotlight, ignoring the calls for more. She was done for the night.

The tunnel to her room was short and secure and she paid no more attention to where her feet were taking her than she did to the dizziness that made those feet numb. She'd broken more than one toe on her way off the stage, caught up so completely in her post-performance high. God, she felt wonderful, absolutely on top of the universe. Reaching her room, she stood for several moments without purpose, wanting nothing more than to concentrate on the imbued warmth within her mind, the play of motion and light into shapes and colors she had seen only at her happiest moments.

But she was only going to suffocate if she didn't patch up her nose.

The room contained little but the bed, a chair, and a chest she opened with a thumbscan. Inside were two dresses like the one she wore, her medkit, and a crystal scanner.

Inside the medkit, second-hand Starfleet, of course, she found the sealer and closed up the open capillaries in her nose and around her sinus. A painkiller helped but also did away with the remains of her high, and with steady hands she drew out her noseclip, scowled at it, and made her way into the bathroom where she flushed out the congealing blood and left her clip to dry.

"Don't you ever get tired of that?"

With a broad smile, Stella returned to her bedroom and let her eyes wander over the form now reclining on her bed. He was wearing a slightly up-scale version of the sort of outfits the Pitt's clientele slouched into every morning: frayed pants, suggestively vague military tunic, belt with packs that suggested an assortment of contraband and weapons. He even had a bottle of some sweet-smelling ale in his hand, held loosely by the neck. As she watched, he produced a second bottle and handed it to her.

The lager went down smooth and cold, and she emptied it in several large and loud swallows. He raised an eyebrow at her as she smothered a burp, simultaneously calling attention to her gusto and to the plate of food at the end of the bed. It held her favorite: a broad variety of sushi from planets she didn't even want to try to name, and she sat at his feet to eat. She wasn't hungry, actually. But her stomach was empty.

"What would I do without you?" she asked around a mouthful of Twellian mackerel and white rice.

"Nothing."

She couldn't help smiling again at the old joke, and raised the refilled bottle to her lips.

"I knocked their socks off tonight," she said, reaching for Romulan sea urchin wrapped in spinach kelp. The sesame seeds tasted sweet. "You should have seen it."

"Caught the last two numbers, actually, Stell. I thought for a moment there you were going to give them all a thrill and strip. I hear you make more money that way."

"Really? I'll have to remember that."

"You'll have to lose a few pounds first."

"They like 'em chubby around here."

"They won't hire you if they think you'll break the stage."

"Not like breaking crystals, is it?"

"Not really."

"Maybe you could strip and I'll keep my own act."

"Well, I guess I walked into that one."

Stella looked at him in surprise. "You're being easy on me tonight."

"Pity, I assure you. You look like hell."

"Feel like it." She finished the sushi and the ale, and this time the liquid wasn't replaced. She tossed the bottle in the air and watched it flash out, then stretched out her comfortable body and laid down on her bed. In seconds, she was asleep.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"It's not a question of politics, Jean-Luc. It's a question of genocide."

The captain bit back the obvious reply to that and tried to figure out the best way to get off the commline without starting another war.

"Diplomatic relations have always worked before to --"

"The only diplomatic relations we've had with the Breen have involved nothing more than drawing lines and hissing at each other." Admiral Gates was hissing pretty fiercely himself. "We know practically nothing about them except that every now and then we lose people to them and have to draw more lines."

"The Breen have respected our territory better than many of our isolationist neighbors."

"And we have respected theirs. With this latest incident, however, that seems to count for nothing."

Picard made sure his agreement with that last part did not show on his face. The Breen were not exactly renowned for remembering kindnesses. The "incident" in question was hardly Starfleet's fault, but the belligerent and mysterious race was still demanding full reparation for the loss of two hundred miners, three cargo ships, and a staggering array of mining equipment. The Tholians, in their own way, had told the Breen to go to hell.

"I'm telling you, Jean-Luc, the Tholians will not back down from this either. With both of them pointing fingers at us, we're going to be blamed for the worst war since the Klingons went at the Romulans."

The admiral's hyperbole was starting to sour the taste of the tea Picard deliberately brought to his lips. He was distracted by his own stall. When had this become a prop instead of a simple drink? Was he going to be nothing at the end of his career but a collection of affectations and diseased brain matter?

Viciously he shook the thought off and looked down into Gates' eyes with a calming determination. It was time to forward the Enterprise's proposal.

"Sir, the Tholians and the Breen were both at fault and both innocent in their attempt to mine the Estoplin Asteroid Belt. And the damage there has been done and cannot be repaired or repaid on either side. It was the Federation's responsibility to keep track of all commercial activity in the area, but the fact that both Tholian and Breen miners were operating outside normal channels has made us look incompetent and them look bad. What we need is a mutual area of interest, a common ground simply to get them together and recognize that their cooperation is still quite beneficial to both of them.

"What sort of common ground?"

"Both races are in the habit of holding conferences in the midst of cultural celebrations. I believe the Breen are motivated from the belief that a crowd lessens the chance of the other side attacking their own, and the Tholians because they consider all such talks hardly worth the effort and want to make it worth their while."

"What sort of cultural celebration did you have in mind?"

Picard allowed a small smile. "It turns out we're rather fortunate there, Admiral --"

"I've told you to call me Mike, Jean-Luc."

And I'd want to if you didn't keep interrupting me every five seconds. "Of course, Mike, but we are fortunate. The Fanh are holding their biannual competition of crystal singers, and, when we made some discreet inquiries, were delighted at the idea of holding a conference there as well. In fact, they seem to have had a great deal of experience at such things."  "The Fanh? They've got that big crystal, right? Biggest in the sector?"

Picard was surprised that Gates knew anything about it, but didn't let it show. The discovery of the crystal sixty-five years ago had turned Fanh into an instant center of the industry. In only a few years, they went from a somewhat unimportant world of mining guilds into a tourist mecca of crystal singing, uncovering several other sizable crystals, most of which they had sold to Breen and Tholian worlds. "Yes. They claim that their competition is the most prestigious in the Alpha Quadrant."

"They're not lying," Gates said, surprising Picard further. The admiral explained: "My wife is the chief medical officer of the Kermode. She's treated more crystal addiction in the past five months they've been in the Alton Sector than she's seen her whole life. I've heard from her that the Fanh practically control the industry."

"Crystal addiction?"

"Most humanoid brains and circulatory systems can't take the pressure and begin to break down after a few years of exposure. Most human singers don't reach thirty-five, you know, especially the ones who start early."

"I'm afraid I'm mostly ignorant of the art, myself."

"Well, it doesn't hold the same appeal for humans that it does for races like the Breen. We're not on the right frequency. Your Betazoid counselor should be able to fill you in, though. They support the art fiercely, even though they have few singers themselves."

"In fact, using this conference was her idea."

Gates nodded sharply. "I see nothing wrong with your plan. How long will it take the Enterprise to get to Fanh?"

"Three days, in plenty of time for the start of the competition."

"Excellent. I'll start setting it up from my end. We're going to need at least one legitimate competitor from a Federation world there to represent our interests. I'll see who I can get. Oh, and Jean-Luc?"

"Yes...Mike?"

"The Breen know about the Ha'tel, you know. Doesn't hurt."

The captain of the Enterprise nodded and held his expression until the viewscreen clicked off, then sighed angrily and went to put his cold tea in the replicator for disposal. Perhaps the Breen should know all about Q as well. It had been six months now, and he still hadn't made up his mind how to feel about Ca'ail's sacrifice. Why had she (or he) come back and done that? Surely making it to the end of eternity had some sort of reward other than coming back to be torn to bits by a vortex.

Well he wouldn't know about it until Q explained it, if he ever did, if, in fact, he ever showed up again at all. Picard had to admit that he'd almost become accustomed to seeing Q about once a year or so. If the entity kept to his informal time table, he still had a while to go.

It was a comforting thought.

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Admiral Gates sat back in his chair with a sigh of his own. Trying to get chummy with Picard was like hugging an ice sculpture. He was the finest captain in the fleet, why couldn't he just relax about it?

Shoving the reserved face out of his mind, Gates called up the current schedule for the Fanh competition, and found, as he expected, that no one of any importance from a Federation world was enrolled. Humans and Vulcans and most other members of the Federation did not make the best singers, and those few who had managed some fame and profit were not looking to shorten their careers in competition. He opened up a channel to his wife, Dr. Alia Thon, and asked for all her crystal singer contacts.

Several hours later, he had a name, Estelle, but no idea how to reach what several people who should know about such things said was the best human singer alive. In fact, she was reported to be Terran, though the lack of a last name suggested otherwise. A name was something to go on, though, and at a sudden thought, he called his wife again.

"Estelle?" she asked with surprise over the subspace channel. "Is she still alive?"

"Shouldn't she be?"

Thon frowned at the screen. "Well, I suppose, if she's taking care of herself, but singers rarely do. She's an overload."

Gates tried to keep up with all his wife's jargon, but this one was new.

"She puts out more reverb than her system can handle," Thon explained, "and she loves a crowd. When I saw her about four months ago, she'd gone dyslexic. She refused the operation; I fitted her with glasses and said she had a few months left."

"News didn't bother her?"

"Does it bother any of them? She's young for it, too. Late twenties." Thon had her medical chart up now. "Oh, I'm being pessimistic. She's probably got a year or two left."

"But she's too sickly to compete?"

"They're all too sickly for that, dear." She smiled suddenly, a tired smile, and they shared a look to say that they missed one another. "Her foot's no deeper in her grave than the others. And she's got a plus with that overload. The size of the crystal won't bother her. She caps out too soon."

Gates nodded. He knew what that one meant. "The York should be in your area in two weeks."

"I'll see you then. Oh, and it says here that she has an agent with the Terran Guild. Even if her dues have lapsed, they should know where to find her."

Perhaps it was some sort of strange influence from Q's rapt attention to the conversation which made Gates ask, "What would I do without you, darlin'?"

"Miss me."

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"Who's calling me from where?" Stella asked. She really wasn't in the mood for one of Orad's little jokes. Last night had been brutal. She hadn't even finished her set. And now her head felt it had been stuck inside a warp core. Where did a janitor get off behaving like a stand-up comic anyway? Clean the bar, little man, and leave me alone.

"Admiral Gates from the U.S.S. York. Says it's important."

"Tell him to piss off."

"You tell him, girlie."

But Stella was already moving towards the viewscreen. "Estelle here," she said at the rather bland-looking face above a Starfleet admiral's uniform.

"You're a hard woman to find."

She frowned. Was that cliché supposed to be some sort of compliment? "You called my agency?"

"Yes, in point of fact."

Wow. That was hard.

"What can I do for you, Admiral?"

"Would you be interested in a ride to the singer's competition on Fanh? It begins in a few days, and we'd like someone from a Federation world competing there."

She'd already bought her ticket on a Breen liner, and wondered why her name hadn't shown up on the roster yet. Oh yeah, she dully remembered, she had forgotten to send in her advance registration. No matter, and now, perhaps it was all for the best. "Alakan will be there. He's from Jorkin's Beta Moon. And T'Espel of Vulcan will be there."

"They're not going to make it past the first round."

"True. I plan on winning, myself. Thought I'd let you know."

She had been expecting a smug look at that, or at least a patronizing smile. Instead, he simply looked surprised, and she realized with an interior wince that she'd botched up her show of disinterest. Oh well, there really hadn't been much point to it anyway. Simple reflex.

"You were going to go already?"

"Thinking about it."

"We'd pay for your board there, and transport you there aboard the Enterprise. And we'd like you to register as a Federation representative."

That would raise her status by about a thousand percent, but it wouldn't interfere with anything. She'd like to have the better room. Besides, she could hardly deny herself a chance finally to meet the crew of the Enterprise: Picard and Riker and Troi and Data and the rest of them. How...appropriate, really. And she could certainly use a visit with Dr. Crusher right about now.

"Fine," she said. "When can the Enterprise pick me up?"

Gates raised his eyebrows. "Fifteen hours."

"I'll be here."

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Picard looked over the singer's record without getting a cup of tea.

She was registered as a Terran, though both her parents were listed as unknown. There was little on her but a record of the genetic tests which had confirmed her race and allowed her Terran citizenship. She had not gone to school on Earth, and there was no way to know who had raised her, or where she had studied. Crystal singers were not, on the whole, well-educated, but surely she had gone somewhere, had had some sort of formal training.

The only real records they had of her were her medical ones, and only those beginning a few years ago, when she had taken up her current livelihood. Such records were required to be public knowledge, since more than one employer had been accused of hiring someone they should have known would die on stage, so Picard had full access to the litany full of horrors. Looking them over, he was aware of his lack of medical training, but he understood enough of it to appreciate what sort of price she was paying for her career.  He called Troi to his ready room, and looked up with a vaguely welcoming smile as she entered.

Troi felt the flatness of the smile and the deep concern beneath it.

"Something wrong, Captain?"

"I'm concerned about this singer we're picking up. Are you familiar with the psychological...'normality' of these people?"

Troi hid her amused reaction to the trace of revulsion in Picard's voice. She would have been surprised if they hadn't had this conversation sooner or later. "They are addicts, Captain, if that's what you mean. They come to rely on the psychic reverb between themselves and the crystals both psychologically and physically."

"Physically? It's ruining her body."

"True, but once singers have worn their crystals for a few months, they cannot be removed without causing severe blood toxicity which usually results in death. Of course, a singer could theoretically continue to wear the crystals and not use them, but there have been no such reported cases."

"Then the sensation is comparable to a narcotic reaction?"

"Not really." Troi shifted in her seat with a frown. She wasn't an expert on this, but then, Starfleet didn't have many experts on the subject. Crystal singing wasn't...high-class enough for most Federation worlds, though Troi suspected the real cause of disinterest lay in the fact that most humans couldn't enjoy the art properly, and that crystal singing had taken on a sort of "Breen taint."

"It's not a mindless sensation," she continued. "Nor a simple matter of chemical alterations, though those do occur. Singers who've been interviewed by Starfleet describe experience as highly intellectual. I tried it myself once." His eyebrows shot up and she shrugged. "It's not the sort of thing one can get addicted to without a great deal of personal effort and intent. Singers want to be addicted.

"Frankly, though I like music, I wasn't able to do much. It's extremely difficult to manipulate the crystals, like playing any instrument would be. And a good crystal singer is actually playing several instruments at once."

"You mean it's not simply a case of memorizing...recording the song in one's mind?"

Troi shook her head, thinking back to her one attempt. She'd managed, after three hours, to get a single B-flat out of the crystal in her hand, and her instructor had assured her that it was an impressive start. There had been a moment during her success, just a half-second when she had almost seen or felt something extraordinary, but the sensation hadn't been hallucinogenic or euphorial. Looking at the captain, she found herself in the middle of one of her rare moments of wishing she worked with fellow empaths. Picard, she knew, was feeling some contempt of singers who would give so much for what he perceived merely as a "sensation." Little did he realize they got as much in their own way from the experience as he did from commanding a ship.

"You enjoy playing your flute," she said at a sudden thought, though it was a topic she tried not to harp on in their discussions. "But what if you could become your flute, control, manipulate, produce and experience the music you played until it took up your full and utter concentration? And then what if you could feel the pleasure your playing was giving to your audience, join with them in that enjoyment? Artists are somewhat famous for having fragile egos, but crystal singers always know exactly how good they are, and the good ones...I'm met some, and they glow with the knowledge of their excellence. I've never met any other people quite like them."

"You sound quite taken with the experience, Counselor."

She shrugged, self-conscious as always about discussing her career. She'd long suffered from that ancient therapist wish to disappear into nothing but an oracle and conduit during her professional hours. Answers she could easily discuss off-duty in the lounge came out with effort in the captain's ready room.

"I interned for six months in the Vandees Belt. The Tholian presence there had led to a lot of singers, most of whom were making use of the Federation hospitals. I kept seeing them go in for treatment, and asked the lieutenant in charge of my section when I might interview one of them professionally. She laughed and told me that singers never got counseling. That intrigued me."

"I can imagine." Picard was running over the medical records he'd just read, realizing there had been a complete absence of psychological treatment one should have expected with all that brain damage.

"Was there something about Estelle in particular that causes you concern, Captain?"

Picard shrugged, and realized he was wishing strongly for a cup of tea. Moreover, he was certain Deanna could tell he was wishing for it. The whole thing became ridiculous, and, standing up to go to the replicator, he suddenly felt like a hypocrite for sneering at someone else's "addictions."

"Her background is somewhat mysterious, but there's nothing alarming about it. The Breen and the Tholians will want to meet her at some point, but that shouldn't be a problem if she's really going to prove confident. In fact, Admiral Gates told me she's planning to win."

"No one from a Federation world has ever won the Fanh Competition. In fact, the Breen have won it now for twenty-seven years in a row. It would be quite a coup for us."

"How much do you think her performance will affect the talks?"

"Your personal status as mediator will rely on her performance to a point; which is doubtlessly why Admiral Gates wanted to make sure she or someone of her abilities was there in the first place." Picard sat down with two teas and offered one to her. She took it gratefully. "But as long as she's not knocked out in the very first round, there shouldn't be any adverse effects no matter what happens next. We have on our side the fact that Breen and Tholian systems are rather proud of their superiority in the art. Their attitude towards human singers has always been one of amused condescension."

"Whatever puts them in a good mood."

"Captain, has the admiral made clear exactly what role you are to fill in the talks?"

Picard frowned. "I'll be playing my usual role of third-party mediator. Why?"

"Data and I have been running some analyses. Both the Breen and the Tholians have been edging towards a conflict with another world for several years. They both have military based economies, and they're both extremely territorial and heavily set on colonization. It's possible they both view this conference only as a formal gesture of good intentions before they launch themselves into a whole-hearted war effort. You may wish before long for some sort of authoritative position, some way to make them listen to you, if they have no intention of doing so from the beginning."

Picard thought of the many things the Federation used upon occasion to strengthen their bargaining position, then realized the counselor wasn't done.

"Did you have something specific in mind?"

"Technically, it's within the Federation's jurisdiction to cut off the Estoplin Belt from all mining by either empire."

Picard cocked his head and looked at her through narrowed eyes. "You know, Deanna, I'm only now starting to appreciate how crafty you can be."

Troi smiled. "Actually, that was Data's idea, sir."

"Really?" Picard asked, raising the tea to his lips. "Then you're teaching him well."

And by all rights, both of them thought later, that should have been the end of the conversation, not the klaxon call of Red Alert and Riker's summons for both of them to the bridge.

The ship on the viewscreen, banking sharply and firing at the Enterprise's starboard shields, was obviously Breen, and, like the empire itself, had seen better days.

"No response to our hails, Captain," Riker announced as Picard and Troi came onto the bridge.

Picard took the center of the bridge as the Breen ship fired again. "Our shields stand at 78%," Data reported from ops. "And I am reading large amounts of tricobalt aboard their primary cargo bay, partially shielded."

"It's a tasty little set-up," Riker muttered in Picard's ear. "They're obviously no match for us, so they provoke an attack, we fire in defense, destroy their ship, and no more peace talks."

"An obvious gambit, but a tricky one," Picard muttered back. "They probably knew we'd see through it, but how to get out of it?" He thought a moment, asking because he had to, "What are our chances with a tractor beam?"

"The Breen ship is operating at full engine overload. Any stress from a tractor beam would undoubtedly cause a system failure and warp core breach."

Picard nodded, expecting as much. The Breen had chosen their attack site well. There was no handy nebula into which they could dodge, no starbase around to record the incident and prove that the Enterprise had been provoked, no black holes or quantum filaments to screw up the attacker's sensors. Nothing to keep the Breen from destroying themselves in battle against the Big Bad Federation, the Dominator of the Universe, the Bully of the Western...

"Mr. Myler," he told the security chief calmly. "Plot their next far point from us and prepare to drop shields."

"Sir?"

"You heard the captain!" Riker belted out, well aware of the captain's plan and hoping like hell it would work, again.

"They're turning now, Captain. Best distance coming up -- Now!"

"Drop shields!"

The Breen vessel turned to make another run at the ship, which was now totally defenseless against the onslaught of the disrupters. Data reported that the Breen were fully powered, and had them in a target lock, and still the ship came at them, closer and closer, until it passed them, and then turned again, firing several shots over the bow of the ship, then turned a final time and warping quickly away.

Everyone tried to look as though they were certain the whole time that the Breen would realize destroying the Enterprise would get them the opposite of what they intended, though most of them were breathing silently through sighs of relief, including, most silently indeed, Captain Picard. Of course, Myler had had his fingers poised over the controls, ready to snap the shields into place if the Breen had actually fired at them, but the gesture still had been far from empty.

"The Breen vessel is still moving away from us at warp three," Data reported, emotion chip on low. "They show no signs of wishing to engage us a second time."

Picard tried not to beam at his bridge crew. "ETA for the YBrit system?"

"Five hours, seventeen minutes."

"Excellent. I'll be in my ready room."

And Riker watched Picard return to his office, promising himself he'd have the shields back up to full strength before the captain even thought to ask.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"It says you're to take a ride on the Reading."

"But you own that."

"It's just $200, Q. You can afford it."

"But I don't even get to pass go."

"Tough cookies. Ride the damn train and give me my money."

"I should make an objection to the Better Business Bureau."

"They're still processing your last one. Let's see...Nine. One, two, three...Oh, Free Parking!"

"I've said before that's a wasted space."

"And I said people sometimes put the fines in there."

"Well, that makes no sense at all."

"Roll the dice."

"Hmm, I'm visiting Kathy's Helmboy in jail."

"Did you bake him a cake with a file in it?"

"Not much good on a forcefield, my dear."

"Ha, ha. Well, I already own the utilities."

"You realize I have more than enough money to pay for your hotels on those silly orange things..."

"Which turns out to be lucky for us all! That's $1000, please."

But even as they watched, a small man came out of the house on New York Ave. and began waving papers about.

"Ha! They've found oil! The bank gives me $4,000!"

"But with taxes it's only $2,300."

"Ah, but I've rolled it into a non-appreciable tax shelter in the Bahamas. I end up with $3,500."

Mumble.

"What was that?"

"Ha! Doubles! Well, I already own that."

"And you're about to get a summons as a slum lord."

"That's nothing. I've paid off the assessor's office. Hmm, one, two, three....Yes! I want to buy Boardwalk!"

"What a surprise."

Q sneered, handing over the money for the new property, but even as Stella got the card from the bank, a fire erupted in orange-red bursts from his hotel on Baltic. In two minutes, the structure had burned to the ground, despite the interventions of the tiny firemen.

"Hmmm, too bad, Q," Stella said, looking over the debris. "You really should have bought that fire insurance."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The comptroller of the YBrit salvage yard loved junk. It was a helpful love, considering, though strangely unimportant to the chain of events which had brought him to his present position. He'd wanted to be urban planner, and his two wives had left him for having no more ambition than that.

What would they think of him now, he couldn't help wondering with a grin, perfectly content to catalogue debris all day? It was true that his position held a bit of glamour, as far as junk went, as he was in charge of the disposal of all the trilithium in this sector by the YBrit Hazardous Waste Reclamation Unit located on the largest of YBrit's moons. But that was really just the matter of keeping records. Primarily, the junk he dealt with would only hurt someone by falling on them.

"U.S.S. Enterprise to YBrit Station 4."

"Nice try, Dellon. I liked the Klingon thing better."

A moment passed, then, "Did not receive your last transmission clearly, Station 4."

"Piss off, Dellon, I..." The comptroller's eyes fell onto his display and he fought to keep from swallowing his tongue. "Station 4 to Enterprise, I have you within sensor range."

"Request permission to assume level five orbit."

The comptroller read over the clearances on his board, then turned around to see the actual ship out his portal. "Request granted, Enterprise. Er, welcome to YBrit."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Stella held the cloth to her nose and tried not to breathe hard. This really was the worst part of it.

After a few minutes, running the sealer constantly, she wasn't leaking any more, and, grabbing her beer off the small counter, she stepped into her bedroom, thinking over the set she'd just finished and wondering whether she would get another before the Enterprise arrived. She didn't think so, and it was probably just as well. But she was going to miss the Pitt, possibly for the rest of her life.

And then she saw the package on the table, and squealed.

Somehow, foolishly, unable to help it, she worried each year that he would forget. It wasn't really her birthday, after all. She didn't have a proper birthday. But it was the anniversary of the first day she remembered being alive. And to her that seemed more special anyway.

The package was wrapped in black and purple paper, and the bow atop it was more elaborate then a Gordian knot. The first few times he'd done this, she'd tried to trace the pattern, but now she knew better, and simply slipped the ribbon from the box and cast it aside. For all she knew, the damn knot twisted its way into hyperspace. She was far more interested in the contents of the box.

"Oh!" she breathed as the top of the little ship peaked out from the tissue paper inside the box. Carefully, well aware that Q was not above wrapping delicate things in yards of paper, she freed the mast and bow and stern, until she was presented with a galleon bearing the name, The Dawn Treader.

She stared at the ship many long minutes, until she blinked away suspicious moisture and put it down on the table. Inside the box, she also found a rolled mat, which she unrolled on the table to reveal an ocean. Looking down into the water, she found what she expected, though the beauty still made her dizzy: an underwater country. She put the ship on the mat and stared hard, until she was sitting on the stern of the ship in Lucy's little girl body bending forward as the ship sailed towards the sun. The ocean spray was salty and fine, and she heard the flapping of canvas and the creaking of the ropes.

Just when she became worried that it wouldn't happen, she saw the shepherd girl at the bottom of the ocean and met her eyes, feeling, just like Lucy felt, wonder at the moment of connection and the wish she could stay to learn more. The sun sparkled so hard on the water it made her eyes burn, and when she looked behind her on the ship she saw Reechipeep and Edmund and the crew.

"It's perfect, Q!" she yelled into the wind, the leaned back so that again she was in the little room behind the bar. "Thank you!" She turned and leaned forward again, this time to study every perfect detail. Though she did not enter the scene again, she caught the smell of salt and watched the underwater countryside inside the mat speed by under the ship.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was hard, using only one's eyes, to discern the YBrit Station from the space debris which shared its orbit, and inside things weren't much better.

From her position at the end of the little station bar, Stella could see the two main -- and the only two currently working -- docking ports. Nursing her beer in just the right way to tell everyone she's wasn't there in a professional capacity, she smiled at her own nervousness and kept her eyes glued to the ports.

The last time Q had been this interested in her meeting someone, and this interested in hiding how interested he was, had been with Vash, and that was over two years ago. He'd danced around both of them and made little jokes while Stella laughed and Vash rolled her eyes and edged towards the door. When it was over, Q had congratulated her for something she'd never understood, and then treated her to an exceptional dinner.

Frankly, though she never told Q, she had been unimpressed with the renegade archeologist. The woman was greedy and adventurous, but she was also severely lacking in a sense of humor and seemed to feel put out when she wasn't in control. Stella wondered how the two of them had gotten along together at all, and why Vash had accepted Q's offer in the first place. Stella mostly enjoyed laughing at the picture Q showed her of Vash in her Maid Marion outfit.

Stella frowned. What was this thing Q had with only showing her pictures of people after she'd met them? If he'd ever unbent enough to show her one of Picard, she'd know what to expect now, and wouldn't be so tense.

Which answered her own question, of course. Q wanted her tense, wanted her to react and be affected by the events in her life. He wanted to thwart her, to make her break down and beg to be saved. It was really so sweet, and he'd been going at it with determination ever since she'd gotten her first row of ankle crystals.

She looked down at her beer, frowning away more of that annoying moisture, and thought of the ship in its box at her feet. Was the Enterprise supposed to be her Dawn Treader? Presents from Q always meant so many things.

Before she'd gone to DS9 -- she had made it a personal challenge to visit all humans Q knew personally -- Q had given her a present it had taken her months to figure out: an ancient Russian doll with all those dolls that fit inside each other. The doll only opened up when she asked it the right question, and the questions changed all the time. She'd thought when she got to the station that it was a reference to Dax, the Trill who'd been so much more complicated than she'd seemed. Then she thought it was supposed to stand for the station itself, and its many problems with the Changelings and the Cardassians and the Bajorans. Then she thought it was about the wormhole and the Gamma Quadrant.

Then, finally, and long after she'd said goodbye to DS9, she realized it represented the person she'd become, and why Q was so important to her...and why she was so important to Q.

Well, she was working on a present to him as well.

What sort of thing was he going to give her before she finally got to meet Janeway and her crew? she wondered. She had to admit she particularly wanted to meet Q's son's godmother. What did Kathy think of that little handful?

Well, maybe if she did well with Jean-Luc, he'd take her to meet Kathy next.

"Estelle?"

Her head snapped up. "Father Maxim."

The priest stood before her in his plain black robes as though he had been awaiting her notice for some time. She couldn't help smiling at the small silver crucifix glinting at the end of the rope around his waist. Last time they had been together, she'd given it to him, and she hadn't been certain he'd wear it.

"How did you know I was here?"

The priest shrugged and took the stool next to hers, shaking his head at the bartender, who scowled.

"He's a man of God," she shot at the fat, sweating YBritan with a fully curled lip. "So watch yourself."

"Not a lounge."

"I'll double your tip if you know how to spell that."

"Double nothing?"

"You're certainly headed that way."

Still scowling, he moved off to new customers on the other end.

"Still defending your friends with insults?" Father Maxim asked, betraying weariness in his faint smile.

"How did you know I was here?"

He shook his head slowly and looked at her with calm affection. "What else does anyone have to talk about on YBrit? I must say, I'm glad to hear you're out of the Pitt."

"You think Hell's no place for a lady?"

"But competition isn't your answer. I'm going to the Alton Sector and I'd like you to come with me."

"That's flattering, but I can't. I'm going to win at Fanh."

A noise drew her attention to the far portal, where a crowd of Starfleet officers were emerging. She looked at them carefully, wishing she hadn't packed her glasses. What was the captain's insignia again?

"The Enterprise crew," Maxim said quietly. "At least they're punctual."

"Any idea which of them is Captain Picard?"

"You see the tall man with the beard?"

"Yes." Hmmm, younger than I thought.

"The man speaking to him."

Stella twirled to look at the priest in astonishment, then looked back at the officers, who were still standing there, ignoring the stares from all around the station. "That's Captain Picard? The little bald guy?" No wonder Q had never shown her a picture. She stared at him, enjoying her vantage point and the way no one was looking at her. "Good posture," she commented finally. Father Maxim snickered, reminding her why she liked him so much.

"My shuttle's leaving in a few minutes."

"You cut this close."

"I had to try. You need three more stripes for your sainthood, remember?"

"I've told you, I've already been a saint. The halo was the toy surprise in a box of Cracker Jax. Personally, I was hoping for the spy decoder ring."

Father Maxim's eyes twinkled at the mild blasphemy. "You will be able to find me if you wish."

She smiled back, watching in her peripheral vision as the Starfleeters advanced. "I know."

To her surprise, Captain Picard and his entourage stopped politely as the priest nodded goodbye, clasping his hands behind his back, then nodded at the officers before moving away. Stella watched him go, then deliberately shifted her gaze to the little bald man with the good posture.

"I was told that you are the Estelle we're taking with us to Fanh," he said with full decorum, and she kept herself from starting at the sound of the deep, rich voice. Q had warned her about that voice, but it hadn't been enough.

"That'd be me, Captain Picard."

Jean-Luc looked at the woman who would represent the Federation, as careful as she to keep any reaction from reaching his face. Her hair was black and cut very short, her eyes hazel, bloodshot, and puffy, her dress plain, short and just a little tight, as though she had gained weight since first acquiring it. She wore no jewelry or make-up, and there was something in her face that might have seemed familiar and well-scrubbed, if it weren't so...creased and pale. He knew from her records that she was twenty-eight, but she looked much older. She swayed just perceptibly on her feet as well, and he realized she must have had more than one drink recently. His eyes dropped to the crystals around her right ankle, and the flat sandals on her feet, then flicked back to her face, to see that her eyes were scanning the top of his head.

"Allow me to introduce my first officer, Commander William Riker, my Chief Medical Officer, Dr. Beverly Crusher..."

"We're going to get to know each other real well," Stella said with amusement. Crusher bowed her head with a little smile in response, fingers itching for her tricorder, as Picard finished the introductions without further interruptions.

"Well, this is very pleasant, and I'm sure it's quite an honor to be met en masse like this, but I'm really tired and I don't really know the station well enough to be a tour guide.

"The captain has to speak to Comptroller BRussiket," Riker told her. "But if you follow me I'll take you to your quarters aboard ship."

"A stop at Sickbay first, I think," Crusher put in gently.

"You haven't even gotten the tike aboard and already you're planning homicide," an unmistakable voice drawled. "Help! She'll be Crushered to death."

Picard noted two things simultaneously. One: Q was leaning back with his elbows against the bar, his legs crossed negligently at the ankles, and two: a delighted smile spread instantly across Estelle's face before she turned to look at him with a loud groan.

"Bad one, Q." Q raised his eyebrows at her. "Besides, no singer worth her salt pisses off the medic."

Picard forced himself not to ask the obvious question. They obviously knew each other. Instead, he kept his face impassive and felt his people wait warily behind him.

"Don't worry, my dear. Why, Bev even helped me out once, though only because I was in no position to refuse."

"I can imagine nothing more tedious than dealing with you in pain." She turned to Crusher with a wry look. "You must have considered simply putting him down."

Q stood up at that and advanced towards Picard. "You're looking well, mon Capitaine." He jerked his thumb at Stella with a wink. "Don't let her walk all over you."

"Thank you for the advice."

Stella looked surprised and frowned at the captain oddly.

"And don't be fooled by her feminine wiles." Q's eyes glittered, but Picard was aware of a strange lack of both malice and earnestness. He'd never seen Q so openly teasing, and was very slightly disturbed to realize that Stella was commanding the bulk of Q's attention. When he had a moment alone, he'd have to figure that feeling out. "The last Starfleet captain she met had his workload tripled by her antics."

"Sisko said he forgave me for that! Besides, he was only angry in the first place because I said that you and I are friends. Honestly," she said with a change into a mock-serious tone, looking at Picard, "it's only Q who gets me into trouble."

"I was nowhere near that place!"

"Yes, but I was thinking about you at the time."

Q sighed and spread his hands in despair. "You see what I'm up against, Jean-Luc? Well, she's your problem now, and good riddance." While Stella giggled, he brought his fingers up in a snap and was gone in his little flash of light.

"I take it he'll be back," Riker said flatly.

Stella shrugged playfully, but abruptly looked twice as tired. "We mortals can but live in hope."

Dr. Crusher obviously couldn't take this anymore, and with Riker's help bustled Stella immediately to Sickbay. Picard, Troi, and Data watched them go, then turned to walk to the comptroller's office.

"Well, this is quite a development," the captain muttered.

"Sir, do you think Q may be involved in the difficulties between the Breen and Tholians?"

Picard thought about that as objectively as he could, looking around them at the darkly gray walls, broken lights, dirty corners, and ill-trained staff which had no compunction against gawking at the Starfleet officers. They passed a portal, and saw the Enterprise hanging off the starboard side of the station, surrounded by debris, and it was easy to see the ship as these people must see it.

So it didn't surprise the captain when he was asked by a flushed-looking assistant to wait outside the comptroller's office for a few minutes. When the assistant rushed off, he examined the untidy waiting room, decided not to sit on one of the rickety chairs, and answered Data's question.

"I think we may be overly sensitive to seeing Q's hand in human affairs. There's nothing I can think of about the situation with the Breen and Tholian empires that remotely seems like Q's work."

Troi nodded, turning from her absent contemplation of the room's only artwork: a glass painting of a bowl of over-bright flowers. "It doesn't seem like the way he'd introduce himself to us if that were the case, either."

"Could you sense anything about them?"

"Only the obvious. The affection is quite genuine, on her side, anyway. I can't trust anything I sense from Q."

"But you did sense mutual friendship?"

"More than that, Captain. She loves him, deeply, though not...romantically. Will's comment about seeing him again didn't please her."

"Well, if she's going to get her feelings hurt every time someone on the Enterprise looks at Q cross-eyed, she's in for a long trip."

Troi smiled. "Aye, sir."

The door opened suddenly, and the comptroller stalked out, ruining his entrance with nervous eyes. "You might have warned us you were coming."

"My apologies for any inconvenience I have caused you, Comptroller BRussiket. We've been spending too much time at Federation-controlled stations, and have forgotten our manners." The fact that YBrit charter with the Federation gave all Starfleet ships clear and immediate use of all YBritan space and the station was not allowed to color the captain's contriteness in the slightest. "I'd certainly be willing to notify Starfleet that you'd like a warning from our ships before entering your system in future."

BRussiket's eyes widened. "No, no. That won't be necessary. It's just that you caught us off-guard."

"Well, whatever you think would be best, of course. And if you're in no position to help us, I'll certainly understand. For our part, I'm afraid we were only able to find the type-six phase couplings you requested. The type-seven are still in the experimental stage, and I couldn't get authorization to bring --"

"That's quite all right!" The comptroller wiped a hand over his forehead, his fingertips lightly messaging the slight ripples there. His yellow skin seemed a little more sallow than that of the other YBritans they'd seen. "Anything, obviously, whatever we can do for you, Captain Picard."

"Well, if you can tell us, we're interested in knowing whether any Breen or Tholian traffic has been in the area within the past few weeks. Or if any Breen of Tholian representatives have been aboard the station."

BRussiket blinked at him. "No. We've had nothing like that."

Picard looked at him a moment, frowning just slightly. "You understand, we'd be interested in any sort of Breen or Tholian involvement, not just their ships actually docking your station."

The comptroller's forehead seemed to need another message. "Well, I don't know...I would need to look at my records." He looked uneasily at Troi, who smiled at him with deep understanding, and at Data, who stared back.

"Anything you could tell us..." Picard said lightly.

"Well, you must be in a hurry."

"Yes, we are."

"Perhaps if we stepped into my office," the YBritan said wearily, moving back towards the little room with his head slightly bowed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Is that better?"

Stella looked through the glasses and read the short instructions on the use of a blood gas infuser. "About a million times. Thank you."

"You'd do better if you wore them all the time."

"They make me dizzy and I'm too vain," she said, taking them off and storing them carefully in the little case that fit inside her medkit. "Besides, it's amazing how infrequently one actually needs to read something anymore."

Crusher nodded and forced herself not to stare at the kit. She'd already made it clear she thought it more than a little disturbing that anyone should feel the need to carry something that extensive with them at all times. Besides, Stella's licenses were in order and the woman seemed to know her way around all the equipment inside.

Instead, the doctor stared at the readouts she was getting from Stella's deep neural scans. The damage to her cranial circulatory system was really quite appalling. She was headed for either a massive stroke or a fatal cerebral hemorrhage or aneurysm within, at best, two years. She was eating right and getting her sleep, and she seemed to be skilled at keeping her alcohol levels within tolerance -- all qualities Crusher knew to be more than a little unusual for such a dedicated singer -- but it was hard for the doctor not to attack the woman for her stupidity. How could anyone consciously, deliberately do this to themselves?

Marshaling her professional distance, and reminding herself that more than one Federation medical officer had gotten into hot water interfering with crystal singers, Crusher turned back to her temporary patient with a tight little smile.

"If there's nothing else, then, I suppose it's time to let you get to your quarters."

Stella seemed surprised. "No lecture?"

Crusher shrugged gently and looked like she really wanted the woman to leave. "I couldn't tell you anything you haven't heard before, I'm sure."

Stella nodded and slid off the table, then bent down to collect her bag. In that position, the short sleeve of her dress pulled back to reveal a dark spot behind her left shoulder.

"What is that?" Crusher moved forward automatically and put a hand gently on her side to keep the spot exposed.

Stella laughed and reached back to push the material out of the way as she stood up and away from that hand. "It's great, isn't it?"

With a dull shock, Crusher realized the spot was actually a tattoo, about an inch in diameter, and evidently applied in the ancient method of shooting ink under the skin with a needle. While the doctor had certainly seen her share of tattoos of all sorts of applications, it was the subject matter which alarmed her. It was a heart-shaped "Q," its thick lines filled in with a white polka-dotted light gray.

"Did Q...do this to you?"

Turning around, Stella glared at her incredulously. "Of course he didn't! What, do you think it's some sort of brand or something?" She snorted loudly and bent back down again to pull the strap of her bag over her right shoulder. When she spoke again, her tone was icy. "Will that be all, Doctor?"

"Yes...no." Crusher fidgeted with her tricorder and tried a smile. "It just...took me by surprise. I'm sorry."

Stella shrugged, confused now herself. "Don't worry about it." She turned then towards the door where a man in a gold-necked uniform waited for her. She followed him without paying attention to their path.

Crusher was nothing at all like Q had said she would be. Usually, his descriptions were dead-on accurate -- the entity was practically omnipotent, after all -- almost to the point, at times, when she found it pointless to get to know the people he described herself. But Crusher hadn't been shrill or self-obsessed or autocratic or unattractive. Even her insulting question hadn't been malicious. What had Q been thinking of?

Well, obviously, he disliked her. Q disliked people sometimes, genuinely disliked them, more than just the usual Q disdain for humans and other sub-Q lifeforms. But why should he dislike her that much? Because she'd seen him when he his back was hurting? What had she said, that he'd been a pain in their backsides often enough? That was hardly enough of an insult to get Q's notice.

The only special things about Crusher that Stella knew of were that her son was something of a leap ahead in human evolution -- hardly a small matter, but not something Q would be likely to resent -- and that Amanda was really fond of her, or had been, when she was still Amanda. Q wasn't likely to resent that either.

"I hear you're a friend of Q's," the man next to her said, breaking up her thoughts.

Stella realized they were standing in a turbo-lift.

"You could say that."

"I'm Lieutenant Myler." He swallowed when she looked at him, as though he were uncomfortable with the simple intimacy of sharing a lift. "Thadius Myler."

She nodded.

"Uh, Q. He's had quite a history with this ship, and with the Enterprise-D. Surprised the captain tolerates it, really."

Stella continued to look at him, eyes slightly narrowed, then burst into a broad grin. "Are you Cardassian?"

Myler jerked into a frown as the lift doors opened with a whoosh. "No! I'm Bajoran."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I keep getting race names mixed up. Bajoran, of course you are. Your world, is it like Vulcan?" He opened his mouth as she rushed on, moving quickly down the corridor. "I really love Vulcan, and Vulcans. They're so interesting!"

"It's...nothing like Vulcan," Myler said, catching up to her.

"Too bad! But you must be a little like them, you look kind of Vulcan, and I'm sure Bajoran music is a little Vulcanic. You know, they only have sex once every seven years! And if they don't get any, they die! Can you imagine such a thing? I mean, we all get desperate sometimes, but really!"

Myler stared at her, then pointed at a door coming up on their right. "This is your room."

Not breaking rhythm, she walked to and through the opening door. "Sometimes I wonder if it's some sort of payback for being such a bunch of uptight do-gooders all the time. I mean, you look at the Vulcan ambassador with that pain stick up his butt, and you think about him frothing at the mouth, and it just makes everything easier, don't you think?"

This last was asked while she stared directly into Myler's eyes, having twirled about in the center of the room.

"I -- I'm sure I don't know." He was painfully aware of his red face, and even as she watched he began to back out towards the door. "Everything is here. I mean, the replicator will get you whatever you need." He stepped back twice more and the door closed between them.

Stella dropped her bag at her feet and walked to the replicator. Crusher had already authorized it for what she needed, and she ordered up a cold beer that she finished off quickly, disposing of the glass and getting another before she finally turned for the bed, slipping off her sandals.

She slept on top of the covers, the half-empty glass clutched in her hand for hours until Q, checking on her, took it away and set it on the table.

"Q?" she mumbled, only half-awake.

"What?" he asked softly. She'd come fully awake if he didn't.

"You're not a bad father."

"What would you know about it?"

She nodded, her down-turned face rubbing into the pillow, and went back to sleep as Q pulled the covers up to her chin.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Tholians attacked the Breen outpost seven hours after the Enterprise left the YBrit station. There were no causalities, however, as the outpost had been evacuated two hours previously. Comptroller BRussiket had known enough bits and pieces for the Enterprise crew to figure out what the Tholians were up to, and had issued the warning accordingly.

"The evidence strongly suggests their actions were not sanctioned by the Tholian government," Picard was telling Gates on his viewscreen. "And I've been assured by Ambassador Chooln that the Tholians will be at the conference with every intention of settling the dispute without further violence."

Gates hesitated, wondering if he were finally getting a read on Picard. "And how much do you believe them?" he hazarded.

Picard sighed, the most genuine animation Gates had ever seen from him. "The Ambassador is sincere, but his government isn't telling him everything. I almost get the impression -- a difficult thing to be certain of from a Tholian -- that he feels his voice is the last bastion of sanity among his people. I'm worried he may want to...martyr himself at this conference."

"Professional suicide?"

Picard relaxed a bit more, evidently pleased that he'd been understood. "Part of the problem is that he must realize how many of his associates want a war with the Breen. Since the Breen are themselves willing to accommodate them...it will not be easy to keep them from fighting, even with the control the Federation wields over their mining interests."

"If there's anything more we can do here..." Gates shrugged eloquently.

"Thank you, sir."

"Speaking of which, how's our singer turning out?"

"She's been asleep in her quarters since she came here." Picard frowned slightly. "Were you aware, Admiral, that she's a close friend of Q's?"

"What?" Evidently he wasn't. "How do you know that? Did she claim to be? Sometimes singers aren't exactly..."

"Q himself appeared on the station.

"How will this affect the mission?"

"Admiral..." Picard gestured almost helplessly. "With Q there's no way to tell. Interfering with the Breen and Tholian situation isn't really his style, but I can make no guarantees."

"Fortunately for both of us, Starfleet doesn't require them." The two men smiled at each other in agreement. "You will let me know if there's anything you need."

"Yes, and...thank you, sir."

After the connection was severed, Picard sat for several long minutes before he realized he was waiting for Q to show up. Upon realizing it, however, he wasn't going to shy from it.

"Well, show yourself, Q! Or are you going to pretend you have no reason to talk to me?"

"Sticks and stones, mon Capitaine."

The entity flashed onto the sofa in his captain's uniform, waiting for Picard's eyes to flicker over it. He wasn't disappointed.

"So, are you planning to interfere with our mission?"

"You overrate the charms of the Tholians, Jean-Luc. They're really a boring little gaggle. That web thing used to be interesting, but lately...what have they done but mine dylithium and complain?"

"And the Breen?"

"Ever seen a Breen without the mask?" Q shuddered delicately.

"Then Estelle is your only reason for being here?"

"What do you think of her, Johnny?"

Picard closed his mouth at the suddenly avid tone in Q's voice. "Why? Who is she? If she's not what she seems we cannot use her as a representative for the --"

"Oh, she's as human as anyone, Picard." Q looked genuinely annoyed.

"Have you anything to do with her abilities as a crystal singer?"

"I'd like to think I've had an impact on her life in a number of ways, but if you're asking if I've meddled in her genetics or altered her physically, no, I haven't." Q's eyes had narrowed considerably now. "Any more suspicions?"

"You can't blame me, Q." Picard was surprised and somewhat uncomfortable at his own conciliatory tone, but Q only shrugged in response.

"This Tholian thing," the entity said slowly, "they may be boring but they're a bunch of trouble-makers. Stella is really the least of your concerns."

"Then you aren't going to tell me that Stella is really you? or that the Tholians are part of some horrible experiment you let out of the lab?"

Q actually smiled. "Perhaps the Breen are only upset because I didn't ask them to my wedding."

"You got married, did you?"

"Q don't marry...but I did have a son."

The captain continued to breathe normally. "Where is he?"

"With his mother. Q really spoils him, you know. Spare the rod..."

"A Q getting a spanking. An interesting sight, I'm sure."

"Well," Q said, standing up with a preoccupied air. "I must be off. If you want to know more about Junior, ask Stella. They've played together enough." Q voice dropped suddenly. "But don't believe everything she says. She's still mad about last time."

"With cause, I'm sure."

Q looked ready to argue, then conceded the point with a shrug. "Well, wait till you meet the little guy. It's impossible to stay angry with him."

"I thought you said it was your mate who spoiled him."

"Q isn't my mate! We just...share in care and feeding."

"Another interesting sight, I'm sure."

"Well, it pains me to leave when we're getting on so well, but I must tear myself away." And he was gone.  Alone again, Picard slumped in his chair. Q had a child! and a mate! and...whatever Estelle was to him as well.

Well, of course the entity had a life beyond his little visits to the Enterprise, and yet, Picard felt...a sense of imbalance. Yes, that was it. Ever since Q had saved his life, and taught him the value of getting stabbed through the heart, Picard had known for a fact that Q knew all about his life. And Picard, what did he know of Q's? The imbalance bothered him greatly. It was yet another way a nearly omnipotent being had the advantage over him.

With the mental equivalent of a thorough shaking, Picard put the entire matter out of his head and turned to the copious information his crew and their teams had gathered on the Breen, Tholians, and Fanh. If he were going to be any good at all in the next few days, he needed to know everything there was to know about three very different races. Somehow, he had to help them see the sensibility of peace.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Myler had the bridge when Stella strode out of the turbolift, and as their eyes met he could feel the warmth rushing up from his neck. He found the questions he should ask her jamming in his mouth, and so she was already at the door to the ready room and keying the chime before he got out, "Uh, ma'am, I don't know..."

"It's quite all right," she interrupted with a huge and slightly suggestive smile that quelled the rest of his sentence. The captain's voice summoned her inside, and in a second she had gone through the doors.

"Estelle," Picard said in surprise as she came towards him to stand before his desk. She looked just as she had the day before, if perhaps a bit less tired. Her dress and shoes and crystals were still her only clothes, and he wondered if she wore her hair so short to keep from having to fuss with it. It was an impulse he could understand himself.

"Had lunch?" she asked brightly.

"Thank you for the offer," he said automatically, "but I'm...I'd love to."

Her eyes twinkled a bit, but she merely turned to the replicator and asked him what he'd like. He noticed again that her tight dress and way of moving suggested a recent weight gain. She may once have been able to get away with that careless amble, but now the impression was that of an arrogant waddle.

"Just tell it Picard Lunch Four."

She raised very Q-like eyebrows at him. "Creature of habit, Captain?" Then she laughed, ordered it, and brought the sandwich and tea to his desk before returning for her own meal.

"Very rare steak, side of cheese fries, and a real beer, authorization Estelle Alpha One."

Picard waited until she was settled down in the chair in front of his desk and cutting with unexpected precision into her steak before asking why she had medical authorization for alcohol.

"The replicator will give you what you ask for without special codes."

She smiled and talked around a large mouthful of steak. "You really don't know much about singers, do you?"

"I've not met many."

"How many before me?"

"None. Though I saw one performing once. A Bajoran man who played 'The Prophet's Vision.'"

"Danal Oview?"

Picard nodded and looked surprised as he chewed a small bite of his lunch. Stella shrugged.

"Oview can only do old Bajoran one-notes." She took a look at Picard's face and continued. "Everyone stays away from each other's territory, so you can tell the singer by the material. I do twentieth-century American, mostly rock and roll. I can do other stuff, of course, but that's what I do in competition and most performances."

"An interesting genre to choose. What drew you to it?"

She shrugged. "I used to live there, in America, in the twentieth century, I mean."

Picard stopped eating. "You mean Q has taken you out of time?"

Stella sighed carefully. "Well, telling you my life story is why I came here. I mean, it's only fair. I know lots about you, know."

"You do?" Discomfort screamed from his rigid calm.

"Sure. Q tells me all about people he knows, humans, anyway, and their 'associates.' I know that Data has an evil twin named Lore he had to disassemble, and that Troi and Riker have a big ole hairy past, and that Wesley Crusher is off exploring the galaxy with the Traveler, who's the guy who put you on to Wesley's abilities in the first place. I know that Geordi LaForge is the latest among your command crew to turn down a promotion so he can stay on your ship."

She frowned now at her empty beer glass and stood up to get another one. "I forgot to explain about the alcohol. Singers drink it to keep the circulation good and our muscles relaxed. Helps us in performance and just helps us all 'round. But we don't get drunk or anything. The authorization is really just a way for Crusher to keep tabs on how much I'm drinking."

She was back in the chair now and looking at him steadily. Picard ignored his lunch and looked back.

"I know all about how Q showed up on your ship on the way to Farpoint and put you all on trial, and everything he's done on this ship since then. I know about Vash and J-Kathy." She sipped her beer. "There are details he's left out, I'm sure, for one reason or another. But I have the basics. And now he wants the two of us to know each other. I've learned not to ignore Q's introductions. He really does know some of the most interesting people. Makes a habit of it, actually."

"Really?" Picard reached for his tea, very much aware of those eyes on him.

"Yes, and yes, I did mean that as a compliment, but a sincere one, I assure you. So!" She settled back even further into the chair with her beer. "Why don't we start this properly and you ask me any question you like?"

"Do they have to be yes or no questions?"

Stella laughed, obviously picking up the reference.. "No, they don't."

"How long have you and Q been friends?"

"How high is up? All my life."

"Are you telling me you're immortal?"

"Oh, no, no. Sorry. I'm human, completely. And I come from human parents. But if you're asking if Q is my father, the answered is yes. He's my father and my mother and my best friend and my, uh, fairy god-father, and pretty much anything else I need."

"Do you mean he adopted you?"

"That's as good a word as any. You see, Q created a paradox, a time paradox, and in it, during it, if you will, I was conceived...in the usual human fashion."

Picard automatically scanned his experience with Q's latest "paradox" to see if there were some sort of intimate moment he might have forgotten, and was reassured. Besides, her paradox happened in the twentieth century, if he heard her right. He hadn't even met Q then.

"So when Q righted up the paradox," she continued, oblivious to Picard's second of anxiety, "I no longer existed. And Q couldn't go to the mother and ask if she wanted me, because my existence would have altered her life, and from what Q told me it involved some heavy-duty repercussions in the line of human history. So he came to me in that place before I had existence."

"Before you had existence?"

Stella scowled. "I've tried to explain this before, but it's so hard. It wasn't the Guff or anything. He's Q, you know? He wanted to talk to me before I existed and so he could. I remember it as a sort of dark and numb place."

"You remember not existing?"

"Sure. I remember Q's first words to me. They really were great. He came to me and he said, with complete sincerity, 'I'm going to be a bad father. I just want that clear from the start.' And then he asked me if I still wanted to exist. He explained that I wouldn't get the usual human childhood, that I'd probably have all sorts of problems that he wouldn't be able to fix. And that in the end I would die, like all mortals die, and that would be the end of me. Of course," her hazel eyes twinkled again. "I didn't believe that last part. Still don't."

"You don't believe you'll die?"

"Of course I'll die! I just don't believe it will be the end of me. I'm a Christian, you know."

Picard looked shocked.

"Now, don't get me wrong," she warned. "That has nothing to do with my association with the Q. Well, I mean, it has nothing to do with what they've told me. I mean, according to all of them Christianity is a fool's game and mortality is death and you're dead and that's it. But what do they know about mortal afterlife? They've none of them gone to check for themselves, I can tell you that. Except for Quinn, maybe. You know, they'll tell you they know everything, but they don't, not by a long shot."

Picard tried to imagine being so casual about the Continuum and what the Q knew, and failed. "So how did you come by your religion if they've warned you off it?"

Stella shrugged and looked at her now-empty glass. "You know how some people look at a mountain and they see God? Or they see God in the stars, or in their child or something like that? Well, when I was about ten years old, Q took me to the Continuum, and not in some allegorical fashion like with Kathy, but the real thing. And though I had no real idea what it meant or which end was up, looking at that fabulous creation, I saw the creator. They're all a bunch of agnostics, you know, like you. The argue all the time...or they used to...about the nature of creation. Of course, that's all changed now. Now they mostly argue about the war."

Picard was finding it harder and harder to keep up and realized the only way to make sense of what she was saying was to refuse to be caught up in digressions about wars or agnosticism or whoever 'Quinn' was.

"So Q took your DNA patterns, or whatever there was of you in this paradoxical time, and formed you?"

"Yes, that's right. I was only a few hours old at the time -- as a cell, I mean, but that gave him the blueprints: my physical traits, the basics of my personality, my ability to crystal sing, all that stuff. But you realize, he didn't make me into a baby. He said he had no patience for infants, something I believed until he made his own, of course, but that is a different matter.

"Anyway," she said sharply, dragging herself away from the digression, "when I finally became...corporeal, I was twenty. I had twenty years of human knowledge...more than that, really, but no life experience. And there Q and I were on Earth, in Nepal, actually -- don't ask me why, Q likes Nepal -- and he asked me what I wanted to do with my life. I told him to take me to medieval Europe, so I could help victims of the Black Plague die in greater comfort."

Picard stared at her, and she shrugged again before getting up for another beer. "More tea?"

"Yes, please."

She got them both drinks and relaxed into her chair. "Why there and then and for that?" Picard asked her, earning a smile.

"Well, I wanted to help people in the worst way. I mean, there's nothing like knowledge without experience to make you feel altruistic. And Earth of today is so...perfect. I couldn't really do much here, I mean, now. And the Black Plague was so awful, so much of, well, you know, the 'suffering and dying' that we humans do so well.

"And it was so awful, Picard, so mind-numbingly bad back then. Whole villages would just die in agony with no one to help them. Now, I couldn't save anyone and change history, but I knew that I could go places where everyone was going to die and do a great deal to relieve suffering without altering history in the slightest."

"So Q took you there?"

"Yes. Medieval France, actually. Perhaps as a tribute to you. I wouldn't be surprised. You're often on his mind. Anyway, I lived there for years. Seven years, to be sort of exact. Q would show up every now and then, very impatient with the whole thing, and ask me if I wanted to leave yet."

"You lived alone and tended to the dying, by yourself, for seven years?"

The depth of Picard's voice had never bothered her so much before. It conveyed a profound sense of what those years must have meant to her, and Stella suddenly couldn't turn the whole thing into its usual joke.

"I felt the end coming, you know. After a few years, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat. Q would come and try to bribe me away and I'd just cry and scream at him. Finally I couldn't deal with it anymore and when he showed up again I told him to take me to Risa." She smiled at Picard's rapid blinking. "It was a bit of a switch." She laughed. "Of course, for the first few weeks, all I could think about were the diseases everybody was probably catching."

A small smile came to Picard's face, surprising her. "I can imagine."

She beamed back. "But after awhile, I was the biggest heathen there, laying in the sun, being waited on, eating everything in sight. And then Q took me on a tour. I saw all sorts of lovely places, including, as I said, the Continuum. He was doing his best, I think, dropping me off in places for months at a time so I could learn things, and then picking me back up and dropping me off again. And I did have a lovely time. I even grew less boring after awhile -- stopped comparing everything I saw to the plague."

"But that didn't last?"

"No. After awhile I felt so spoiled, and this time I went to the Florida Keys in the eighties...the nineteen-eighties, and helped with another plague. Did a better job staying out of history's way this time, no mention of me in any more hagiographies."

"You appear in books of medieval saints' lives?"

"Just a couple, a line or two about the 'gyrle who wouldne bee yclept saynt.' Q was going to take them out, but they're really harmless. In Florida I showed up in the news once: one of the many who were tending the sick, but since I didn't have one of those ribbons on my chest they weren't very interested in me."

"And how long were you there?"

"Six years this time. Couldn't match my old record. Had another sort of break-down, and Q got me out, and then more running around. I took up music, the piano, actually, for a few years before Q introduced me to crystal singing."

"Q did?" Somehow this made less sense than anything she had said so far.

She seemed to understand that and smiled wryly. "He was trying to show me the nature of music. I'm afraid I wasn't a very good musician, and he wanted to help. Little did either of us know I was about to find my calling in life."

"Is that how you feel about it?"

She laughed, and suddenly looked tired. "Well, if I don't, I'm acting pretty stupidly. Well..." she sighed and stood up, automatically gathering his plate and their glasses and stepping over to the replicator to dispose of them. "Looks like I'm out of gas for awhile. I think I'll take a nap. Very nice lunch. Shall I come again tomorrow?"

"Yes, please."

She nodded and smiled, leaving him alone with a million questions and a slight headache. This was certainly a domestic side of Q! And yet, it was just the sort of paternity he would have expected from the entity: a bizarre mix of god-like powers and total carelessness. Back and forth between sainthood and hedonism, with hedonism...of a sort...winning out in the end. Now that Picard knew that Q involved himself with all manner of humans, he wondered whether the entity had known her parents, or if they and the child they so unknowingly conceived were just some collateral damage in another of Q's games.

But Stella's story had gotten him thinking about more than Q, and with surprise he realized a plan had formed in his mind.

"Picard to Counselor Troi."

"Troi here, Captain."

"I wonder if I could see you in my ready room?"

Troi entered readily, proving, as he had suspected, that she was on the bridge.

"Counselor," he said with a slight smile. "How would you feel about working the competition under cover?"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"B-14."

"Miss."

"So, he really made an impression on you?"

"Well, he's a stuffy old coot, I'll say that for him. A-47."

"Miss."

Stella waited for five minutes as the passive sonar array closed in on her, then moved on past. Q really could be predictable at times.

"He's terribly perceptive, I'll give him that."

"For a human. D-15."

"Miss. Why does he speak with a British accent if he's French?"

"Taught English by an Englishman."

"In spite of all temptations to belong to other nations?"

"Are you going to take a shot or quote Gilbert and Sullivan all night?"

"A-14."

"Miss. Are you even paying attention?"

"Yes, and screw you, Q. I did get the last hit, you --" She broke off as the submarine returned, cursing herself for almost blowing it. In retaliation, she sent out five SST's to drop sonar buoys. Q glared at her across the table. Both of them waited out the danger.

"F-19."

"Hmmm. Hit." She put in the peg. "You can't expect me to see whatever it is you see in him after one lunch. I'm an obtuse mortal, after all. B-12."

"Miss. F-20."

"Hey! You sunk my battleship, you bastard!"

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"It'll be tricky," Stella said carefully, more than a little uncomfortable at this conference table. The entire senior staff was looking at her, and she hated the idea of being someone's "expert." "But as long as Commander Troi doesn't try to call attention to herself, she'll be ignored readily enough."

"In what ways would I call attention to myself?"

Man, but that voice is annoying. How does she make a living as a therapist when her voice makes people want to claw at themselves?

"Your clothes, your attitude, any pretense at being a singer yourself."

"I would appreciate if you could help me find something appropriate to wear, but I don't understand the proper attitude for blending into the crowd at this sort of competition."

Stella sighed. She really should have just taken that Breen transport after all, the hell with meeting Q's friends. "Why do all Starfleet personnel act like they're going to go to hell if they like crystal singers? I mean, you're Betazoid, half, anyway! Haven't you ever been to a competition?"

"Yes, but my mother wasn't concerned with blending in."

Stella laughed. "I can believe that. Look, the idea is for you to be an initiate, a Betazoid who doesn't know the ropes but finds this all fascinating, right? So you should just walk around with your eyes open as if you can't believe how great this all is. Believe me," and a rueful note snuck into Stella's voice, "you can't look too naive or awestruck if you're supposed to be just started as a singer. You'll be expected to hang around the tents and ask a lot of questions."

Troi nodded. She had wanted to assume a new identity for the mission, but Stella had been dead set against it. She assured them all that they would be meeting some of the most powerful people in the sector at this competition, and that many of them were bound to know a little something about the Federation's most famous crew. Moreover, Troi's job would be just one more thing to add credence to her pretense of being interested in changing careers.

"Not trying to be offensive here," Stella had said, "but I've seen people with much more important jobs throw it all away when they realized they could sing. And, naturally, the rumors about who's supposedly thrown away their careers are even more impressive. I don't know if it's true, but it's generally believed that Prince Hess-ton of Stefuin IV abdicated so he could pursue his singing career." She had smiled at the looks this drew from around the table. "That's right. And his dying of a massive stroke right after didn't help those stories die down any."

"What sort of questions would be appropriate?" Troi asked now.

Stella looked slightly exasperated, but answered readily enough: "Should you take up meditating? What else can you do to improve your concentration? Do you really have to be drunk all the time? How many years would you really be able to do it before you have to stop -- all new singers think they'll just stop before things get too ugly. They're frightened about what's involved and excited by the danger and heady with the notion of what they might be able to do with the crystals. And don't worry about people trying to push you into anything. Mostly you're going to get people trying to scare you off.

"Then you don't think she's going to be in any danger?" Riker asked.

"Of course she's not going to be in any danger! We're not a bunch of pushers, you know!" Stella took a breath and held it a moment. "At least, she shouldn't be in any danger from us. I can't speak for what she'll be facing if the Breen and Tholians find out what she's up to." She looked up at the ceiling.

"And I want you to keep that danger to a minimum, Counselor," Picard said.

"I'll be keeping my ears open, Captain, but I won't go looking for traps."

"Agreed. Is there anything else you can think of for us to do to support her?"

Everyone looked at Stella, who was still staring at the ceiling. Suddenly, a hand shot up to clasp her nose, and Crusher was instantly out of her chair.

"Dab it," Stella muttered.

Crusher had her hand on Stella's shoulder now and keyed her combadge. "Transporter room, two to beam to Sickbay." She looked at the captain, who was staring at Stella in concern. "We'll get this taken care of," she promised with a tight smile as they disappeared into sparkles.

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"Doesn't it make you ill that you can't even argue with Riker without getting a nosebleed?"

Currently forbidden speech, Stella glared up at Q from the biobed.

"I mean, if you had any sort of proper debate partner, your head would probably explode."

Crusher kept up her work at the monitor without interfering with Q's teasing tirade, sensing an undertone of earnestness. If Q were even remotely interested in getting Stella to change careers before she killed herself, the doctor was completely supportive.

Even though the idea of being on Q's side was more than a little...unsettling.

"I suppose from now on no matter what idiotic things you have to listen to around here, you'll just have to nod in agreement and bow your head. Perhaps you should take up practicing the phrase, 'Whatever you say, sir,' at odd moments. Could be quite the life-saver."

Stella's hand came up in an expressive gesture.

"Oh, really, my dear, is that all you learned in Florida?"

The gesture became a bit more emphatic.

"Keep that up and I won't let you win at Monopoly anymore."

The hand dropped to the bed as her whole body cooperated in a grand eye-roll, during which the Sickbay doors whooshed open and Picard strode through, instantly assessing the gloating quality of Q's expression.

"Mon Capitaine! I must say, you're not very good at keeping your guests at ease. What will your people accuse her of next?"

"If anyone is suspicious of Stella's motives, Q, it would only be due to her association with you."

"Is that your idea of an insult, Picard? And after you've learned all about my scrubbing floors to send her to college. Your declining mental health is attacking your wit first, I see."

"I find nothing funny in your presence here."

"Is it a Starfleet requirement that their captains have no sense of humor, or is your glum expression one of those Picard maneuvers like tugging at your shirt?"

"If you want to give me a laugh, get off my ship!"

"You know, if you keep making me feel unwelcome, I'm going to snap Earl Grey tea out of existence."

"I'd gladly pay that price if it meant you really would stay away."

"You wound me, mon ami. Thank goodness I know you don't mean a word of it."

Oh my God. Oh my God. Look at them! Oh my God. Q, why didn't you ever tell me? No wonder you hate Crusher so much! Oh my GOD!

Crusher noticed the sudden rise in Stella's blood pressure and the difficulty she was having with her respiratory system, but had enough experience with extended scans to recognize the cause. She didn't see what was so funny, herself.

"Q, if you have some purpose in being here other than to make Stella regret trying to help us, I wish you'd state it.

"Still looking to me to connect the dots for you? With all that time you spend pretending to be that Hill throw-back, I thought you liked a good mystery."

"A mystery?" Picard's whole attitude changed before Stella's amazed eyes. "Then there is something hidden here, something behind the Breen and Tholian's insistence in starting a war?

"Ah!" Q looked completely disgusted. "Who cares about the Breen or the Tholians? Your precious Federation would be better off if you just let them kill each other. Or were you hoping to grab one of them to replace your Klingon lap-dog? Must be tough to lose Smiley to that Cardassian gulag."

Stella was shaking violently with suppressed giggles now, and Crusher stepped forward angrily. "Could the two of you please take this somewhere else?"

Picard looked at her in surprise and Q rolled his eyes, groaned "You are such a party-pooper," and flashed out. Stella continued to shake for a long minute, then finally stilled under Crusher's glare and allowed the doctor to finish her delicate scans while Picard stood at her bedside, evidently thinking deeply.

"Done," Crusher finally snapped, turning firmly to Stella's still-twinkling eyes. The sight reminded her of something for a minute, but the sensation was lost in her own impatience. "I've retuned your hand-sealer to be more effective on the blood vessels you've been straining past tolerance." She handed the instrument over and watched Stella store it in her medkit. "If you were going to be here longer I'd suggest hemolyn treatments to reinforce the vascular walls, but as it is, no more fixing yourself up while you're on this ship or at the competition."

"Yes, Doctor."

"And as much as I dislike agreeing with Q, you need to keep tighter hold of your temper. Commander Riker...didn't mean anything by the question."

Stella shrugged, then nodded to get Crusher to leave her alone. The doctor made eye-contact with Picard, then moved off towards her lab.

Stella looked at Picard carefully, seeing him in quite a new light, while the captain noted the quiet mirth of her expression.

"We'll reach Fanh tomorrow evening," he said quietly. "Your registration at the competition was met with a great deal of official pleasure, and I've been asked by all parties involved to include you in the reception we'll be holding tomorrow night aboard the ship. The Breen and Tholian ambassadors will be there, and I was, of course, going to invite you anyway, but I take it as a good sign that both sides of the negotiation and our Fanh hosts want to recognize your importance here."

Stella frowned. "Captain, you realize that whatever warm and fuzzy feelings they have for me, they're doubtlessly going to change their tune once they realize the threat I pose?"

"What threat?"

"Of winning. All three races won't much care for the idea of having a human beat them at the 'most prestigious competition in the Alpha Quad.' If I were you, I'd distance myself from me early on."

"As far as I'm concerned, the better you do at Fanh, the more you're going to prove that it's unwise to underestimate the Federation. I need all the leverage I can get with these people, and it doesn't necessarily have to be warm and fuzzy."

Stella felt herself actually growing warm herself at this show of support and had to work hard not to beam in delight or blush in embarrassment. Picard really wasn't what she'd thought at all. No wonder Q...she fought off the thought. She couldn't explore her new discovery until she was alone and could laugh her ass off in peace.

"Why do you think there's something mysterious behind the Breen and Tholian desire to go to war?" she asked, distracting herself with the most serious question she could devise.

"I'm not sure I do. There's just such a difference between their willingness to engage in this conference and their semi-covert rush to arm themselves for battle. It's almost as if they're..." A thought pushed itself into his mind as he spoke, and suddenly the rank and file of questions before him shifted in emphasis and something not quite tangible fell into place.

"Captain Picard?"

"Would you excuse me, Stella? I have to see Counselor Troi before she makes her call to Fanh."

"Certainly. Are we still on for lunch tomorrow?"

Picard nodded absently as he turned away, caught himself, turned back and smiled with genuine pleasure, then walked quickly from the room. Stella gathered her kit and walked rather quickly back to her quarters, where she planned to down several beers, make herself eat dinner, and giggle herself to sleep.

But before she made it to bed, a thought occurred to her, and she checked several stardates with the ship's computer, easily cracking the low-rate security protocols to find the information she wanted.

Well, doesn't that explain a lot?

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Troi has made contact with one of the instructors," Picard told Crusher as she slathered jelly on her croissant. "A Fanhian named Adren Tofts. As Stella predicted, the woman didn't seem at all surprised that someone in Troi's position or with her background would be attracted to singing. Tofts has agreed to meet with Troi as soon as we make it to Fanh to assess her 'potential.'"

"You sound disapproving, Jean-Luc."

Picard sipped at his coffee and scowled. "I can't help it, Beverly. That someone with the life and opportunities that Stella has had should decide to end her life with this...artform -- I can't understand it."

"What sort of opportunities?"

After a moment's consideration, Picard gave her a summary of what he knew about Stella's life, and watched, surprised, as Crusher nodded her head in satisfaction.

"That...fits," she said. "You know, I think you may have misunderstood Q's presence in Sickbay yesterday. Much as I may suspect his motives, I think he's trying to help her. She really doesn't have much longer if she keeps singing, and I think he's trying to make her realize how weakened she is by all this. In fact, I'm a little surprised he isn't insisting that she stop, or even taking the matter out of her hands."

Picard shook his head. "I don't know for certain, of course, but if she and Q have been dealing with each other for almost thirty years now, they must have worked out some sort of arrangement that keeps him from interfering in her life that much. They both insist that he hasn't altered her physically to aid her singing, and though he takes her around in time and space at least in some part at her own discretion, he seems to come and go in her life at his own choosing."

"It must have taken some careful negotiating on both their parts to work out an arrangement that must resist so much...temptation. And yet, I'm not really sure what they are to each other. Do you know, she has a tattoo on her shoulder of a heart-shaped Q?" Picard's eyebrows shot up. "When I asked, rather stupidly, if Q had done that to her, she got more than a little upset with me." Crusher thought a moment, pouring more coffee. "I wonder if she had it done when she was living in the twentieth-century. That time period would be right for the technique used."

"A tattoo?" The thought disturbed him greatly. You didn't get your father's name tattooed on your shoulder...but Troi had said there was nothing romantic between them. Picard put the question at the top of his list, and drained his coffee.

"My tattoo?" Stella asked over her lunch: once again a rare steak, cheese fries, and beer. She twisted in her seat and pulled the sleeve back to show off the polka-dotted letter. "Isn't it a scream?"

"But, if I may ask, why did you have it done?"

"Because it was painful, and because I was a little frightened of it." She sighed at Picard's worried expression. "You don't understand, do you? Q does everything for me. And what can I ever give him to show I appreciate him? I can't make him anything or do anything for him he can't do better himself. It's almost impossible to surprise someone who's semi-omnipotent, you know. So there I was, working in an AIDS hostel, and I'm trying to think about what I could possibly do to make Q realize how grateful I am for being there, able to help those people...and then I thought of a tattoo. There was a big phobia about them at the time, and it took me weeks to come up with the design. It's got a sixties feel, you know? 'Cause Q's such a rebel." She giggled and took another large bite of steak. It occurred to Picard that she ate so fast because she didn't enjoy it.

"You should have seen his face when he saw it the first time," she was saying around the steak, hazel eyes alight with good humor. "And for months afterwards he was mentioning it whenever the conversation allowed. Didn't I want to get a 'Q' shaved into my hair? Perhaps I should wear a dress out of Q-patterned material? If I tried hard I could probably bend my body around to look like a big Q." She drained her beer and walked over to get another one, getting another tea as well.

"And that meant that he was pleased?"

Stella sat, handed over the tea, and blinked at him. "Of course it did."

Picard nodded uncertainly, then applied himself to his own lunch for a few minutes: a bowl of vegetable soup Beverly had programmed from her grandmother's recipe that really was quite delicious. He wondered if Stella already knew about he and Dr. Crusher's time on Kisspritt, then got tired of wondering and asked her.

"No, he didn't. Would you tell me about it?"

And to his own surprise, Picard found himself relating the story in some detail, leaving out only the parts where he and Beverly discussed their feelings for one another. Enough of that intimacy made it into his tale, however, for her to guess at why Q had never told her the story. Smiling to herself a bit, she decided to reciprocate with a story of her own.

"Did Q ever tell you about his experience with getting drunk?"

Picard sat back with his second tea, pleased at this way of getting information about Q without actually having actually to deal with the entity.

"No."

Stella nodded and sat back with her own drink, feeling the slight pounding of her blood through her body. No question about it: her blood vessels were appreciating her little break from performance.

"It happened about three years ago." It wouldn't do to tell Picard the exact stardate. "I was still earning my crystals, and Q showed up while I was practicing scales and giving myself a grand old headache. I was on Terbold-Vall III, a Breen world, apprenticed with the Vallden Conservatory." At Picard's blank look, she went on quickly. "Suffice to say I was very proud at passing the enrollment requirements and trying to make a good impression.

"Well, Q shows up and says he wants to get drunk, and I say he'll have to take us out of time because I have a test coming up in a week and I need to practice. And he says that would ruin the whole point, because he wants to get drunk so he doesn't have to watch something happen."

Picard frowned at her.

"Oh, it's very hard to close your eyes and plug your ears when you're a Q," she said with a wry smile. "He told me he'd tried different types of distractions before, and they hadn't worked very well, and he thought that maybe humans had something with this notion of just getting royally faced.

"So, of course, I said yes, and he...hmmm...put his powers away...do you get me? I mean, he couldn't get sloshed while still able to blow up stars with a snap of his fingers."

"I understand."

She smiled in relief and went on: "Now, there's no shortage of bars on Terbold-Vall, and before long we were both tanked pretty fiercely. But the worst of it was that Q had figured getting drunk would take us longer than it did -- I mean, I hadn't really taken it up yet, and Q had never had any liquor before at all, and neither of us had remembered that we should have eaten something first, and so in pretty short order we were dropping off our barstools and insulting everyone around us and seeing double, and we had to stay that way for hours and hours before this thing that Q didn't want to see would be over."

"Do you know what it was he didn't want to watch?"

"He never told me," she said carefully. "Anyway, it's almost morning now, and there we are in this alley, throwing up pretty regularly now, which Q said was just about the most disgusting thing that had ever happened to him -- which means a lot coming from a guy who admits to having spent time as a dog -- and up come these two Breen bums who want to mug us! Q was in no shape to get his powers back, and with a big brother like Q to protect me from bullies, I've never learned to fight worth a damn. Finally, we just threw the latinum strips we had at them and ran away. I thought Q was going to get mad, but he just ending up laughing until we found this park bench and passed out. When we woke up, he got his powers back and cleared up my hangover, and then he thanked me, and it's been one of the few times in my whole life I've been able to do something for him."

Picard found himself trying to picture the events in his mind, and wished strongly that he knew what it was that Q was willing to go through so much trouble not to witness.

Stella watched Picard's little inner struggle with a great deal of enjoyment. Oh, this whole thing had become lovely in the extreme. But then a cloud passed settled over her pleasure as it occurred to her how much Q was willing to expose about himself to distract her. His concern for her tightened her chest and made her feel guilty. But she had been working towards this competition for years now, and with the Breen and Tholian thing, the whole situation had become more pressing than ever. She was going through with this no matter what Q was willing to do to stop her.

But, oh, this had better work,. This had better go exactly according to plan, or Q would never, ever forgive her.

"You must work very hard at it," Picard said suddenly, confusing her greatly. "I can't imagine the temptation Q constantly offers you."

"In what way, Captain?"

Picard frowned at her. "I realize your own life seems more normal to you than it does to us, but you are human. The power of the Q was once offered to one of my crew, and almost instantly corrupted him, as you probably know already." She nodded. "And yet you have maintained your autonomy and your sanity despite having that power available your whole life."

"Well, Q has refused me many things over the years, Picard. It's part of being a parent. And besides, you're one to talk."

"What do you mean?"

Oh, come on! You can't be that blind to what's going on here. She couldn't help snorting at Picard's look of confusion, and was grateful it didn't draw blood. The thought of almost hurting herself at his ignorance made her slightly mad. "Now, Captain, do you think, for one second, that if you asked him nicely -- not on your knees or anything, just nicely -- that there's anything in whole universe Q wouldn't do for you?"

"I...I think you've misjudged our relationship."  Well, well, the great Captain Picard can be blind when he wants to be, can't he? Well, denial ain't just a river in Egypt. What do you think Ca'ail was doing, anyway? I hope I never have to be subtle in making a point around you. "If you say so, Captain Picard," she said, not bothering to belie the point with sarcasm. She looked down at her ankle. "I really need to practice."

Picard grabbed on to the change in topic. "Do you require a crystal? I think Mr. LaForge could probably arrange to replicate something appropriate."

She smiled. "There's no need. Large crystals are only for performance." She held up her right ankle. "These crystals are what actually create the audible music according to a singer's directions. The large crystals we stand on only amplify the sound. The different is in the shape. You see, the strongest singer in the universe can't break one of these guys."

"Break?"

Stella laughed. "Man, you really don't know anything about this...but, as you made clear, why should you? Okay, these crystals, you see how they're actually slightly embedded into my skin? Their points actually go needle-thin and bore into the ankle bone." Picard held down his wince. "Now, this technique is relatively new, only about a hundred years old or so. The Breen invented it, and they've been dominating the art ever since.

"But before we had these, singers always worked directly with big crystals, and that meant that eventually the crystals would be broken -- shattered, usually -- by the power really good singers pumped into them. It's kind of like what happens when you pump too much power into a dylithium crystal, or when the crystal isn't shaped exactly right."

"Understood."

"Super. Now, since the crystals break as a direct result of the singer's power, it became a big deal to break the crystal on purpose as a show of that power. To this day, anyone who can actually break the crystal at any point in a competition automatically wins, then and there. That's why really big crystals are so important. I mean, after you get them a few feet cubed, the difference in sound and psychic output is negligible. But what does get affected is the sturdiness of the crystal. That's why the Fanh are so proud of what they've got. Before they discovered that monster they're using, the competitions used to travel around, spreading out the wealth and influence. Now the Fanh really control the artform." Stella cut herself off abruptly.

"Anyway, practicing is just a matter of using these crystals, and the actual noise I get them to make won't be very impressive."

"But it will be musical?"

"Sure, in a highly synthesized fashion, like you might get out of a child's...well, look, it's no secret. Do you want to hear?

"Yes, please."

With a little smile that Picard was beginning to learn meant mischief, she nodded, and immediately the crystals around her ankle glowed as a simple and familiar melody began to play. He didn't expect there to be more than one voice, but the lead flute-sound was accompanied by a synthesized piano, harp, bells, and strings. The captain felt inordinately pleased, and listened to the Resikan folk song twice through before she changed over to another, happier little tune he didn't know.

"I can talk while I'm doing this," she said smugly enough for Picard to realize it was an impressive feat.

"Did Q tell you about Resika?" He thought the question obvious.

"Actually, no. I mean, not until I asked him about it. Your paper on the Resikans, and the music you included were quite the talk of the town for awhile, you know. I learned all the songs and asked Q to teach me more...that's one of the things he said 'No' to, by the way."

"Why?"

She shrugged and changed melodies. "I guess he felt it was your turf."

Picard thought about that for a moment, then cocked his head. "Isn't that Yum-Yum's song?"

"You're a fellow Gilbert and Sullivan fan? Honestly, Captain, I would have thought they were too silly for you."

Picard allowed a small smirk that changed his entire face, then said with a deep voice, "They have their moments."

Stella's laughter pealed out musically as she bounded out of her chair and gathered their things into the replicator. Picard noticed the song never broke tempo.

Stella's farewell died on her lips as she turned to face him. She stopped playing the song as well. "What is it, Captain Picard?"

"How can you just...let yourself be destroyed like this?"

"People die every day, Picard."

"No, don't." He stood and walked around the desk to face her directly. "Don't make a joke of this. There aren't enough...unique people in the universe. Nothing could justify your throwing away your life like this."

She beamed at him. "Thank you for the compliment, Captain! I consider you quite unique as well." Do I ever. "But I'm not afraid of death. I can't be."

"Because...you know Q will save you?" he asked hopefully.

His tone kept her from growing angry, though she was annoyed. "You must have realized Q does nothing to or for me without my permission. There'd be no purpose to my existence if that weren't the case. I'm not afraid of death precisely because I know I am going to die someday."

"I suspected as much." He sounded defeated and she felt her irritation melt away. "And it's good for Q to realize that mortals are defined by death and...sickness."

At a sudden thought Stella found herself rudely gafawing. "I'm sorry," she said breathlessly, "but you don't really think for a second that Q is ever going to allow you to..." A sense of self-preservation kicked in at the last second. She firmed her lips and got a grip on herself.

"Allow me to what?"

"Nothing. Forget it. It was a stupid thing to say. Allow me please to withdraw it. Besides," she said, backing towards the door, "I have got to take a nap if I'm going to be any use at your reception tonight, not to mention the competition tomorrow." A light came into her eyes at the thought. "Are you going to be there for the opening rounds?"

Picard was looking at her with narrow eyes. "No. I'm afraid the talks are scheduled to begin early. But both ambassadors have insisted that we attend the final rounds. I must say I'm looking forward to it."

"Great," she said brightly. "Well, I'll see you tonight." And then she walked quickly out of the room, frightened the whole time that he would call her back.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The comptroller of the YBrit salvage yard waited for the call with what felt like several large snakes crawling through his guts. He hadn't been able to eat since Picard had found out about his arrangement with the Tholians, and he still couldn't believe that he'd managed to avoid prison.

"Blaknel to YBrit Station," a voice cracked, causing BRussiket to start savagely. "Request permission to assume orbit."

"Permission granted," he managed, checking over his monitors and finding just what he was looking for. His guts tightened around the snakes. He was never going to get away with this. Somehow, he was certain, his head would end up at the end of someone's long and very sharp pike, and his ex-wives would snicker about it, and vultures would gnaw his innards, and...

"I hear this is a good place for utridium ore," the voice said casually. After all, it was the sort of thing one often heard from cargo ships like the Blaknel.

The comptroller looked into the face of his doom and swallowed before responding with almost equal casualness, "Yes, it is. Buy an overworked comptroller a drink and I'll put you on to some people I know in the business."

"Will do, YBrit Station."

The connection was cut, and the snakes twined together in glee.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I don't think the Vulcans have lesbians, do they?"

Myler looked at her in naked horror.

Stella gestured broadly with the hand which held -- fortunately -- a half-empty glass of beer and raised the volume a notch. "I mean, I guess homosexuality isn't considered logical or something, but I think it's a shame. You know, some of those Vulcan women are really hot!"

In the crowded and noisy room, Stella's voice didn't carry nearly as far as Myler believed, and, in fact, the only person whose attention was caught by the conversation was Troi. She didn't catch the rather shrill voice either, but she was currently being assaulted by waves of Myler's embarrassed agony. She was moving over to rescue him when the captain caught her eye and waved her over. With a silent apology to the lieutenant, she joined Picard and the two ambassadors, smiling pleasantly while the captain made the introductions.

The Breen ambassador, Reret, was completely covered in the armor of his people, but somehow managed to stand in a manner that was both assured and non-threatening. The Tholian ambassador, Chooln, was, of course, indiscernible inside his environment suit, but he didn't seem to be trying to use it to loom over the others, even if he did, indeed, loom.

"I hear that you are interested in learning more about singing," the Tholian said through his voice simulator.

"Yes, though I know I will have to work hard even to get amateur standing."

"There are not enough amateurs," Reret said with a whispering voice Troi found a little difficult to get used to. "And their ranks would be enriched with someone so capable of understanding the...emotions of a fine performance." The Breen's head swiveled suddenly in a survey of the room.

"Have you met our champion?" Reret asked. "I believe he was...yes, there he is." Almost deferentially, the ambassador gestured to the Breen standing alone by one of the portals. Outside, against the stars, a Breen ship was matching the movements of a Tholian vessel perfectly.

Picard noticed the engagement and tamped down his annoyance. There were six Breen ships in the area, and six Tholian, and each one had found a partner in this face-off, circling the planet and matching each other's movements like fighters testing their opponents before the actual blood-letting began. The Enterprise was doing its best to orbit the planet non-aggressively, staying out of the others' courses without an overt show of accommodation, and Picard wondered if all he were going to get out of this peace conference were a front-row seat when the shooting began.

Troi watched the Breen "champion" strut across the floor towards them, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Arrogance and self-love poured from the man, decorating him more brightly than the multitude of ribbons around his neck and on his chest, or the double line of crystals wrapped around the cut-out bare band of ruddy skin at his ankle.

"Rachiir," Reret called as the Breen got within earshot. "Come meet Commander Deanna Troi. She's interested in learning more about singing."

Rachiir looked at Troi for a good fifteen seconds before responding, "Not a healthy interest in a human or Betazoid."

"No, it's not," an amused voice said from behind Picard, and they all turned in surprise to face Stella, smiling at them and holding a new glass of beer in her hand. Troi looked around covertly for Myler and saw him draining a mug of synthale by the buffet.

Suddenly, the crystals around Rachiir's ankle glowed and hummed in a three-second sing-song. The Breen started violently, then seemed to glare at Stella for over a minute. Stella only smiled back and sipped her drink, until Rachiir seemed to give up and looked as though for explanation at his ambassador.

"This must be Estelle," Reret said almost weakly, evidently shaken by what had happened. "Your human forerunner."

"I plan on winning," Stella said pleasantly. "Sorry to break your streak, Rachiir."

"Break it," the champion hissed, "then apologize."

"Okay," Stella said with a shrug, then looked to the Tholian ambassador. "Where's Orool? I wanted to give her a brush as well."

Chooln took a moment replying. "She will be here shortly."

"Oh? Good."

The environment suit shifted slightly. "She is not our top contender."

"She is, actually, might even beat Rachiir this year. How unfortunate for her that I'm here as well."

"And what competitions have you won?" Rachiir demanded softly.

"It won't do you any good to pretend you don't know all about her, Rachiir," a new voice broke in, and they all turned this time to the graceful figure of the Fanh ambassador, Teeroth. Her clothes reflected the height of fashion, from her long and thickly braided earrings to her pointed-toed, thick-soled boots. Her jet black hair grew in wings down over the sides of her large head, while her enormous eyes, fringed in a double set of black eyelashes, blinked at them guilelessly. Only her lips betrayed a certain savviness that flashed out in odd moments of avarice as she spoke.

"We all know of the great Estelle, the human wonder who likes to hang around seedy bars when her talents could make her a headliner three times over." She turned those eyes to Stella, whose own stance hadn't altered in the slightest, nor become stiffly fixed. "Tell me why you do it, dear."

"Drunks make the best audiences," Stella drawled.

"Have you seen Orool?" Chooln asked, and Troi could easily feel his anxiety. The mutual dislike around her was beginning to sour her stomach. Fortunately, Stella's amusement outweighed any of her other feelings, and Troi focused on it.

"Not coming, I'm afraid," Teeroth cooed. "I would have thought your best audiences could be found at competitions, perhaps those to be found a our own little gathering."

"Nope. Drunks."

"Well, you would know," Rachiir hissed.

"Yep."

"Captain," Reret said. "I hope you're not finding it too difficult to deal with the traffic in orbit." He turned to Teeroth. "I'm surprised the Enterprise has been designated the orbit control point."

"We on Fanh have no real experience with space fleets." She managed to make it sound like an announcement of superiority. "We rely on our neighbors to keep track of their own ships."

Picard sympathized with the Breen ambassador, but couldn't let the opportunity pass. "Well, it would be easier for us if we knew whether your government were planning to send any more ships into the area, Ambassador Reret."

A moment of silence passed, then: "Not if the Tholians send no more."

Everyone looked at Chooln.

"We have...no such plans at this time."

"Deanna," Stella said suddenly. "If you really want to learn something about singing, let me introduce you to Hapeve. He was Tofts' mentor."

"Thank you," Troi said, meaning it but keeping it out of her voice. With a nod to the others, the empath moved away from the tense circle, knowing that with Stella out of the way the Rachiir and Teeroth would leave Picard to talk to Chooln and Reret in peace.

As the two women walked the length of the Enterprise's main lounge, stopping at the buffet for another round of drinks, Stella sighed heavily and looked Troi in disgust.

"You know, before the Fanh gained control of the competition, this used to be fun? Ask anyone who was around back then. People would meet each other as friends, and the competition was spirited, not poisonous. And the bigger problem is that all the other serious competitions take their tone from this one."

"Teeroth takes pleasure in her own power, and in making others uncomfortably aware of that pleasure," Troi agreed.

"Oh, all Fanh are like that, you wait and see." Stella looked around the room wearily. "Horrible, this whole thing."

Troi easily sensed the sincerity in Stella's words and asked, "Then why are you here?"

Stella smiled almost evilly. "Because I'm going to win."

Quickly, Stella led her over to Hapeve, another unpleasant Fanh who went on at some length about his legendary prowess with crystals. Soon, Stella was yawning and begged off, leaving the room in a show of disinterest. Curiously, Troi noted that the other singers quickly followed, though the party showed no sign of breaking up because of it.

Eventually, the empath managed to make her way back over to Picard and the two ambassadors, and found that little progress had been made. They were still talking about the number of ships in orbit. Picard was holding firm, however, and eventually got them both to agree to advise their governments not to send any more ships into the area.

Well after midnight, the quests finally began to leave, and only then because Teeroth reminded everyone rather imperiously that the first round of competition began in only a few hours. Riker, who had joined the party after his bridge shift was over and thus was less exhausted than the rest of them, stood on one side of Picard while Troi took the other, until the room was empty of all but the cleaning crew, and the trio breathed a sigh of relief.

Surprising the others, but not unduly, Picard invited his officers back to his quarters for a drink, and they soon found themselves sitting in his front room, sipping wine and trying to make sense of their problems.

"The worst part of it is that they seem all the more intent on this war the more we get them to talk," Picard began. "I get the impression the real reason for these talks is actually to shake hands before they come out fighting."

"Do you think they're looking for us to act as referee?" Riker asked.

"I think they're looking for us to get out of the way once the shooting starts."

"For what it's worth," Troi said, enjoying the wine after limiting herself to soft drinks at the reception, "I know why the Fanh are so happy to be hosting the conference." The men looked at her. "Stella knew what she was doing introducing me to Hapeve. His love of displaying his abilities is matched only by his inside knowledge. As it turns out, Fanh believes itself in no danger from being attacked by any culture which values crystal singing, particularly a culture like the Tholian or Breen societies, where it's the most popular and best supported artform.

"Moreover, the Fanh fully intend to strike up an arrangement with whichever side wins the Breen/Tholian war to come under their official protection in trade for several large crystals. The shift in the power structure would actually stabilize the systems, allowing Fanh to hold more regular competitions and become as much a tourist center as Risa or Haven. Economically, a war will be good for them in the short and long term. This conference gives them an opportunity to establish diplomatic relations with both sides."

"If the Fanh are going to be secretly egging them on, our jobs are going to get nearly impossible," Riker glowered.

"Well, there's no chance of changing the venue," Picard said firmly, "so somehow we have got to manage. Counselor, your number one priority down there will be to find out how the individual Tholian and Breen singers feel about each other and each other's culture. We must be able to get some sort of insight as to why they have chosen each other for this. There are several others to choose from, and the accident in the Estoplin Belt is looking more and more to me like a simple excuse."

"Aye, sir." Troi thought hard for a moment, feeling her weariness. "I'm hoping to get Stella to introduce me around a little, if the competition doesn't keep her too busy. My association with her should be as public as possible as well. I had no idea how...impressed the others were going to be with her until I saw her with them."

"She plays it cool, I'll say that for her," Riker said.

"Speaking of playing," Picard asked, "do you know what that was all about with Rachiir's crystals?"

"It's called 'brushing.' Hapeve explained it to me. Stella actually activated Rachiir's own crystals. The trick evidently involves sending out a wide-spectrum signal which hopefully includes the frequency of the crystals you're trying to reach. Doing it to him without activating her own was a stunt, but an impressive one. Also, Rachiir evidently tried to do the same to her and couldn't. I suspect she was trying to make it clear she wasn't kidding about winning the competition."

"She does seem determined that everyone know what she's here for." Picard thought a moment, then nodded at them with a smile. "Well, it's a long day in the morning."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Troi had never before seen so many fanatically dedicated people outside a war zone.

The singers were also cliquish, obsessive, secretive, arrogant, barefoot, and extremely pleased with themselves.

She had been wandering about the competition for three hours now, watching the time carefully so she wouldn't miss Stella's appearance. She had been snubbed so many times she couldn't count them anymore, and her audience with Tofts had been short and disappointing. Most people seemed to be expecting her to prove her value as a singer, and since she couldn't hold a note without three hours' concentration, she doubted she would be turning many heads.

The competition was being held in a series of enormous tents held up by absolutely silent anti-grav bars. The central tent covered the enormous crystal, surrounded by a ring of smaller crystals, from which flowed unbelievably beautiful music and all of the Fanh authority. Some of the singers actually bowed to it before standing atop its smooth dark surface and beginning their performance. Troi had watched one Vulcan sing a lovely piece which brought no applause (she was told after repeated inquires that this was because the emotional output was dismal), several humans get booed out of the tent, and several Breen and Tholian singers (the Tholians sang through an opaque forcefield that somehow allowed the crystal to make the necessary connection to their skin without ruining their suits' environment) brought out tears and wild rounds of applause.

She was beginning to get a feel for what made the difference in the singers. She really wasn't on the right frequency nor did she have the proper training to pick up on the all-important psychic reverb, but she could feel the pleasure of the spectators when the good singers performed.

Moreover, she realized early on and with great surprise that the crystal simply glowed brighter when more power was applied through it, and the music which emanated overtly produced more vibration and richness of sound with the good singers. She had learned that of all sounds, those mimicking actual voices were the most difficult and rare, and that strongly held, steady beats matched with intricate melodies were the preferred choice of the truly great.  Moreover, she was learning a lot about the simple mechanics of the art. The crystals were mined in a manner similar to dylithium mining, then cut into extremely complex shapes for different functions such as rhythm, tone, pitch, and emotive cohesion, then polished with an expensive and volatile trilithium distillate. The manner of fitting crystal anklets, evaluating the purity of the larger crystals, and scanning crystals for hazardous flaws (since such crystals had a tendency to explode more violently than unflawed crystals) were all explained to her.

After three hours of such study, she wasn't surprised when the Bajoran who finished up a song about the prophets was given only a polite round of applause and left the tent looking glum.

It was in the smaller tents that she found out such things. Here the competitors dropped a little of their fierceness, and Troi began to realize what Stella must have been talking about the night before. In these smaller tents smaller crystals were being used for all manner of demonstrations for all manner of techniques -- all of which were beyond Troi's understanding. But the pleasure in these demonstrations was genuine and almost friendly, though barriers and dividing lines went up instantly at any hint of friction.

Stella's time was coming up when Troi made her way back into the main tent, where, with surprise, she saw Q seated on one of the benches along one of the elevated sides. He was dressed in Fanhian clothing, but without special ostentation, and she realized with another surprise that he was trying successfully to blend into the crowd. She met his eyes, nodded levelly, and found her own seat. He seemed to appreciate her discretion. At least, he did not make a point of sneering at her.  A Breen was currently performing a sort of fugue that had the spectators tense with pleasure. She heard the intricate blending of notes, but knew enough now to recognize a certain flatness in the tone. He was good, but not all that excellent, and she was surprised when he finished to a warm round of applause. Well, it was only to be expected that the Breen all enjoyed a certain mystique. She noticed that the panel of judges -- seven of them all from different races, except for the two Fanh -- a Tholian and Breen among them -- seemed less than impressed.

Stella appeared now, and the hundreds-strong crowd seemed to hum a bit in anticipation. Troi was surprised when the woman caught her eye and winked, and the empath was aware of becoming the center of attention for half a second. Then Stella centered her feet on the crystal, and her weight on her feet, and closed her eyes. The crowd grew extremely still and quiet.

While a gentle beat of drums marked complex tempo, a small chorus of male voices radiated from the crystal in pure, deep, round tones, while a few guitar chords mingled in and a single high male voice ran through a series of notes. Then the lead voice actually formed words in a standard Federation language:

It must...the show...go on.

Then a number of other voices in different pitches repeated the phrase "Take me home," while a synthesized tone began to lilt and the percussion varied.

The lead voice returned.

There must be some mistake
I didn't mean to let them take away my soul.
Am I too old? Is it too late?
Where has the feeling gone?
Will I remember the song?

Then was the pause of a collective, in-drawn, silent breath, and then all voices joined in a harmonized statement, "The show must go on," during which the lowest voice dropped much lower, causing the benches to shake as it drew out along the length of the audience's nerves, rippling through the empath as an almost sexual pleasure. Three small crystals around the base of the large exploded into tiny bits, and the audience waited only the barest instant after Stella bowed slightly to rise to its feet in a wild ovation that went on for several minutes.

After throwing a look at Q, who bowed his head back with a mocking grin, Stella stepped off the platform and directly up to Troi, who again became the center of all eyes.

The next performer entered the tent, not earning any notice until he had actually taken position on the crystal, and his song -- an instrumental interlude of a Klingon opera Troi almost remembered the name of -- had begun when Stella jerked her head towards the exit and Troi rose to follow her. The counselor noticed that Q was gone, his exit unnoticed by the people seated around him. She suspected he had used his powers to avoid notice and wondered if, in fact, anyone besides herself and Stella had seen him at all.

"What did you think?" Stella asked wryly.

"You were fantastic and you know it."

"Yes, I do." Stella's smile grew conspiratorial as she leaned in the mutter, "It's actually the shortest impressive song I know. I really need to conserve my strength."

Troi nodded seriously, then saw they were walking back to Tofts, who now came forward eagerly to meet them.

"Ah, Deanna, I'm so glad you've returned!" she said as though they were the oldest of friends. "I have some people here for you to meet."

Stella sent her along with a smirk and wandered off on her own. Troi noticed several people who wanted to talk to her -- or fawn over her -- but Stella's attitude was clear and everyone left her alone. Over the course of the next several hours Troi was questioned insistently about the human singer, fending off probes as best she could, but when she wearily returned to the Enterprise that evening, she had something to show for her troubles.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I don't see the purpose of this."

"You always complain when I get to make the game."

"I can't believe you bothered a replicator for this. What's the objective again?"

"You have make your ways through the hazards of high school until you get a date, then you open the door of your parents' house and see what you get. Is he a dream? mmmmmm? Or a dud? uhhhhhhh?"

"You're kidding me."

"Mystery Date is one of the crowning achievements of twentieth-century pastiche. And I've changed it around a bit to make...appropriate. You'll love it. Now, you go first."

Q rolled the dice and moved his little girl's cardboard cut-out three squares, then read the appropriate card: "You have a five-page report due tomorrow and haven't read the book. Move back four spaces."

Stella smiled and dragged his cut-out back to the beginning.

"Shouldn't it be minus one square?"

"You always only have to go back to the beginning. Americans weren't allowed to flunk back then."

"Hooray for a corrupt bureaucracy."

"Don't expect to learn calculus either. My turn. Four. 'The cutest guy in school sees you in your bathing suit before you've gotten your tan back. Move back two spaces.'"

"This had better get better soon."

"Excuse me, did I not play five days' worth of Kalto with you, or was that some drugged-out fantasy I had from bad acid?"

"You never dropped acid."

"Roll the dice."

"How I could have raised a child who can't appreciate Kalto...five. 'The English teacher dislikes you and your popularity soars. Move ahead six spaces.' Ah, that's more like it."

"You've reached the beauty salon." She handed him a chit. "Now you'll be ready for your date."

"I think I'm beginning to hate you."

"Hmm. Four spaces. 'Instant date!'" She showed him the card.

"You win just like that? Is the game over?"

"It's not over until we've gone through all the dates."

"You know, a warp core breach would also end this game."

"Quiet, I'm about to have my date." With a flourish, she opened the door at the center of the board. A picture of Lt. Barclay stared up at them. "Oh, he's a dud!"

Q began to laugh. "I hate to admit it, but I'm beginning to like this game. You and Barclay on a date, what an interesting notion."

"Laugh it up, Q-boy."

"Of course, he'd take you to the holodeck, but I'm not sure whose hand he'd end up holding."

"Wow, you can make fun of Barclay, Q. You must be really proud of yourself."

Q rolled the dice, moved, and picked up his card. "Acne on senior picture day! Move back two spaces.' Hmm. I'm back at the beauty parlor.

"First time didn't take, huh? Here's your chit. I think you know what you can do with it." She rolled. "Three. 'A friendly chat with a friend leads to the rumor that you stuff your bra. Back two spaces."

"Only two? Hmm, four. I landed on a date."

Stella smiled expectantly. "Wanna turn in your chit to look nice for your date?"

"I think I'll expect love just the way I am," Q drawled, opening the door with reluctance. Captain Picard stared up at them in his dress uniform.

"Oh!" Stella exclaimed with ecstasy. "He's a dream!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Picard had to skip breakfast with Beverly the next morning to arrive on time for the early morning conference, privately grateful that he'd noticed the bread crumbs on his uniform while he'd still been in the turbolift.

Troi began her report on the previous day quickly, giving an account of Stella's impressive performance and help, then put forth her observations of the Breen and Tholian singers.

"They have a solid and shared belief in their complete superiority to all of the other competitors, with a tacit understanding that between the two of them the Breen are the best. Rachiir is practically worshipped, and all the other Breen take their cue from him while enjoying their own...following. The Tholians refuse to acknowledge the worth of any other species there. Before her performance Stella was regarded as an upstart, and afterwards as a freak who has no stamina and will probably die on the crystal today."

Picard was listening intently, but shot a look at Crusher, who shrugged. "Whatever she did yesterday didn't cause any unusual damage."

The others nodded as Troi continued, "I kept looking for some sign of animosity, some hidden desire to destroy one another." She looked a little impatient with herself. "So it took me longer than it should have to see it.

"They don't dislike it other at all. They respect one another completely. That's why they enjoy these competitions so much."

Picard, Riker and Crusher nodded in understanding, though Data and LaForge still looked puzzled.

"They find each other worthy in battle?" Picard said more than asked. Troi nodded. "Of course, like their careful matching of ships in orbit, and the way Chooln and Reret like to dance about the floor. Sumo wrestlers stomping and attempting to intimidate. War will help both their economies and make the Fanh happy and give them a chance to prove finally which of the two superior species deserves to dominate the sector. The fact that millions of lives will be lost, most of them neither Breen nor Tholian, once the shooting starts is nothing compared to throwing one's opponent from the ring and being crowned victor. Picard to Estelle!"

"Stella here, Captain," the singer's voice responded. They all heard a rather happy melody playing behind her words.

"Would you mind joining us in the conference room?"

In response, Stella and Q flashed into the room.

"You know I hate that, Q!" the singer snapped, though they all noticed that her anger dissipated instantly as she took a seat at the table. They also noted that she was still wearing the same dark dress.

Q shrugged elaborately and took the last empty chair, reclining back in a pose of extreme boredom. However, all of them saw easily the deep concern in his eyes when he looked at Stella.

"I was trying to get her to eat some breakfast, Picard."

"I'll eat later."

"Q is right," Crusher said, shocking everyone in the room. "You need to eat before you perform again."

Stella sighed as Q snapped up a plate of sushi and a beer. If anyone thought it was an unusual breakfast, no one commented on it. The exotic quality of the delicacy was obvious, as was Stella's complete lack of appetite as she put a serving her mouth and chewed.

"I was hoping you might have some ideas about how to influence the admiration the Breen and Tholians have for each other," Picard said carefully.

"Finally figure that one out, Picard?" Q drawled. Stella looked at him with an expression of profound mirth and suddenly seemed to find her breakfast more appealing. Her eyes twinkled as she turned back to the captain and shrugged, then her face went completely serious and she snapped her head back around with a glare.

"Q," she spoke with dead calm. "Did you arrange for me to be here now?"

"No."

"Just a coincidence?"

Q shrugged. "Do you really want to discuss the nature of history?"

Stella snorted softly and turned back to the others' somewhat confused expressions. "Sorry. It's just that my winning the competition will help a bit with what you seem to want. The Breen have been winning at Fanh for far too long. My victory won't sit well."

"Then you are quite certain that you are going to win?" Data asked.

"Positive."

"A human victory at the competition will certainly lessen their mystique," Troi agreed.

"Then I will applaud your victory all the louder," Picard said, managing to sound wry and supportive at the same time.

"I'm truly surprised at your selfishness, Picard."

Everyone frowned in surprise at the venom in the entity's voice.

"I can't believe you're pimping for Stella like this."

"Q!" Picard snapped.

"Watch what you say about my --" Stella began with genuine anger.

"Don't you people realize she's probably going to die trying to beat a Breen no one in their right mind cares anything about?"

"I'm not going to die!"

"You don't know that."

"No! You mean you don't know that! The almighty Q has to rely on someone else for a change, rely on me not to kill myself, and it's killing you. Well, why don't you just snap your fingers and make me all healthy and perfect? Who gives a damn what I want? I'm just an insignificant human who's trying to ruin your day!"

"Stella! Q is only being concerned for your --"

"Don't you dare take my side while you're profiting off her idiocy!"

"Arguing about this is pointless. As her father it's part of your job to realize she's an adult who's made her own decisions. And Stella has done more than enough, I should think, to earn your trust."

Q's voice dropped into something menacing and contemptuous. "Ah, but I'm not her father, am I?"

Apart from Stella herself, only Troi noticed the shock that went through the singer's body. It was sudden and violent and followed by a wave of self-mocking derision, and then Stella got a handle on her emotions, and Troi felt almost nothing from her at all.

I am so stupid. How could I have missed it? I'm as bad as he is. I didn't want to see it, so I didn't. God, I am so dumb.

"Whatever your relationship with Stella, do what she says: either rob her of her own right to choose her life or stop trying to sabotage her decisions."

"Whatever you say, mon Capitaine," Q said with quiet disdain, then, surprising everyone but Stella, the entity flashed out of the room.

"Are you all right?" Troi couldn't help asking, and saw Stella's dull eyes looked at her.

"Fine." The gaze turned toward Picard. "I'm afraid I can't offer any other help, Captain. Singing's all I know about these days, but if I see any chance to make either the Breen or the Tholians look bad at the competition, I'll make use of it."

"Thank you."

Stella nodded and stood up, feeling weak. Damn Q for doing this to her in the middle of all this. All those years he could have told her...

But it was probably only because of the competition that he had finally let her know, wasn't it? She looked around the table, aware that she looked glum but unable to do more than stick a sallow smile on her face.

"I must get down to the surface. See you there, Deanna?"

Troi nodded carefully and Stella walked from the room, feeling as unsteady as she would walking from the Pitt's stage, and as worthless and empty as a broken crystal.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Stella looked around the endless whiteness and sighed.

She'd been transporting to the surface, and she knew as far as everyone else was concerned that there would be no interruption in the energy transfer.

"What do you want, Q?"

"Don't sound like that." Q walked towards her in his captain's uniform, frowning and looking a little rueful.

"That's your way to tell me, is it? After all these years, my whole life, you just blurt it out in front of those people."

"I can tell that you like him."

"I do like him. I like a lot of people. That doesn't mean I'm going to be thrilled to be related to them. I mean...it's like finding out I'm some long-lost princess or something." She looked at him narrowly, and Q wondered why that hazel-eyed expression hadn't given her paternity away to the humans days ago. "If he doesn't figure it out on his own, are you going to tell him?"

"Yes."

"He won't like it, and he won't try to stop me from competing."

Q looked away.

"He'll blame you. He'll deeply resent this upset in his life. He'll feel violated and disgusted, and he'll think you're to blame for the whole thing." She let herself sneer a bit. "He might not even believe I'm real, and tell you I'm some fantasy like that Robin Hood thing and then you'll never get him to trust you again."

"I'm not this easy to manipulate."

"Are you saying I'm lying?"

"I think I know him a bit better than you do."

"But I know you a lot better than he does. And telling him about me will expose you to him like you've never done before."

"You're the one who told him about my getting drunk with you!"

"But I didn't tell him why, and we both know how his mind works well enough to know that he'll never figure it out on his own. Come on, Q," she said, voice quiet as she moved closer, just as he had taught her to do, "if he doesn't figure it out on his own, he doesn't want to know. He won't thank you for rubbing his nose in his little mistakes."

"He has before."

"'Before' didn't involve being the father of someone he basically looks at as a drug addict."

Q looked into her eyes, exposing his confusing plainly. "Why don't you want him to know?"

Stella looked away this time. "You're enough for me."

"That can't be it."

She shrugged. "I'm too old for this. And I don't need him. And I'm not going to be anyone's duty." She looked back at him squarely. "You chose to bring me into the world. Don't you know how much I love you for that? And for everything you've done since? You are enough for me. Picard is...too complicated. Too much baggage. If he doesn't figure it out on his own, just let it go."

Q frowned.

"Or is telling him about me, seeing his reaction, the only reason you let me live in the first place?" Stella demanded.

"Of course not!"

"Then prove it!"

"You're just like him, you know that?"

"No, I'm just like you! How could I be anything else? And now I've disappointed you and you want to fob me off on him, make me his failure!"

"That's the stupidest thing you've ever said!"

"Then why do you need more? I don't. And if he doesn't figure it out --"

"Very well!" Q turned from her and walked away for several steps before stopping to look back, hand raised before he snapped. "It's your decision. You are his next of kin."

And then the transport was complete, and she stepped down from the outdoor platform into the welcoming tent, light-headed at having won the first important argument with Q in years.

"Estelle!" Ambassador Teeroth crooned with delight, rushing forward in a flutter of blue-toned silks that Stella could only assume was the latest fashion rage. Stella liked clothes very well, actually. She was Q's daughter, after all. But she didn't much care for the idea of "fashion." Following the dictates of some centralized clothing dogma seemed to her a statement of unoriginality. Besides, that color blue looked horrible on sallow Fanh skin.

"Teeroth."

"They're having a group! I thought you might want to join in."

Stella only barely managed not to roll her eyes. Why didn't the woman just try to drug her or something?

But, she thought as her bare feet followed the ambassador, stopping often to watch her introduce her to someone as though they were old friends, Teeroth might actually have a good idea. Not the idea she intended -- to tire Stella out before her next round -- but to let her work on a smaller crystal in tandem for a few minutes to loosen her up. She really hadn't been practicing on the Enterprise, and her blood felt fine. In fact, she felt great.

The group, currently seven strong, was going on in the smallest tent, drawing surprisingly little attention, though Stella soon realized why. All of the participants had been knocked out of consideration the day before. She wanted to scream at the people around her. Where had the simple love of music gone? Why did it matter whether these people were "winners" or not? The song they were playing was fun and rather well done. The singers were combining their efforts with true professionalism, and some of them were actually smiling, including her old acquaintance, Alakan of Jorkin's Beta Moon. T'Espel of Vulcan wasn't smiling, but he did meet her eyes and raise an eyebrow which made her smile back.

They readily made room for her as she hopped onto the crystal, and with a feeling of being truly honored she realized they were allowing the melody to trail a bit so that she could introduce a new song.

With a nod, she launched into "Jessica," and saw them all respond with their race's own brand of pleasure. Soon they had each taken a part, leaving her the lead guitar section, which was both the showiest and simplest. Smiling at them all, she stayed with them for several minutes, blocking out her disdain for the now-growing crowd, and felt her singer's muscles relax and stretch with the pleasure.

But when she felt the first signs of strain, mild enough to ignore, it seemed to her, for hours, she hopped off the crystal and bowed at the eight others who were now there. The Betazoid had left, and two Strynians, chained together in an announcement of their coming marriage, had joined in. With a little bow back, T'Espel took over the lead and launched into the Terran wedding march. Stella held her stomach to laugh.

"Who says Vulcans have no sense of humor?"

She turned with brilliant eyes to see Troi standing with her and laughed a little longer before turning very sweetly to Teeroth.

"Wonderful suggestion, Ambassador. That was fun!"

"I'm so glad," Teeroth hissed. "Well, I believe Rachiir will be up soon, and I must wish him luck."

Stella smiled with flash. "I'll be looking forward to my own good luck visit, Ambassador."

"Yes, well, I'll see you then." And the woman turned to flutter into the crowd.

"I didn't know that was possible," Troi said, looking at the singers, who had now gone into a Vulcan etude.

"It takes a bit of practice, and more delicacy than a lot of the more powerful singers have to pull off." Stella was getting that annoyed look on her face again. "The Fanh are only interested in the reverb the Breen and Tholians like so much, but there's so much more to the art than that. A decent competition would include group singing, and that would allow more races to participate at the top levels. You know they've all but eliminated religious music just by frowning on it? It's only the primary source of culture for most...Have you found anything good to eat?"

"You're not hungry."

"No." Stella looked sharply at her, not comfortable with being read by an empath, and once again Troi had that feeling that there was something familiar in the woman before her. "But I should eat eventually. It's hours before I have my round."

"Aren't you going to see Rachiir perform?"

Stella looked as though she'd found a bug in her beer, then sighed. "If we go to see him, will you eat with me after?"

Troi looked at her oddly, hesitated visibly, then asked. "Are you enjoying my company, or is this part of your promise to Captain Picard?"

Stella looked thrown. "Can't you tell?"

"Your emotional control is impressive."

"Is it? You looked like you knew what I was feeling at the conference."

"That was far from normal for you. Do you want to talk about --"

"No, I don't." Stella made a Q-like noise of irritation. "I enjoy your company but I am trying to help...all of you. I mean, I might as well. There's nothing better to do."

"Well," the empath said, uncertain why she had forced Stella to be so direct with her, other than that she was feeling frustrated at the fleeting glimpses of...something in the woman, "I'd like to eat lunch with you after, if you like."

Stella shrugged and they made their way to the main tent. The seats were more than full, but room was immediately made for Stella and her companion at the front row of benches, at an angle from the bench on which sat Captain Picard, flanked by Chooln and Reret. Everyone met each other's eyes, and Troi easily sensed that little progress had been made in the talks that day.

"I wonder what the Tholians think of the way humans look," Stella said quietly. "I think I'll ask Q."

"Will he be able to tell you?" Troi looked over at the fold in the tent through which the performers came. Rachiir, as the defending champion, had to go first in this round. Stella was slotted for dead last, three hours from now.

"If he wants to. He's very good at describing things." Amusement and affection for Q, emotions Troi had easily sensed before, came readily from her, but there was some sort of difference now, the empath was sure. Stella's shock from the meeting hadn't gone yet. Once again Troi wondered if the woman had simply been angry that Q had said he wasn't her "real" father. Surely, though, it had been more than that?

Troi's thoughts were derailed when Rachiir suddenly walked into the tent and the entire crowd erupted into exultation. The awe and hero-worship were as thick as something she'd find in a temple of zealous pagans presented with their God-head come to life, and she found it sickened her slightly.

Stella turned to meet her eye, then rolled her own, and Troi felt somewhat better. Then with a smile, the singer nodded at a point over her shoulder and Troi turned to see Q -- obviously invisible to the others -- hovering over a section of seats, reclining in mid-air in clothes that were an obvious parody of Teeroth's blue silks. She heard Stella laugh behind her as Q sketched an elaborate yawn, and then the crowd fell completely quiet as Rachiir took the stage.

Two crystals exploded with the first deep note, which sounded primarily like thunder. The booming continued until it became an actual rhythm, and then the melody was taken up by a chorus of insistent voices which pushed thoughts from the minds of the audience to replace them with violent colors and impossible shapes.

It was at least two minutes into the piece before Troi could see well enough to notice that the crystal was burning with fierce light, and that Rachiir's body itself seemed lit up by the energy coming from under his bare feet. The music continued on and on until it seemed to batter its way inside her, the visceral sounds filling her with the power of the song until she felt ready to fight or destroy or run forever.

And then it was over, leaving her exhausted as the crowd cheered in an ecstasy of praise.

"Are you all right?" Stella was screaming into her ear, only barely heard.

Troi nodded, keeping her eyes closed for a moment, then opened them to see the woman's concerned hazel gaze. That feeling of familiarity returned stronger than ever, and then got stronger, until Deanna was almost certain she could pin it down. Then Stella's eyes shifted to Rachiir, standing on the crystal as the crowd continued to cheer, and the scorn in her face made the sensation, as hard as Troi was trying to keep it near, fade away.

"Creepy little show-off," she muttered just loudly enough for Troi to hear. "He could make such terrific music, but instead he tries to beat us all to death with it. I don't think there's a single person here who actually enjoyed that racket."

Troi nodded, looking over at her captain, who was applauding with an approving look on his face. Troi wasn't recovered enough yet able to sense him again, but she knew him well enough to tell that he was showing nothing of his true feelings. Automatically, Troi looked back over to Q, and saw him staring scornfully over the crowd.

Troi had always been more than a little curious about Q. She had been impressed with the power of his mind at their first meeting, then outraged by his trial of humanity and his treatment of the captain she knew she was obsessively -- but deservedly, she thought -- loyal to. Then there had been this change in Q, the Robin Hood thing, saving the captain's life, helping with the Continuum's test, and then...Ca'ail. None of them, particularly Will, had wanted to believe what the captain had told them the day after their mission to Ha'tel was done.

Wondering if he noticed her scrutiny, she watched the hovering entity and tried to reconcile him with Ca'ail. When she admitted failure there, she tried to imagine what he was like as a father to Stella, and again found it over-taxed her imagination. Obviously, he was playful, but had he managed to make her feel human? Troi had noticed right away that Stella didn't touch anyone, and hated to be touched, that her primary method of communicating was insults and mockery, and that she had almost no fear of things humans should fear. But Troi also sensed a compassion so deep in Stella that it embarrassed her, and the woman was friendly enough in her own way, even though she did seem to have much of anyone in her life but Q.

And then Q caught her eye, threw her a mocking wink, and flashed out.

Stella didn't want to eat with the others, and surprised Troi by finding a way completely outside the competition grounds where soft, dark green grass made a sort of park.

"Who was that priest we saw you with on YBrit Station?" Troi asked as they settled on the grass with their plates.

"You mean Father Maxim? A guy I know. We worked together a bit. He's in the Alton Sector now."

"I imagine being with Q has let you meet all manner of people," Troi fished.

Stella snorted, then gave up on her food and stretched back out on the grass with her eyes closed, enjoying the sun on her face. "Q has nothing to do with Maxim. I met his great-great-great-something-more-great-grandfather, who was also a priest. 'Course, I didn't tell Maxim that." Stella laughed.

Troi decided that Stella had a good idea, leaning back herself into the pillowing grass with her face pointed into the warm yellow glow.

"Did he want you to come with him?"

"Yes. I think he believes I am somehow ignorant of the damage I'm doing to my body and wants to scare me straight." Stella laughed with husky languor, and Troi realized she was half-way to falling asleep.

"He seemed to care deeply for you."

"Father Maxim cares deeply about everyone and everything. He's an extraordinary man. But he has no idea what it means to be the adopted daughter of a semi-omnipotent being."

"Hmmm. It would make a fascinating paper."

"Why, Counselor! Was that...a joke?"

Deanna laughed, and heard Stella join her.

"'Q Like Me,'" Stella said solemnly after a minute. "'A Look at the Ultimate Racism.'"

"'My Life Among the Would-Be Gods,'" Troi suggested instead. "'A Human Perspective on Immortality.'"

"'I'm OK, You're OK -- For a Member of Such a Limited Species.'"

Troi was laughing harder now and had to get her breath back before trying out, "'The Q-ediple Complex: Or What to Do When Your Father Might Actually Have Been the Sphinx.'"

Stella laughed loudly at that and threw up her hands, though neither woman could see them, in defeat. "You win! I'll write it."

And they laughed until they were almost asleep, breathing in peace among the scent of sun-warmed Fanhian grasses.

"Well, don't you two make a picture?" a voice drawled, and, after the second it took for the surprise to rouse them, both women opened their eyes and sat up.

"Q!" Stella said in surprise, looking at all of the newcomers in turn. "Deanna Troi," she went on in a hostess-like tone as her hand indicated the imposingly beautiful female in a Starfleet captain's uniform sitting on the ground next to Q, "this is Q," the hand then indicted the small boy in her arms, "and Q, Q and Q's son."

Somehow Troi did nothing more than nod with a smile and say, "It's nice to meet you."

"I'm sure," said the female Q, her voice drenched with sarcasm.

"Behave, Q," Stella said indulgently.

"Yes, my dear, really," Q said. "This is Stella's big day. In fact," Q smiled broadly, "I can think of only one thing that's missing."

Q snapped, and with a flash of light Captain Picard was sitting with them.

"Q!" he said angrily, though his face reflected more surprise than anger as he looked around.

Stella pealed out with laughter. "I love the way you say Q's name! You know, you give it about five syllables."

"Have no fear, mon Capitaine," Q said, his hand raised, as suddenly there was a perfectly delectable picnic spread out around them on a quilted blanket. "To the rest of the world you seem still to be listening in awe to the contestants and their noise. In fact, my little double is doing a better job than you were of looking like he's actually enjoying himself. And admit it, mon ami, Rachiir's performance has given you a horrible headache."

Picard still looked ready to object, when Stella's voice cut in softly: "Please stay, Captain. Q here has been wanting to meet you for awhile now, and there's no harm in it, and it's very nice here."

Picard looked around at them a bit more, then frowned at Q. "Is that wine any good?"

For an answer, Q poured him a glass of red and handed it over, and for a moment everyone was busy getting something to eat or drink. There was beer and sushi for Stella, sandwiches for Picard, some sort of chocolate crepe dish for Troi, a plate of canapés and an iced G&T for the female Q, and a plate of fruit for Q. The child Q seemed disinterested in food and spent most of his time playing with the female Q's long red hair.

"So," the female Q said in a voice that probably couldn't quite cut a diamond. "You're Jean-Luc Picard. I must say, you're an improvement over the last captain I had to deal with." Her eyes traveled over the length of the captain's body and returned to challenge his eyes. "Really much more my taste."

Picard's eyebrows stayed up the whole time he took a sip of his wine, and Troi felt a startled wave of affection from Stella that the singer immediately tamped down.

"So how long have you and Q...known each other?" Picard asked.

"We've been together, in the Q sense of the word, about four billion years or so."

"They've seemed mere moments of sweet contentment," Q crooned.

Stella snickered into her beer.

"I've come to realize from talking to Stella that Q can be an interesting companion when he chooses to," Picard said, picking up another sandwich.

"More interesting than some of the other Q," the female Q conceded. "I mean, I wouldn't have had a child with just anyone, you know."

"I'm so flattered! You're so good to me. Is there a Q more fortunate in all the universe?"

Stella was beginning to shake and kept her eyes on the food.

The female Q was beginning to breathe rather heavily, and her voice was getting more edge to it with each sentence. "Well, we have our little problems, but we manage to get through them better than most."

"Oh yes! There was that little incident where I was turned into a mortal and left for dead, and you laughed at me and said I had it coming, and didn't even care when the Calamarain were coming for me, but that's a trifle! And why even bother to remember when you tried to assimilate me after I'd been injured by the O'drell-phat? A few thousand years of licking my wounds inside that nebula, and I was as good as new! And if on occasion I catch you trying to undermine everything I want to teach our son about the best parts of humanity and Q, well that's just part of the grand relationship that makes us the entirely happy couple that we --"

"I'm not going to listen to anymore of your ridiculous --"

"Q!" Stella shouted, shocking everyone. Troi noted vaguely that when she wanted to, the singer could give the name several extra syllables as well. "You're upsetting Junior."

The two Q looked sharply at the little boy obliviously playing with Q's hair.

"Not that Junior, this Junior." Stella raised her beer with a slightly pleading expression on her face. "It really is lovely here, and it's so nice to be all together, especially since you're not trying to butter me up so that I'll baby-sit. Can't you pretend to get along for a few minutes?"

"I was trying to get along!" the female Q protested indignantly.

"You were putting on a major act and Q called you on it. And Q," she said to the male form at her side, "stop being a horse's behind."

"Only if you clean your plate."

With a little sigh, Stella put another serving in her mouth and chewed, and Troi began to wonder if this whole arrangement weren't just a way to get Stella to eat.

"So," Picard said eventually, carefully, "you're teaching your son the best things about humanity?"

Q smiled, leaning back with his own glass of wine. "That's right."

"Who's teaching them to you?"

"That's the spirit," Stella murmured.

"Blame it all on Data's crash course in the humanities. Isn't it odd that one can learn so much more about humans from one of their machines than from humans themselves?"

Troi had just begun to enjoy watching her captain deal with Q -- it wasn't a sight she got to see much of -- when she realized the question had been directed at her.

"Data has...studied very hard to learn what he has," Troi began, delicately sensing Stella's disappointment and the Qs' scorn. She made her voice a little sweeter. "Perhaps you could go back to him for a refresher course."

A moment of silence met that suggestion, then the female Q drawled, "Didn't he almost torture his best friend to death once? I wouldn't mind a lecture on that."

Troi's mouth was actually dry, and, of all things, a line from the captain's favorite author ran through her mind. Since you have begun,/Have at you for a bitter jest or two! "I'm sure he would find the Q's experience with torturing people fascinating as well."

The female Q's eyes narrowed slightly.

"She has a point there," Picard put in, swirling his wine in the sunlight and enjoying the warm blend of scents. His headache, which had been more than a little fierce, had dissipated into the most unexpected relaxation. He even felt ready to face the Breen and Tholians again. "I've always wanted to know what you did to the Calamarain, for example."

"Nothing they didn't have coming," Q said, eyeing a grape he was rolling between his thumb and index finger.

"He put them on trial for being really boring at parties," Stella said.

"And for bogarting the keg," Q agreed readily, and the two of them laughed, causing the female Q to roll her eyes and send Picard a rather fetching look.

"You see what I have to put up with."

"Your patience, I'm sure, has been boundless."

"You know, I'm beginning to think that Q doesn't deserve you at all." She smiled prettily and Picard sipped his wine again.

Stella's laughter suddenly rose up in volume, and she turned to Troi with a brilliant smile. "Ain't life just grand?"

Suddenly, the baby Q flashed out Q's arms and into Stella's. Her laughter immediately cut itself off and she looked down with an expression of horror.

"Ah! The spawn!"

"Now, now, Junior," Q said, reaching over easily to remove his son from Stella's wooden grasp, "you know she still hasn't forgiven you for last time." He put his son's ear close to his mouth and whispered: "Some people just never let go of a grudge."

"What did he do?" Troi asked her.

"Last time I baby-sat -- the last time I will ever baby-sit -- he turned me into a Vornian Cuddle-Bear and drooled on me for hours."

Troi began to laugh.

"I'm not kidding!" Stella exclaimed hotly.

"That...only...makes it funnier," Troi got out, laughing harder. Picard suddenly joined in, and then they were all laughing, the female Q rather scornfully and Stella somewhat ruefully, and then Q announced rather loudly that it was getting close to someone's performance time.

With a nod, Stella forced down the last portion of sushi before her cleaned plate disappeared, along with the Q, Picard, and all the other bits and pieces of the picnic. Stella stood and walked back towards the tents with Troi at her side.

"I didn't know Q could be that..." Troi frowned.

"Domestic? Paternal?"

"Any and all of the above," she said faintly.

"He can be anything he wants, when it suits him."

There was note in Stella's soft voice that raised a hundred questions, but then they were inside the competition grounds, and the singer veered off sharply to take her position. Troi walked inside the main tent alone and was surprised to see that people still made room for her to sit. She saw Q hovering over the crowd again, and Picard met her eye from his seat between the ambassadors.

The hush that fell when Stella entered was total, but unlike Rachiir, the woman made no issue of the audience's anticipation, mounting the crystal lightly and settling her weight on her feet.

Troi knew the singer had a serious handicap. The people around her were exhausted, and cranky. A quiet song would put them to sleep and a loud one would exacerbate a multitude of headaches.

So when the first notes of the guitar began, and a clapped-out rhythm filled the tent, Troi was surprised by the wave of happiness that took everyone over. The crystal had turned white with energy, and atop it Stella began to sway back and forth as a lead voice was backed up by a joyous chorus.

Like a deep, flowin' river,
(You make a way)
Battered by an endless sea,
(You make a way)
When the storms of life are raging,
(You make a way)
And the fear it falls on me.
(You make a way)
And I look, and wonder why,
(You make a way)
Why these things just pass me by?
(You make a way)
And I say to my soul, don't worry!
(Yeah!)
Oh-ho, the Lord will make a way somehow!

Troi couldn't believe how easily this had happened. The tent suddenly felt like a town social, and though the song was obviously religious its ecumenical nature left no one feeling particularly excluded. Even atheists could share in a joy at the idea of getting through one's problems somehow or other, and she felt the people around her relaxing into a wonderful joint mood.

And yet she knew from what Stella and others had told her that this was also an overt nose-thumbing at the Fanh, themselves devout atheists. The song was also as opposite to Rachiir's as possible, and as a consequence her superior abilities seemed all that much more obvious. The singer was into the refrain now, the music bubbling out from the crystal making everyone sway in their seats to the simple, but perfectly maintained beat. Another lead voice took over, and the chorus was an inspiring blend of male and female tones in four-part harmony Troi knew was much more difficult to achieve than the mind-pounding but simplistic power of the Breen's song.

And the piece was not short. For over ten minutes the ancient gospel rocked the tent, before finally Stella broke up the voices into a series of near random "Halleluias" and thrilled shouts that was even more impressive than the harmonized chorus. Then she was done, and bowed slightly, and the enthusiasm of the crowd's response washed through everyone like the refreshment of spirit, on and on for another good ten minutes or so, until Stella finally walked from the tent.

And then, up in orbit, a Breen ship fired on its Tholian target.

------------------------------------------------------------------------  The comptroller of the YBrit salvage yard knew he was dead. He was as yet only bound and gagged and tumbled into a small, hidden compartment in the Tholian ship, but he knew that soon they would kill him. The sharp pike and his laughing wives awaited him.

And knowing that, BRussiket was shocked to discover that he was not nearly as paralyzed with fear as he had always imagined he would be. He was paralyzed by the cuffs at his wrists and ankles, but his guts had neither frozen nor released, and his head remained clear.

In fact, for perhaps the first time in his life, the comptroller began to think, very hard and very profound thoughts.

He even began to formulate a plan. And for a first one in a lifetime, he decided, it wasn't half-bad. It would still get him killed, but it wasn't half-bad.

"I'm ready to tell you everything!" he shouted, knowing the Tholians had expected him to say something like that some time ago. "Picard did tell me what he intended, and I'm ready to tell you everything he said." He made himself whimper -- somehow it was all the harder to do since he was really afraid. "Just...don't kill me."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Report, Number One."

Riker turned to see his captain stride onto the bridge, noting that he was followed by both Troi and Stella, as he responded, "The Tholian ship has suffered heavy damage to her engines and several dozen casualties. We've ordered both ships to cease fire, and maneuvered in-between them, but they look ready to shoot through us."

Troi motioned Stella towards a chair she could use and she started for it, but Picard turned suddenly to frown at her.

"No, Stella. Please. Up here with me."

Eyebrows raised, Stella moved to stand at his left side as he turned to the viewscreen and ordered a channel open.

"This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Enterprise. You are acting in direct violation of the cease-fire which has been mandated by both your governments during this peace conference. I have been authorized to order you both to abandon all further attempts at aggression and leave Fanh space immediately. If you do not comply within three next two minutes, you will force us to take an aggressive posture of our own."

Silence heralded the beginning of this countdown, and Stella stared into the viewscreen as calmly as she could, knowing the image of herself and the captain was still being sent to the Tholian and Breen ships.

She understood now what she was doing here, having agreed to the captain's request for her assistance solely on faith. If the Tholian or Breen ships fired on the Enterprise, they fired on her, on the human that was threatening to win the competition. Neither race would ever be able to live down the ignominy of such a cowardly act, whether the singer were collateral damage or not.

She smiled inside. Picard had really figured these two races out. Klingons and Romulans and Borg wouldn't have given a hot damn that she was here, but to the Tholians and Breen, she was a sort of secret weapon, and she felt ridiculously pleased and proud of being here, proud of being, she admitted, next to him.

"We're receiving a signal from the Breen ship, sir."

"On screen."

The mask of the Breen captain filled the screen. "Were you an honorable man, and not a user of women, Picard, you would be dead."

And the signal was cut off as Data announced that both the Breen and Tholian ships had broken orbit and were heading for their respective home systems.

Stella stared with incredulity at the screen's starscape, then turned to stare at Picard.

"What an asshole!"

Picard could not stop his snort of agreement, though he did manage to keep it soft enough only for her to hear, before he turned to meet Riker's wryly amused eyes. Then Riker frowned, looking over Picard's shoulder, and the captain turned to see that Stella had gone so pale the blue of her veins had made labyrinth under her cheeks. She swayed, and Picard put out a hand to steady her, something she avoided by backing up a startled step.

"Sorry," she mumbled. "I'm just tired. Long day."

"We can get you to Sickbay for --"

"No, honestly. I'd go if I needed to, but I just need to sleep."

Troi volunteered to take her back to her quarters, and found that the woman could walk on her own but needed a little help to keep from colliding into walls. Riker and Picard got together their reports for Starfleet, and then the captain beamed back down to Fanh for the evening's round of talks.

Six hours later, almost as pale and tired as Stella had been, Picard beamed back up and went directly to his quarters.

He was getting nowhere with this. He'd only thought he was making progress before because he hadn't realized the harm he was doing. Everything he'd initially done to help Chooln see the worth of the Breen and Reret see the worth of the Tholians had only strengthened their determination to fight each other.

And now how did a third-party mediator get the two sides to lose respect for each other? He couldn't start calling them names, and the hours he had just spent trying to show the disadvantage to their relations with others systems -- while subtly suggesting that there might be hidden agendas on both sides -- had been a waste of time.

And just to make things more interesting, the altercation between the Tholian and Breen ships had eliminated the one agreement Picard had managed to hash out. New ships were arriving constantly, and there was no question that this area, though not the actual Fanh homeworld itself, was the designated flashpoint of the war.

He could see now they were both simply waiting for the Fanh competition to be over before trying to destroy each other. Perhaps, a little voice in Picard's mind was whispering, a voice he had learned to hate, perhaps they should just be allowed to fight and get it out of their systems.

Angry and exhausted, Picard stripped out of his uniform and stomped into the shower, almost scalding himself as he scrubbed roughly at his skin, then crawled into his pajamas and walked towards his bed...

...and then into the light, white world of nothing he had seen before, the place where Q had said he was God and given him a second chance at life, a chance he had foolishly taken.

He looked around for Q, ready to vent all the rage he felt on this most appealing target, especially since his exhaustion had strangely disappeared, but saw nothing but more of the white infinity.

Then he heard it, that sweet, happy song that Stella liked to play on her crystals, and he followed the noise, stepping through the brilliant boundlessness, until he saw a dim shape, and walked towards it as the music grew louder.

"Stella?" he asked the dark figure before him.

She turned and walked the space between him, meeting him with a smile and wide eyes that suggested speechlessness. Finally, she laughed.

"Those are the coolest pajamas I have ever seen!"

He noticed her bare feet. "You were sleeping in your clothes?" Somehow the thought seemed perfectly to sum up her lifestyle.

Stella caught that thought in his tone and fidgeted slightly. "Saves time."

Picard looked around. "Speaking of time..."

"Poor Q," she murmured, then shrugged when he snapped his head back to glare at her. "He feels he's under a deadline, you know. That's why he's making this all so obvious."

"What is it about you and Q that you feel you can't speak plainly? If you have something to say to me, I wish that you would say it."

"I don't know that I do have anything to say to you, Captain Picard."

"But you know what we're doing here?"

"Directly? No, I don't."

"There. That's what I'm talking about. 'Directly.' What does that mean?"

"That means I know he wants us to be friends and I know he wants me to abandon my current career path. But I don't know what this particular scheme is, or why Q hasn't shown up yet, or what he'll do when he does!"

"So Q's 'deadline' is the end of the competition?"

Stella sighed, and the volume on the little song she was playing increased slightly. "Eventually, I am going to die," she said with a matter-of-factness Picard knew wasn't feigned. "But I think Q thinks that if it's any way other than old age, he will have failed me." She looked suddenly close to tears. "Q is always thinking he's failed me. I wish I could make him understand I've had the best father a gal could hope to have." She looked into Picard's eyes then, and he was hit with the same feeling of familiarity he had when he first saw her, the feeling, though he didn't know it, that Troi had been grappling with all day.

"Something Q doesn't understand," she said softly, "is that you can be the perfect parent, you can do everything right -- or at least do nothing really all that wrong -- and in the end your child is just a person, just another human being, or whatever, that makes mistakes, and fails sometimes, and succeeds sometimes. I can't be the greatest human in the history of humanity. I'm just Estelle, a woman with no last name and only one real skill she ever learned on her own. And I'm doing the best that I can."

"Singing, you mean? That's your one real skill?"

She nodded, and her happy little song began again.

Picard frowned. "Is there something special about that song?"

She smiled self-consciously, but didn't, as he had feared she might, stop playing it.

"When I wasn't formed, when Q was making me from near-scratch and teaching me things, and trying to be patient, I would get scared. The world seemed a terrible place, and I knew that when I began walking and talking and interacting with people, that some people would try to hurt me, and that I wouldn't always be right or the best, and that I would spend a lot of my time alone. I knew that I would try to help others, but that there were limits to what I could do that would make me want to stop trying.

"And Q would come, and we'd talk, and sometimes...if I were good, Q would sing to me. And this was my favorite song. It has words, but he would make other ones, and make me laugh."

"Q would sing to you?"

"Not in a human sense, but yes. It was really terribly sweet."

"And you haven't let me forget that horrible song ever since."

They turned to Q as he walked towards them in a white nightshirt, a tasseled nightcap dangling over his forehead.

"You picked it," Stella noted, ending the music.

"I selected a melody I knew you would enjoy. I can't be blamed for your bad taste."

"Q," Picard said without any of the anger he'd been planning, "what are we doing here?"

"There's a party and we're all invited."

Picard thought this another evasion, until he saw Stella clap her hands together with excitement.

"An O'drell-phat party?"

Q bowed in acknowledgment.

"I thought you said one tried to kill you."

"Oh." Q waved a hand. "That was eons ago."

"Oh, Jean-Luc," she said, stepping a little closer to the captain, "their parties, you wouldn't believe how much fun they are. Truly stellar events. And they happen outside of time, which is, I suspect what Q's little show is all about." She waved around to indicate the white nothing of this place.

"It's a costume party," Q announced before Picard could speak. "And I've been planning mine for weeks." He brought his hand up for a loud snap, and suddenly stood in a red cape, red boots, and a blue body-suit which sported an "S" on the chest. A single curl of dark hair extended over his forehead. It meant nothing to Picard, but Stella exploded into laughter.

"That perfect!" she howled. "It's so 'you.'"

"Thank you," Q said haughtily. "I think so."

Picard knew that he should be objecting to all this right about now, but he also knew that this little scene had very little do with him. The same earnestness he had felt from Q back when he was working on the temporal anomaly was again evident in the entity, though now it was directed at Stella.

Was Q really going to let her die? Was that part of their arrangement? Well, he supposed it must be. It wouldn't be Stella's life otherwise, and, the captain realized, Q wouldn't be working so hard at trying to save it.

So he smiled at the strange get-up Q had assumed, and waited to see what Stella would do.

"Well," she said, lips pursed, "I'm no Yvonne de Carlo..."

Q lit up with a smile and snapped again, and suddenly Stella was encased in a purple body suit with high heels and a purple cape. She was also considerably thinner and much better toned, and her pale skin had lost its ashen hue to shine like alabaster. Moreover, the crystals were gone from around her ankle, her black hair was longer, almost shoulder-length, and her eyes were clear and sparkling with good health.

And then Picard realized whom Stella reminded him of.

Stella didn't seem pleased. "Q!"

The entity shrugged. "Batgirl doesn't look like she's about to keel over from a stroke. And it is your own body, the one you had before you went insane. I thought you might like walking around in it again...just for the party."

Stella rolled her eyes, put her hands on her hips, and walked a few experimental steps in the high-heeled boots.

"It's not that this isn't a hideously obvious attempt, Q, but I do like it. But really, how was anyone actually expected to fight crime in these stilts?" She took the mask Q had put into her hand and pulled it over her head, obscuring the top part of her face and covering the back of her neck in bright red hair that flipped up at the ends.

"You're crime-fighters?" Picard asked, proud of the normality of his voice, and then watched the two of them turn towards him as if they'd forgotten he was there.

"We're superheroes!" Stella said. "But somehow I don't think the theme will work too well for you."

"I was going to ask you to be Lex Luthor," Q said mildly. "But I think perhaps you'd rather stick to something more familiar." With a snap Picard found himself in his own Dixon Hill outfit.

"You will come, won't you, Captain?" Stella asked.

"I do seem dressed for it," Picard said as mildly as Q had, and watched the entity's eyes narrow. Well, as long as he knew, Q might as well know that he knew.

The party was more than "stellar," Picard was thinking a short time later. Stella had gone out on the dance floor with some sort of light/energy being and was currently making some music that had most of the spectators gyrating around while somehow still talking calmly about the poetry/art/drama/literature/political system of a thousand worlds or more, few of which he had ever heard the names of before.

In the past couple of hours, he had been asked to dance by creatures who seemed made of music, propositioned for sex by beings who seemed made of sensuality, invited to debate with people whose lives began with the start of time, was told he was a beast, told he was an angel, tempted with foods whose taste went beyond human pleasure tolerance, and almost forced to join some sort of slug-like creature in a ritual which would, he was promised, transform his soul for eternity.

"Go away!" Q said to this last lifeform, causing it to slime petulantly away. "Honestly," the entity muttered in Picard's ear, the menace almost turned into a friendly intimacy. "You'd think by now she would realize no one wants to do anything with a slug but pour salt on it."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Picard said, looking the creature who had once put humanity on trial and now stood in a red cape with a martini in his hand.

"Tell you what?"

"Does she know who her mother is?"

Q stopped posing and looked at him as though they were not surrounded by a circus of vacationing gods. "No. I'm going to tell her soon, though."

"But she does know I'm her father."

"She figured it out yesterday."

Picard frowned as a shot of whiskey appeared in his hand.

"You should have told me, Q."

"Probably, but she's only been alive, from your perspective, for about four years now, and she didn't want me to."

"Even before she knew who I was?"

"Yes. And then most especially when she did."

"Why not?"

Q looked confused and didn't meet his eyes. "She said...I was enough for her, and that she didn't want to be anyone's duty."

"I see."

"Do you?" Q looked at him now, and Picard felt his exasperation clearly. "I don't. I haven't been a good father, Jean-Luc. I don't know what she needs, and she hasn't turned out right. One minute she's ruining her happiness to ease the burden of doomed humans, and the next she's lolling about like an animal, and then the next she's killing herself to make music for a bunch of creatures below even human evolution. And then..." Q sighed, a father's sigh, it seemed to Picard. "I haven't really done well teaching her what it means to be human. I told Data I wasn't any good at it, but I thought she'd figure out the parts I don't know about on her own."

"She seems a fine human to me, Q."

"But she has so many Q characteristics!" Q looked out at the woman on the dance floor, moving to the music she was making while the creature of light flashed playfully around her. "Surely you've noticed she won't touch anyone, and hates to be touched, just like the Q are with each other...usually, anyway. I should never have taken her to the Continuum. I should never have done...so many things."

"She loves you, Q, and she knows you love her. What else do you think a father is supposed to give his child?"

Q stared at him. "I must say, you're taking this all much better than I would have thought. You never do fail to surprise me, mon Capitaine."

Picard frowned automatically at that teasing note. "I suspect I'm still in shock, but I really should have seen it long ago. She has her mother's face, and my eyes, doesn't she?"

"Yes. Don't ask me where she gets her height from, though."

Picard snorted. "Did Marta know about her, at least?"

"No. She couldn't have had her anyway. Had 'nature' run its course, she would have lost the child. I had to fix a slight...defect...as it was."

Picard looked sharply at Q, feeling fiercely and pointlessly protective of Stella. "Is that why she can sing?"

"No, no, Jean-Luc. That's why she can breathe. It's nothing more than Crusher would be able to do in a hundred years or so, and I told Stella all about it."

They both looked at Stella now, dancing with a group of lightforms, laughing and twirling in her purple cape.

"She won't make it much longer, Jean-Luc. I half expected her to stroke out today after that ghastly gospel. You've got to do something. You're her father."

Picard bit his lip at the desperation in Q's voice, then gave into temptation and knocked back the drink in his hand. The whiskey was smooth and warm all the way down.

"How long has she been alive from her own perspective?"

"Twenty-nine years."

"That makes her --"

"I know," Q said scathingly, "an adult." He snorted. "I don't even think of you as an adult, Jean-Luc." Suddenly the dark eyes turned to seek his own. "Aren't you going to blame me for having done everything wrong?"

"Actually, I was thinking...you could have let her never be. You could have turned her into a child and left her with some institution. You could have given her to Marta, even though it would have changed history. Giving her to me, I'm assuming, would have had a similar effect. You could have ignored her wishes all together or turned her into a Q. Instead, you took on the responsibility yourself, and you've done what you could for her." Picard looked away from Q to stare unseeingly out over the dance floor. "She adores you. And she may be headed for destruction, but she's done more with her life than many people I've met. I think you should be proud of her." Picard's voice dropped. "I am."

Q refilled Picard's drink and drained his martini so that he could refill it as well.

"Thank you for that, Jean-Luc," he said finally. "It won't be much comfort for either of us when she drops down dead, but it will be something."

Picard expected Q to flash out or stalk off at that, but instead they continued to watch the dancers together, almost companionably, and Picard found himself noting, "I get the feeling it's an intimate party, that everyone knows each other well, but no one seems to find my presence unusual."

"Well, they know we're friends, and I've been coming to these since they started having them."

"You told them we were friends?" The question managed to sound neutral.

"Oh, I had to. You wouldn't believe what some of them thought we were up to, johnny."

Picard frowned at the strange feel of that nickname he hated, then asked carefully, "Is it true, what Stella said, that you'd do anything for me if I asked?"

"Hmmm. Well, not anything."

Picard sipped his drink.

"And you, mon Capitaine, what would you do for me if I asked nicely?"

Picard kept his voice still completely neutral. "Not anything."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Stella fell out of bed, the thick material of her dress choking her as she tried to find her balance and stand up.

The door chimed again.

"God, man, whoever you are, I'm coming," she groaned. After a few shaky steps, her own momentum carried her to the door. When it opened, the Captain of the Enterprise looked at her in concern.

"Oh, it's you."

She turned to lurch to the replicator, where she ordered a beer with a protein additive. Picard watched her drink it off and order another, doing nothing more than stepping far enough inside the room to allow the door to close behind him.

When she was done drinking half of her second beer, she turned to him and seemed to be attempting to focus.

"Should I get Dr. Crusher?"

"No need," she said, and her voice was sounding clearer. "I'm just a little tired."

"Are mornings always this bad for you?"

"It's not that bad, I'm just feeling it more." At Picard's look, she explained, "The party. All those hours of feeling like my old self, and now I'm a pumpkin again." She sighed, finished her beer and got another along with some bread and jam and Earl Grey tea from the replicator before moving with it all to the table. Picard sat down with her, eyes never leaving her overly pale face and her deeply bloodshot eyes.

"Did you enjoy the party?" she asked faintly.

"Are you really going to refuse to take Q's help and save yourself?"

"Again, you're one to talk, Picard."

"Meaning?"

"Are you really going to refuse Q's help and go senile with Irumodic Syndrome?" His mouth opened. "And don't tell me it's different, because it's not."

"He's not my father."

"Well, he's not my father, either."

"I know."

Her eyes narrowed at his deadly solemnity. "What did Q tell you?"

"When I told him that I'm your father he didn't lie about it."

She looked down at the bread she was crumbling in trembling fingers, keeping them away from her itchy nose. She'd woken up twice with nosebleeds and her sinuses felt awful.

"How did you figure it out?"

"When you're looking healthy, you look just like your mother."

"I do?"

Picard realized she was working hard at not crying, and looked away as he nodded to give her some privacy.

"What's her name?" she asked, voice returning to normal.

Picard looked back, and though her eyes were overbright the danger had passed. "She was Marta Batanides, a good friend of mine from Starfleet Academy."

Understanding flooded her face. "That was when you went back to your ensign days at Starbase Earhart and Q attempted to make you realize...things. He didn't tell me that you...and a woman...I would have figured it out years ago." She stared at her empty glass of beer.

"Do you want another of those?"

She looked surprised. "Please." Picard got up to get it. "Do I really look like her?"

"Yes."

"And she's dead now?"

"Almost ten years ago." He returned with her beer and set it down in front of her before taking his seat again. "I had thought at the time, changing her life might be good for a number of reasons."

"Ah, but changing her life, Q said, would affect history."

Picard spread out a hand. "He would have a better perspective. She died on an away mission --"

Stella held up a hand. "I don't want to know. She's dead and you know about me. That's an end to it."

"Would you like to live on the Enterprise with me?"

She stared at him in overtly genuine surprise. "Well, I expected your sense duty to make some sort of offer, but that's a little over the top, don't you think? I mean, you're more my genetic donor than my father."

"I'm not looking to replace Q."

Stella's eyes widened. "Look who's had experience with children. However, I'm not a child and I don't need another daddy."

"I was hoping for something more along the line of friends. We were getting to like each other well enough before we knew what we are to each other."

Stella sighed and looked anywhere but at Picard. "This really isn't the time in my life to be expanding my circle of friends. Besides, no offense, Captain, but it's obvious you feel the same way."

"How is that 'obvious?'"

Stella laid her hands on flat on the table and met his hazel gaze directly with her own. "Captain Picard, you are, without a doubt, the most splendid man I have ever met. You're regal and yet modest, you're compassionate and yet unwavering, you're gracious without compromising your dignity, you're adventurous and brilliant and kind. You're also arrogant and a little nauseatingly perfect at times, but that's only to be expected.

"However, you can also be alarmingly dense. After, what, ten years now? You still have no clue what Q wants from you, do you?"

Picard forced himself not to snort, or shrug, but could think of no reply, and Stella snorted instead, softly, with a wince.

"You can't even figure out what Q didn't want to see three years ago, can you? I did. Just from checking the stardates." Her eyes dared him. "What horrible thing happened three years ago?"

Picard frowned in confusion, pain seeping into his eyes. "Robert and Rene?"

"Give the man the a round of applause! Now answer me this, do you realize what Q is?"

"An entity of enormous power and knowledge."

Stella sighed and drank some of her beer. "How about this: do you realize what he isn't?"

Picard looked at her.

"I mean, do you realize that he's not a guy? That he's not really corporeal? or limited? I told you I went to the Continuum."

"Yes."

"And I can't tell you what the Q look like because they are completely unique. They're not energy beings, or light, or matter, or particle, or wave, or form. They are Q. And so to interact with the universe they must mimic what they find. Except inside the Continuum itself, and sometimes even there, they must exist as allegory. What you see when you look at him is a symbol which accurately represents Q, but that symbol is no more Q than a red rose is love or a phaser is violence.

"Now, you tell me, Captain, what can you give to a symbol? What could a symbolized entity want from you?"

"Some sort of...symbolic action?"

"No!" Stella groaned. "Is it really so difficult? Think about it. There Q is, under orders from the Continuum to put you all on trial for the crimes of humanity, and what does he find? Hum? A human being who challenges him. Who surprises him, quite a lost art for the Q. Do you have any idea what it meant, after you'd embarrassed Q over Riker and had him tossed out of the Continuum on his butt, that he came to your ship and asked to be a member of your crew? That he offered to renounce his powers and try to be good? He would have failed miserably if you'd said yes, but that's not the point!

"And then, after you tell him to piss off, what does he do but arrange for you to have early warning about the Borg, and thus allow you to save humanity from being assimilated not once, but twice! Then he comes back later, granted it's when he's in trouble, and tells you you're his only friend right there on the bridge! And then he saves your life! And then he helps you save humanity again! And then he comes back as Ca'ail across all of eternity to kill herself and save your sorry ass one more time!

"So tell me, Captain, did it ever occur to you that Q cares about you, and that he wants you to like him?"

She almost shouted this last, and then had immediate cause to regret it when her nose started to bleed. Holding it between her thumb and forefinger, she stalked into the bathroom and fixed herself up with a cold washcloth and her sealer. Picard watched in silence, knowing that if he mentioned Sickbay this conversation would never be continued.

She sat and crumbled more of the bread, and still he was silent. Finally, she sighed.

"It's something he saw in you, and in other humans, right off: the ability to forgive, to look past what he does and just like him anyway. I like him, but I don't count. Q thinks it's because of what I owe him. He doesn't owe me anything, not like he does you. And he didn't create you.

"And you saw how things are with his actual family. Q may have been his companion for four billion years, but she's hardly the warm, fuzzy type."

"Neither am I."

Stella smiled at that deep, rich voice. She thought she could listen to that voice like music for hours on end. Her head was killing her.

"You are compared to the Q, about as warm and fuzzy as Q could take, anyway."

"That's what you meant by symbols," Picard realized. "The actions of others are symbolic to the Q as well. Whatever I do isn't as important to him as what it means. Fixing the anomaly was nothing compared to why I was fixing it."

Stella nodded as though this were obvious. "And how you feel. Even life and death -- and this is why they laugh at my religious faiths -- are symbols to them, mortality a sort of...parable." She smiled to herself. "But motivations, thoughts, feelings, sensations, these things that the symbols represent: they are everything."

"Sensations? Aren't those symbolic as well?"

"Oh, no! Sights, sounds, colors, and things which affect a hundred other senses humans can't understand make up the existence of Q. You know, when you made him wear they gray jumpsuit, when he was human, it really was torture for him. And Q genuinely enjoy whatever they choose to: eating, laughing, a nice deep breath of fresh air. The Q are highly sensual beings. After all, what's nicer than the feeling of knowing you're cared for?"

Stella was definitely beginning to recover herself, and actually ate a bit of bread with jam. Carefully, Picard took a chuck and spread the fruit over his own, hoping his expression wasn't too avid as she continued.

"And there are many Q who seek sensations humans would be tempted to call evil, or, at least, not very nice. My whole life I'd had to deal with Q who try to poison me against Q. They come up to me when I'm feeling bad and tell me things about him, as though I care what he did to some race I've never met a million years ago. As though I could know enough about what happened to form some damning judgment on him.

"Besides, other Q have told me about things he's done that make my saint act a sham and half. And I never get to hear those things from Q himself. At times, when he wants to be, he can be quite splendid as well." She smiled deeply.

"You're about to ask me for something."

"Is it so impossible, so inconceivable, all things considered, that you might like him, just a bit?"

Picard's eyes narrowed. "The competition is over, isn't it?"

Stella's eyes narrowed back. "What do you mean?"

"Today they simply announce the winners. There are no more performances."

Stella looked at him, refusing not to look at him, but didn't answer.

"Riker to Captain Picard."

Not taking his eyes from her face, he keyed his combadge. "Picard here."

"We're receiving a signal in the EK range, coded Gamma-1-4."

"I'm on my way." He stood, still looking at her. "Do you want to accompany me to the bridge?"

She looked down at the table and began clearing it. "Can't. I have to mingle a while before I'm named the winner."

"I'll see about getting Counselor Troi down there to join you."

She nodded. "That would be nice."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Q was waiting for her in the transporter room, much to the transporter chief's discomfort. Fortunately, Q hadn't spared the man a glance.

"Hello," she said with pleasure as she walked through the doors. "I've figured your present out, you know."

"Have you?"

"Yes. You wanted me to think about who I am. Lucy, the innocent? Edmund, the adventurer? Or Reechipeep, the sacrifice?" She smiled even more broadly, making the transporter chief realize for the first time that she was actually quite pretty.

"Don't do it," Q said.

She looked at him with Picard's eyes. "Is that an order, Q?"

"A request."

She smiled a smile even Q couldn't read. "It's what I want." For the first time in her life, she leaned up and kissed his cheek.

"Au revoir, mon petit dieu!" she trilled, then stepped around him and onto the transporter pad, nodding at chief, who beamed her down and received a glare from Q for his trouble before the entity flashed out.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Picard and Riker played the message for the entire command crew as they sat around the conference table.

"I renounce the Federation's attempt to undermine the Breen Mining Consortium," the YBrit comptroller was saying while staring directly into the recorder. "They have on the following stardates sent their ships into the Estoplin Asteroid Belt without proper notification with the express purpose of disrupting operations: Stardate 54321.9, Stardate 54324.8, Stardate 54331.7, Stardate 54337.4, and Stardate 54340.2.

"I am ashamed of my part in this Federation plot to disgrace the Breen and hinder their peaceful efforts at establishing a useful consortium in a sector which greatly benefits from the work of a noble and honorable people. I blame the Federation for its hypocrisy and wish to make it clear that the YBrit will be carefully reviewing its relationship with this government to ascertain that it is not also being subjected to the whims of a power-hungry bureaucracy."

The message ended.

"I have double-checked those Stardates carefully, sir," Data said. "And while Federation ships were in or near the Estoplin Belt at those times, there was nothing untoward in their presence.

"And yet they must have felt there was some cause, some importance to those dates," Picard said.

"A great deal of importance, considering the sort of blackmail we're getting here," Riker said with suppressed anger. The "confession" had come with Tholian's demand for a full apology and an immediate withdrawal from Fanh space.

"Captain," Data spoke up, "I have finished analyzing the image, and I believe I have noted an important detail." He stood, walked to the monitor, and called up the comptroller's stilled image. "As you can see by looking at this seam here, and here, sir, the comptroller is wearing his shirt inside-out."

A variety of frowns traveled around the table.

"Inside-out," Troi said thoughtfully. "Computer, display stardates of Tholian file 128578." The stardates appeared. "Now reverse them."

The reverse numbers made no sense to Troi, but LaForge recognized them immediately. "Those are the Enterprise's trilithium disposal codes."

While something began to flicker at the back of Troi's mind, Picard felt a return of energy and hope that was almost electrifying. "The comptroller is making a confession," he announced, "but it isn't about the hypocrisy of the Federation.

"Mr. LaForge," he said, unknowingly energizing his crew with his tone as well, "I need deep level scans of every Tholian ship out there. Any signs of excess trilithium you can find, I want plotted and evaluated."

"Aye, sir, but it will take us some time."

"Understood. Mr. Data, what are the chances that confession was made on one of the Tholian ships currently orbiting Fanh?"

"The background detail of the image is inconclusive, sir, though the markings here," he indicated a small detail on the monitor, "and here indicate that it was made aboard a Tholian cargo ship."

"We have several of those near here," Riker said, "carrying munitions and supplies for the battle cruisers."

I want each of them scanned as well. If the comptroller is on one of them, I want to see what we can do about getting him off. If what we suspect is true, he's more than met his agreement with us."

"Captain," Troi said, at long last remembering, "a trilithium distillate is used in the polishing of the crystals. If someone wanted to smuggle a large amount of trilithium to use as an explosive..." She gestured.

"There are currently two Tholian ships in orbit which have identified themselves as crystal suppliers," Data announced.

Picard nodded. "Start your scans there."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The awards ceremony was garish in the extreme. Fanh ceremonial banners of multi-colored silk hung in each tent, punctuated by fairy-lights glowing in the faintly pink illumination of early evening. The crowd was all dressed to its glittering or starched best, and as the main crystal was to have no more use, three of the smaller tents had been incorporated into one cathedral-like enclosure with benches in raised tiers to accommodate almost two thousand of the most important contestants and spectators in the competition. The rest of the world watched on monitors, and automated micro recorders and transmitters, forbidden when the crystals were actually to be used, hovered overhead.

Picard sat with the ambassadors, with Troi nearby. Q was there, looking so grim the captain could hardly keep from glancing at him every ten seconds or so. The entity was not hovering, but simply sitting in Fanh attire on one of the front benches. No one else but Troi and Stella seemed to notice him.

Hapeve had been selected to mediate the awards, Ambassador Teeroth standing to one side and looking on with self-important approval.

The top five contestants were already on the raised platform, looking at each other with little affection. Stella stood to one side, near Orool, who was keeping her distance from Rachiir, as Elbred of K'Renyt VII received fifth, and Aau of Oueq received fourth place honors.

"And third place honors go to Orool of Tholia," Hapeve said, handing out the ribbon to another round of applause, before an extreme hush settled down over the crowd.

"And second place honors go to Estelle of Earth," Hapeve announced, handing out the ribbon to Stella, who made no move to take it.

Picard actually saw Q bite his lip.

Stella smiled then, and slipped off her flat sandals. Hapeve's eyes grew large, and for a moment, no one else moved at all.

Then the woman was walking off the platform, and the audience burst into excited noise, standing up to follow her.

Picard and Troi instinctively moved towards each other as the mob shoved its way into the main tent. Stella was already atop the crystal, and seemed to be testing it with her feet. Finally, she evidently found just the position she wanted and closed her eyes. Picard couldn't help looking around for Q, but no one was sitting, and he could barely see Stella.

The main crystal glared white-hot and several of the smaller crystals exploded with the first percussive notes. There was a sort of cartoonish howl, and then a deep voice assuring them all that no one lives forever.

You worry too much
You make yourself sad
You can't change fate
But don't feel so bad
Enjoy it while you can
It's just like the weather
So quit complaining brother
No one lives forever

And then the volume seemed to be turned up, and the words grew so loud as to become indistinct. Troi and Picard both felt that their heads would explode, and the pounding energy of the song grew both violent and acutely painful. Someone next to them was screaming, and later they would hear of many people who fled the tent altogether. Before long, all the smaller crystals had exploded and Stella was almost digging into the smooth surface with her feet, fusing herself with it as the volume increased and increased and increased as the howling came back and everyone there felt battered by the noise which went on and on until Picard had clenched his teeth over his own desire to shout at her to stop, an order many around him weren't bothering to suppress. Troi had her hands over her ears and was using every trick she knew to keep her empathic senses off-line, refusing for a second to open her mind to that angry driving shout of music.

And then the final line became distinct again, vibrating through their bones and guts: "No lives forever -- HEY!"

And with that final note, there was a horrible noise, and then a terrible silence. Everyone there had shut their eyes, and now opened them to the sight of Stella standing quietly atop a darkened mass of rock. At her feet, across the length of the crystal, was a deep crack, completely severing both sides, and then a series of smaller cracks, as the large crystal had split itself again and again under the force of that driving energy.

The main crack ran directly under the woman's feet, and when Stella shifted slightly, her brilliant red blood showed clearly as it flowed out from the severed skin of the soles of her feet.

There would be no more crystal singing competitions on Fanh.

While it was still silent, with a blank expression on her face that did not react to the pain she must be feeling, at the very least, from her bleeding feet, Stella stepped off the ruined crystal and walked over to Hapeve, who was still holding the ribbons for first and second place. She raised her eyebrows, and Hapeve handed her the first-place ribbon without a word.

Stella draped the prize around her neck, not paying attention to Rachiir's solemn acceptance of the second-place ribbon, as she turned to the Tholian ambassador.

"Haven't you ever wondered at the Breen's dominance over the pasty sixty-five years?" she asked in a clear little voice. "They didn't used to win so frequently, before the competition came to Fanh, and I don't think they will win so often again, now." Her voice dropped on the last word, and she smiled smugly.

Chooln made the Tholian equivalent of a hiss, while Reret looked at Rachiir in horror.

Picard took out the small padd he'd been keeping at the ready and handed it to the Breen. "I feel I should warn you, Ambassador, that the two Tholian vessels calling themselves crystal supply ships are in fact carrying over eight hundred kilograms of trilithium compounds."

Reret grabbed the padd.

"Ambassador Reret," Chooln began, looming above them in his environment suit. "We have evidence of Federation involvement --"

"Ah yes," the captain said loudly, "Federation interference in Breen mining operations on dates when the movements of several Tholian ships cannot be completely accounted for in the Alton Sector. You were relying on Comptroller BRussiket's evidence of impropriety, I believe. But now that we have the comptroller back in Federation custody, he seems to be telling us quite a bit about those ships, and what sort of illegal sales of trilithium they have been making to terrorists posing, and not very well, I might add, as crystal traders.

The two ambassadors regarded each other with shocked outrage.

"Perhaps this is not the proper forum for resolving your disputes," Picard said quietly, holding his hands at his sides and not looking in Stella' direction, even though his peripheral vision was telling him that she had gone alarmingly pale and had begun very slightly to sway on her feet.

"If you would like the Federation to continue to work with you until all reparations regarding the accident at the Estoplin Asteroid Belt have been resolved, we will do so, of course."

The Breen ambassador turned first, though the Tholian moved so soon afterwards that it was difficult to tell from a distance. In any event, they both walked away from the scene without a word, disappearing into the astonished and still noise-weary spectators.

It would be three days before talks would resume, and two weeks before the peace settlement would be reached, but the man responsible for all that wasn't thinking about either the Breen or the Tholians anymore.

"Picard to Enterprise, three to beam directly to Sickbay."

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Though Crusher expected something scathing any minute, Q said not a word.

The entity stayed quietly standing against the wall, arms crossed, face full of fury, the energy from him an almost palpable thing much larger than his human shape. Against his better judgment and almost without realizing what he was doing, Picard wound up standing next to him.

Just about every major blood vessel in Stella's head was hemorrhaging, and she'd been bleeding profusely from her nose and ears when they had beamed her aboard. Crusher was trying her best to repair the vessel walls, but there had been so much previous damage that none of the usual techniques were getting much response from the abused tissue.

She had the woman on full cortical stimulation and was getting ready to move her onto life support, but Crusher had been a doctor long enough to know a lost cause when she saw it. The reverb from the broken crystal had simply exploded the human brain so ill-equipped to handle its own amplified power. She looked up at Jean-Luc, and he saw that she was now simply fulfilling the last moments of her duty.

So when she saw Stella actually managing to move towards consciousness on her own, she went ahead and pumped the stimulant into her bloodstream, never mind that it would shorten the minutes of life left in the woman's body.

Her eyelids fluttered open, releasing small blood-filled tears as her lips moved to form a name:

"Q."

Q was standing beside her now, looking coldly down at her. "Yes?"

"What," she whispered, "are you waiting for? I'm dying here."

And even as Q's shoulders sagged in relief and his eyes rolled in exasperation and his angry breath streamed out through his nostrils, his hand came up in a sharp snap, and Stella flashed a bare half-second before her restored body, the same one Picard had seen when Q got her ready for the party, lay on the table.

Smiling smugly again, Stella sat up on the biobed, holding up her right ankle and looking where the crystals used to be. "I will miss it, you know, anyway."

"I don't care."

She looked up at him. "I had to break it on my own, Q. Surely you can see that?"

Q breathed at her.

"Now, admit it, you're proud of me."

More breathing. Amazed and relieved, Crusher realized she was having a hard time not laughing, though she wasn't sure at what.

"You're the one who told me what a bunch of jerks the Fanh are, and how they had single-handedly taken all the fun out of an art form you enjoyed. And besides, they are jerks!"

"I'm never doing this again," Q said slowly, viciously.

Stella shrugged. "Yes, you will. If I die before I'm at least a century old you're going to be very angry. Besides, Jean-Luc would never forgive you for not saving me, even if he is going to be a stubborn idiot about his own problems."

"As far as I'm concerned right now, he can have you!"

"Good. Dad over there told me I can come live with him on the Enterprise."

Crusher stared, and thus saw the slow smile forming on her friend's lips.

"Thadius will be so pleased. Well, it should keep you out of trouble for a while at least."

"Ah," Stella shrugged coyly. "You know you love me."

Rolling eyes again, Q flashed out of the room, and Stella drew up her legs to hug them with a delighted chuckle. Then, growing suddenly serious, she looked at Picard.

"The offer still stands, I hope?"

"Certainly." He motioned with his hand. "Perhaps we should find you some quarters."

"Thanks for everything," she said sweetly to the doctor as she slid off the biobed.

"You're welcome," Beverly said, her eyes locking onto Jean-Luc's and seeing his promise of an explanation later on.

Stella walked almost to the door before she spoke, so the last of her question was almost lost to the chief medical officer. She heard enough, however, to drop her tricorder.

"So, Dad. Exactly what's involved with getting a Starfleet uniform, anyway?"

Picard walked into his quarters, saw nothing there but his furniture and possessions, and told himself he was relieved.

After a short shower and a change into off-duty clothes, he was trying to pretend to have an interest in his book, when he suddenly heard voices in his room.

"Are you saying you don't trust me not to peek?"

"I'm just saying it would make more sense to have me shuffle the cards, since it's impossible for me to peek."

From his sofa, Picard looked over to the center of the room and saw Stella and Q huddled around a large game board spread out on the floor. The board seemed to hold series of rooms and figures. Standing up slowly and walking towards them, he saw that a variety of weapons had been placed in the center of the board, and that the cards in question, currently being held in Q's hand, depicted a number of faces, weapons, and rooms.

"How can you be trusted with shuffling when you can't even make up your mind who you want to be?" Q was saying.

"I have so made up my mind. I'm Miss Scarlet."

"There's a shocker."

"And who are you going to be, anyway?"

"well, I was thinking of Colonel Mustard, but it seems only fair..." Q and Stella looked at Picard, who had sat carefully on the floor beside them.

"How about it?" Stella asked. "Col. Mustard, Mr. Green. or Professor Plum?"

"Colonel Mustard," the captain said gravely, "I should think."

"Professor Plum, then," Q said with a sigh.

"Oh, I don't know," Stella said innocently. "You'd make a lovely Mrs. Peacock."

Q's eyes glinted. "We could always play chess."

"I'm not watching the queens mud-wrestle again."

A sudden, horrible scream ripped through the room.

"What a give-away!" Stella protested while Picard kept himself from reacting. "That was obviously a woman's scream."

"Doesn't necessarily follow that she's the victim," Q said calmly as he shoved three cards into the envelope which he placed in the center of the board.

"Well, it didn't sound to me like she saw a mouse."

"Maybe Miss Scarlet's a ninny."

"There's a blood trail in the library," Picard noted in surprise, looking again at the board.

"We are reminded of the important things," Q said with a smile, dealing out the cards quickly and the looking at his hand. Picard looked down at his own and saw pictures of a knife, a rope, a conservatory, a kitchen, and a picture of Data in a long wig and lipstick with the identification, "Mrs. White."

"Q," Picard said.

"Yes?"

"Would you get rid of my Irumodic Syndrome for me?"

"Done, mon Capitaine. Now, shouldn't we roll to see who goes first?"

 ROLL CREDITS

------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was Mr. Green in the Library with the Candlestick.

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