The Dress

Janeway looked at the elaborate garment that was carefully laid out on her bed. During the past week of negotiations with the Kedzians, she had seen a number of the humanoid aliens in their own variations of the complex dress, though she hadn't studied it closely. But now they had suggested a formal dinner to seal the alliance and had presented her with the dress, which obviously they expected her to appear in . . .

"Computer," she had asked, "how do you wear this thing?"

"Please rephrase the question."

"Can you tell me what parts of it go on what parts of my body?"

"I can tell you with a 94 percent accuracy," the computer had said. "This is a ceremonial garment, and consequently more complicated than those worn by the Kedzians visiting the ship."

She sat down on the bed and let her fingers glide across a piece of the fabric. It was crimson and very soft. Then there was a black part, satiny smooth and heavy, and five irregularly shaped pieces, stiffer and varying in translucency from nearly sheer to an almost opaque dark grey. She wondered if the Kedzians had chosen the colors to match the red and black of her uniform.

She was pretty certain from her observations and the computer's help that the red piece went on first. She took off the robe she was wearing and stepped into the crimson garment, pulling it up over her breasts. It was tight though not uncomfortable and ended just below her knees.

Just then the door signaled her. "Come in," she called, walking from her bedroom.

The door opened and Seven stood on the threshold. "Captain. You asked me to come here."

"Yes, I was wondering if you could help me with the Kedzian dress. Do you know . . ."

"Species 693. Yes I do." Seven stepped into the room and the door slid closed behind her.

*Species 693* It was strange to hear Seven speak in this way. It unnerved other members of the crew, Janeway knew, but somehow it didn't frighten her. She wasn't sure why.

She remembered the first time she had seen Seven of Nine, fully Borg, and how even then she was not afraid. The fear she should have felt, the fear she had been feeling up to that moment, became something else. An intensity, a heightened awareness, a fascination. Something.

They went into Janeway's bedroom.

"You have the first piece on correctly," said Seven, carefully studying Janeway's body. "Adjusting for the fact that you are built somewhat differently from Species . . . the Kedzians."

Janeway was suddenly aware of her own breasts, now thinly covered by the crimson. The Kedzians were completely flatchested. She found herself wondering about Seven's breasts. Was their size determined by Seven's human DNA, or had the doctor's programming contained his creator's personal preferences?

"These encircle your forearms," said Seven, picking up two silvery things which Janeway hadn't noticed before. Seven held the end of the shimmering fabric to the Captain's wrist with one hand, and wrapped with the other. Janeway could feel the pressure of Seven's thumb holding one end in place as she wrapped the other around her arm.

Janeway remembered the first time she saw Seven of Nine. It wasn't her breasts she had noticed then, but her lips, and her confidence. The confidence of someone who is never alone? The confidence of an undefeated race?

"This piece is next," said Seven, lifting the smooth black fabric from the bed. "The corner attaches here, and here, and then it is draped across one shoulder . . ."

Janeway took the material from her and followed her directions. This was fun. Dressing with another woman, as she had done with her sister. Except that she and her sister had always fought. Still, she really missed her.

She knew Seven was lonely, deeply lonely, and she had tried hard to provide some relief, to make the loss of the Collective bearable. Janeway knew what it was like to be lonely, though of course ordinary human loneliness must be different, easier to tolerate.

But in spite of her loneliness, Seven still had so much of the confident manner that she had had as a Borg. And the lips, the same lips, the same shape anyway, for now they were warm and human looking . . .

Seven took the largest of the translucent panels, and attached it at the Captain's left wrist, the shoulder, the waist. It fell in soft folds. Janeway could feel Seven's fingers through the fabric as they arranged and fastened the material.

She remembered the first time she touched Seven, when Seven, in her despair, struck out at her, and then collapsed. Janeway had caught her, half-dragged her, half-carried her to the seat at the side of the cell. And she had held her arms around Seven then, as if she could physically hold on to her, keep her on the ship, make her want to be human.

There were two more sheer pieces and then the last, which was so fine that it was nearly transparent. Seven placed it over the Captain's hair, arranging it in a soft loop. "It tucks in beneath the black." Seven said. Her fingers brushed Janeway's neck and then her collarbone and then just below the collarbone.

Janeway shuddered very slightly at the touch. She looked down at Seven's hand; it was her right hand, her human hand, and for a second Janeway was surprised, because the touch of Seven's fingers felt different . . .

Felt different. The fingers had stopped moving and rested, very lightly, on the skin above Janeway's left breast. Seven looked at Janeway's face, at first with curiosity, and then with a pleased smile.

Janeway felt her own face go warm. For a second she was almost annoyed, as if someone had read her mind without her permission. But of course she had asked Seven to help her, to touch her. And Seven didn't need telepathy to read physical changes: pulse, respiration, galvanic skin response--or to decide what they meant.

"Thank you," said Janeway, pulling away. "If that's okay, I'd probably better be on my way to the dinner." She walked to the mirror, her clothing rustling slightly. She looked at herself. The dress was strangely elegant. The black and grey material had covered up all but a thin sliver of the crimson. Her face was flushed. Seven stood several meters behind her, smiling.

"Red suits you," said Seven.

***

The Kedzians were clearly pleased that she had worn the dress, and the dinner went well. After the food, there were several speeches and ritual recitations, but Janeway was glad to find that nothing was required of her other than her apparent attention. She was having trouble keeping her mind on the Kedzian epic poetry. She was having trouble not thinking of Seven. Of Seven's touch. Of Seven's knowledge of how that touch had affected her.

It's just been too long, she tried to tell herself, but she knew it was more than that. Seven intrigued her. He intelligence, her loneliness, her beauty. And that smile, when she had realized that Janeway returned her desire: the smile of someone who had found something amazing and precious. As soon as was diplomatic, Janeway and Tuvok thanked the Kedzians and beamed back to Voyager. Janeway returned to her quarters. She was considering going to the holodeck, for exercise, or a novel. She felt restless.

As soon as she was through her door, she pushed back the sheer grey headdress and ran her fingers through her hair. The lights came up gradually and she realized that there was someone else in the room. It was Seven.

"I thought you might need help removing the Kedzian garments," said Seven, standing.

As Janeway looked at Seven she could feel the path that the other woman's fingers had traced on her skin. She imagined Seven undressing her . . .