Humillaty

This is silly, thought Paul Thunder.  That's what this is.

Q were supposed to be omnipotent.  All-powerful, all-knowing, with intelligence quotients in the thousands.  That should have included telepathy.  A Q should, theoretically, be able to read his mind, or the minds of every single being in the entire cosmos, and know his thoughts in a nanosecond.  The one in the form of the woman sitting on the bed before him should have known him inside and out... better than he knew himself.  What need was there to ask questions or have conversations?  What need was there to even be here?  What was so interesting about him that it merited a Q's attention?  He was not an interesting person; he was pretty sure of it.

Yet, she engaged in verbal conversation... and despite an IQ supposedly in the thousands, was saying some pretty stupid things.  Off the mark things.  She was just plain wrong.

She was trying to bait him.  Towards what end?  Or was she one of those types who argued just for the sake of arguing?

As he recalled, from what he'd read about Q, this was their specialty.  They put the Q in questions... "the question", personified.  They should have been called the ? (question mark).  Like the imaginary question-mark hanging over Paul's head, as he stood there trying to figure her out.

He had examined 'his' quarters when he first arrived.  While Milla prattled on, he examined them a second time.  Other than a small lavatory, it was a single-room accommodation.  The message on the com-terminal, which should have blinked out by then, remained, taunting with its warning of attack.  Trying the controls at the door yielded no results: They had stopped working.  Apparently everything except him and the ostensible Q sat 'frozen' in time... or, looking at it in reverse, he and 'she' were in a different time-zone with relation to their environment.  He wished he knew more about temporal mechanics.  Maybe there was a way to use that; a way out of this.

Returning near the replicator, he regarded Milla across the small room.  Arguing held zero interest for him... with her or anyone else, even if they were human.  It was a waste of time and energy, especially on non-humans.  Nor was he a philosopher.  Some people tried to recruit others by arguing their case, but Paul was of the belief that they had to see the problem for themselves.  The problem existed – period.  They would see it, or they wouldn't.  There was no convincing them.  It just came naturally.

On the other hand... She was human once.  Everyone lost their way sometimes.  Everyone had to wake up to the truth at some point.  If Arcadia had the powers of a Q on their side...  No; he pushed that out of his mind.  Dangerous temptation.

Why was she here?  What did she want with him?  Maybe she was bored.  She reminded him of a genie, from ancient Earth tales... or a jinn.  Maybe, like the devil in a red dress reputation she had acquired, she came only to torment... to sow dissent, or drop knowledge then sit back and observe the disastrous consequences.

Standing up, she looked over to Paul.

"Tell me something.  All your ideals... all your beliefs.  Your unflappable faith in the Arcadian way.  Will that be a comfort at an entire planet's funeral?"

Paul sat down near his original spot of choice, adjusting the breather on his face, voice-relay close to his lips.

"Ma'am, maybe you've got time to waste... but waste someone's time who has it."

It became clear he wouldn't get out of it that easily.  Looking around the room, he tried to imagine being back on Arcadia.  Except he couldn't.  Not really.  He could see it in his mind but it wasn't the same.  He'd been away so long, it had slipped to just a memory.  "I don't know.  Why don't you... do whatever it is you do, and send me there?  Then I'll decide."

She did – for an instant.  He was standing in New Albany.  It was night.  A forcefield sprawled over the city; in the sky overhead, muffled explosions wracked the shield in brilliant bursts, lighting the landscape.  Alarms blared as people hurried everywhere.  It was shocking... and telling.  His sister was here, somewhere.  Then it was over, and he was back on Dinaqa, unsure if what he had seen was real.

It set his nerves on fire.  He wanted to beg to be sent back.  He took deep, painful breaths, trying to unwind.  The breather wasn't doing much good by this point.

"You know," he told her, "maybe you want to go around and around in circles, debating, but... I doubt it'll change anything – and I'm not good at all that philosophy crap anyway.  Still, I guess omnipotent doesn't mean all-knowing."  Maybe Qs had IQs in the thousands, but lacked common sense... or other, elusive, human qualities, which was why humans fascinated them.  Except with this 'Milla' it was, again, a little different, having been human once, herself... if the source of that information could be believed.  It did come from Starfleet, after all.  "Wipe out the Bartokians," Paul said.  "And you're 'omnipotent'?  Don't you know anything?  Like what we're about?  Or you just can't understand it?"  Would she be glad, if Arcadia got pulverized?  Did she hate her own kind – her original kind, what she had been?  Hatred.  Paul would admit he had a lot of anger and hatred, but tried to control it.  Uncontrolled hatred was bad.  But channeled hatred had its uses.  Self-hatred, however, was the worst: That was just destructive.  "There won't be a funeral," he said.  "But if there was, the question is, who made it happen?  Who's attacking who?  Our planet is the one under siege."

And what made it worst of all... the damning bit of it was, she used to be human... but sat by while her people suffered.  Too many people did that – never lifting a finger to help their brothers and sisters.  Or (speaking of cutting one's nose to spite their face) helping in the destruction of their own kind.  That was the vilest kind of betrayal: Race betrayal.  That made Paul angrier than anything.  That made him hate the people who did that.  Lazy, blind, irresponsible....  He took a few needed inhalations from his breather.

He had more respect for the Bartokians.  They were aliens, but at least they chose a side.  They wouldn't let the holier-than-thou UFP order them about and control their destiny... although, from what he'd learned, the UFP whores hadn't stopped trying.  Whatever became of the Bartokians depended on them: The choice was theirs.

The day of reckoning was coming.  The war had begun.  When it came, he might not be around to see it... but his kind would be there, stringing up the traitors.  Tying the knots.  Making them tight.

"Will it be a comfort?" he said.  "I won't be happy about it.  But will it be a comfort, that we made a choice, tried to do the right thing by our own, and stuck to our guns?  You want to know about us, what we want?" he asked Milla.  "I can't speak for every human man and woman, but I can tell you what I want, and I know a lot more who feel the same way.  We want a future for human children.  A world without aliens flooding our borders, while leaders sell our land to special interest groups for their own personal gain, betraying and starving us and throwing us into wars that are none of our business because some other aliens tell them what to do... where we don't have to fight with illegals for jobs, or worry about alien trash raping our women and murdering our children.  We want to live in peace, in our own world... the world we built up and nature meant us to have.  Our natural birthright.  Terra for Terrans."

He adjusted controls on the Dinaqa's holodeck.  It wasn't easy finding an obscure Earth program in their databanks.  In fact, it probably shouldn't have been there: It was the only one.  He had a feeling Milla had something to do with that.  But it would work.

Turning from the interface pad, he said, "Computer... run simulation."

They were in a courtroom.  A gaunt-faced US Marine colonel was on the stand, in a shouting match with a young naval attorney.  A stunned silence fell over the room at mention of something called a "code red".  Moments later, the colonel, trying to make a hasty retreat, was being arrested.  He lunged at the attorney, ready to tear his head off and piss into his skull.  MPs had to restrain him.

Calming down, giving his uniform jacket a tug, he told the lawyer, "All you've done is weaken a nation today, Kaffee."

"Computer, back up," Paul said, and specified an earlier time index.

The colonel was back on the stand.  "Son, we live in a world that has walls.  And those walls have to be guarded by men with guns. Who's gonna do it?  You?  You, Lieutenant Weinberg?  I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom.  You weep for Santiago and you curse the Marines.  You have that luxury.  You have the luxury of not knowing what I know: that Santiago's death, while tragic, probably saved lives.  And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives.  You don't want the truth, because deep down, in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me on that wall.  You need me on that wall.  We use words like honor, code, loyalty.  We use these words as the backbone to a life spent defending something.  You use 'em as a punchline.  I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom I provide, then questions the manner in which I provide it!  I'd rather you just said 'thank you' and went on your way.  Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a weapon and stand a post.  Either way, I don't give a damn what you think you're entitled to!"

"Freeze."  Like the rest of the Dinaqa, the courtroom came to a standstill.  Paul turned to Milla.  She probably knew this story.  "Do you hear what he's saying?  I used to love this story.  I thought the attorney—"  Paul indicated the young man.  "—did the right thing.  For a while.  Then I started looking at it from the colonel's point of view.  And he's absolutely right.  Santiago's death, while tragic, saved lives."  Paul eyed Milla, quoting directly: "'And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, saves lives'.  There are people out there who don't know what to do, crying out, 'save us'.  Maybe the saviors have to do bad things to get the job done – but they get the job done.  That's what counts.  Like the egg and the omelet: 'You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs'.  People like this are willing to stand on a wall and fight for the rest.  To risk their lives and take a bullet and die if necessary for their brothers and sisters.  Every time we knock somebody down off that wall, we're weakening ourselves and our defenses.

"That's the reason we're here.  Arcadia is the modern Sparta... and that's the reason we're under attack.  We do what no one wants to do: We get on a wall and fight for the future of our people.  We aren't perfect.  It won't be a perfect future, and it won't be easy... but we will have a future.  You can destroy our planet, but there'll always be Arcadians.  You can't kill us and you can't make us go away."  He paused, studying Milla.  "You're the one who got raped... right?"

A dark, dangerous look crossed the woman's face: Obviously not a subject she openly welcomed discussing.

"I'm sorry for that," Paul said.  "But think about it.  That's what's happening to us, right now.  People everywhere... Honest, decent, hardworking, warm-blooded Terrans... are being raped.  By our own leaders, by the alien filth flooding into our lands uninvited, taking our jobs, our women, our future... murdering us because of the color of our skin, or simply for defending ourselves like we don't have a right to.  Our leaders sold us out... took our rights and gave our planet away without permission, while other aliens distracted us long enough to rob us of our heritage.  Somewhere, right this very instant, there's an animal penis shooting its disgusting load into some human whore who'll bear its offspring, while others cheer from the sidelines.  That's what we've become – a nation of whores and sheep.  Is that the kind of world you'd rather see us defend?  And you've got the nerve to talk about pride?