The Promised LandPart NineThe boy was very good, very pliant. His gleaming brown body writhed under Jean-Luc's stinging caresses. Then Jean-Luc made him finish himself off as he watched. "Pretty," Jean-Luc said as the boy lay helpless and gasping at his feet. Quark rushed into the hotel suite. "Look! Here's that article in *People* magazine! Can you believe it?" Q and Jean-Luc leaned over the magazine together. There they were! On page 109, right next to the ad for Dove soap! A huge two-page article! With two pictures! Of course, one was of the outside of Fear Alley. But still . . . "It's part of our mystique," Q dimpled. Jean-Luc hugged Q in pure delight and became slightly distracted from the magazine article. No body on earth was as liquid as Q's; every softness of his had a corresponding denseness and mysterious allure. And then there was the familiar comfort of his scent, and his warmth. "Look at who's on the cover," Quark crowed. "This issue will sell millions!" They looked. Melinda Madigan. Some girl. "She's the biggest female star in America," Quark said. ‘She's got three movies in the top grossing twenty movies of all time. She's hot!" "So. Go manage her," Jean-Luc said. He was feeling very cocky. It appeared that John Mack would have to modify his dreams. The newsletter gave their tour dates for the rest of the summer. "Don't miss the biggy!" said the chirpy little newsletter. "Jean-Luc and his Boys will be playing at the Los Angeles Gay Pride Fest on Labor Day! This promises to be their largest concert yet!" Gay pride. John Mack metaphorically spat. There was just too much of that going around. As he sped down America's limitless interstates in his Ferrari, Kivas Fajo loved to listen to American radio on his German-made sound system. Fajo had already made his first few billion in oil, communications, and other general necessities, and he was indifferent about selling anything to these stubborn innocents, but he was still curious about this vast green impatient paradise. A man in the twentieth century was not a man until he could speak American. Kivas smiled his sad little smile to himself. He would have to learn. Meanwhile the late night radio amused him. Loud yet dire ads for funeral homes and hospitals were wedged between nasal songs about incessant sex. America, America. And the preposterous names of the singers. All those Bible prophets, Aaron, Jeremiah, Zeke, Nathaniel, John. Bringing from the American wilderness their messages about motels and backseats and sweet lips. More songs, more miles. Then the disc jockey came on – was he a maniac or a pervert? Or just a Fascist? -- Kivas never could quite decide about American disc jockeys. This disc jockey rattled on about television for a bit, made an inexplicable joke about someone's breast size, and then said, "Here they are again, all the way from the other side of the tracks: Jean-Luc and the Magic Mountain Boys! A special live remix of ‘Prisonyard Blues.'" Suddenly it was almost as if he were listened to a completely different broadcast, something from the moon, perhaps, there was the strangest overheard quality. At one point, the amazing singer went off mike to murmur something, some tenderly-voiced set of instructions, to one of the instrumentalists, and the music which had been merely beautiful caught fire and surrounded that vocalist. When the music let him go, the disc jockey came back and smirkingly apologized to those who thought this was a decent station that played decent music. Then he made a joke about walking funny. What could he mean? Jean-Luc and the Magic Mountain Boys. Kivas brought his lips together. It was very odd, but they seemed to know America's secret. Perhaps he could learn from them. Q was standing outside the bus when Will and Worf walked up. "Data?" Will said. "Yes, the third time this week," Q said. He slumped like a balloon losing air. Geordi came over. He said nothing. "You know what Data told me?" Will asked. He wanted to make Q feel better. "He said Jean-Luc said, ‘Data, you fuck just like Q.'" "But without the emotions," Geordi said. Everyone was silent. Using old Route 66, they took the Stargazer west. And Jean-Luc had plenty of new cities to whore around in. After a concert in Oklahoma City, he orchestrated something complicated in the dressing room. More a peepshow than a sex act really. The bad part was Will getting in on it. But Jean-Luc did keep the prettiest one for himself. Then, when they went back to their hotel, Jean-Luc insisted that they circulate for a while in the smart dance club and downstairs. He wanted to show off his pretty boy and he kept stroking the boy's back as they walked around. Some people recognized them and came over to flirt and make small talk. Q followed them, keeping his eyes down to make himself as invisible as a tall and beautiful man could manage. Then he was spotted. "You are one of those singers?" It was a man's voice. Q leaned his head over; the man was quite short. "Well, I suppose. Please excuse me; I'm a little tired. That was a long concert." "Forgive me, sir. I didn't mean to be insensitive." The man's accent deepened and he stepped aside. Q glanced down. Foreign. Dark. The stranger's big eyes were fixed on Q. Q almost lingered, but he really felt like sleeping. Since Jean-Luc had already disappeared, he probably didn't have to stay here any longer. Quark had booked three rooms, one for each pair, but, when Q got to his room. Jean-Luc had the boy with him. "Q, you'll have to wait." Jean-Luc didn't even look up as he caressed every part of the boy's naked and impressive body. "I'm awfully tired, Jean-Luc. Couldn't you have done this on the bus?" It was impossible to describe how quickly Jean-Luc took offense. "Get out, you cow." Q turned and slipped away. But when he got back to the front desk, another surprise awaited. No room at the inn. The place was booked tight. He didn't know what came next. He had no plans except serving Johnny. "Come on, good looking! Don't you want to join the fun?" A pasty-faced blonde suddenly pushed herself into his field of vision. She was drunk. "I really don't think so." "He's tired, if I remember correctly." That man again. Small and dark. Q turned to see if he were being mocked, but the alert beady eyes were gentle in the leathery face. "I'm not going back to my room tonight." The man jerked his head towards Blondie. "Would you like my key?" "Really?" Q knew he should be more suspicious, but he was tired enough to drop to the ground and sleep right there on the floor. "Really." The man held out a room key. Q looked down at the number. Tenth floor. The expensive suites. It would be so nice. Any other time he might have gone back to the bus, but the temptation of simply riding up the elevator to a comfortable bed was too great. He smiled. "Thank you, Mr...?" "Fajo, Kivas Fajo. Think nothing of it. A great musician like you deserves much better than a mere room in a hotel." It was nice to be spoken to so gently. Especially after Johnny . . . The suite was luxurious, but Q did not bother to notice. He stripped and showered; then, when he lay down, he slept the sleep of the dead, waking up to completely unfamiliar surroundings. He was stumbling around in his underwear, trying to get his bearings when someone called him into the living room. Q yanked his jeans on. They smelled a bit too much like hard use, but there was no help for that. He wandered out to the front room. The generous stranger was sitting at a table loaded with food, exotic and beautifully displayed, but some instinct warned Q not to sit down. "I can pay you for this," he said. The man just shook his head. "Please. I heard you singing on the radio. Then I heard the Americans talk about the sexual aspect. You are very brave to do what you do." Q lifted his eyebrows; he was the farthest thing from brave there ever would be. "I mean it. Where I come from a man could not do that." "Where might that be, Mr. Faj...o?" Q stumbled over the stranger's name. "Kivas Fajo. At your service." "Quentin McConn." Fajo gave Q a mockery of a firm American handshake. Over their joined hands, his eyes were speculative. Well, Q had seen that look before. He began to hold his eyes down as he'd done when he was in prison. Kivas backed off at once. "I find your group simply fascinating. I will buy your CD if you have one." "I must go, really. Thanks again. I don't know what I can do to repay you." Fajo knew. This cowboy was beautiful in his jeans and hat. But now was not the time. He let Q out. Fajo chewed a bit of his breakfast, thinking about his house in Munich. One of the most striking things about it was the study where he hung the mounted heads of the rare animals he had hunted. He had always been a gifted hunter. He waited for a few more minutes. Then he followed Q. In the lobby, Q was several yards ahead of him, but they both paused when they saw Jean-Luc turn from scanning the room; his eyes went straight to his lover. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and then he moved towards Q like a stalking tiger. Fajo eased closer. A little unhandsome man such as himself often picked up useful information unnoticed. "When I got finished with the boy, I sent him down here to find you. Where the fuck were you?" "This man let me stay in his rooms while he spent the night somewhere else," Q hastened explain. Fajo could see Jean-Luc's eyes narrowed. "I never even found out what his name is." Q babbled. He was shrinking in on himself, tensing himself against his lover's wrath. Jean-Luc's jaw was working furiously; he grabbed Q's arm and pulled him away. Kivas smiled. So there were problems in this beautiful gay American garden of Eden; that would certainly make it easier for him. Because Kivas Fajo had decided to have Q. Something about those sad eyes struck his fancy. He had time. He had money. And he could buy his way into and out of relationships for any reason that struck his fancy. After all, the blonde of the night before had belonged to another American cowboy (Fajo liked cowboys) . That cowboy had been unavailable to him, and Fajo had resented that. So Fajo flashed his platinum card, and his wallet full of hundred dollar bills, and those big vacant blue eyes of hers had gone wide and she'd invited him up to her room, just like that. Kivas relished the idea that he was able to take her away from her showy, well-hung cowboy boyfriend so easily. He licked and guzzled the blonde all night long, and then he apologized to her for having nothing else to offer her but money. She was cordial, but distant. He begged her to take the money, and, finally, pretending she was doing him a favor, she did. So now she had turned out to be a whore, and early this morning Kivas had found the well-hung cowboy – smoking a little American cheroot and reading some sort of cowboy gazette at his breakfast of pancakes – and told him as much. And the cowboy hadn't dared object. He was too confused, "Baby, you did it for five thousand dollars?" he kept saying to her, until she told him to shut the fuck up. This other one, however, this Quentin McConn, was indifferent to money. But he made Kivas shiver, and that didn't happen too often. The next few months should be enchanting. The Boys traveled the Southwest. They sold a lot of CD's. They sang in a lot of gay bars and straight bars. More festivals. Concert halls in the big cities of the southwest. And Kivas was there. Watching. He watched Q watch Johnny. He watched Jean-Luc's absolute dominion over the band. He watched Q's pointless protests when Jean-Luc fucked yet another dewy-eyed boy or girl. And he was the only one who knew that but Jean-Luc had another follower besides himself. Kivas kept a casual eye on the man. The other man looked dirty and insane, but he was with them in Denver and in Reno, and in Carson City. John Mack was fighting heartbreak. Jean-Luc was not the pure vessel of his idolarium, and he proved it night after night on the tour. Jean-Luc clearly did not understand his true calling; instead he was distracted by the cheap delights of the Whore Babylon. And this even after John Mack had made very personal offerings to him. He had even sold off most of his father's gun collection to wily collectors who had no doubt fleeced him. But still, if he could punish Jean-Luc for betraying the world, wouldn't the world turn to John Mack and thank him for breaking the unrighteous grip of this lewd pied piper? He could just picture their gratitude. After all, John-Mack said to himself jauntily, there's no law that says it has to happen in Baltimore. It can happen anywhere. One night, before the show, the crowd started what became a standard chant at their concerts. "John! LUKE!" Over and over again. Tiny fires from a thousand lighters broke the darkness. Backstage, Jean-Luc was startled; he was headed towards the curtain when Q grabbed him back. "Wait." Q grabbed Data and Geordi and pushed them forward. Next he lined up Will and Worf. When the crowd was stamping its feet, he sent the first two out. "Okay, Data, take Geordi to his guitar." Data nodded and carefully led Geordi to his guitar stand. The crowd started screaming. Next Worf and Will went out, and the screams became louder. Then Q turned to Johnny who nodded at him. Jean-Luc looked so perfect in the soft backstage light. So alert and intelligent. On impulse, Q bent his head, and they shared a kiss. It should have only taken a moment with the crowd roaring as it was, but it went on a bit longer than either intended. Finally Q pulled himself away, gasping, and walked out into the glare. He lifted his hat respectfully, and the screams, already on the edge of hysteria, turned to roars. Q did not even have to look up to see that Jean-Luc was finally gracing the stage. The crowd jumped to its feet in a wild frenzy, and the cry, "JEAN LUKE," shook the rafters. Fools! Didn't they see! Didn't they know! Was the devil not obvious to their lust-flamed eyes? John Mack forced himself to calm down. Of course they didn't know. They were blinded, led astray, but that was alright. He was going to help them all. Thank goodness for the newsletter. Kivas drove his Ferrari to LA. They were having Gay Pride day, a concept that boggled the mind. To be homosexual and not be ashamed; to stand up with thousands of others of your kind and celebrate what you were instead of hiding it. America was the greatest place on earth. He had the Magic Mountain Boys CD . . . how would the Americans say it? . . . ah yes, cranked up. He had the tunes cranked up in his ride. He smiled. His Quentin had written all of them, and they stirred a certain piquant frenzy in him. He understood why the Americans found these Boys provocative. He had imagined the Boy Quentin in a thousand different positions, some exhibitionistic, some phobically modest. It would be fun to see what he was really like. The Gay Pride Festival in Los Angeles was going extremely well. They were giving three shows in one day, and the place was packed. Tommy, bless his clever heart, struck a deal with the regional manager of a barely-one-step-up-from-K-mart department store chain and made a rat-assed commercial which said where the Boys' music could be had, and the next day there was a line of people (mostly gay men, but a curiously high percentage of women) before the store was even open, and they sold out before noon. They rush-ordered a thousand more CD's the next day, and Tommy went to Kinko's and got a banner that said, "As seen on Jay Leno," and spread it across the front of their little sale table and it was sold out again. At their 4:00 show, they got a lot of enthusiastic applause. At their 8:00 show, they got a kind of completely hysterical adulation that was almost frightening. They had one more show at 11:00, and then they could go back to the sumptuous hotel suite the festival's managers had rented for them. The word was spreading and the audience for that last show was bigger than ever. Housewives drove their Volvo station wagons in and paid twenty dollars for a parking place just to see them. An argument broke out on the ticket line. Are they gay or not? Gay guys and women looked at unenlightened straight boys in scorn. "Jesus Christ, look at the way they look at each other when they sing, what else could they be? Tell me, Poindexter, who would you look at with that expression on your face, your best friend, or your girlfriend?" The straight boys stared back, silent, confused, resentful. When the 11:00 set started, Jean-Luc was untamable. Even in prison, he'd had the uncanny ability to make everyone bow to his will. Now he unleashed that quality on a huge audience. He could clearly make them feel any emotion he chose -- love, contempt, appreciation. He said without words, but with his compact virile body, *You love me.* And the audience said back in screams: *Yes, Jean-Luc, helplessly, madly, completely.* Finally he let Q sing a song: Q had a lovely baritone voice that he didn't think much of because it wasn't like Jean-Luc's, but in its upper ranges it was clear and soft and sweet and mournful, and he closed his eyes and focused on his vocals because his heart was already on his sleeve, and Data and Geordi accompanied him, Geordi's twanging guitar hitting all the right places and Data's plangent fiddle coming in at the music breaks. "Oh, sweet Johnny darling, spare me my life, and I'll go distracted and be no man's wife." And, when he sang this, a thousand hearts broke. Actually all hearts broke except Johnny's. Jean-Luc crossed his arms. He was a little jealous because he hated for Q to get attention, even when it was good for the band. Still Q turned to Jean-Luc, obviously seeking Jean-Luc's approval of him, of his singing. Jean-Luc looked away. Slightly confused, Q turned to the audience. And stopped cold. Then he roared and leapt towards Jean-Luc with arms outstretched. And a look of surprise crossed his face because his shoulder had just exploded. John Mack was waiting for the angels to direct him to the precise second of judgement. He had been at all three of the shows, oppressed and morose because too many were loving Jean-Luc. He hated crowds. Then something curious happened. Everything slowed down and Jean-Luc was singled out from all the others by a strange, corruscating field of light. No one else noticed this; they were all listening to the dark-haired heart-broken one singing, crying really, while one black guy was playing a plunking relentless guitar and that other little white guy was fiddling, telling the crowd some secret with his fiddle. And Jean-Luc stood at the side of the stage, panting as if he had been fighting, unknowingly enveloped by this lovely, rippling fire, and a shower of silver sparks lit John Mack's field of vision, and an angelic voice whispered tenderly, 'Now.' John Mack lifted his gun and aimed it at Jean-Luc. What the . . . ? The crowd held its breath. This was not an Ozzie Osborne concert. There was not supposed to be blood. Worf jumped off stage. He tackled someone, a tall, otherwise nondescript middle-aged man, grabbing a gun away from him and throwing it to the ground. Then Worf wrapped his fingers around the man's throat and started to strangle him. He looked as if he knew what he was doing. Ten people pulled Worf away. Ten more attacked the man who had had the gun. There was mayhem and screaming. There was more confusion. Some people yelled at Worf angrily. Worf took it stoically. On stage, Jean-Luc pressed his hand to Q's shoulder. Then he pressed Q's unconscious face against his side. There was blood everywhere. Kivas had paid good money to stand backstage. He shook his head. This was so American. Luckily the managers had an emergency crew on site because somebody always fainted at these things. When the crew got a call that there were shots fired and a man down, they jumped into action, bullying their way backstage to get to their victim. They tried to ignore Jean-Luc who would not be ignored. He told the ambulance driver he would ride with Q or they couldn't have him. The ambulance driver stared into his face. A man being torn apart by lions could not have looked more desperate. Kivas stuck around to see the dazed remnant of the band follow a ferret-faced handler to their bus and then the ferret-faced man spoke intently to someone who nodded very apologetically. Suddenly Kivas was bored. The only person he was really interested in had gone away. Kivas shrugged. Time to find out which one of the handsomely-advertised hospitals was housing Q. Jean-Luc stayed at the hospital until well into the next morning. He didn't think about the other Boys. He didn't think about the money they were owed. He settled himself in to wait, not caring about his bloodstained clothes or the expressions of sympathy from the hospital personnel. In the ambulance they'd barked questions at him that he hadn't been able to answer. What was Q's blood type? What were his allergies? What medications was he using? Did Jean-Luc know his status? Had he been tested recently? Was he positive or negative? For Christ' sake. Jean-Luc could have told them many things about Q, but he was helpless now, even useless. Q regained consciousness with a sudden inhalation that ended in a cry of pain, but the ambulance technicians clustered around him before Jean-Luc could speak, reassuring him that he was on his way to a hospital and that he was going to be fine. "Johnny," he heard Q whisper. "The man shot Johnny." "You were the only one who got shot." The med tech sounded bored. This probably happened all the time in Los Angeles. Q closed his eyes. The med techs gave each other information and ignored Jean-Luc who sat there feeling useless and inconsequential while strangers worked over his lover's body. If only they'd asked him questions he'd known the answers to, he would have gladly have helped them. He could tell them how beautiful Q looked all stretched out on a prison bunk, waiting for him; or how gifted his fingers were on the mandolin; or how soft his lips were. He could tell them that Q had a particularly masculine stride for all that he was so gentle, and that, when he talked about things that were important to him, his eyes glittered with a fierce intelligence and his eyebrows danced. He could tell them that sometimes Q looked at him with an expression that was knowing and sardonic and needy all at once, but he could not tell them about blood type and allergies because he didn't know he was supposed to know those things. He felt frightened and vaguely ashamed of himself. And still they ground through their routine, talking past him. Male, approximately thirty-five years old, blood pressure 113 over 60 and dropping. Gunshot wound to the left shoulder. Possible concussion. Jean-Luc knew of no such person. He only knew Q, who was bleeding, and in need of help. Jean-Luc waited until they wheeled Q out of surgery, white-faced, his head lolling with the sedatives they'd given him. He followed them to an empty hospital room and watched as they put Q to bed. "Is that the boyfriend?" He overheard one of them ask. "I guess so." The nurse turned to the corner where he was trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. "Sir. Your friend is pretty heavily sedated. The bullet lodged in his scapula ... in his shoulder blade. But there were no problems with the surgery. The only thing is he's going to be in and out of consciousness for at least a day. You should go home now and get some rest." Jean-Luc nodded. He tried to follow the nurses out but the room began to spin. He thought of his heart, nicked and bruised. Suddenly his jaw ached. He felt as if an iron bar were splitting his chest in two. No. No. No. No. He just needed to eat something. It had been hours, and he should see about the rest of the Boys. The whole band walked through the police interviews like zombies. Quark kept the press away. Jean-Luc did not sleep at all, and the next day Quark drove all the Boys back to the hospital. Q wasn't in his room. Panic-stricken, Jean-Luc rushed to the nurse's station. "Where is he?" The kindly nurses smiled at him, "He's fine. He's been moved to a private room." They went to a large, airy room with roses and balloons and fruit baskets crowding every available surface. No one knew what to say. Maybe this was normal for hospitals in California. There was a odd-looking little man sitting by the side of the bed talking to the sleeping Q and touching his hand. He jumped when the Boys walked in. Then he said "excuse me" and stood up. Everyone was too surprised to say anything. The little man said, "shhhhhh" and then he tilted his head to one side. "He's ... sleeping..." Then he tilted his head down in a kind of bow and walked out. "Who was that?" Jean-Luc's voice was raspy. "The nurse?" said Geordi. The boys clustered around the unconscious Q, patting his good arm, whispering how much him they missed him. Jean-Luc hung back, brooding and suspicious. He stared around the room at the flowers and balloons and candy. All the cards were signed "Get well soon, Kivas." Who the hell was Kivas? In his big soft bed, Q slept on, pale and frail. "Jean-Luc," Worf said, "there is nothing we can do here. Come with us. We will eat. There's a Waffle Shack down the street. Q will not be hurt while we eat." Jean-Luc just stared at Worf. "Come," Worf said. Jean-Luc followed him out. Q woke up in stages, aware first of a strange confining garment that restricted his breathing. He inhaled deeply and then remembered the pain. His shoulder, his arm, in fact that whole side of his body throbbed and ached as he shifted around trying to make himself more comfortable. Then memory and fear flooded back at once. He was in a hospital, drugged, thick-brained and groggy. It hurt to move. And he had to pee really badly. Q slowly moved off the bed and staggered into the bathroom. His left arm was bound to his side, immobile, so he peed with the wrong hand and then shuffled out into the hallway. He was hungry. He also felt stupid with his behind hanging out of the hospital gown, and he wanted to go back to the bus. He immediately attracted attention. "Let's get you back to bed, big fella." Hands urged him back the way he'd come. A nurse, a nurse's aide, an orderly. Q wanted to object, but he couldn't make his mind work very well. "Drugged," he managed to say. "Honey, you need those drugs. If we didn't give you medicine for pain you'd be screaming, trust me on this one." "Still hurts." "You're due for your medication. It'll feel better in a little while. She had a kind smile, so he tried another request. "Shorts." "Well, if you insist, but the nursing staff is going to be really disappointed." Her joking distracted him from that awful pain in his shoulder. She tucked him under the covers and caged him in so he wouldn't be able to leave so easily next time. "Now I'm going to give you some more pain pills and some antibiotics, and then we're going to bring you some breakfast in a little while. Won't that be nice?" "Thanks," Q would have smiled again, but every movement hurt. The pain sapped him, held him prisoner as surely as the metal bars around his bed. After he'd been medicated and given breakfast (eating clumsily with the wrong hand again), he did feel a good bit better. He looked around, wondering where everybody was. "Has anybody been by that you know?" he asked the flirting nurse. "Your boyfriend Johnny and the rest of the band members have been by twice, but you were asleep. And your friend Kivas comes by all the time. He brought you all these flowers and fruit baskets and he had them switch you to a private room." Kivas? The name rang a bell, but Q didn't really care about that right now. Johnny and them had been to see him. "Did he say when he was coming back?" "Don't worry, sweet thing." She leaned in. She was very pretty. "He'd be a fool to leave something that looks as good as you." Q blushed, pleased by her teasing. "I don't guess you have a comb or anything I could borrow." He'd seen himself in the mirror, and he wanted to fix himself up so that he'd at least be halfway presentable when Johnny came. "Well, I guess I could let you borrow mine if you promise to give it back." A little while later she brought him her purse from the nurse's station and took a comb and brush out. She helped him go to the bathroom. Then she helped him with his hair and adjusted his gown so it didn't look as if it had been thrown on upside down. Then she raised the bed so he could sit up. Q thanked her sincerely. He dozed on and off for several hours, still in the grip of the narcotics. When he wasn't sleeping, he stared at the TV and waited for Jean-Luc. Quark had no scheduled news conferences, but the reporters still found Jean-Luc and they were driving him crazy. "Q sacrificed himself to save you, didn't he?" Jean-Luc said nothing, but his eyes narrowed. For God's sake, Q did no such damn thing. Quark hustled Jean-Luc out of there. They needed to be alone. "Jean-Luc, I've canceled the other dates – there were only a couple - and returned the advance." Then he leaned in. "Jean-Luc, we may have some hard decisions to make." Giving money back always made Quark somber. Down in the lobby of their hotel, Jean-Luc rubbed his thumb against his lower lip. Three very nice boys were imploring him to take them. And Will had intercepted a phone call from the hospital. Q was conscious; he was fine; he was doing well. He was getting better every hour. Nothing to worry about. Jean-Luc looked into the distance. He thought of his heart. A man only had so much time. Sad but true. Like all of life, sad but true. When Jean-Luc finally showed up, he had Data with him, much to Q's disappointment. "Hi, Johnny," Q's voice sounded a little hoarse. He cleared it and tried again. "I'm so glad he missed you." "Q, what are we going to do?" Q had no idea what Jean-Luc meant. He was going to get out of the hospital as soon as they let him and go back to playing. What else was there? "Your arm's no good," Jean-Luc shrugged pragmatically, "and we have a new CD to get ready. We'll pay you for the songs, but I don't know about any of the rest of it. We have to keep going and that's that." Jean-Luc was gorgeous. He had on tight black leather jeans and a black silk t-shirt. Data was dressed identically except his t-shirt was red. "Sad but true." Jean-Luc looked dangerous. Data looked seriously sexy. "Data's getting the hang of the mandolin," he went on. He touched Data on the arm and left his fingers there. Q stared. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Data's good." But what about Geordi, Q wanted to say? What about us? He opened his mouth, and then closed it. Whatever he was about to say froze in his throat and stayed there. Jean-Luc was leaving him and he was unable to even beg for another chance. He would have said anything, promised anything, but his voice had deserted him and he could only sit up on his bed, dizzy and sick, and listen to the sound of his own rapid breathing. Panic clutched at his throat. He had to say something to convince Johnny to give him another chance. Convince him to change his mind. It was crucially important that he say the right thing, but the enormity of the task overwhelmed him. Get it wrong and all of his life would unravel in that instant of misspeaking, and he would die. "Q, don't do this to me," Jean-Luc said. Data made a tentative gesture in his direction. "Jean-Luc," he started to say, "I think..." "Come on," Jean-Luc fetched Data with a quick gesture. "We need to go." And they were gone. Q stared at the empty doorway for hours, expecting them to come back in. Surely Jean-Luc would stick his head in the door and say, "Had you going there, didn't I?" But nothing like that happened. The nurse came in after lunch, took one look at his face and knew something was wrong. "What is it?" Q tried to speak, but panic rose up in him so sharp and fierce that he started to retch instead. Spikes of pain shot into his shoulder and he cried out and fell back onto the bed. The nurse talked over his rapid breathing. He didn't answer. The very idea made him flinch. "Say something," she said. She sounded anxious. Q grabbed gingerly at his shoulder and shut his eyes. He hurt. In a few minutes, he was wheeled into another room for more tests. And, when the test were done, official-looking men and women made pronouncements over him. Q was hysterically mute. No one knew why. He could have told them if he'd been able, but he couldn't manage writing yet and the machines they hooked him up to went crazy whenever they asked him to talk. Heart rate, respiration, blood pressure, pupil dilation, they all went off the scale. He was deathly afraid of speaking. Fajo hadn't intended to do anything but sit faithfully at Q's side and be there when Q woke up, thus demonstrating his loyalty in times of trouble, but, when he got to Q's room that night, a conclave of serious medical specialists trapped him. "We're sorry. There have been some complications." Tears sprang to Fajo's eyes. They hadn't even had fun yet! The doctor instantly shifted out of medical jargon and began to speak to him very soothingly. "You *are* the boyfriend?" The doctor asked. It was night. The day nurse was not there to identify the man who'd sat in the emergency room for hours, waiting to hear about his lover's fate. Fajo blinked three times and said, "Yes." He listened carefully to the doctor's report on Q's sudden hysterical muteness. Fajo took a deep breath. "He'd be better off at home with our regular doctor. How soon can you get him ready for travel?" The doctors looked unhappy, but Fajo was insistent. He signed Q out at 2 a.m. Kivas gloated over Q the whole plane ride to New York. Then, just as the plane touched down, he thought of Jean-Luc's hard stare. He had never really met Jean-Luc, but he was aware of the viciousness that would sometimes light Jean-Luc's eyes and terrify whoever happened to be the victim of his terrible gaze. He looked at Q. Q was heavily sedated; he had been unconscious since they left Los Angeles. There was also a nurse on board and an ambulance waiting to take them to Kivas' penthouse in the city. Kivas dismissed the nurse and ambulance and ordered the plane refueled. They were going to his island in the Mediterranean for a while. Kivas wanted to make sure Jean-Luc would not be able to come after him. Madred was quiet and calm. When his court-appointed lawyer showed up, Madred carefully explained that even though his actions seemed irrational, angels had told him to shoot Jean-Luc. He spoke sincerely and eloquently about the need for purification and sacrifice. He lit up when he talked about how the Lord had promised him the perfect vessel through which the blessing of purity could be obtained. His voice became animated. His eyes gleamed. The lawyer shrugged. Pretty open-and-shut. Quark didn't miss a trick. "That shooting was a smart career move," said the music company executive. "Your Boys will be on the cover of four major magazines next week. Beautiful photos. I've already seen the layouts. We get that new live CD out pronto and then we'll set up a major North American tour. I'm telling you, Tommy, we're gonna make more money than God!" "Fabulous, Marty! The Boys are really looking forward to it." The mogul paused to light up a cigar. "Of course we're going to have to replace the tall one, you know that. See if we can find somebody tall and cute to stand in for him, just temporarily, until he gets his sight back." "Uh, sure, but... let me deal with the Boys, okay?" Well, there was nothing for Jean-Luc to do but forgive Q for terrifying him. The band still needed Q after all. He was their writer, and those big record-industry bastards were already on their ass about another new CD. But, when he got to Q's room, the bed was empty. Dammit, not again. He went out to the nurse's station and asked for Quentin McConn's new room number. The nurse consulted the computer. "Oh, he was discharged very early this morning." "Discharged." Jean-Luc wasn't sure he was hearing right. "Yes." The nurse sounded quite pleased. "His boyfriend came and got him. Let's see. He was released into the custody of . . . Kivas Fajo. He's taking him to a private convalescent facility. I have the address somewhere." She rustled around a bit. "Well, shoot, I can't seem to find it." But she brightened up and gave Jean-Luc a big smile. "If you come back this evening, the night nurse may be able to tell you." The other Boys were sitting patiently on the bus. None of the visits to Q had gone well, so, when Jean-Luc told them to wait outside, they thought it wisest to comply. No doubt Jean-Luc and Q would work things out between themselves. Jean-Luc came back and got behind the wheel. He started the bus and then turned to face them. The Boys gasped when they saw him, but he understood why. He'd seen his reflection in the rear view mirror. His skin was gray and looked like it might flake away under a light touch. He was haggard, and his eyes glittered strangely. "Q's gone off with some other man," he told the shocked Boys. "He's not there anymore." He could tell they didn't believe him. He didn't believe himself. Q was gone. A week passed. Q was much better. It was a throbbing pain now, instead of the awl that pierced him in the hospital. And it was being kept almost completely at bay with smaller and smaller doses of painkiller, so Q was able to spend more time clearheaded and alert, but no one would tell him what was going on. "Did Johnny tell you to bring me here?" He had a pad and a pencil, and he'd painstakingly written out that question with his clumsy, right-handed print. The man's smile, as he answered in the negative, made Q feel very uneasy. "You're with me, now." It took a while, but Q had finally remembered who this man was. It was Kivas Fajo who had offered him his room back at some swanky hotel, made a play for him, and then appeared to let the whole thing drop. Q had nearly forgotten him, but Fajo obviously had not forgotten Q. And Fajo mentioned things he could only have known if he'd been watching the band very closely over time -- that time in Colorado when Johnny had shoved him and he'd fallen against the marquee and stained his jacket. The time they'd celebrated their arrival in California by eating dinner in the nicest restaurant they could afford. That night at the disco when Jean-Luc had taken two pretty young things back to the hotel with him while Q stayed on the bus. And Fajo seemed to know all about Q's . . . sickness. "WHY!!!!!?" That was the second question he scratched out. Fajo read the message and folded it and put it in his pocket and smiled again. "Do you know how easy you are to ignore? I don't have to listen to you if I don't feel like it. In fact, I could simply leave and you'd be lost. Nothing to eat . . . No . . . medicine." He was definitely gloating. Q was furious. "HOME!!!" "Again with the demands. How about if I just leave you here for a few days alone? Yes. I . . . think I'll do just that." Fajo started to walk out. Q heaved himself out of bed and staggered after him, clumsily banging against the frame of a painting that was hanging in the hallway. "Oh, yes." Fajo stopped and turned around, holding his finger in the air like an admonishing schoolmarm. "If you break any one of my beautiful artifacts, I'll have you charged with felonious destruction of property. And they don't like Americans breaking their historical treasures, so they won't be inclined to go lightly on you as they did in Kentucky and Maryland." Q was in a foreign country? And this man knew his record? Q had to say something. He opened his mouth but only a soft barking sound came out; he had to fight for breath. Fajo rushed over to him and tried to keep him from doubling over. His whole attitude instantly changed. "I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to frighten you, but you must see how it is." Q saw. One-handed, he tried to shake off Fajo's support even though the extra motion made him cry out in pain. "Don't . . . hurt yourself." Fajo sounded anxious. He called something out in a foreign language and a slender, curly-haired man bustled in. He took one look at the situation and drew out a hypodermic. Q felt a sting and the rest was darkness. When Q came to, Fajo was gone, but other people had obviously been there. There was a plentiful supply of food on the table in the dining room. The food was cold now, but Q was hungry. There was only one place setting. This princely feast was his alone. He loaded food onto his plate. The cubed meat was roast lamb, and he recognized zucchini and tomatoes, all of it flavored differently from anything he'd ever tasted before. But if the amount and quality of the food was any indication, Fajo intended to take good care of him. Not that that made any difference. Quark and Data found out all they could about Kivas Fajo. Finnish-Greek oil billionaire. Media executive, too. Owned a casino in Monte Carlo. Had palatial homes all over the planet. "I'm going to kill that motherfucker," Jean-Luc said, and tore up the old newspaper photo of Fajo Data had given him. "He was waiting in the hospital to steal Q. He planned all of this. Let's go get him." "Jean-Luc," Quark said as tenderly as he could. "Even if we knew where he was, Fajo is a multi-billionaire. He has his own private army. Some weird mercenary tribesmen from Thrace or somewhere like that. We're sort of outnumbered." There were strange luxuries in Q's new life. The curly-headed doctor -- who apparently didn't speak English – spent nearly an hour each day checking Q over very carefully. The food was never less than exquisite. His suite of beautiful whitewashed rooms had a view of some ocean or sea, and the scent of salt water was new and alluring to him, as were the smells of pine and flowers that wafted in from somewhere. And every day silent maids came and changed his sheets. They left him beautiful cotton robes and luxurious leather clogs to wear. No real clothes however. Not even underwear. He had a little verandah which faced the water. There was a wicker chaise longue there, and Q found himself lying there most of the day. "Bonjour, mon ami," said a voice. Q turned his head. Fajo. Fajo sat beside him and took his right hand. Q jumped, and Fajo's eyes softened. "Are you better now? A little more tractable? Now that you see I'm not going to hurt you." Q watched him with his huge staring dark eyes. Fajo was not without a certain warmth. He stroked Q's hand. "My God. You're even prettier now than before. How do you do it? I guess it's just luck." He kissed Q's hand. "Would you like a tour of your new home?" He snapped his fingers. The curly-haired doctor came out. He and Fajo spoke in a language Q did not recognize. "Dr. Nicholopoulos has asked that he be permitted to trail us at a discreet distance. Lest you feel . . . bad . . . again." He took Q around his estate. They were on a tiny island; Q could see a distant grey-green coast but nothing else, and there were guards with shotguns everywhere. "You're tiring, aren't you? Dr. Nicholopoulos, please take him back to his room and be sure to help him to relax. The maids will bring him his supper." The next day, Fajo was just as bright-eyed and eager to see Q as he had been before. "I'm sorry we had that . . . fuss on your first day. Here, let me show you some really rare things." And they toured again. Fajo was clearly eager to show Q all his possessions. Over the course of several days, he showed Q the exquisite paintings in his private gallery. ("Of course, this is nothing compared to my other homes.") His sculpture collection. ("Notice Neptune taming a . . . um, sea-horse, which Tom of Finland cast in bronze for me.") His toys. ("Your CIA has the only other one of these. It's a camera that takes picture on its own. It focuses on where the noise and heat are. It can reload with up to thirty-two rolls before a human has to intervene.") He smiled at Q. "Nothing to worry about. My guards will make sure you're safe here, Q. And I may call you Q, mayn't I? You Americans and your curious nicknames." They had lunch on the veranda. The maids brought out a cheese-and-wine drizzled salad, little cups of ouzo, bread with honey and oil. A wonderful intense black coffee. Fajo poured the ouzo into his coffee and sat back. Dr. Nicholopoulos was sitting a short way from them prowling through a nice-looking leather brief case. "You know, Q," Kivas had that same knowing smile he always wore, and he tapped his fingers together impatiently, "I've decided to . . . make myself vulnerable to you." He waved one finger in the air at what he imagined to be Q's objection. "Does that surprise you?" Kivas smiled smugly. Then he glanced at Dr. Nicholopoulos. "Don't worry. He knows no English. Yes, I'm going to make myself vulnerable to you precisely because you can't, but more to the point, you won't betray me. Will you?" He talked like a man holding all the cards, and Q shook his head because he knew that was expected of him. Then he fixed his eyes on his host in an imitation of rapt attention. He had that skill. "You see, I know a little something about vulnerability. You wouldn't think so to look at me now. Rich, respected, even feared. I've . . ." he paused, then let the rest of the sentence out in a prideful rush, "bought things other collectors wanted just to keep them from getting their hands on them." He smiled. "Just to rub their noses in the fact that I have what they wanted and, while they live, they'll never see the thing they prize." Now his smile was conspiratorial. "You'd never believe that of me, would you, but it's true. I can be vicious when I want to be." Oh, Q believed him absolutely. He turned paler. Kivas saw him pale and took that as an excuse to snake a reassuring arm around his shoulders. "I would never be anything but gentle to you," he reassured. 'Liar,' Q thought. "I was just trying to make the point that we are, in some ways, soul brothers. You see. When I was a little boy, my father was . . . hmm . . . an . . . I think the polite word is alcoholic. He had a disease called alcoholism, as you Americans like to say. I really think he had a disease called 'I hate Kivas.' I was little. A shrimp, as you say, and he thought I would be weak. And he hated anything weak, so he hated me." Kivas leaned in. He moved his hand to Q's chest. Where it rested heavily for a moment on Q's right tit. Fajo was strangely jumpy. He would focus on one thing until he decided it was time to jump up when he suddenly remembered that he'd been distracted and rushed back to his original task. Q couldn't decide whether it was performance or compulsion that drove him to behave that way. "And the way he proved that he hated me was to make me take him in my mouth whenever he came home drunk." By now Kivas was standing up. "I had to suck on him until he came in my mouth. I was about nine or ten years old." He paused to peek at Q to how he was taking this. Q turned his head and closed his eyes. Revolted. Puzzled. "I tried to prove to him that I wasn't weak." Kivas continued. "I thought if I stood up to him he might like me more. You know. Respect me. So the next time he came to my bedroom I told him, no, I didn't want him to put his penis in my mouth anymore. I said I didn't like the way it tasted. Well, he . . . didn't like that at all, so . . . he punched me . . . and slapped me . . . and told me I'd better do as he said from then on, and then he pulled his penis out and made me suck it again. He liked that a lot. He got hard quicker than I'd ever seen him before." Kivas gave a laugh that sounded like a hiccuping sob. "I... could... barely breathe by that time because he'd broken my nose, but there I was kneeling on the floor while he stood over me with his hands on his hips. So I did what he wanted." Kivas shrugged. "And when he was done, he dragged me to the kitchen and told me he would help me get the taste out of my mouth. There was a bowl of lemons on the table, and he forced me to eat them all. No sugar, just bite into them and swallow them down. " He shrugged again. "So... I... ate them, peels and all. I was too scared to disobey. I shit lemon peel for three days. It burned when it came out. I thought I might die. I had to stop talking too, because I thought that if I talked, somehow everyone would know. They'd think . . . I was a bad boy." Q didn't know what to say. He wanted to say something, yet he couldn't bring himself to try that again. His head was swimming. "I know, I know." Kivas came and sat down by Q again, holding up a single admonishing finger. "You want to know how I fixed it. Well, I didn't. I failed in school because I wouldn't speak. I finally ran away when I was fifteen. Never went back. Made my first million before I was twenty five. I went to see my father about ten years ago. I had money. I had things. I went incognito. Pulled up to the house, but couldn't walk in. I couldn't confront him. I couldn't even face him. You see, I was afraid that he would tell me to kneel down, and I was afraid I'd still be too scared to say no." Q still had his face turned away. Fajo placed a hand on Q's jaw and pulled him around so they faced each other. He looked searchingly into Q's eyes. "Can't you say anything even now?" Q's sudden panicked intake of breath was all the answer Fajo needed. "That's alright," Fajo consoled him. "I just wanted you to know that I know what it's like. People see me and see a jetsetter, billionaire, collector. But I'm really just a boy who's always been too scared to confront his father." His knowing smile was like a snare. "And you. You're look big, strong, beautiful, but what are you? You're just a music-maker who's afraid to make music anymore. You're lucky, really. If I hadn't taken you away, everyone would know that you're worthless by now. Unable to do the one thing you were ever any good at." He squinted to see how Q was reacting. Q gazed at him. He had a sudden vision of Fajo walking around his palace, stopping in front of his beautiful paintings and statues, unburdening himself with this awful story to each one in turn. Fajo liked to keep his possessions safe. So Q was safe. Jean-Luc had used Q, ignored Q, and cheated on him, but he'd always been intently focused on Q the person, and Q thrived under his harsh attentions, even when Jean-Luc had been his most abusive. But to Fajo, Q was obviously an artifact. To his humiliation, he began to cry. "You're so sensitive," Fajo gloated. He slid his arms around Q again, this time gently touching Q's ass and then moving his hand quickly away. "I have to learn to be careful what I tell you." Q clung to his peculiar interim lover, listening to the air shudder in and out of his own lungs. So many sounds the body made that weren't words at all. He wondered how long it would be until Fajo made him moan. |