Oasis 2/4 (TNG)
Title: Oasis
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A Starfleet doctor, still grieving her husband's death during the Enterprise's first encounter with the Borg, finds herself faced with an agonizing choice when Q is mortally wounded.
DISCLAIMER: Paramount owns the Star Trek universe and everything it encompasses. This story is not intended to infringe on any copyrights, and the only profit I gain by it is emotional satisfaction.
PART ONE
Almost without volition, Fatima found herself headed towards Engineering. This was not the same ship Ali had died tried to save -- that ship was destroyed several years ago in a confrontation with the Duras sisters -- but Ali had been an engineer, and the Borg had recently tried to establish a new collective on the engineering deck of this Enterprise. As far as her fragmented spirit was concerned, it might as well have been the Enterprise-D. She was surprised to find Engineering empty, except for Data and Geordi.
"Doctor al-Ghazali, is there something I can help you with?" Geordi asked solicitously.
"Uh, no, Commander, thank you, I'm just out for a stroll," she replied. Turning to Data, she added, "Is Counselor Troi all right?"
He inclined his head. "She is in her quarters and resting comfortably."
"Did she give any indication of what happened to her?"
"I overheard her tell Doctor Crusher that the magnitude of Primus's emotional power overwhelmed her, much in the way an undertow might overwhelm a swimmer. She claimed to be unhurt." He pursed his lips in an android imitation of a worried frown. "Are you all right, Doctor?"
She smiled weakly. "You could say that I, too, have been sucked into the undertow of overpowering emotion."
"Doctor?"
She ignored him and walked towards the warp core. The plasma pulsed in a glorious splendor of iridescence, like a star about to go supernova. The warp core is truly the heart of a starship, powering all of the vessel's lesser functions much like a human heart forces life-giving blood through the entire body. And just as the human heart is subject only to the brain, so the warp core is subject only to the computer. Yet the heart will continue to beat, reflexively, even when the brain is dead. Fatima stood before the warp core, mesmerized by the steady whoosh and thrum of the plasma coursing throughout the ship. The hypnotic rhythm soothed her jangled nerves, and she turned to look at Geordi and Data, who had followed her, puzzled by her strange behavior. "It's ironic, you know."
"What's ironic?" asked Geordi.
"Plasma is one of the fundamental components of our blood. You could say that the plasma that fuels the warp core is the lifeblood of this ship. Yet human plasma is never deadly."
Geordi stepped closer, finally understanding what was on her mind. "I was there, you know. I saw it happen."
"Yes, I know. Captain Picard gave me a copy of the full report. It said you burned yourself trying to pull him from the conduit." Her voice was ragged and hoarse, barely above a whisper. She could not bear to lift her eyes to his face, for fear that his memories of the horrible sight would jump from his eyes to hers.
"I tried to stop him, but... he was right. There was no other way to stop the slow burn. At least, none that would have worked in time." He put his arms around her. "Your husband was not just a very brave man, he was a remarkably intuitive engineer. He had a flair for binary code that I've only seen in Vulcans. He used to brag that it was because his people invented the zero."
"Lieutenant al-Ghazali also created some excellent encryption programs," added Data. "I found breaking the codes to be quite challenging. His use of the Arabic and Farsi alphabets, rather than Greek, was inspired."
Fatima smiled at their memories. Ali had tried to teach her Farsi, the ancient language of Persian emperors, not long after they were married, and gave up in disgust. A code written entirely in Farsi would have probably convinced the Romulans to beg for peace.
She knew little of Ali's life on board the Enterprise. They had intended to serve together, but two months before her transfer was to come through the Enterprise had been sent to the Delta Quadrant, and soon thereafter the transfer became pointless.
Ali was a great storyteller, and his letters to her had consisted mostly of news about planets the Enterprise visited, or the peccadilloes of other crewmembers, or, more often, ancient legends about Persian emperors. Ali loved to tell Fatima stories about Darius, and Cyrus, and even Alexander, though he was not Persian. His eyes took on an eerie shine and his entire body became very animated as he relived those glorious times when even Memphis and Athens looked east to Susa with envy. He could easily have put Scheherazade out of business. But now he was dead, and his stories had died with him. It was good to hear Geordi's and Data's stories about Ali.
She stepped away from Geordi's embrace and straightened her shoulders. "Thank you, Commander, Data. You've been a great help," she said, and left.
* * * * *
"Fatima, are you sure this is what you want? Do you realize the consequences?" Doctor Crusher asked gently when Fatima arrived at Counselor Troi's quarters. Deanna was lounging on a sofa with a cup of tea while Beverly sat in a chair opposite her. Fatima suspected that Beverly had been relating to Deanna all that had happened in Sickbay after she fainted.
"Do I realize that I will die if I help Q?" Fatima asked in return. "Yes, I'm well aware of that. But that doesn't matter to me. Death is... I've never feared death. In fact, for the past few years, I've courted it. Not that I'm on a suicide mission," she added hastily. "It's just that, since Ali's death, my life has been -- not empty, exactly, but not complete. Not whole."
Deanna gazed at her, weighing Fatima's emotions. "Do you think that, by dying, you will be reunited with Ali and become whole again?"
"There's some truth to that, but it's not exactly right. Q was responsible for Ali's death. There's a part of me that thinks that, if Q dies and I haven't done everything I could to save him, then I will be responsible for Q's death, and I will become even more divided. Another part of me believes, however, that my fate, my destiny, is to bring humanity and Q one step closer together, and that the only way I can do this is to help restore Q to his natural state."
"Do you blame Q for Ali's death?" asked Beverly. She understood too well the pitfalls of culpability for a husband's death.
"Once, I blamed Q, I hated him, for what he took from me. A part of me still does. But now I see that, if Ali was not dead, then I would not be making this choice, and Q would die. If Q were to die, then the Federation would lose a valuable ally, humanity might very well lose its soul, and the Continuum would not evolve as it should."
"You're taking a rather large load on your shoulders, don't you think?" Beverly prodded, not challenging, but not comprehending Fatima's argument.
"Look at it this way. Primus said that humans represent the perfect balance between energy and matter. My spirit died with Ali. Q's spirit died at the hands of Soma. I truly believe that Q and I can help each other become reunited with our respective spirits, and become whole again. It may very well be that I cannot become whole unless I am reunited with Ali in death, but according to my people's beliefs, direct suicide is not the way to go. I need to make the ultimate sacrifice, believing in my heart that what I do is for the good of others, and not just for my own selfish interests."
"Do you know what I refer to Will as?" Deanna asked after a moment of uneasy silence. "I call him my 'Imzadi.' It means, essentially, 'soul-mate.' Will and I never married, but to a Betazoid, an Imzadi is bound to you far more than a spouse. I can appreciate your sense of fragmentation."
She paused long enough to place her teacup on the table. "There are many cultures that believe our lives are like an intricate spider web, hanging precariously between life and death, good deeds and sin, all actions delicately intertwined and vulnerable to the slightest outside interference. I can tell that you truly believe your sacrifice, whatever your motivations may be, will both atone for Q's 'sin,' give meaning to your husband's death and thereby repair your own damaged web. Although I cannot pretend to understand your logic, I cannot fault your resolve. I will speak to the captain on your behalf."
* * * * *
Fatima was waiting in Sickbay at the appointed hour with Primus and the young Q when Picard swept in with Beverly and Deanna hot on his heels. He did not look pleased to see her there.
"How long have you been here?" he barked.
"About four hours, sir."
"Are you still determined to go through with this?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yes, sir. I see no other choice."
Picard laced his fingers behind his back and began pacing. "I'm not sure that I do either. There's no question that Q has been a fly in our ointment from the day I took command of the Enterprise. Without him, however, we might never have defeated the Borg, we might never have deepened our understanding of the fragility of time, and I might not be standing here before you now. There is no question that Q has been an asset to humanity as much as he has been a liability."
"What I have just said does not mean that I condone what you seem to think is your predetermined destiny. As captain of the Enterprise, I have, on occasion, had to order another officer to his or her death. My command decisions have also inadvertently caused the deaths of other officers. But Q is supposed to be immortal, and yet here he lies dying, and now I have to decide if his immortality is worth the price of one mortal life. I've never put much stock in destiny; I believe our actions define our lives, not vice versa. Can you see the quandary I'm in?"
Primus stepped towards Picard. "Do you wonder, human, why I beat the ground with this stick? It is the pulse that forces life throughout the cosmos. You can hear it in your heart, but it also beats in your spirit. It resounds throughout space. My feet move in time to that rhythm in the dance of creation. As I dance, worlds come into being and worlds fall away. The reverberations of my feet send out vast concentric circles of life and death like ripples on a still pond. I do it not because it is my destiny, I do it because it is who I am. Destiny is not as linear as you would have it, human. Listen to the girl. For her, destiny is not the why or the what; it is the because. She has already made the sacrifice. Now it is your turn. Let go."
Picard looked at the young Q, who had remained silent. He returned Picard's gaze, then said, simply, "Please."
Picard knew when he was outnumbered and outflanked. He had known hours ago that he would acquiesce, but he was not sure if it was because of the political advantages, or because he knew he did not have a choice. Despite his continued reservations, he nodded in agreement.
Fatima embraced the captain. "Thank you for believing in me, and for giving me the chance to redeem myself."
Resigned to her determination, Picard sighed. "I have given you nothing. I am only permitting you to take what you will have. Let me warn you, however, that I have given Beverly explicit instructions to take whatever measures are necessary to preserve your life." He turned to Primus. "Primus, I leave her in your hands. What must we do?"
Primus took Fatima's hand and guided her to the biobed where Q lay. "Are you at peace with your decision?" he asked her.
For a moment she hesitated, leading Picard to think that she had changed her mind, then she smiled beatifically. "Yes."
" 'Once you have been delivered from this cage, your home will be the rose garden...' " Primus began.
"' ... Once you have broken the shell, dying will be like the pearl'," Fatima recited after him. Her grandfather had been a devotee of Rumi, and she knew his writings better than she knew the Qur'an.
"Place your hand over Q's eyes," Primus instructed. As she obeyed, he switched his stick to the hand closest to her and wrapped her fingers around it before sliding his own hands over both of hers. "I will catch you when you fall," he murmured as everything went black.
A sense o'er all my soul imprest
That I am weak, yet not unblest,
Since in me, round me, every where
Eternal strength and wisdom are
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, "The Pains of Sleep"
Q opened his eyes slowly, cautiously, and peered around at his surroundings. He ached all over, and his throat was parched. Ever so gently he raised himself up on his elbows and looked around. Nothing looked familiar. He could tell that he was in a large canvas structure, resting on a bed of soft plump cushions. An oil lamp burned on a low table near his head and a fire smoldered in the center of the tent. A feathery thin wisp of smoke curled upwards and exited the tent through a small opening in the roof that revealed a blindingly white sky. Colorful carpets covered the ground around the makeshift hearth in overlapping layers. Q noticed that the ground, though not soft, gave way when he pressed on it.
He sat up at a rustling noise against the far wall of the tent and swung his legs off the bed. The tent wall appeared to draw away, and the bright sunlight streaming in momentarily blinded him. When the wall fell back into place and Q's eyes cleared, he noticed a young woman standing before him. He jumped in surprise.
"Good morning," she said, taking a step closer to him. "I'm glad to see that you are finally awake."
Q stared at her, uncharacteristically speechless. The woman looked to be no more than thirty, and Q could tell from his seated position that she was tiny in comparison to his imposing stature. Her skin, burnished by the sun, was a dusky olive hue, and her almond-shaped eyes were as dark and intoxicating as coffee. Her lips, rich and full like ripe pomegranates, parted to reveal two even rows of teeth that shone like pearls. She was dressed in a costume of robes in varying shades of green. Her trousers, an almost-yellow chartreuse, cascaded down her legs until they gathered tightly about her ankles in a band of gold filament. Over her torso she wore a long-sleeved tunic, likewise trimmed in gold, with a modestly curved neckline in a shade of avocado that on anyone with paler skin would reflect a hideous glow. The tunic, which fell to mid-thigh, was cinched with a sash identical to her trousers. A pale olive green scarf decorated with intricate patterns of green and gold covered her plaited dark hair.
She took another step toward Q, extending a wooden platter with fruit on it. "Please, help yourself," she urged in a low, melodious voice. "You must be starving, you haven't eaten for days."
Q pressed himself against the cushions with distrust. "Who are you?" he rasped hoarsely. "Where am I and how did I get here?"
"I'll answer your questions if you eat something first," she insisted. She placed the plate on the table. Q eyed the fruit warily. "There are some dates, a few figs and a handful of betel nuts," she said.
"I'm thirsty. May I have some water?"
"Eat the fruit. They will replenish your fluids." Q obeyed grudgingly and bit into a fig. Juice dribbled down his chin. "Be careful," she cautioned. "Don't waste those juices. Fluid is a rare commodity in the desert."
Q's eyes widened as he wiped his sleeve across his mouth. "Desert? What desert? You promised to answer my questions if I ate some fruit, well, here's the evidence," he said, extending fingers stained red by the betel nuts.
"Do you remember who you are?"
"What sort of a stupid question is that?" Q retorted haughtily. "Of course I know who I am. I --" He paused, confused. "My name is Q, I know that much," he continued, chagrined when he realized that he did not remember who he was. "The rest seems to be somewhat hazy. I think I remember something about a party..."
"We found you in the desert, naked, alone, without provisions and unconscious. We don't know how you got there. You've been with us for three days, delirious for most of that time."
"Who's 'we'?" Q asked. "For that matter, perhaps you'd better tell me who you are."
"My name is Fatima al-Ghazali. I am accompanied by my father-in-law, Abu Primus."
"What are you doing in the middle of the desert?"
"We're Bedouins. The desert is our home." Fatima paused, and a shadow of melancholy fell across her face. "We're on our way to a shrine near the River of Life, where Abu plans to commemorate the anniversary of my husband's death. You are welcome to accompany us as far as you wish, but I urge you to go with us to the shrine. The Saint may be able to help you."
Q shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Since I don't know how I got here, I don't know how or where to go, so you're probably my only hope, unless I care to become food for sand worms. These figs are delicious, by the way."
Fatima smiled again, her face as enigmatic as a sphinx as she kneeled on the floor beside Q's bed. "Good. You need to eat everything on the plate; it's important to build up your strength before we can continue. Do you have any recollection of how you ended up in the middle of the desert?"
"No idea whatsoever. You said I was naked when you found me?" Fatima nodded. "That would explain how I came to be wearing this --" he said, indicating the light blue caftan he was wearing, "I have a vague memory of a red and black uniform." Q looked down at the remaining dates on his plate and scowled. "Do I have to eat these?" he complained. "They look like burned locusts."
"Yes, you do," she insisted. "You were very badly sunburned when we found you, and the protein in the dates will help your skin heal and regenerate. Now if you will please excuse me, I have other matters to attend to," she said, rising.
Q snorted in disgust and reluctantly bit into a date to appease her, but as soon as she left the tent he spat the unchewed morsel on his plate and put it back on the table. He stood and stretched his arms stiffly above his head, feeling the tautness of his burned flesh and wincing at the sharp stings caused by the movement. As long as I'm stuck here, he thought, I might as well get to know the place.
The tent was quite large, about sixteen square meters around and three meters in height, supported at the four corners by sturdy wooden poles driven deep into the sand. One corner of the tent was separated from the main chamber by a canvas panel. That must be where Fatima sleeps, Q realized, and stepped inside, oblivious to any need she might have for privacy. Finding no clues to reveal more about his mysterious hostess, nothing besides a simple bed, a few garments and a copy of the Qur'an under her pillow, he resumed exploring the main chamber. On the opposite side of the fire from his bed was a low pallet resting on a bed of straw where, Q guessed, Abu -- what had Fatima called him? Primus? -- slept. He thought Primus was an odd name for a Bedouin. But then, he thought sardonically, what sort of a name is Q?
Having thoroughly examined the tent, Q decided to step outside and view his surroundings. He yelped with pain as his tender bare feet came into contact with the scorching sand and beat a hasty retreat into the cool shade of the tent. His eyes scanned the chamber and fell upon a pair of sandals at the foot of his bed. His soles, which Q realized were sunburned from his ordeal, shrank back from contact with the unyielding leather, but he gritted his teeth and forced his feet down onto the sandals and tied the thongs tightly around his ankles. Only when he felt certain the sandals were secure on his feet did Q dare venture outside again.
The first thing Q noticed when he stepped outside was the unending expanse of the desert. Everywhere he looked, every way he turned, he saw nothing but sand, a great expansive sea of sand. And, like the sea, the desert was continually changing its appearance, as winds stirred loose granules from the surface and drove them into Q's face, stinging his tender skin with thousands of tiny arrows. He remained motionless, mesmerized by the eternal and infinite continuum of the desert.
Continuum?
Where had he heard that word before? Deep within Q's subconscious, a slumbering memory stirred, and he felt a profound yearning, an unquenchable thirst, a powerful homesickness. But where was home?
Judging from the sun's position in the sky, Q estimated it to be mid-morning, and realized that he had yet to face the full power of the desert heat. He wondered that he had survived at all before Fatima and her father-in-law discovered him; he was obviously not a desert native.
The second thing Q noticed was a herd of about twenty camels gathered behind the tent, most of them resting on their haunches, placidly chewing cud. In fact, Q heard them before he saw them, when one of the animals emitted a hair-raising noise that was half bellow, half belch, and Q nearly jumped out of his skin. When he peered nervously around the tent to determine the source of the noise, the odor emanating from the camels caused him to wrinkle his nose in disgust before the herd even came into view. Q momentarily wondered if he might not be better off braving the desert alone. Then he spotted the old man resting against one of the camels, and realized that he must be Abu Primus.
Something about the old man looked very familiar to Q, but he could not put his finger on what or why. His hair, which bristled in countless directions from underneath a white skullcap, was brittle and yellow with age. His sun-blackened face, which gave the unique appearance of arrogance and compassion and innocence and ancient wisdom in equal measure, was lined with deep creases. His coal-black eyes glittered beneath bushy yellow eyebrows. He was dressed in a simple white caftan that appeared to be stitched from a single piece of cloth. In one hand he held a stick, with which he beat an endless rhythm on the desert floor. Q noticed his lips moving, and thought the obviously crazy old man was talking to the camel. As he approached, however, Q realized that the man was speaking a litany of sorts, chanting in a language Q could not fathom. The man looked up as Q's shadow fell upon him and leaped to his feet with a spryness Q would never have thought possible in a man of Abu's apparent, but indeterminate, age.
"My child!" he cried, embracing Q tightly. "You have at last returned to us from the land of the djinn! Allah be praised!"
Q was startled by the old man's enthusiasm for his well-being and disturbed by the compassionate embrace. On the surface, Abu Primus seemed to be nothing more than a typically superstitious old man, but the emotion apparent in his voice and the fervor of his embrace suggested a far greater concern than mere superstition would suggest. Somewhat embarrassed, Q carefully extracted himself from Abu's arms. "'Land of the djinn'?" he asked, hoping for clues about the old man, about himself, about Fatima.
"That place between life and death where spirits try to seduce us away from the Noble Path of Light. Surely you're familiar with Milton? 'A thousand fantasies//begin to throng into my memory//of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire//and airy tongues that syllable men's names//on sands and shores and desert wilderness.' I had feared that you would never return to us, that your death was sealed by those airy tongues and beckoning shadows," Abu replied, grinning toothlessly.
Q was beginning to suspect that he was not the only mystery around here, and he doubted he would ever get a straight answer from Fatima or her father-in-law. Fatima had said they found Q in the desert several days ago, yet Abu seemed to suggest that Q had been with them before, or perhaps had been with them all along. It did seem odd that they adapted so well to his assuredly disruptive presence. Q considered asking the old man how much he knew about Q and who he was, but almost immediately decided against it, thinking that perhaps Abu's answers would only generate more questions. In any case, the old man's emotion made Q uncomfortable. "Where's Fatima?" he asked.
Abu Primus pointed to a dark spot in the distance. "It is mid-morning. She's at prayer."
Curious, Q headed toward the dark spot, which, as he came closer, he realized was Fatima. From a distance he watched, fascinated, as she arranged several rocks in a large circle. She then knelt outside the circle and removed her sandals and scarf. With her right hand she picked up a handful of sand and began methodically scrubbing her face and head, then her left arm up to the elbow, and finally, with her left hand, she likewise scrubbed her right arm. Her ritual ablutions complete, Fatima began tracing lines in the sand within the circle of stones in such a pattern that four straight lines connected stones opposite each other in the circle and converged on a single point in the exact center of the circle. Fatima then stepped to the central point and, facing east, raised her arms to the sky and in her throaty contralto intoned the creed of her people, "La ilaha illa Allah. Muhammad rasul Allah."
Ignoring the thought that he might be committing some horrendous taboo, Q stepped closer. He had a vague sensation, like an indefinable memory, that he was familiar with many forms of human (human?) prayer (why?), including the shahada, but as he watched, Fatima's prayer took on a form he was quite certain he had never seen before.
As Fatima began chanting Allah's glorious names and praising his great deeds, her feet began to stamp the ground in an even, controlled rhythm, her arms outstretched, her head thrown back. When she had established the correct tempo, she began to turn clockwise, so that as her right foot touched down, she was facing one of the four cardinal points on her sacred circle, exclaiming at each point "Allahu akbar!"
Slowly the tempo of Fatima's ritual dance increased, and Q felt the blood pounding in his head to the same driving rhythm. It was as if her mystical dance had itself become the earth's heartbeat, sending life coursing through Q's veins. As her whirling became faster, more frenzied, Q saw the cosmos whirling around him...
...Allahu akbar...
...the earth rumbling in humble obedience...
whirling faster, ever faster...
...stars moving through his vision blurred by wind and sand and tears...
...Allahu akbar...
...millions of voices praising in unison...
whirling, whirling, centrifugal and centripetal forces in tandem with the spinning of the galaxy...
...faces, his face...
...Ora pro nobis...
...the reverberation of a cosmic heartbeat...
whirling, whirling, whirling...
...a ship traveling through the stars...
...God is most great...
...Kyrie eleison...
whirling out of control...
...at the center of an endless ocean of fire...
...hearing darkness, seeing silence...
* * * * *
The pungent, heady fragrance of myrrh wafted into Q's nose, triggering a powerful sneeze and arousing him from unconsciousness. The sudden movement precipitated by the sneeze sent daggers of pain coursing through his body, causing him to cry out and struggle. A pair of soft, strong hands pressed on his shoulder blades and Fatima's low voice ordered him to relax and lie down. Q fought her, briefly, but her soothing words soon outmatched his fear and distrust and he pressed his face into the pillow. He was back in the tent, lying on his stomach. The scent of myrrh, he discovered when he turned his head to the right, was coming from a jar sitting on the table beside his bed. Fatima was rubbing the fragrant ointment into his aching back with delicate but deliberate strokes. Q then realized that he was naked to the waist, and Fatima's nearness to him awakened conflicting and unfamiliar feelings of discomfort and desire. The pleasure engendered by her touch, however, masked more potent sensations of pain radiating throughout his body. "What are you doing?" he asked, the edge in his voice muffled by the pillow.
"You should not have followed me," she scolded, irritation evident in the tone of her voice. "Worship is not a matter to be taken lightly, and you have no business imitating that which you do not respect or understand. Because of your arrogant foolishness, your wounds have reopened."
"What, you mean the sunburn?" Q asked, perplexed.
"No," Fatima sighed in exasperation. "When we found you, you were so close to death that a vulture was circling your body, occasionally swooping down and gouging your back. You've got some pretty nasty scratches, and your disrespect for the customs of my people reopened the wounds and caused you to start bleeding again. Look at this," she ordered, pulling down her tunic to show a network of jagged red and purple lines extending from her collarbone back to her shoulder blade. "This is what the vulture did to me when I tried to pull you away." She lifted the caftan Q had been wearing earlier, which was lying on the ground beside his bed. It was soaked with blood. "This is what you did to yourself. Now don't move while I finish wrapping these wounds," she ordered.
Q resented her manner, but acquiesced. He could not shake the feeling that she knew much more about him than she was telling, and wondered how he could draw her out into the open. A voice told him there was a reason she was holding back, that she distrusted him as much as he distrusted her. "Tell me about your husband," he asked cautiously.
He heard a sharp intake of breath, then silence. He craned his neck to look at Fatima, who was biting her lip in a vain struggle to prevent the single tear that had collected in her left eye from falling. Unable to control her reaction, and sensing Q's eyes searching her face, Fatima looked down at her feet. "Ali was the best, the very best of men," she whispered. "He died, several years ago, far from the desert, in the line of duty."
"What happened?" Q asked. Fatima carefully related the circumstances of Ali's death, omitting any direct reference to Q's role in that unpleasant event. At the mention of the Enterprise, however, Q's eyes widened. He had heard that name before, had seen that ship before, in his mind, in the impenetrable fog of his memory. He debated asking Fatima about the Enterprise, hoping to unravel the mystery of his past, but an inner voice urged him to wait. Part of him distrusted her, but an equal part of him believed that she would tell him what he needed to know -- what he longed to know -- at the appropriate time. For now, however, he wanted to know more about her and her strange father-in-law.
For her part, Fatima could tell that Q was uneasy, and secretly reveled in the power she had over him. Q had deservedly earned a reputation for being arrogant, condescending and presumptuous, lording over the mortals he confronted and flaunting his immortality and omnipotence. This Q, although he was, essentially, the same Q, was neither immortal nor omnipotent, and did not realize that he was supposed to be so. Holding the knowledge of who and what Q was, and being the means of restoring him to his natural state, Fatima felt...omnipotent. Traversing space in the years following Ali's death, she had wondered if she were immortal, because death remained perpetually elusive, no matter how hard she tried to seduce it. Now the being responsible for Ali's death was at her mercy, entirely dependent on her for his life and his identity.
If Ali could see me now, she thought to herself. He would know how to resolve the conflict that raged within her heart.
Ali. He was the reason why she volunteered for this 'suicide' mission. He had also volunteered his life, believing, she knew, that his action was for the greater good, but she lacked his fortitude and his faith. Yet something told her that helping Q was for the best, and that Ali would be proud. Ali would have made the same choice, without hesitation, were he in her place. She knew, with a twinge of regret at her selfishness, that her ultimate reward, reuniting with her dead husband, was her primary motivation, and resolutely steeled herself against the challenge that lay ahead. Shaking herself out of her reverie, she looked at Q. He was equally lost in thought.
"Are you hungry?" she asked.
"What?" Q stirred, shaking the cobwebs from his mind. "Oh -- yes, I'm starved. You're not going to make me eat any more dates are you?" He injected a note of pleading into his voice.
"No, we can't afford to waste them. It will take us a week to cross the desert, and our provisions have to last." She rose from the floor beside his bed. "You're welcome to join me. I could use your help."
Q groaned as he pushed himself to his hands and knees, then carefully turned over into a sitting position. He was grateful to discover that he was wearing trousers, in the same loose-fitting style as what Fatima was wearing, underneath the blanket. A matching sleeveless tunic was folded neatly at the foot of the bed, and he carefully eased it over his shoulders and fastened it. He walked over to the fire, where Fatima was grinding chickpeas in a large bowl. "What do you want me to do?" he asked solicitously.
She pointed to a strange brew bubbling over the coals. "Stir that," she commanded. "Don't let it boil over or get too thick."
"What is it?"
He immediately regretted asking. "A blend of fermented camel's milk, honey and olive oil." She looked at him and smiled at the look of utter nausea on his face. "Don't worry, it tastes better than it sounds."
"An amazing and impossible feat, I'm sure."
Fatima finished grinding the chickpeas and emptied the contents of her bowl into the mixture, which quickly assumed the consistency and texture of porridge. Q's already churning stomach took a back flip at the sight. As he struggled to regain his composure, she took a pair of tongs and pulled a flat brown lump out from the ashes at the edge of the hearth and dusted it off. Q realized it was a loaf of bread, and sighed audibly as he realized, gratefully, that there would be at least one edible item on tonight's menu. By now, the stew was cooked to Fatima's satisfaction, and she removed the pot from the fire. She ladled it into two bowls and handed one to Q. From a pouch she removed a handful of olives, which she arranged on a wooden platter with the bread and a hunk of cheese. From a water skin she carefully poured two cups of the priceless clear liquid and gave one to Q. "Eat," she ordered.
Q grimaced at the sight of the stew, but he was very hungry, so he closed his eyes and prayed for strength before attempting to eat. Much to his surprise, it was quite good, and he greedily ate every bite, scraping his bowl clean with a hunk of bread. He also ate his fill of olives and cheese, and was careful not to spill any water. In a matter of minutes, he was finished, feeling fat and happy. He belched appreciatively. "Where's Abu?" he asked, having finally noticed that they were alone.
"He is fasting in preparation for the pilgrimage. He will only eat after the sun sets."
"Ah, well, more for us, then," Q said, reaching for another hunk of bread.
* * * * *
The serpent undulated her way across the cool dunes, stopping briefly to flick her forked tongue in search of prey. In the distance, she could see a small camp bathed in the light of a full moon. Sensing the proximity of her quarry, she unfurled her hood and hissed in anticipation. It would be a good night for hunting.
PART THREE
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A Starfleet doctor, still grieving her husband's death during the Enterprise's first encounter with the Borg, finds herself faced with an agonizing choice when Q is mortally wounded.
DISCLAIMER: Paramount owns the Star Trek universe and everything it encompasses. This story is not intended to infringe on any copyrights, and the only profit I gain by it is emotional satisfaction.
PART ONE
Almost without volition, Fatima found herself headed towards Engineering. This was not the same ship Ali had died tried to save -- that ship was destroyed several years ago in a confrontation with the Duras sisters -- but Ali had been an engineer, and the Borg had recently tried to establish a new collective on the engineering deck of this Enterprise. As far as her fragmented spirit was concerned, it might as well have been the Enterprise-D. She was surprised to find Engineering empty, except for Data and Geordi.
"Doctor al-Ghazali, is there something I can help you with?" Geordi asked solicitously.
"Uh, no, Commander, thank you, I'm just out for a stroll," she replied. Turning to Data, she added, "Is Counselor Troi all right?"
He inclined his head. "She is in her quarters and resting comfortably."
"Did she give any indication of what happened to her?"
"I overheard her tell Doctor Crusher that the magnitude of Primus's emotional power overwhelmed her, much in the way an undertow might overwhelm a swimmer. She claimed to be unhurt." He pursed his lips in an android imitation of a worried frown. "Are you all right, Doctor?"
She smiled weakly. "You could say that I, too, have been sucked into the undertow of overpowering emotion."
"Doctor?"
She ignored him and walked towards the warp core. The plasma pulsed in a glorious splendor of iridescence, like a star about to go supernova. The warp core is truly the heart of a starship, powering all of the vessel's lesser functions much like a human heart forces life-giving blood through the entire body. And just as the human heart is subject only to the brain, so the warp core is subject only to the computer. Yet the heart will continue to beat, reflexively, even when the brain is dead. Fatima stood before the warp core, mesmerized by the steady whoosh and thrum of the plasma coursing throughout the ship. The hypnotic rhythm soothed her jangled nerves, and she turned to look at Geordi and Data, who had followed her, puzzled by her strange behavior. "It's ironic, you know."
"What's ironic?" asked Geordi.
"Plasma is one of the fundamental components of our blood. You could say that the plasma that fuels the warp core is the lifeblood of this ship. Yet human plasma is never deadly."
Geordi stepped closer, finally understanding what was on her mind. "I was there, you know. I saw it happen."
"Yes, I know. Captain Picard gave me a copy of the full report. It said you burned yourself trying to pull him from the conduit." Her voice was ragged and hoarse, barely above a whisper. She could not bear to lift her eyes to his face, for fear that his memories of the horrible sight would jump from his eyes to hers.
"I tried to stop him, but... he was right. There was no other way to stop the slow burn. At least, none that would have worked in time." He put his arms around her. "Your husband was not just a very brave man, he was a remarkably intuitive engineer. He had a flair for binary code that I've only seen in Vulcans. He used to brag that it was because his people invented the zero."
"Lieutenant al-Ghazali also created some excellent encryption programs," added Data. "I found breaking the codes to be quite challenging. His use of the Arabic and Farsi alphabets, rather than Greek, was inspired."
Fatima smiled at their memories. Ali had tried to teach her Farsi, the ancient language of Persian emperors, not long after they were married, and gave up in disgust. A code written entirely in Farsi would have probably convinced the Romulans to beg for peace.
She knew little of Ali's life on board the Enterprise. They had intended to serve together, but two months before her transfer was to come through the Enterprise had been sent to the Delta Quadrant, and soon thereafter the transfer became pointless.
Ali was a great storyteller, and his letters to her had consisted mostly of news about planets the Enterprise visited, or the peccadilloes of other crewmembers, or, more often, ancient legends about Persian emperors. Ali loved to tell Fatima stories about Darius, and Cyrus, and even Alexander, though he was not Persian. His eyes took on an eerie shine and his entire body became very animated as he relived those glorious times when even Memphis and Athens looked east to Susa with envy. He could easily have put Scheherazade out of business. But now he was dead, and his stories had died with him. It was good to hear Geordi's and Data's stories about Ali.
She stepped away from Geordi's embrace and straightened her shoulders. "Thank you, Commander, Data. You've been a great help," she said, and left.
* * * * *
"Fatima, are you sure this is what you want? Do you realize the consequences?" Doctor Crusher asked gently when Fatima arrived at Counselor Troi's quarters. Deanna was lounging on a sofa with a cup of tea while Beverly sat in a chair opposite her. Fatima suspected that Beverly had been relating to Deanna all that had happened in Sickbay after she fainted.
"Do I realize that I will die if I help Q?" Fatima asked in return. "Yes, I'm well aware of that. But that doesn't matter to me. Death is... I've never feared death. In fact, for the past few years, I've courted it. Not that I'm on a suicide mission," she added hastily. "It's just that, since Ali's death, my life has been -- not empty, exactly, but not complete. Not whole."
Deanna gazed at her, weighing Fatima's emotions. "Do you think that, by dying, you will be reunited with Ali and become whole again?"
"There's some truth to that, but it's not exactly right. Q was responsible for Ali's death. There's a part of me that thinks that, if Q dies and I haven't done everything I could to save him, then I will be responsible for Q's death, and I will become even more divided. Another part of me believes, however, that my fate, my destiny, is to bring humanity and Q one step closer together, and that the only way I can do this is to help restore Q to his natural state."
"Do you blame Q for Ali's death?" asked Beverly. She understood too well the pitfalls of culpability for a husband's death.
"Once, I blamed Q, I hated him, for what he took from me. A part of me still does. But now I see that, if Ali was not dead, then I would not be making this choice, and Q would die. If Q were to die, then the Federation would lose a valuable ally, humanity might very well lose its soul, and the Continuum would not evolve as it should."
"You're taking a rather large load on your shoulders, don't you think?" Beverly prodded, not challenging, but not comprehending Fatima's argument.
"Look at it this way. Primus said that humans represent the perfect balance between energy and matter. My spirit died with Ali. Q's spirit died at the hands of Soma. I truly believe that Q and I can help each other become reunited with our respective spirits, and become whole again. It may very well be that I cannot become whole unless I am reunited with Ali in death, but according to my people's beliefs, direct suicide is not the way to go. I need to make the ultimate sacrifice, believing in my heart that what I do is for the good of others, and not just for my own selfish interests."
"Do you know what I refer to Will as?" Deanna asked after a moment of uneasy silence. "I call him my 'Imzadi.' It means, essentially, 'soul-mate.' Will and I never married, but to a Betazoid, an Imzadi is bound to you far more than a spouse. I can appreciate your sense of fragmentation."
She paused long enough to place her teacup on the table. "There are many cultures that believe our lives are like an intricate spider web, hanging precariously between life and death, good deeds and sin, all actions delicately intertwined and vulnerable to the slightest outside interference. I can tell that you truly believe your sacrifice, whatever your motivations may be, will both atone for Q's 'sin,' give meaning to your husband's death and thereby repair your own damaged web. Although I cannot pretend to understand your logic, I cannot fault your resolve. I will speak to the captain on your behalf."
* * * * *
Fatima was waiting in Sickbay at the appointed hour with Primus and the young Q when Picard swept in with Beverly and Deanna hot on his heels. He did not look pleased to see her there.
"How long have you been here?" he barked.
"About four hours, sir."
"Are you still determined to go through with this?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"Yes, sir. I see no other choice."
Picard laced his fingers behind his back and began pacing. "I'm not sure that I do either. There's no question that Q has been a fly in our ointment from the day I took command of the Enterprise. Without him, however, we might never have defeated the Borg, we might never have deepened our understanding of the fragility of time, and I might not be standing here before you now. There is no question that Q has been an asset to humanity as much as he has been a liability."
"What I have just said does not mean that I condone what you seem to think is your predetermined destiny. As captain of the Enterprise, I have, on occasion, had to order another officer to his or her death. My command decisions have also inadvertently caused the deaths of other officers. But Q is supposed to be immortal, and yet here he lies dying, and now I have to decide if his immortality is worth the price of one mortal life. I've never put much stock in destiny; I believe our actions define our lives, not vice versa. Can you see the quandary I'm in?"
Primus stepped towards Picard. "Do you wonder, human, why I beat the ground with this stick? It is the pulse that forces life throughout the cosmos. You can hear it in your heart, but it also beats in your spirit. It resounds throughout space. My feet move in time to that rhythm in the dance of creation. As I dance, worlds come into being and worlds fall away. The reverberations of my feet send out vast concentric circles of life and death like ripples on a still pond. I do it not because it is my destiny, I do it because it is who I am. Destiny is not as linear as you would have it, human. Listen to the girl. For her, destiny is not the why or the what; it is the because. She has already made the sacrifice. Now it is your turn. Let go."
Picard looked at the young Q, who had remained silent. He returned Picard's gaze, then said, simply, "Please."
Picard knew when he was outnumbered and outflanked. He had known hours ago that he would acquiesce, but he was not sure if it was because of the political advantages, or because he knew he did not have a choice. Despite his continued reservations, he nodded in agreement.
Fatima embraced the captain. "Thank you for believing in me, and for giving me the chance to redeem myself."
Resigned to her determination, Picard sighed. "I have given you nothing. I am only permitting you to take what you will have. Let me warn you, however, that I have given Beverly explicit instructions to take whatever measures are necessary to preserve your life." He turned to Primus. "Primus, I leave her in your hands. What must we do?"
Primus took Fatima's hand and guided her to the biobed where Q lay. "Are you at peace with your decision?" he asked her.
For a moment she hesitated, leading Picard to think that she had changed her mind, then she smiled beatifically. "Yes."
" 'Once you have been delivered from this cage, your home will be the rose garden...' " Primus began.
"' ... Once you have broken the shell, dying will be like the pearl'," Fatima recited after him. Her grandfather had been a devotee of Rumi, and she knew his writings better than she knew the Qur'an.
"Place your hand over Q's eyes," Primus instructed. As she obeyed, he switched his stick to the hand closest to her and wrapped her fingers around it before sliding his own hands over both of hers. "I will catch you when you fall," he murmured as everything went black.
A sense o'er all my soul imprest
That I am weak, yet not unblest,
Since in me, round me, every where
Eternal strength and wisdom are
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, "The Pains of Sleep"
Q opened his eyes slowly, cautiously, and peered around at his surroundings. He ached all over, and his throat was parched. Ever so gently he raised himself up on his elbows and looked around. Nothing looked familiar. He could tell that he was in a large canvas structure, resting on a bed of soft plump cushions. An oil lamp burned on a low table near his head and a fire smoldered in the center of the tent. A feathery thin wisp of smoke curled upwards and exited the tent through a small opening in the roof that revealed a blindingly white sky. Colorful carpets covered the ground around the makeshift hearth in overlapping layers. Q noticed that the ground, though not soft, gave way when he pressed on it.
He sat up at a rustling noise against the far wall of the tent and swung his legs off the bed. The tent wall appeared to draw away, and the bright sunlight streaming in momentarily blinded him. When the wall fell back into place and Q's eyes cleared, he noticed a young woman standing before him. He jumped in surprise.
"Good morning," she said, taking a step closer to him. "I'm glad to see that you are finally awake."
Q stared at her, uncharacteristically speechless. The woman looked to be no more than thirty, and Q could tell from his seated position that she was tiny in comparison to his imposing stature. Her skin, burnished by the sun, was a dusky olive hue, and her almond-shaped eyes were as dark and intoxicating as coffee. Her lips, rich and full like ripe pomegranates, parted to reveal two even rows of teeth that shone like pearls. She was dressed in a costume of robes in varying shades of green. Her trousers, an almost-yellow chartreuse, cascaded down her legs until they gathered tightly about her ankles in a band of gold filament. Over her torso she wore a long-sleeved tunic, likewise trimmed in gold, with a modestly curved neckline in a shade of avocado that on anyone with paler skin would reflect a hideous glow. The tunic, which fell to mid-thigh, was cinched with a sash identical to her trousers. A pale olive green scarf decorated with intricate patterns of green and gold covered her plaited dark hair.
She took another step toward Q, extending a wooden platter with fruit on it. "Please, help yourself," she urged in a low, melodious voice. "You must be starving, you haven't eaten for days."
Q pressed himself against the cushions with distrust. "Who are you?" he rasped hoarsely. "Where am I and how did I get here?"
"I'll answer your questions if you eat something first," she insisted. She placed the plate on the table. Q eyed the fruit warily. "There are some dates, a few figs and a handful of betel nuts," she said.
"I'm thirsty. May I have some water?"
"Eat the fruit. They will replenish your fluids." Q obeyed grudgingly and bit into a fig. Juice dribbled down his chin. "Be careful," she cautioned. "Don't waste those juices. Fluid is a rare commodity in the desert."
Q's eyes widened as he wiped his sleeve across his mouth. "Desert? What desert? You promised to answer my questions if I ate some fruit, well, here's the evidence," he said, extending fingers stained red by the betel nuts.
"Do you remember who you are?"
"What sort of a stupid question is that?" Q retorted haughtily. "Of course I know who I am. I --" He paused, confused. "My name is Q, I know that much," he continued, chagrined when he realized that he did not remember who he was. "The rest seems to be somewhat hazy. I think I remember something about a party..."
"We found you in the desert, naked, alone, without provisions and unconscious. We don't know how you got there. You've been with us for three days, delirious for most of that time."
"Who's 'we'?" Q asked. "For that matter, perhaps you'd better tell me who you are."
"My name is Fatima al-Ghazali. I am accompanied by my father-in-law, Abu Primus."
"What are you doing in the middle of the desert?"
"We're Bedouins. The desert is our home." Fatima paused, and a shadow of melancholy fell across her face. "We're on our way to a shrine near the River of Life, where Abu plans to commemorate the anniversary of my husband's death. You are welcome to accompany us as far as you wish, but I urge you to go with us to the shrine. The Saint may be able to help you."
Q shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Since I don't know how I got here, I don't know how or where to go, so you're probably my only hope, unless I care to become food for sand worms. These figs are delicious, by the way."
Fatima smiled again, her face as enigmatic as a sphinx as she kneeled on the floor beside Q's bed. "Good. You need to eat everything on the plate; it's important to build up your strength before we can continue. Do you have any recollection of how you ended up in the middle of the desert?"
"No idea whatsoever. You said I was naked when you found me?" Fatima nodded. "That would explain how I came to be wearing this --" he said, indicating the light blue caftan he was wearing, "I have a vague memory of a red and black uniform." Q looked down at the remaining dates on his plate and scowled. "Do I have to eat these?" he complained. "They look like burned locusts."
"Yes, you do," she insisted. "You were very badly sunburned when we found you, and the protein in the dates will help your skin heal and regenerate. Now if you will please excuse me, I have other matters to attend to," she said, rising.
Q snorted in disgust and reluctantly bit into a date to appease her, but as soon as she left the tent he spat the unchewed morsel on his plate and put it back on the table. He stood and stretched his arms stiffly above his head, feeling the tautness of his burned flesh and wincing at the sharp stings caused by the movement. As long as I'm stuck here, he thought, I might as well get to know the place.
The tent was quite large, about sixteen square meters around and three meters in height, supported at the four corners by sturdy wooden poles driven deep into the sand. One corner of the tent was separated from the main chamber by a canvas panel. That must be where Fatima sleeps, Q realized, and stepped inside, oblivious to any need she might have for privacy. Finding no clues to reveal more about his mysterious hostess, nothing besides a simple bed, a few garments and a copy of the Qur'an under her pillow, he resumed exploring the main chamber. On the opposite side of the fire from his bed was a low pallet resting on a bed of straw where, Q guessed, Abu -- what had Fatima called him? Primus? -- slept. He thought Primus was an odd name for a Bedouin. But then, he thought sardonically, what sort of a name is Q?
Having thoroughly examined the tent, Q decided to step outside and view his surroundings. He yelped with pain as his tender bare feet came into contact with the scorching sand and beat a hasty retreat into the cool shade of the tent. His eyes scanned the chamber and fell upon a pair of sandals at the foot of his bed. His soles, which Q realized were sunburned from his ordeal, shrank back from contact with the unyielding leather, but he gritted his teeth and forced his feet down onto the sandals and tied the thongs tightly around his ankles. Only when he felt certain the sandals were secure on his feet did Q dare venture outside again.
The first thing Q noticed when he stepped outside was the unending expanse of the desert. Everywhere he looked, every way he turned, he saw nothing but sand, a great expansive sea of sand. And, like the sea, the desert was continually changing its appearance, as winds stirred loose granules from the surface and drove them into Q's face, stinging his tender skin with thousands of tiny arrows. He remained motionless, mesmerized by the eternal and infinite continuum of the desert.
Continuum?
Where had he heard that word before? Deep within Q's subconscious, a slumbering memory stirred, and he felt a profound yearning, an unquenchable thirst, a powerful homesickness. But where was home?
Judging from the sun's position in the sky, Q estimated it to be mid-morning, and realized that he had yet to face the full power of the desert heat. He wondered that he had survived at all before Fatima and her father-in-law discovered him; he was obviously not a desert native.
The second thing Q noticed was a herd of about twenty camels gathered behind the tent, most of them resting on their haunches, placidly chewing cud. In fact, Q heard them before he saw them, when one of the animals emitted a hair-raising noise that was half bellow, half belch, and Q nearly jumped out of his skin. When he peered nervously around the tent to determine the source of the noise, the odor emanating from the camels caused him to wrinkle his nose in disgust before the herd even came into view. Q momentarily wondered if he might not be better off braving the desert alone. Then he spotted the old man resting against one of the camels, and realized that he must be Abu Primus.
Something about the old man looked very familiar to Q, but he could not put his finger on what or why. His hair, which bristled in countless directions from underneath a white skullcap, was brittle and yellow with age. His sun-blackened face, which gave the unique appearance of arrogance and compassion and innocence and ancient wisdom in equal measure, was lined with deep creases. His coal-black eyes glittered beneath bushy yellow eyebrows. He was dressed in a simple white caftan that appeared to be stitched from a single piece of cloth. In one hand he held a stick, with which he beat an endless rhythm on the desert floor. Q noticed his lips moving, and thought the obviously crazy old man was talking to the camel. As he approached, however, Q realized that the man was speaking a litany of sorts, chanting in a language Q could not fathom. The man looked up as Q's shadow fell upon him and leaped to his feet with a spryness Q would never have thought possible in a man of Abu's apparent, but indeterminate, age.
"My child!" he cried, embracing Q tightly. "You have at last returned to us from the land of the djinn! Allah be praised!"
Q was startled by the old man's enthusiasm for his well-being and disturbed by the compassionate embrace. On the surface, Abu Primus seemed to be nothing more than a typically superstitious old man, but the emotion apparent in his voice and the fervor of his embrace suggested a far greater concern than mere superstition would suggest. Somewhat embarrassed, Q carefully extracted himself from Abu's arms. "'Land of the djinn'?" he asked, hoping for clues about the old man, about himself, about Fatima.
"That place between life and death where spirits try to seduce us away from the Noble Path of Light. Surely you're familiar with Milton? 'A thousand fantasies//begin to throng into my memory//of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire//and airy tongues that syllable men's names//on sands and shores and desert wilderness.' I had feared that you would never return to us, that your death was sealed by those airy tongues and beckoning shadows," Abu replied, grinning toothlessly.
Q was beginning to suspect that he was not the only mystery around here, and he doubted he would ever get a straight answer from Fatima or her father-in-law. Fatima had said they found Q in the desert several days ago, yet Abu seemed to suggest that Q had been with them before, or perhaps had been with them all along. It did seem odd that they adapted so well to his assuredly disruptive presence. Q considered asking the old man how much he knew about Q and who he was, but almost immediately decided against it, thinking that perhaps Abu's answers would only generate more questions. In any case, the old man's emotion made Q uncomfortable. "Where's Fatima?" he asked.
Abu Primus pointed to a dark spot in the distance. "It is mid-morning. She's at prayer."
Curious, Q headed toward the dark spot, which, as he came closer, he realized was Fatima. From a distance he watched, fascinated, as she arranged several rocks in a large circle. She then knelt outside the circle and removed her sandals and scarf. With her right hand she picked up a handful of sand and began methodically scrubbing her face and head, then her left arm up to the elbow, and finally, with her left hand, she likewise scrubbed her right arm. Her ritual ablutions complete, Fatima began tracing lines in the sand within the circle of stones in such a pattern that four straight lines connected stones opposite each other in the circle and converged on a single point in the exact center of the circle. Fatima then stepped to the central point and, facing east, raised her arms to the sky and in her throaty contralto intoned the creed of her people, "La ilaha illa Allah. Muhammad rasul Allah."
Ignoring the thought that he might be committing some horrendous taboo, Q stepped closer. He had a vague sensation, like an indefinable memory, that he was familiar with many forms of human (human?) prayer (why?), including the shahada, but as he watched, Fatima's prayer took on a form he was quite certain he had never seen before.
As Fatima began chanting Allah's glorious names and praising his great deeds, her feet began to stamp the ground in an even, controlled rhythm, her arms outstretched, her head thrown back. When she had established the correct tempo, she began to turn clockwise, so that as her right foot touched down, she was facing one of the four cardinal points on her sacred circle, exclaiming at each point "Allahu akbar!"
Slowly the tempo of Fatima's ritual dance increased, and Q felt the blood pounding in his head to the same driving rhythm. It was as if her mystical dance had itself become the earth's heartbeat, sending life coursing through Q's veins. As her whirling became faster, more frenzied, Q saw the cosmos whirling around him...
...Allahu akbar...
...the earth rumbling in humble obedience...
whirling faster, ever faster...
...stars moving through his vision blurred by wind and sand and tears...
...Allahu akbar...
...millions of voices praising in unison...
whirling, whirling, centrifugal and centripetal forces in tandem with the spinning of the galaxy...
...faces, his face...
...Ora pro nobis...
...the reverberation of a cosmic heartbeat...
whirling, whirling, whirling...
...a ship traveling through the stars...
...God is most great...
...Kyrie eleison...
whirling out of control...
...at the center of an endless ocean of fire...
...hearing darkness, seeing silence...
* * * * *
The pungent, heady fragrance of myrrh wafted into Q's nose, triggering a powerful sneeze and arousing him from unconsciousness. The sudden movement precipitated by the sneeze sent daggers of pain coursing through his body, causing him to cry out and struggle. A pair of soft, strong hands pressed on his shoulder blades and Fatima's low voice ordered him to relax and lie down. Q fought her, briefly, but her soothing words soon outmatched his fear and distrust and he pressed his face into the pillow. He was back in the tent, lying on his stomach. The scent of myrrh, he discovered when he turned his head to the right, was coming from a jar sitting on the table beside his bed. Fatima was rubbing the fragrant ointment into his aching back with delicate but deliberate strokes. Q then realized that he was naked to the waist, and Fatima's nearness to him awakened conflicting and unfamiliar feelings of discomfort and desire. The pleasure engendered by her touch, however, masked more potent sensations of pain radiating throughout his body. "What are you doing?" he asked, the edge in his voice muffled by the pillow.
"You should not have followed me," she scolded, irritation evident in the tone of her voice. "Worship is not a matter to be taken lightly, and you have no business imitating that which you do not respect or understand. Because of your arrogant foolishness, your wounds have reopened."
"What, you mean the sunburn?" Q asked, perplexed.
"No," Fatima sighed in exasperation. "When we found you, you were so close to death that a vulture was circling your body, occasionally swooping down and gouging your back. You've got some pretty nasty scratches, and your disrespect for the customs of my people reopened the wounds and caused you to start bleeding again. Look at this," she ordered, pulling down her tunic to show a network of jagged red and purple lines extending from her collarbone back to her shoulder blade. "This is what the vulture did to me when I tried to pull you away." She lifted the caftan Q had been wearing earlier, which was lying on the ground beside his bed. It was soaked with blood. "This is what you did to yourself. Now don't move while I finish wrapping these wounds," she ordered.
Q resented her manner, but acquiesced. He could not shake the feeling that she knew much more about him than she was telling, and wondered how he could draw her out into the open. A voice told him there was a reason she was holding back, that she distrusted him as much as he distrusted her. "Tell me about your husband," he asked cautiously.
He heard a sharp intake of breath, then silence. He craned his neck to look at Fatima, who was biting her lip in a vain struggle to prevent the single tear that had collected in her left eye from falling. Unable to control her reaction, and sensing Q's eyes searching her face, Fatima looked down at her feet. "Ali was the best, the very best of men," she whispered. "He died, several years ago, far from the desert, in the line of duty."
"What happened?" Q asked. Fatima carefully related the circumstances of Ali's death, omitting any direct reference to Q's role in that unpleasant event. At the mention of the Enterprise, however, Q's eyes widened. He had heard that name before, had seen that ship before, in his mind, in the impenetrable fog of his memory. He debated asking Fatima about the Enterprise, hoping to unravel the mystery of his past, but an inner voice urged him to wait. Part of him distrusted her, but an equal part of him believed that she would tell him what he needed to know -- what he longed to know -- at the appropriate time. For now, however, he wanted to know more about her and her strange father-in-law.
For her part, Fatima could tell that Q was uneasy, and secretly reveled in the power she had over him. Q had deservedly earned a reputation for being arrogant, condescending and presumptuous, lording over the mortals he confronted and flaunting his immortality and omnipotence. This Q, although he was, essentially, the same Q, was neither immortal nor omnipotent, and did not realize that he was supposed to be so. Holding the knowledge of who and what Q was, and being the means of restoring him to his natural state, Fatima felt...omnipotent. Traversing space in the years following Ali's death, she had wondered if she were immortal, because death remained perpetually elusive, no matter how hard she tried to seduce it. Now the being responsible for Ali's death was at her mercy, entirely dependent on her for his life and his identity.
If Ali could see me now, she thought to herself. He would know how to resolve the conflict that raged within her heart.
Ali. He was the reason why she volunteered for this 'suicide' mission. He had also volunteered his life, believing, she knew, that his action was for the greater good, but she lacked his fortitude and his faith. Yet something told her that helping Q was for the best, and that Ali would be proud. Ali would have made the same choice, without hesitation, were he in her place. She knew, with a twinge of regret at her selfishness, that her ultimate reward, reuniting with her dead husband, was her primary motivation, and resolutely steeled herself against the challenge that lay ahead. Shaking herself out of her reverie, she looked at Q. He was equally lost in thought.
"Are you hungry?" she asked.
"What?" Q stirred, shaking the cobwebs from his mind. "Oh -- yes, I'm starved. You're not going to make me eat any more dates are you?" He injected a note of pleading into his voice.
"No, we can't afford to waste them. It will take us a week to cross the desert, and our provisions have to last." She rose from the floor beside his bed. "You're welcome to join me. I could use your help."
Q groaned as he pushed himself to his hands and knees, then carefully turned over into a sitting position. He was grateful to discover that he was wearing trousers, in the same loose-fitting style as what Fatima was wearing, underneath the blanket. A matching sleeveless tunic was folded neatly at the foot of the bed, and he carefully eased it over his shoulders and fastened it. He walked over to the fire, where Fatima was grinding chickpeas in a large bowl. "What do you want me to do?" he asked solicitously.
She pointed to a strange brew bubbling over the coals. "Stir that," she commanded. "Don't let it boil over or get too thick."
"What is it?"
He immediately regretted asking. "A blend of fermented camel's milk, honey and olive oil." She looked at him and smiled at the look of utter nausea on his face. "Don't worry, it tastes better than it sounds."
"An amazing and impossible feat, I'm sure."
Fatima finished grinding the chickpeas and emptied the contents of her bowl into the mixture, which quickly assumed the consistency and texture of porridge. Q's already churning stomach took a back flip at the sight. As he struggled to regain his composure, she took a pair of tongs and pulled a flat brown lump out from the ashes at the edge of the hearth and dusted it off. Q realized it was a loaf of bread, and sighed audibly as he realized, gratefully, that there would be at least one edible item on tonight's menu. By now, the stew was cooked to Fatima's satisfaction, and she removed the pot from the fire. She ladled it into two bowls and handed one to Q. From a pouch she removed a handful of olives, which she arranged on a wooden platter with the bread and a hunk of cheese. From a water skin she carefully poured two cups of the priceless clear liquid and gave one to Q. "Eat," she ordered.
Q grimaced at the sight of the stew, but he was very hungry, so he closed his eyes and prayed for strength before attempting to eat. Much to his surprise, it was quite good, and he greedily ate every bite, scraping his bowl clean with a hunk of bread. He also ate his fill of olives and cheese, and was careful not to spill any water. In a matter of minutes, he was finished, feeling fat and happy. He belched appreciatively. "Where's Abu?" he asked, having finally noticed that they were alone.
"He is fasting in preparation for the pilgrimage. He will only eat after the sun sets."
"Ah, well, more for us, then," Q said, reaching for another hunk of bread.
* * * * *
The serpent undulated her way across the cool dunes, stopping briefly to flick her forked tongue in search of prey. In the distance, she could see a small camp bathed in the light of a full moon. Sensing the proximity of her quarry, she unfurled her hood and hissed in anticipation. It would be a good night for hunting.
PART THREE