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Many decades ago, markets were commonplace on Betazed. One could make a trip into town and purchase whatever they needed from food supplies to clothing to recreational items. Bright billboards lined the streets and employees handed out flyers to advertise the latest specials. Although replicaters have eliminated the need for markets, an annual bazaar is held in the capital city to honor this forgone tradition. Conservatives believe that technology will never replace the genuine article and their kind, as well as many a curious spectator, flock Market Day.

Grandma insists on taking me to this event. "You need to learn a little bit about our history, Shannara," she says. "You have so much knowledge inside your head, but how practical is most of it?"

Finding no reason to argue with her, I agree to make this trip. It's a welcome diversion from the routine I've established anyway and I must admit to a certain level of curiosity.

When we arrive, Grandma gives me an allowance of ten bars of gold-pressed latinum. I'm amazed by her generosity and expect that ten bars will purchase some worthwhile treasures. We wend our way through the crowd and Grandma points out shops she believes are interesting. Receiving many solicitations along our way, we soon have many flyers and samples to carry. As I stuff the papers into my purse, I am grateful I decided to bring the handbag.

We step inside a jewelry shop and admire the necklaces, holding them up to look at them against us in a mirror. Although there are a couple other women in the shop, I notice the owner's gaze intent on us. I've grown more comfortable with my appearance since attending the Betazoid wedding, but I still cannot help wondering whether he's scrutinizing me because I'm part Klingon.

"What's wrong, dear?" Grandma asks.

"Nothing," I lie, shielding my true emotions from her and returning my attention to the necklace clutched in my hand. It has a long, gold chain with rubies and sapphires forming it into a "Y."

I am tempted to purchase the necklace and nearly walk over to the proprietor. I turn toward him and I feel a tightening in my chest as his steel-blue eyes bare down on me. Returning the necklace to its hook, I decide not to make any purchase in haste. "I'll be back later," I tell the proprietor.

"Thank you," he responds, rubbing at his neatly-trimmed beard. He is a handsome man in his mid-thirties. "Don't wait too long, though. The others, they may trick you into articles you really don't want."

His comment strikes me as odd and I dwell on it as Grandma and I browse other shops. It was probably an innocent remark, albeit phrased peculiarly. Yet, I can't help wondering was he a Q?

After a while, I convince Grandma to let us separate, promising I will find her once I've spent my latinum. This allows me to wander shops that Grandma has no interest in. I happen on one selling ancient books. Picking up a thick book, I bring it to my face to breathe in its smell, which is nothing like the pristine odor of a data padd. I open the book and browse through its pages. Although they are yellow and musty with age, the text and illustrations are still legible. Its a philosophy book from Earth with a copyright date in the latter twentieth century. As I peruse passages about Aristotle, Socrates, Marx and other great philosophers, I wonder whether this text might help me better evaluate the verbose scripture of Faction 1687.

"Please be careful," someone says from behind me.

I turn to see an elderly man wearing glasses. How odd that he would choose to correct his vision by such an outdated method when medical technology could completely correct poor vision. Perhaps he prefers to live in an old-fashioned manner and the books he carries are an extension of that lifestyle.

"Those books are very old. Many of them belonged to my grandfather."

"Then why are you selling them? Don't they have sentimental value?" Dread cracks my voice. What if he decides not to part with the philosophy text?

He removes his glasses and lets them dangle on a chain around his neck. Without them on, he looks weary and defeated. "My grandson. He wants to become an astrogeologist. I haven't the latinum to send him and so I'm selling my valuable antiques. He means more to me than some ancient text I barely understand."

Although I sense he is lying about a lack of understanding, I perceive it as a gesture of goodwill. "That is very noble of you. How many books would ten bars of gold-pressed latinum buy?"

"For ten, my sweet child, I will give you two books. Choose them wisely. A poorly chosen article will do you no good."

I nearly drop the philosophy book, startled by his near mirroring of the jewelry shop owner's words. Could he be another Q? I send him a telepathic message to which he doesn't respond. Cautiously, I back away from him. "Where are you from? Do you know the jewelry shop owner?"

He is not startled by my questions, although his answer is slow in coming. "You are a wise child. Don't worry. I will not harm you." He takes a step toward me and leans into me to whisper, "I am Q and I am also the jewelry proprietor. I knew you would not return for the necklace, so I made up shop here. Maybe you find the books more interesting, or maybe you sympathize more with an old man."

"Then you invented the story of the grandson?"

"No. I have lived among Betazoids for nearly fifty years, have taken a wife and raised children with her." I probe him and am unable to detect any dishonesty. "I miss her. She died three years ago. My colleagues are trying to convince me to move on, find another world to integrate myself, but I feel that by doing such, I'd be abandoning my sweet Ezra. I'm not ready yet. Sometimes, I wish I weren't immortal."

For the first time, I'm actually feeling sympathy for a Q. Q once told me that there were members of his kind who were not self-centered or out to destroy each other. Perhaps I can find a few friends among them. "You still haven't answered which faction you're from. Please, I'd like to know a little about you."

"I belong to Faction 125. Although we're one of the smaller factions, we're quite wide spread. We live comfortably among other races, helping their people when the need arises." He steps up to the table and grabs a long thin book. "You are in need of this now," he tells me, holding the book out to me. "I suggest you choose it as your second book."

I accept the proffered book and then reach into my purse for the ten bars of latinum. "A deal's a deal," I tell him. I don't bother examining the book, trusting him implicitly. "Accept these as payment."

He takes the payment with a smile. "Thank you. If you are ever in need of anything again, don't forget Faction 125." I expect him to ask me to join his faction. From what he has told me, their ranks could use another member spreading their benevolence. I am tempted, but he does not make the offer. Instead, he volunteers his services. "You can call on us at any time. Good luck on your journey, my dear child." He does not expect any further payment from me. I have his loyalty.

After leaving the bookshop, I search for Grandma and cannot sense her anywhere nearby. I'm not overly concerned since the markets expand nearly two kilometers. My stomach begins to growl and I am lured toward several of the cafes along the strip. If only I'd kept one of the bars to pay for a meal. A man selling sausages on a ban asks if I'm interested in a hot dog and chips. Before I can tell him I have no money, a couple of boys roughly my age approach me.

"You're Klingon, aren't you?" one of them asks as his focus wanders down to my breasts. "I've never met a real Klingon." His companion smirks in agreement. "Can you growl for us?"

"I'm half-Klingon," I respond, holding my chin up high. "And I'm too much of a lady to go around growling at strangers. I'm here visiting my Betazoid grandmother. Perhaps you've heard of her: Lwaxana Troi."

"Why, of course, we have."

"Would like us to buy you lunch," the other asks me. "Really, it would be no trouble at all. We can eat at the pavilion."

I study them, examining both their physical features and their emotional intent. They are both cute and seem like a couple of harmless, albeit overly curious, teenagers. Grandma will be pleased if I'm finally able to make a couple of friends my age. Maybe if I have something normal to finally tell my parents, I will feel comfortable about contacting them.

"Thank you," I tell the boys. "I accept your offer."

After one pays for the food, the other carries it over to a table at the pavilion. They introduce themselves to me. Jaibe is taller with dark hair. Koradi has curly blond hair and dimples when he smiles. As we eat, our conversation remains lighthearted, talking mostly about Market Day and the items we've seen at some of the shops. "I don't know yet," I reply. "I haven't had a chance yet to look at it."

"You bought an old book without bothering to look at it first?" Jaibe says, raising his voice enough for others to turn and look in our direction. "That is so daring."

Probing him, I cannot tell whether he's insulting me or envious of me. "He said it was what I needed." I possessively grab the book and yank it out of Koradi's hand. "I'd rather you not handle the book. It's very old and can be easily damaged."

"Since when do Klingons care about books? I've never heard of a Klingon scholar."

"Yeah really," Koradi agrees. "Aren't Klingons supposed to be more interested in combat training? I hear they even bite their mates during sex."

I stand abruptly and fetching my purse and the other book, say, "That's enough! Neither of you seem to know how to treat a lady. I'm leaving." Before I can walk away, Jaibe grabs me by the arm.

"Wait. I'm sorry," he says. "It's just that we've never met a Klingon before. We don't know how we should act around you."

This time, I do sense that he is not being completely sincere with me. What do they want from me? Suddenly, panic takes over me as I remember when Q pretended to be Jonaih. Have I fallen for his trap this time? *What do you want from me?!* I yell telepathically at them. *You didn't feed me lunch just to be nice.* If they are Q, they will not pick up on my thoughts.

*I told you we've never met a Klingon before,* Jaibe sends back to my surprise.

Grabbing my other arm and knocking the books to the ground, Koradi thinks at me, *We only want to get to know you a little better.*

Why is no one around us jumping to my rescue? I scream, but do not hear my own voice. I attempt to wiggle free from their clutches. My vision clouds and I struggle against blacking out. Inside my mind, I see several struggles intermixing into one blurry image of men and women fighting and ending in bloody carnage. As these thoughts and images bombard my mind, I lose the battle against unconsciousness.

When I awake, I find myself lying on a cot inside one of the shops. I lift my head trying to get up to a sitting position, but someone quickly approaches me. "Be still," he says. "Don't try to move until you've fully regained your equilibrium." He kneels down before me and places a cool rag across my forehead. Q has taken on the persona of the jewelry shop proprietor again. As he promised earlier, he has returned to offer me his aid.

"What happened to me?"

"Shh. We'll worry about that later. I located your grandmother. As soon as you feeling well, she wants to take you home. You should go with her before Q learns of your weakness. We can only hope he hasn't already."

"My weakness." I bring my hand to my forehead, desperately trying to remember what brought me to this state. "My purse, the books, where are they?"

He stands and walks across the room to retrieve my purse and the books. "Here they are, safe and sound." After he hands them to me, he tells me, "Slowly, try to sit up."

As I rise, I expect dizziness to cloud my vision. Yet, I find enough inner strength to make it onto my feet. Q tries to offer me a hand, but I push him gently away. "I can manage, thank you. Now will you please tell me what happened?"

Although his face shows reluctance, he nods. "You had a telepathic collapse. Two young Betazoid boys accosted you and then ran off when I came to carry you to here."

As he recounts this to me, memories of the supposedly innocent lunch and the subsequent telepathic rape come flooding back to me. How is it possible that two mortal boys took advantage of a being such as myself? The realization is humiliating. Suddenly, I don't feel quite so study on my feet and accept Q's offered arm to lean on. "How were they.....how could they?"

"I believe Q placed a protective spell over them. Somehow their natural abilities have been enhanced. They are quite dangerous to any Q with their guard down."

"Yet they ran away like cowards when you showed up," I point out. "Thank you."

"You are always welcome, Shannara Rozhenko. Now, your grandmother is waiting for you," he tells me. "Perhaps, you should go to her."

"I agree, but what should I do if I encounter Jaibe and Koradi again?"

"Call me."

I pull away from him, heading for the door. As I near the outside, I wonder what I will say to Grandma. Will she ever want to take me anywhere again?

"Shannara," Q says and I turn back to look at him. "Don't forget, you can call on me whenever the need arises, not only if your life is in danger." I can see the old man in his eyes and know without a doubt that he would do anything for me.

Grandma is waiting for me about fifty meters away inside her shuttlecar. Looking around I'm surprised to see that the streets are empty. How long had I been unconscious? I walk to the shuttlecar and enter from the passenger side. "Grandma, where did everyone go? I thought Market Day was supposed to last until dusk."

As she looks at me concern etched in her face, Grandma appears much older. It suddenly dawns on me to question why she has been sitting out her rather than by my bedside, waiting for me to awaken. "You were unconscious for thirty-six hours," she explains.

"And you let the jewelry shop owner care for me. Why? I don't understand."

"We both know he's more than a market-day shopkeeper. He convinced me that it would be best if he cared for you in the privacy of his shop. He was able to place some type of Q shield on you to protect you." Why hadn't he told me this? And how long with this protective shielding last? "You suffered from a telepathic overload. What were you doing? You have to suffer extreme shock for it to render you unconscious. And for thirty-six hours!"

She doesn't know what happened, I reel. My first instinct is to block my thoughts of the incident in the pavilion from her and I give in to that impulse. "I'd rather not talk about it, Grandma," I reply. "It's over and I'd like to keep it that way. Can we go home now?"

Grandma starts the shuttlecar's engine. "We'll go home and maybe we won't discuss this again tonight, but if you think you can simply forget about this whole incident you're lying to yourself. Don't tell me how you feel." The sarcasm in her voice rings across my ears. "At least be honest with yourself. You're not as all-powerful as you'd like to believe." She brings the shuttlecar up, picking up speed and heads toward home.

We do not speak during the trip. As soon as we are parked, I gather up my purse and books and rush to my bedroom. "Q," I call out, "please answer me. I really need to talk with you."

I wait for a long, agonizing minute. My Q, if I can even call him that anymore, does not answer me. Why did he bring me into his fold only to abandon me?

"Fine!" I say with a growl and toss my books and purse onto the desk. The purse slides all the way across and falls to the floor. As I stoop to pick it up, I discover something that has fallen out. I clasp the necklace I had admired earlier between my hands. The shopkeeper Q must have placed it inside my purse while I was unconscious. Why had he given it to me?

Returning the necklace to my purse, I set the handbag on my desk, gently this time, and sit down to pick up the mystery book I've yet to open. Flipping through its pages, I'm shocked to discover that they are all blank! What kind of game is Q playing? He had seemed so nice, but I fail to understand what he hoped to accomplish by selling me an empty journal. Then I look at the inside cover and read the inscription:

"It's usually best to start a project with an empty slate. Plan out these pages wisely. Good luck to you, Q."

I consider replicating an old-fashioned pen until I replay Q's words in my head. Plan wisely. The journal will wait, I decide, snapping the book closed and placing it inside my desk drawer. Maybe I will begin filling its pages tomorrow. Or the next day....

The Q from Faction 125 has been so kind to me that I'm considering the option of joining his faction. He told me that his group mingled with the societies of other races. Their purpose in life is to offer help when needed and otherwise live out a normal existence in accord with their host culture. Could I become such a Q? Reflecting on my behavior over the past couple of years, I realize how selfish I have been, to my parents, to Captain Riker, to Data. To everyone. I'd like to think I could change enough to fit in with the members of Faction 125. Then I consider the possibility that they only allow one member to intermix with each culture. Am I ready to leave Grandma's safe haven and venture out on my own? I was willing to do just that before leaving the Enterprise.

If I follow through and join Faction 125, I would have to severe my attachment to my progenitor, the Q who brought me into the Continuum. Although he seems to have abandoned me, I cannot completely justify doing the same to him. He has been sending a messenger on his behalf and that must count for something until I have learned the whole truth about his absence in my life.

"Q, don't take much longer," I say to the empty room. "I can't wait for you forever. I might just join Faction 125."

Then again, there are other factions to explore.