Galatea
I am stone to her. She chisels at me daily, carefully exposing those parts of me she deems valuable and worthy of expression. With sculptor’s hands, she shapes me in her own image of perfection.
What is the responsibility of Galatea to her Pygmalion? Such loving craftsmanship she shows, such patient devotion to each detail. Shall she be my Goddess, worshipped as Creator and designer of my fate? Is she Mother to me?
Pygmalion fell in love with his creation. Does Kathryn Janeway love Seven of Nine? And will the gods reward her devotion to her art by bringing me to life, just as they gave breath to Galatea?
This thinking is irrelevant. I am Borg. I am no Galatea. My purpose is clear, my responsibilities well-defined.
Yet my interaction with Janeway exceeds that of mere captain and crewmember. She is grooming me, although her ultimate design seems unknown even to her. I am her protégée, a puzzle to challenge her as she strives to bring me to her ideal of human perfection, if such a thing exists.
I am not a riddle to be unlocked, nor am I a stone to be carved. Still, I am reluctant to pull away.
But Voyager is my Collective, and Janeway its Queen. It is my duty to serve her and thereby improve the Collective as a whole.
Yet the Captain calls me an individual. She encourages me to act as such. She is concerned with my development and seems to delight when I discover a new interest or talent.
She is my sculptor, yet she does not know what she will find as each new layer is exposed. And as she carefully manipulates chisel and hammer, allowing me to show the true form beneath the stone, will this Pygmalion also love her ultimate creation?
Will she love her Galatea?
And what of Galatea? Does love begin with the end of worship? Can Queen and Goddess transition into the role of lover without a fatal crashing decline in stature? Must I lose Mother and Queen to find Lover and Friend?
Is this the inevitable outcome? Will the Queen die so that the drone lives? Can this result in anything but a desire in me for a deeper love, a deeper expression of the devotion she shows me as her creation?
I will not comply. I will not become her ideal. I will not be her art.
I will not lose her strength for this chance of Love.
I will remain stone, carve though she may, so my Queen shall go unfallen.
I am Borg, but I will not adapt. Not to this.
Pygmalion
Who am I to play God? I’ve done it again. Tried to force Seven into my idea of what a human is, forgetting that she is who she is, with or without my approval.
Each time I do this, I swear to myself, this is the last time. I won’t interfere again. I won’t enforce my desires at the cost of her individuality.
And each time I say this, I know I am lying. I cannot help myself. She is untapped brilliance, waiting to be shaped and polished, and I can’t get my avarice under control. Each new facet, each glistening, lovely contour revealed only fuels my enthusiasm.
I am the slave of potential.
She claims I am molding her to suit my own purposes. Is that true? Am I truly interested in uncovering the “real” Seven, the true person that is Annika Hansen? Or am I Pygmalion, obsessing on my own idea of perfection?
Pygmalion created a statue so beautiful, so utterly perfect, he fell hopelessly in love with her. Am I creating Seven to be my perfection, the woman I might be, the woman I might love?
Or is this all egoism? Am I so infatuated with my own artistry that I have fallen for the art itself?
Have I? Has the delight of reintroducing her to her humanity grown into something less innocent, something more greedy? Do I truly want what is best for her, or do I want an adoring child, a woman-sculpture who fulfills my artistic vision to the letter? Have I become Pygmalion to her Galatea? And has my love for her become something deeper and less altruistic?
And what of Pygmalion? The gods granted his wish—Galatea became a real woman. Did he want a real woman, or did he mourn the loss of perfection that must inevitably accompany the melting of stone into mortal flesh?
What happens to the artist when her masterpiece grows up, moves on, and leaves? It’s unfair to ask the gods for the whisper of life, then pray she never uses it.
I am not Pygmalion. There are no gods waiting to transform my Galatea from Borg drone to winsome perfection.
Seven is flawed, as am I. We are imperfect beings trying to shape order from the chaos of life.
I am not Goddess or Queen or Mother. I will not play god. I will not force her into a static representation of my dreams. I will let her develop, even if it means she will eventually grow in a direction that takes her away from me.
If that happens, I will survive. I am a Starfleet captain.
I will adapt.
End