The Admiral Loves Seven, part 2

The Captain Loves Seven

We are successful.

The black space which surrounds my ship should be familiar space.

The stars; the wormholes; the comets; the planets; I should recognise them all. Their colours and bariolé textures should fill my heart with a quiet joy which threatens to spill over.

They do none of this.

Though I share in the joy of my crew; I smile and I laugh. I even cry a little. But the laughter does not reach my eyes and the tears do not reach my mouth.

All is not lost. I am relieved to have delivered my crew unto their salvation.

Almost.

We arrive amid many tears and much rejoicing. Chakotay and I stand side by side on the Bridge. When the brass contact us they ignore him. He smiles at Seven and I watch her baulk. Rather symbolically the embryonic Miral enters forth into this new world. Rather ironically I know her name before her parents even bestow it upon her. Rather ironically this new arrival signifies the death of so much more.

I dock Voyager at DS9. Complete the rotation of the circle. The Admiral's journey has not been for naught. I already feel too old to spin endlessly after another. Even myself.

The welcoming parties soon come unto us. Even the stiff-necked Brass, whom I had expected to order an immediate return to Earth. Their failure to do so tells me much. Only when I know all I need to about Earth's situation will I allow my vessel home. Will I finally have delivered my crew safely home. Only when I know it is safe. It is a bitter sweet First Contact.

I hold Seven's hand as we disembarked. Though I never intended to. But amid the chaos that greeted us; a see of faces and mouths, all animated with their particular nuance of interrogation; I knew she would need an anchor.

So I grazed my fingertips lightly across her knuckles, and was rewarded with the delicious feeling of her hand grasping mine.

As I marched through the mass of mouths and the particular nuances that flew all around us; marched as though I were leading my crew to battle; my Seven's meshed webbing was flush and tight against my own skin. Cool yet yielding. My very own ice queen, with a steadily burning heart. My own source of perverse strength. My own very necessary anchor in this chaos.

As we neared the end of the seething corridor of human flesh, I felt her shudder beside me, press closer into my body, edge further away from those mouths and their ever particular nuances. I felt her search me out as a point of calm in confusion; as the centre of the hurricane I guessed she must be experiencing. Her one calm voice amid chaos. Her Queen.

I took strength from that fact too.

Through the celebration that followed, where the nuances became clearer, became peculiar, where the faces and mouths were whittled down to mere tens; I took strength from the memory of her mesh against me.

And much later, when the nuances came out from the shadows; when the whispering and the politicking began in earnest; when I was shocked by the new face of a Federation still counting it's war dead; when I eventually returned home to the cornfields of Indiana and the bosom of my family - then I had more to give me strength.

But now, now, there were the eyes of the 'Fleet brass upon me. Watching the little maverick captain and her mismatched crew as they entered their new world. Watched Chakotay and I charm a mostly adoring press; watched Seven and I charm the hostile factions.

The eyes of Chakotay watched Seven pathetically. Watched me darkly. Watched Tom and B'Elanna enviously. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Until his face hardened and he began to charm Admiral Necheyev. I am sure if I stood close enough I would have heard the tired and familiar words of a Native legend. As tired and familiar as the man himself. Almost the most satisfaction I got that first night was watching the Admiral's nose slowly wrinkle into a sneer while he carried on oblivious. I smiled grimly into my orange juice as I made the right sympathetic noises in the direction of a smug young captain who regales me with his war tales.

I cease to listen to the man. I have battled for every inch of deck-plating on my vessel; fought a macro virus; on occasion fought for the souls of my crew. I watch his lips moving as though they are filtered through water; slow and heavy. I feel my mouth smile, my head nod. I think I even manage a few uncommitted words.

But I am watching Necheyev carefully. I soon realise a few carefully chosen words in the direction of a carefully chosen Admiral and I will have a staunch ally. And with a history of tenuous decisions; the odd mismanaged personal crusade; not to mention those demotions; I needed an ally.

The Board of Enquiry beckons. I have been preparing my defence for years but it is now imperative. An ally as brusque as Necheyev can only be beneficial. Of course Chakotay will win his own command; even his monumental bad judgement cannot jeopardise that . A Federation so much more than decimated can not afford to overlook personnel. But the man will never know how much easier he just made my path. And I regretted that.

Seven is watching too, her eyes wide, her smile fixed and a little stony. She has found an ally in the Doctor, and as much possible they hang close to the walls. No chance of sneaky attacks from behind. Strength in numbers. Two freaks are less vulnerable than one.

They need not worry, for I will protect them. My Seven because I love her. Because I already hate the woman I am without her. Because I despise time travel and refuse to contemplate it in my seventies. The Doctor because I owe him much. Because he has rescued my insides from too many alien worlds, and laser scalpeled them all back together. Because there is a part of his acerbity I dearly adore. Because Seven will certainly die without his expertise.

Seven watches. Once her dammed eidetic memory would have recorded the evening in perfect utilitarian clarity. Once she would not have flinched when a drunk ensign bumped the buffet table. Once she would never have blushed when the chief con officer of DS9 stared frankly at her breasts. Once I would never have been able to ghost my fingers across her exoplated abdomen and watch the hue of her eyes brighten. Once was not now. The future had already changed. I owed myself a great debt. I don't examine that one too closely.

And I watch it all. Ever the maternal parody. I push B'Elanna in the direction of chief O'Brian, and watch as Tom charms Keiko. Once a 'Fleet brat, always a 'fleet brat. He has watched his parents too often to fall short of what is needed. Two children hover by Keiko's shapely legs; one delicate and willowy, the other rolling and robust. Both learn to be a new generation of brat.

Major Kira Nerys and Tuvok acknowledge one another; watching the other watching the other, assessing the threats. I take special care to keep certain individuals away from Ezri Dax, though soon she has found the Wildmans and is happy lavishing her text book concern and compassion to the precocious child born in the vacuum of space and time. I nod and smile to the right individuals. I discern the factions within the elite. Thank whatever powers that be, that the chief MO is a friend of Necheyev's; that he is an old academy acquaintance. I lure him onto a balcony and spend an unexpectedly distasteful twenty minutes smiling bashfully over my glass, curving my body into his, dropping the start of a paper-chase that will lead him right into my hand.

Picard is standing with Necheyev when we re-enter the throng. Perhaps it is time to contact another old academy acquaintance, who just happens to be Picard's number two. In a universe so vast, random coincidence is more than likely.

Admiral Paris hovers in the centre of the room; talking to insignificant people. I see he has not defined his allegiance. He is older than most others. He is a new grandfather. He is danger of being sidelined. I smile sweetly at him. I try to remind him of the precocious cadet so many years ago. I try to remind him of my father, of family and of loyalty. In the face of tiny Miral it is easy. I lead him toward the chief MO and stay long enough to assure Paris is not going to wander into any dangerous territory. Picard joins them and soon laughter and talk abound. My head is starting to pound.

Necheyev is watching me. Her face is blank, expressionless, but she nods to me. Acknowledges my moves. Appreciates my understandings of the peculiar nuances.

I have no clear idea in which direction the factions wish to move the Federation. But I can guess. I hear of the Breen attack on Earth. I hear of beaurocrats shaken and maimed. Whispers of isolationism; of retreat; of time to heal the wounds. I see admiral Ross with a coterie of desk huggers. I hear of his behind lines negotiating; of his distaste for the necessary callousness of war. I hear of his hardening towards the end; a new found belligerence; of his agreement to the final bloody push. I hear the tiniest whisper of his leave-of-absence after the end of the war. I hear no talk of a breakdown. But when Necheyev glances at him she is clearly disgusted. It is enough; she has never tolerated weakness.

I acknowledge her acknowledgment. It would not do to be overt. But the tight coil of tension in my stomach relaxes a little. I am a very valuable asset. A highly competent captain, alive and mostly well. Necheyev will go home tonight; tomorrow she will begin to analyse my mission logs. She will learn about a woman highly skilled in diplomacy; a woman not afraid of the universe; a legend in her own time.

Tuvok and the Doctor have helped me temper my image. By tacit agreement we have smoothed out the creases in my profile. Tuvok because he knows it is not logical to allow the image of his friend to be marred by one or twenty-two abreactions. The Doctor because he is smart enough to know without me he is photonic toast. Cleaning plasma conduits before he can say Louis Zimmerman.

We do not make me a saint. The Federation does not need saints.

But I can convince the necessary people they need me. The Federation does need a skilled Vulcan security officer with seven years front line experience. We two will convince them they need a skilled doctor and xeno-physician, and a skilled astrophysicist and military tactician. And if they happen to come in the form of a hologram and a stunning ex-Borg, it will matter not.

The evening ends at oh three hundred hours and my mouth tastes foul. The natives begin to trickle away, melting into the habitation rings that encircle the central hub of DS9. We must all trip lightly back to Voyager, still aliens in our own home; not yet debriefed and desensitised. I see Chakotay hovering; presumably right where Admiral Necheyev left him. His eyes are still upon Seven. Seven's eyes are bright blue and resting upon me. I cannot help but smile at her. I cannot help but extricate myself from the attentive chief of staff and sashay toward her; revelling in the fact I know my dress uniform hugs just all the right places. I cannot help but become aroused at the sight of her.

I lay my hand upon her arm and feel her pliant warmth beneath my palm. Were it not for the pixelated eyes of the Doctor upon me I would close my eyes and let the world cease. Yet things being as they are I reassure the good man of his safety and dismiss him to the haven of the central processor. I turn our backs on the moulding eyes of the Big Indian and slip my arm though hers. I contact Tuvok. He contacts the colonel. In five minutes we have a room aboard the station. I will not be a stranger in my own lands.

Within ten minutes I am downing my third whiskey. That which I dared not drink throughout the function while I needed my eyes and my acumen.

Within fifteen minutes I have ceased to watch, to plot and to analyse. Instead I let the gloriously smoky alcohol wind its way through my veins and lower my shields. I let the clouds descend over my mind and dull the now painful headache.

I feel a little lost here. On Voyager I would likely be helping Seven locate the nearest source of whatever vital stock we had depleted. Or sparking with B'Elanna, discerning the latest alien technological quandary. Trade negotiations. Tactical simulations. Crew evaluations. Bridge duty. Basic maintenance. Always something to keep me busy. Even when relaxing I keep one ear on my ship.

Now I have nothing to do. Nothing tangible. There is only a mess of politics and personalities in front of me. And with every key player in bed I cannot continue to exert my influence.

I laugh out loud. At least not in any manner recognised by the brass.

I am drained. Tired. Restless.

I drink more whiskey. Eventually I must have drunk enough to allow me sleep.

My Seven stands by the grey Cardassian bulkhead, her shapely body illuminated by static starlight. I am wet for the thought of her.

She seems confident, and yet serene. No arrogance and no edges. Not with me. Not now.

"Get rid of that damn biosuit." I command gravely. In a voice that I still know is sexy. A voice I know few can resist. A voice I no longer resist.

I am almost home.

Seven loves the Captain

I hear her voice direct me, and I shiver. But the action is not cold. It is not fear. It is not ice.

It is ardent. It is warm in my stomach. Nauseating. Reminiscent of Omega.

I regard her with mulish eyes, but as ever I submit. Her uniform jacket is discarded on a chair and my eyes are drawn to the swell of her breasts. The left breast is bigger than the right. This seems somehow perfect. I do not try and discern their ratio; though I know I could. Instead I experience salivation. It is an odd experience, briefly alleviated by the process of swallowing. My body aches to be near her. My hands shake as I remove the fabric which hugs my own figure.

I have not yet decided I truly enjoy emotions.

My sweet Kathryn raises herself to her feet. Arms straining against the chair. Feet unsteady. There are lines around her face. She is tired. She is a little drunk. She makes her way to the replicator and rests against it.

I soon stand naked.

From the opposite wall she surveys me. Turns to the replicator. Peruses it. Surveys me again.

I feel awkward. Many millennia ago the Borg observed that Bipedal species place a disproportionate emphasis upon clothing. We did not ridicule them for this predilection, for we are Borg, and Borg do not need to gain strength from the humiliation of others. But we were amused. In our own way.

Now I understand that predilection. As my flesh goosepimples in the Federation standard temperature atmosphere. As I observe my stark whiteness against the dark room. As I flex my toes against the synthetic wool carpet. As I know I can hurt and bleed. I feel vulnerable.

As I discern the exact composition of the carpet I know I could perfect it. The polymer is vulnerable to extremes of temperature; in fire it will melt; in the vacuum of space it will shatter. There is an element on the fifth moon of planetary system 793 which would solve these difficulties.

Planetary system 793 is twelve thousand light years away. I am no longer Borg. I cannot prefect this carpet.

I am small.

I am weak.

The cycle of impulse and fear returns. I long to act. To speak, or to scream. To walk toward her, or even away. To do something, to be someone. But fear of judgement. Of her rejection. Fear of fear itself impales me.

Then I look upon her face; tired eyes and flushed cheeks; her lips parted, with tantalising glimpses of her deep and wet mouth. Then I no longer feel afraid. For at this moment she is as lost as I.

And I begin to understand a little of the paradox of humanity. That two misshapen misfits can be prefect geometry together. Like one of Naomi's jigsaws. For tonight at least, she and I are vulnerable apart. Together we are strong. For the Borg two vulnerables are a damming indictment. An entity or being, a community or a star system, which is doubly vulnerable, is truly unworthy.

There is much the Borg do not know.

Kathryn's chest is heaving. Her face is flushed; ruddy and dramatic. She holds her stomach and diaphragm tense; breathes only with her lungs. She looks nothing like the romantic heroines of her tawdry novels.

I remain fascinated by her breasts. I remember their shape. I remember them encased in white silk. I struggle to imagine them bare.

Visual imagination is a concept I have not yet mastered. I can imagine this universe a million different ways; I know of three hundred and fifteen other realities; but I cannot fantasise about the naked flesh of one woman. A woman who holds my life in her hands. A woman I do not fear.

There is much I do not know. This ex-Borg. There is something not right here. Kathryn is too silent. She is brooding. I think.

Her eyes are cloudy. Unfocused. Expressionless. I yearn to understand her. To be able to offer her comfort.

There is an edge to her expression, something hard and unyielding, which she strives to hide.

I understand more about humanity.

I can see that part of her would dearly love to break me. To abuse and hurt me. To leave me disempowered and broken. A part of her is like the Borg. In method if not in motive.

But as soon as it was there the hardness has vanished.

I contemplate this for several moments. I think about her nature; about it's conflicting manifestations.

Perhaps she was right last night; my two natures are not so irreconcilable. Perhaps all humans have two natures. Always in conflict. Always in dialogue.

Her nipples are tight. Straining against the material of her shirt. She is not wearing a bra. This knowledge causes me to salivate again.

Her hands hold a selection of garments, which she proffers to me. I walk to meet her, maintaining the silence of the night. I am unsurprised when she begins to dress me. Directing me with nudges and half gestures which I must interpret. I am unsurprised that she takes care not to touch me.

It would surprise her if I uttered the word for what she is avoiding. Grope.

I would surprise her if I told her I knew what she was really avoiding. Intimacy.

I would surprise her if I told her I understood her fear.

I do none of these things.

Instead I move to kiss the skin of her neck, and her body slinks into mine. She sighs and hums as I touch my mouth to her flesh. I learn her contours and her scent. I secrete lubrication and my body prepares for intercourse.

She continues to garb me and we negotiate a good natured battle. There is laughter, and smiling. Jovial remonstrances and the sound of her voice, rasping against my ear.

Our breathing is heavy and our unique scents tangible when she eventually pulls us apart; I suspect this means neither of us won. Though her dancing eyes tell me perhaps we both did.

She takes me by the hand and leads me into the bedroom. Her shoulders are relaxed; her body sways; and her natural power excites me.

We pause in front of a mirror and I watch her blue eyes criticise us. I cannot know what she is thinking; but her body is still warm and pulsing next to mine. And with the connection I do not care that she is utterly separate. Strangely I only love her the more. I feel satisfaction that her eyes are no longer sad. That there is expression in her eyes.

Though I still do not understand it.

She undresses. Naturally. No grand gestures, no ceremony nor pomp.

Eroticism untold.

She slips beneath the covers and her curves emerge through Starfleet blankets. She smiles gratefully as I lay a hand upon her hip and sit on the bed; watching as she falls asleep.

She is delicate in sleep. It feels perfect. The Borg search for Perfection. For a single tangible goal. Staring down at her still lashes I realise for the first time that this goal is folly. Perfection is layered, multifaceted. Like a class V nebula. Perfection is a malleable concept; only those that can change can know perfection.

I had thought the only true goal in my life was to experience Omega. Now I have new goals. New perfections to achieve.

My emotions have opened a new world to me. Her lashes flutter in sleep and her body twitches and flexes. The white flesh of her left breast is partly visible. I read out a hand to caress it, but there is a coil of fear and apprehension in my stomach. I feel nauseous. My heart races. For a moment it almost feels as though it has stopped; then it hammers twice as hard against my ribs. I feel weak. Faint. My breathing is quick and short.

I snatch my hand away and return my bio-signs to their normal levels. The woman lying within arms reach upsets my natural balance. Circumvents my self control. Chakotay never has.

I run my left hand over the black woollen jumper I am wearing and I think I understand us.

I will protect her in sleep; in the quiet and the silence. In the cold analysis and the mechanisms. In the ice of her heart she only admits when weak.

I can do this because she believes I will leave one day. Because she believes she is truly unacceptable; that everyone leaves one way or another. Because she cannot know I will never hurt her; that I desire to lead her away from Tau Ceti Prime. Because she does not know that I can understand subtlety and nuance; that one day we will be more than stoppers for the negative

But for now, she will protect me. In the sun. In the warmth and the battles I still fear. Through the inevitable fire of Chakotay's jealousy. Through the gradual thawing of my being. Through the seasons of Earth. One day she will not need to cling to my ice. One day I will have no ice.

Her past and my future.

She will clothe me yet, for many years to come.

The Captain Loves Seven

When I awake the next morning we are still in the Alpha Quadrant. Seven is still seated on my bed. Her hair is still loose around her shoulders. She still looks angelic.

"Good morning." I offer, my voice a little rusty from sleep, as I sit up and push my hair from my eyes. She regards me with soft eyes, and I know I return the gesture.

I smile openly at her, cocking my head and quirking an eyebrow. She correctly reads the invitation and leans forward to kiss me. A simple gesture, amid confusion and uncertainty. It is an affirmation I dearly needed; the foul taste of the evening vanishes in an instant. Her skin is soft and smooth where my fingers play against a flush of cheek. Her blue eyes are full of an emotion I cannot identify; but it is heady; it is intense; it is directed at me. I bury my face in her hair.

She smells clean. Almost sanitised and her hair is silky. Long, heavy locks, like the princesses of childhood fairy tales.

She wraps her arms around my back and I find myself encased within her, snuggled against the soft wool of her jumper.

"A good morning indeed." She proffers dryly, making a clumsy attempt at humour with a well worn joke.

But from her lips it is almost new again. I pull my body closer and she tightens her grip on me. It is rare I offer this level of intimacy to my bed mates; never to those who have never been a bed mate.

Many things are new with my Seven.

It is a good morning indeed.

It is until I dress. Until I struggle to eat breakfast. No appetite. The deep, echoing apathy is present once again. Echoes of the dog days.

I spend most of the morning with colonel Kira Nerys. In the light of day those familiar places I could not recognise last night, have not changed. They are still wrong; distorted. Distractedly I notice that the colonel's body is lean and supple. And were all things equal I might have considered a dalliance with her. Instead I review the Federation database from the privacy of her office. My estimation of her increases ten fold when a Bajoran officer brings me a cup of strong black coffee. But it does not improve my mood.

I almost growl when she enters her office.

The colonel is polite, possibly even friendly, but she is not overly keen to talk to me. I find her profile in the database and review it. Ex resistance fighter. No wonder she and Tuvok gravitated together, recognising qualities in the other.

I give her up as a bad job, and make my way to the office of Ezri Dax. In the guise of an acclimatisation session I gleam all the data I can from her. Which is little beyond hearsay. She is a sweet child. But only a child. A fresh faced wonder with the lives of so many behind her. Too new to her current flesh to give me the answers I seek. But she gives me names.

I cannot help but smile as I leave the room. I have lost none of my edge, none of the qualities which make me adored and hated in equal measure. I leave with brownie points on my psych profile and the name of Elim Garak to pursue.

By the end of the day I have heard too much. Or perhaps not enough. The monotone grey is making me cold. Not what I am leaning about the new reality of 'home'. Just architecture. I can change that. Architecture is a malleable thing.

I return to my quarters. Their very presence is a double edged sword. I already feel nostalgic. I do not wish to lose the tentative life I began building on Voyager. Despite the welcome relief from the hard Cardassian architecture, the rooms seem a little empty. Perhaps it is no wonder. Three days ago they housed the admiral and myself. Two days ago it was Seven and myself. Last night my darling watched over me as I slept. Now I am alone.

It is a state I dislike.

A state I should not be feeling.

Not here in the vastness of home. In the Delta Quadrant I was never alone. When I slept the gentle mechanics of my ship sang lullabies. Like B'Elanna I woke at a change in the equilibrium. My duty and my passion kept close company in the vastness of space. And they were enough. When I contemplated life with Chakotay is was necessity only. When I fucked Kashyk it was duty. Though the latter was eminently more pleasurable than the former. Never have I been so glad to hear the voice of my oldest friend as when we were pulled from New Earth. I was having nightmares about tomato plants. Bathtubs and boats filled with the darned things.

But now Voyager is not the only company of man. There are billions of us, swarming around the quadrant. And my ship is silent, her engines powered down. I pat her gently. "Never mind old girl. You've served us well. Time for a rest." I assure.

She does not respond.

And in this mass and this silence duty is no longer enough; and my passion is no longer directed toward an intangible goal. But toward a very tangible ex-Borg who is not here.

I replicate a whisky and realise I am drinking too much, too often. I glance at the amber liquid in the glass and scoff at my own concerns. I no longer have a starship to nanny home, and if I want to be drunk, I shall be.

Seven does not come to me. She is not aboard the vessel. When I sleep it is fitful; dosing on the grey couch. I wake in the early morning, shivering and cold; filled with an irrational dread. I fear Seven has left me. Left the ship and the station; vanished into the vastness of the universe. My heart is pounding in my chest as I struggle to my feet and then to bed.

I feel unwell.

I fear.

I awake again at o-five hundred hours. I am still shivering. Within half an hour I have replicated a hot water bottle. It's warmth is comforting, and I pass into untroubled sleep. I awake three hours later. Seven is not with me, and I miss her presence dreadfully.

I dress in my uniform. A new style; cumbersome and unflattering. I yearn for the simplicity of the delta quadrant. Where my universe was constrained by external bulkheads; my uniform was light and functional; Seven always at my side.

I do not eat breakfast, but I begin my day. I learn much.

I learn Elim Garak is a sanctimonious Cardassian; who nonetheless knows a great deal. I learn Earth is as I left it, physically at least. I learn Necheyev is in line for the Federation presidency. The Vulcan High Command is at it's most open and progressive. The Romulans are at their most secretive. That these two extremes are not unrelated.

I learn of the Dominion and one Changeling's mission to reform a species predisposed toward genocide of solids. I learn of extra-dimensional beings in the wormhole. It is of little comfort that the latter reality seems to reassure many people of their safety.

I learn that the Klingons and Cardassians are almost fatally devastated. I learn the with the right guidance Earth and Vulcan could mould a new alpha quadrant; one stronger and more united than the last.

I review this data over a chicken sandwich, which seems dry and tasteless. I cannot finish it.

The vision is achievable. The Cardassians are demoralised by their treatment at the hands of the dominion; they are led by a man whose standing in the Federation has been tested and proven. They need aid; restructuring programs; direction and guidance. A humanitarian job the Federation could do with it's eyes shut.

The Klingons too are led by sympathetic men. They are not morally devastated; indeed they are proud to be so few; they have fought long and hard in the defence of the alpha quadrant. Songs are written and blood wine flows free; they will not turn their back on the Federation; on their new apocalyptic age.

It would be cynical to suggest that the Vulcans can tackle the pathologically paranoid Tal Sh'yar while the Terrans continue to build bridges with Romulan senators. It would be terribly cynical. It would be a use of resources not unknown to Tuvok and myself. Interplanetary relationship at their very best. Pure manipulation. A perfectly choreographed dance. But terribly, terribly cynical.

I place the padd I have finished reading on my coffee table and survey the clutter with dead eyes. This is not the quadrant I fought tooth and nail to return home to; it is not the quadrant daddy lost his life trying to preserve. I am saddened, and I feel the familiar voices of depression pulling at my mind. I feel the regrets and the doubts begin to crowd in. I wonder if the last two days have been badly misspent. I wonder if all this intelligence gathering will be of any use. I wonder if instead I should have spent them with Seven. My heart breaks when I remember her absence.

The computer locates her for me. She is aboard our vessel. She has been aboard for over twelve hours.

She did not come to me.

I hail her. Perhaps I am imagining the relief in her voice. Relief which mirrors my own. And not a little joy. I could be imagining it, but think not. She trips lightly to my cabin, dressed in a pencil line skirt and a red jumper. The effect is breathtaking.

She reminds me of the woman who tended books at Indiana state library. She reminds me of knowledge and of innocence. Unwittingly she reminds me of home. I lean against my doorway and she enters my quarters. The room is bright again. Right again. I draw a slow and steady eye along her body. I do not hide my appraisal and she does not hide her pride. I smile at her as the doors to my cabin slide shut and block out the rest of this milling quadrant.

Suddenly it is only her and I. It is only the air and clothing between us.

I approach her and run a hand along the back of her thigh. She is wearing pale tights and the feel of my hand against the fabric is distracting. I cup her buttocks and stare at her delicate face. Unmasked by make-up or deceit.

My ever innocent child.

My child with an interlink node and assimilation tubules.

I trace as many implants as I can find; learning their textures and nuances, kissing and tonguing the metal. She tastes better than I could ever have imagined. Tangy. Edgy. The hint of death resting in every crevice. I am aroused. So very aroused. I briefly let her touch me. Assuage my burning heat.

But I still feel on edge. Only mildly less disconcerted than minutes earlier and unsatisfied with it all I push her away.

She does not speak but her eyes flash with confusion and hurt.

I do not know what to say to her. I do not know how to give voice to my shadowy fears and doubts. Everything seems half formed. Embryonic, unable to take true form or shape. Unnameable. I cannot fight the intangible. I cannot fight my dogged self.

We have barely spoken in two days. Now we are afraid to break the silence. The silence which the echoing void of the Alpha Quadrant has forced upon us.

I smile weakly at her. She returns the gesture; relief palpable. Relief and joy at this tiny gesture of conciliation and apology. It is my fault we have not seen each other for over seventeen hours. I must take greater care to remember I am the strong one here.

Even if it doesn't feel like it.

I take her hand in my own and we sit in silence on the couch.

I feel heavy and bleak. There are few thoughts.

She seems content enough, and for this I am glad.

Perhaps it is best she sees this side of me now. Perhaps it is best I remind her of the weak and dismal me. The frightened child who locks herself away when the world becomes too much. Perhaps it is best I allow her a reason to walk away. Now she has a quadrant of lovers to chose from.

Though I would die if she left. I would become an embittered woman. I would repeat history. Tonight I am powerless. If she wished to leave, I would let her. Begin a new circle of loss and regret.

There are faint remembrances of our date, hovering in the air; insinuating into my mind. Remembrances of when I was passionate and fiery. When I fought for her. When I excited her.

Though they make no difference.

At twenty three hundred hours my communications console chirps, breaks into the silence and forces me to speak.

Almost the last thing I learn that day is that my mother sold my house in San Francisco when Voyager was listed as officially missing. When I was presumed dead. My possessions are gone too. My bedroom at home is no more. I learn she expects me to 'come home'. To return to the cornfields and conventions.

As I close the link the disquiet within me grows. I stand silent in front of the terminal and dare not move. I feel fragile and bitter. Cheated by the universe. All I had hoped for; all I had imagined and dared to dream in moments of weakness and sorrow is no more. Or maybe it never was. Maybe the human tendency to romanticise and misremember has weaved its wicked spell once again.

I close my eyes and feel tears begin to well up within me. I can clearly imagine this quadrant in another thirty years time. It will not have changed. I imagine the admiral returning to this desolation with those thirty years sitting hard. More years grief and solitude under her Starfleet standard waistband. I image the permanent absence and death of Seven. I imagine the struggle of the sad little maverick captain as she builds a life she barely desires in a world she does not want to recognise. And I think I finally understand her.

I hope I never become her.

With the tentative touch of porcelain hands on my shoulders, I begin to cry in earnest. I weep because I was scared as anyone. Because it is only now I have the space and time to grieve. I weep for the dead; for the disappointment of so many living. I weep because I am scared. Because the only thing I recognise in my universe is the sight and smell of the woman holding me awkwardly. Who does not truly understand why I am crying but cares enough to soothe me.

The realisation that she is the only living being to truly care about my future, does not sadden me. Though it should.

Seven strokes lightly at my back, a gesture so human. Designed to convey and receive comfort, so alien to the Borg. I feel the long slow caress in every fibre of my being and in this I know I can never become the admiral.

The bitter and twisted woman who arrived aboard this ship will never have cause to be. I have looked the best and worst of myself full in the face. I have seen my deepest fear realised. I have been as vulnerable as it is ever possible to be.

I have the choices the admiral never had.

Choices.

So I turn my face to her, and speak her name into the darkened cabin. I let the syllables be almost a breath. Almost a benediction and a prayer. In just the way I know I can sound.

I lift my face and kiss her. Full open mouth kisses that rob me of my breath and my legs. That begin to heal the pain of so many years. I lead by example. I let her know what I like by kissing her just that way. I nibble at her lips; run my fingers over her face; dot feather kisses along her jaw and neck. By dint of experimentation I learn she enjoys the feel of my hands tangled in the hair at the base of her neck.

I can imagine the pain as I do so; the hundreds of tiny pricks as I exert a careful pressure. Though I imagine even her hair follicles are enhanced, and were I to yank at them, to pull hard, to try and damage her; I would fail.

She enjoys it when I run the tip of my tongue across her skin. Any skin. She shudders as I run it over each closed eyelid.

I realise again it is my fault we have been apart. It is my fault we have been in silence. I have a new responsibility. A greater one. Even though I did not ask for it, I am responsible for this creature who is kissing me. Though I did not ask for her love she has given it to me, freely and willingly.

And though we are still unsure, I have hope we will prevail.

Resistance is futile.

I hold her face in my hands and smile lazily at her, absorbing the vision of her in this place.

I will take her back to the childhood house. To the cornfields and the conventions.

It feels too grandiose to claim she is home to me now.

So I hide from the truth just a little longer. But as I replicate us a meal, and my tongue explodes with the intensity of flavour, I know it is true.

As we retire to the bedroom and I gently rebut her attempts to seduce me; as I implore her to sleep; as I place timid, gentle kisses to her forehead and hair, I know it is true.

I think of the admiral. I remember her demands for truth. I glance at the blonde hair which shares my pillow and vow to always remember.

Seven is home to me now. And both of I knew it along time ago. Though it took the fracturing of space and time to make me realise it.

***

The third day we rise again.

Together. How we became this vital to each other I do not know. I remember the way Chakotay made her feel claustrophobic. I must remember to ensure I am not repeating his mistakes. Even though there is a part of me that fears to ask. That fears to know the truth.

As we dress; as she casts furtive glances at my body; she seems tense and nervous. Before I can ask her about it, admiral Necheyev summons me. She is aboard the Flagship and we meet in Picard's office.

I smile at Will Riker as I pass through the bridge. He regards me with respect and sympathy. Apparently it is not every captain who gets summoned to a private meeting with the next Fed Pres.

I run my hands over my hair, straighten my uniform and press the door chime.

The room smells of Starfleet. I had almost forgotten that smell; a pristine scent of newness; a smell of order and efficiency. Of privilege. Of my childhood - in part. The faint technological tang that comes from well functioning machines. From the starship which has always undergone its maintenance overhaul in a Federation shipyard. From the personnel who operate the well functioning starship. A scent Voyager lost somewhere in her second week, when the feisty Klingon took over my engine rooms.

It is at once a shock and an immense comfort.

Necheyev is seated at the desk, hands resting unassumingly on the durable plastic desk. She looks old. Grey streaks are prominent in her hair. Her eyes are drawn and weary. In the subdued lighting of our home coming I did not notice.

She presents me with a coffee and watches me intently. I sip it as I take the seat offered to me. The drink is weak, milky and has been sugared. It is the worst coffee I have ever tasted. And considering I have drunk Neelix's Even-Better-Than-Coffee-Substitute, it is saying a lot.

Though of course I say nothing. I do not believe my face reveals anything.

The Admiral's mouth tightens.

"You're quite a problem Janeway." She tells me bluntly, regarding me with cool eyes.

I quirk an eyebrow, keep my face neutral, "I've been called much worse." I tell her; placid; calm.

As she is more than aware. She has spent the last two days reading my logs. As have seven other individuals. Tuvok has their names.

We both know this. Neither of us speak this.

But the unspoken words hover between us. Neither of us give an inch, and I take another sip of the dishwater masquerading as coffee. Her eyes narrow.

I do not understand the game she is playing. I have never been comfortable with the politics of the upper echelons. I have never really had cause to encounter them until now. But I approach the interview as I would any other negotiation; keeping my cards close to my chest until I know exactly with whom I am dealing.

"I'm sure you have." She eventually returns in clipped tones. "Voyager is being taken out of commission. I can offer you two positions." She continues, cutting quickly to the chase. Or at least to the overt purpose of this meeting. It occurs to me that I may have missed something along the way. Though exactly where escapes me. I have only been in the room for three minutes.

"Both are promotions to the rank of Admiral. I need a new head of the Military Division, someone with your experience would be invaluable. You may as well know I intend to recruit several of your crew members into the division. You would be working closely with those whom you are familiar with."

She pauses and waits for my reaction. I do not give her one. Instead I sip again at the drink. It is now lukewarm, cooled by the milk. This does nothing to improve its palatability. The fact I keep drinking it seems to annoy her.

"Or?" I prompt, taking a mouthful of the liquid.

Here she pauses, tilts her blonde head to one side, purses her lips. "I need someone to monitor the political situations of all Alpha Quadrant races."

She pauses again, and still I do not give a reaction. Not a visible one. Though I am shocked. This is a new position. It did not exist when I left for the Badlands seven years ago. Not officially. Not beyond the shadowy limits of Section 31.

"We have the necessary personnel in key positions; I have a representative within the Obsidian Order; the Klingon High Council; the Bajoran Council of First Ministers; and within the ruling elite of most minor Planets. But I need someone I can trust to keep a firm guiding hand on the tiller. To ensure no subversive elements arise. To authorise necessary action if they do."

Her last sentence is slow and deliberate. She does not break eye contact with me. I understand. All too well.

She pauses again. She speaks of we's and I's. Not of the Federation, not of an institution. This is not the Federation I knew. And it is not a Federation I wish to be a part of. Most definitely not a guiding part.

I sip my coffee and watch her. She watches me and we do not break eye contact. It reminds me of our welcome home party, when we all watched each other and our own backs. I carefully consider the positions she has offered me. Not because I have any intention of accepting them; but lest they shed light upon her motives.

The more I think, the less sense I am able to discern. She speaks of Military strategy; of authoritarianism and ideology. Of the old, old theory that a weapons arsenal guarantees security. A theory so often disproved. She speaks of subversion and assassination; and though I would never be expected to take an active part, she implies torture and humiliation. I can read between the lines. The old cries of 'reasonable action' and 'necessary force'. I have heard stories of the war's frontline. I heard of units never sent relief; of weeks and weeks of fighting; I heard of those who adorned their bodies with trophies of the dead. I heard of the underground trade in war footage. The pornography of violence.

Perhaps this is the new reality of the Federation. I had assumed Necheyev and her pals were bastions of the Federation I left. I now realise the only distinction is degree. Degree of hatred. Degree of distrust. Degrees of paranoia. This knowledge scares me.

"Are those my only options?" I ask, still giving no indication of my reaction. Though I am beginning to simmer.

She shrugs, "I can give you a ship and a crew; but it will be border control work. Supply runs to the outposts; relief work. We do not have the resources for exploration. Your role simply doesn't exist anymore. Your choices are promotion or effective demotion."

I am aghast. Though it is an all too plausible scenario. War always exposes the worst of humanity. All those who feed upon the repression and destruction of others can crawl out of the woodwork and display their pernicious theories free from fear judgement and retribution. Humanity has found itself in this position too many times before. It has always required great faith and courage to rebuild in a proper and fitting manner. But we have always managed it.

Until now.

The Federation has capitulated to it's fears.

I see that now.

I have been on edge since our return. I had thought it was my own apprehensions; well worn and familiar. My unease at losing control. The insecurities of a new love. The ever real threat of depression. The dog days of summer.

But maybe, just maybe, I suspected this.

I know what happens to institutions that are born in fear and hatred. I have fought against the Devore Imperium; Species 8472; The Vidians; The Kazon; countless others. They are terrible, they are vicious, and they are brittle.

I do not wish to be part of this.

It is the only clear thought I have, for my mind is reeling. Anything I ever considered as home has disintegrated.

I put my cup down and stand up. The admiral's eyes follow with interest. They scan my face, presumably still looking for that allusive reaction. Although there is animism in her gaze, which before was cool, polite, disinterested.

"With all due respect Maam," I tell her icily, guessing correctly as she flinches, that she prefers the title 'Sir', "I cannot accept what you have offered me."

Oddly, she does not seem affected by the news. It almost appears it is not news.

"What will you do?" She asks, genuine interest in her voice.

I pause before answering. The feeling I am missing something vital occurs again. "Oh, I have no doubt I will be able to find a suitable position within the fleet." My voice is calm but the inflection is cutting. Dismissing her and all her works.

"You will find the same offers anywhere." She tells me, a note of suppressed triumph in her voice. She thinks she has me cornered.

I shake my head and laugh hollowly. "Then I shall resign my commission." I tell her simply. No histrionics. No tears. Just a vast sense of shame and disappointment. Daddy died protecting Starfleet. He would turn in his grave if he knew what he really gave his life for.

I have no doubt that I will only be offered the same kind of role. Necheyev's coterie will parrot her mantra and Ross will not even be able to offer me that. He does not have the ear of the President and the Council.

I make my way to the door. Her voice stops me.

"How was the coffee?" We are back to the polite, detached, disinterest.

"Frankly," I say spinning on my heels, raising an eyebrow, "awful." I now make no attempt to hide my contempt. I cannot remain in a room with someone who has just offered me carte blanche authority to change any alien government I please, and then makes polite enquiries about refreshments.

I expect her to glower at me.

I expect her to dismiss me.

I expect the disapproval that always emanates from those with unshakable faith in their own vision.

I do not expect her to laugh in apparent relief.

I do not expect her to walk to the replicator and produce another refreshment.

I do not expect her to order me to sit as she places a steaming mug of black coffee in front of me.

"What the hell is going on here?" I bark, even as I obey her order.

Seven years in the Delta Quadrant have not erased a lifetime of training. An admiral's word is still law. I sit. Like a good captain.

I know my eyes are glinting steel. I know the glare I am giving her has wilted many foes. I sense a mystery. I feel oddly alive.

She relaxes in Picard's chair. Run's a hand through her hair. She does not smile; I do not believe the gesture comes naturally to her. But her expression is open, inviting. The hints of interest I saw before are fully present.

"I'm sorry." She says. To her credit there is a little regret in her voice, "But we needed to know where you stand."

A test.

I feel deflated. Relieved. Embarrassed.

Necheyev does smile.

"Glad to know you're human." She tells me, her voice is kind. "I was wondering how far I'd have to push you before you showed any emotion."

I sip tentatively at the drink. French roast. Dark. Bitter. Exactly the right temperature. She has been intelligence gathering.

I grin at her and raise my cup in salute. I understand why she was so annoyed I kept drinking the weak coffee.

"How about we stop playing games and you tell me what's going on?" I say. The note of interrogation is nothing more than a nod to etiquette. It is an order and we both know it. Neither of us enjoys the thrust and parry of deceit. Not on home soil.

She leans forward. It adds a note of urgency.

"You're impressive Janeway. You bring a ragbag crew home from a distance of seventy five thousand light years in seven years; more than that, you bring home a unified and effective unit. Your crew is loyal.

"This is not an award ceremony, I'm not going to detail your achievements; but you are a skilled captain. However you were also the law out there Kathryn, and at times you made the wrong choices. I needed to know if you were merely misguided, or fundamentally flawed.

She does not pause. Does not give me time to feel proud. To feel aggrieved.

It is probably for the best.

"As you are no doubt now aware the Federation is in crisis. Critically weakened; demoralised. There are moves within certain quarters to all but retreat from Alpha Quadrant politics; to make Terrans the only voice of the Federation. We will send the delegates; make the right noises; sign the necessary treaties; but ultimately we will be a Federation which acts out of self interest only. There is a vision of a superpower. A monolithic entity. Currently only we and the Vulcans have the strength to be any kind of sensible force. If those who will it, have their way we will sever all functional ties with Vulcan. Within two or three years they and the Romulans will be at war, hot or cold. This will leave Earth as the only planet with undivided interests and military strength."

"Divide and rule." I mutter.

She nods. "When these voices include key commanders from the war; captains; vice-admirals; admirals, it makes them a viable threat."

"How viable?"

"Viable enough for me to test your loyalty." She says pointedly.

I acknowledge her words, turn the facts over. I see the problem. All too clearly. The vision of a superpower is always seductive. It is an easy path amid a landscape of fear and uncertainty. She is right, I occasionally became such a power in the Delta Quadrant. The thought is not pleasant, but I do understand why Necheyev would have cause to question my ethics.

The reminder of Captain Ransom makes several of my crew distinctly nervous.

Chakotay among them.

I gaze out of the window. DS9 looms large; tiny figures hurry past view ports.

Small. Scurrying.

There are some uniforms; federation; Bajoran; but the majority are civilians. Individual and small in a vast universe. Only a bulkhead and dermaplastic between them and a vacuum.

The vision of a supreme monolithic power will have cache among the public at large. I realise how grave the threat may be. It is so very easy to lay ones fate in the ideal of another. It requires no work. No self-analysis. Guiltless.

"What do you intend to do about it?" I ask.

"I assume command of the Presidency at the next cycle of Council Appointments." She tells me this simply. No pride lacing her voice, I can almost detect distaste and resignation. "Their support base is not broad, and it's probably quite easily contained. However the internal struggles of Council are of little concern for the present. Right now, you are the problem. In fact you're quite the sensation. Quite a catch for the right camp."

I understand.

I refuse to play.

"I will not be some bartered prize for anyone. No matter how benign the motive." I tell her.

"I agree." She says, as spins Picard's computer to face me. "Which is why I have this offer to make."

I scan the screen.

Then I scan it again.

"The Gamma Quadrant?" I annunciate. Sheer disbelief.

"New ship. Handpick your crew. Though I reserve the right to veto any personnel I want here. Then toddle off to the Gamma Quadrant and stay out of harms way. I wont lie to you, we need a big success. An attention grabbing story. You are exactly the kind of publicity we want. We can use your achievements to calm the public; not just here but throughout the quadrant. We need to start circulating the message the universe is not a hostile place."

"And your using Voyager?" I ask pointedly, "Are you sure you read the right ship's logs?"

She laughs with me. "The edited version." She agrees, "I think fluidic space may never see the light of a newsreel."

Incendiary indeed. The Alpha Quadrant would not cope well with another universe. Especially one so cynical of bipedal species. A little like pouring petrol on a fire.

"But you've returned with stories of heroism and courage; a liberated Borg Drone; matured Borg children; A sentient hologram; Egalitarianism all round; trés Starfleet. You're a powerful symbol Kathryn, the very epitome of the Federation we need to survive. The Federation needs to heal."

Now Necheyev pauses. Now she gives me time to absorb the news.

I do not like it. I do not like the idea of being in another quadrant while my crew is paraded before the unyielding public gaze.

Necheyev can see my indecision. However much she resents being a diplomat, she can play the role well. Before I have too much time to think she begins again. Fires her next round.

"I didn't overestimate when I intimated the exploratory division is under threat. We're running low on resources, the last eighteen months of the war everything we had was thrown at military. When the fighting intensified everything ground to a halt. Personnel were recalled to Earth or Vulcan. Astrophysicists haven't been outside the system for over two years. Research outposts have been destroyed. Many of our scientists were drafted into developing weapons and defence systems. People are unhappy, grumbling.

"No one joined 'fleet for this. We need a new direction and a new focus. The data you have gathered is invaluable; not just in terms of its content; I'm no scientist but from what I've seen you could keep all departments busy for years. Even the sociologists and archaeologists.

She eyes me steadily. "I'm telling you this partly out of courtesy. Voyager will be decommission. She will be pulled to pieces. All members of your crew will be offered positions consummate with their rank and training. They will be deployed far and wide. We need them."

"And if we don't cooperate?"

She laughs, "Do you turn everything into a battle? It is not a matter of cooperating. The Federation is not in the business of forcing anyone to do what they do not wish. All requests for leave will be granted. All resignations ultimately accepted. But the packages we offer are generous.

"Utopia Planitia needs a deputy chief engineer; a new test pilot; several ship designers."

"B'Elanna and Tom." I mutter.

She nods. "Even the most junior science officer can expect a promotion. You've thrown too many inexplicable anomalies at them over the years."

I accept the backhanded compliment.

"You can stay in the Alpha Quadrant if you so wish, and you will have a ship but milk runs are all you can expect for at least three or four years. We need to keep our presence in space but the fleet is depleted. We no longer have the ships nor the personnel to fly blithely around seeing what the hell is out there; nor do we have the ground support. There are only two exploratory ships in commission; USS Grissom and Enterprise.

"If you accept the Grissom your primary mission will be exploratory," she pauses and eyes me carefully, though the scrutiny is no longer distrustful", "But I don't need to explain to you the importance of establishing a presence in the Gamma Quadrant. It is important the Dominion is not left isolated and alone. I do not want any more surprises coming through that worm hole. Most other captains are still too trigger happy, and I can't risk inflaming the Dominion. You know when to talk and when to shoot. I need you out there."

I feel exhausted. This is not what I had in mind upon my return. Perhaps I should never have bothered to tinker with my profile. Perhaps I should have let them consider sectioning me. Perhaps I should have volunteered.

"Of course it will do the Federation's public image no harm either." I add. She nods. Explore the face of the devil. Face the fear and you remove its power.

I am not sure I like being this close to the politics.

Why the hell should I be the one to fly off and seek a devil.

"Is it always like this?" I ask resignedly. Resigned to parry and thrust. To deals; to pre-emptive strikes against my own race.

She could misinterpret my question. Deliberately. Though she does not. She chooses to trust me. To include me. I am not thrilled by the implications of that decision.

She nods. We seem to be doing a lot of that.

"As your father well knew." She tells me, her eyes conveying so much more than her words. "Edward spent years in dialogue with the Cardassians. He was a well respected man, on both sides." She sighs heavily, "The Federation lost a great deal when he died. I only hope the cost is finally calculated."

I understand her inference. I begin to understand her weariness.

I understand that a Cardassia in the long and slow process of integration to the Federation would never have been vulnerable to the Dominion. The process would have been long and slow; would have required the patience of many people; required the patience of daddy; but it would have been successful. Now we must start again.

Only now we must face a demoralised planet. A planet with war dead; with razed cities. A hostile and embittered population. We have created an uphill struggle for many years to come.

I am saddened. I am still cynical.

"Your tactics seem rather draconian." I point out as we stand, "And I presume not vastly different from those of Ross." She nods sadly and acknowledges my concerns.

Knows that I cannot like the true face of the Federation

Knows she will have to behave in a manner she hates.

All the more frequently.

"Yes. But I trust my motives are right."

I nod and make to leave the room. As with all fleet offers she will expect my response within a month. As usual I shall not give my response for three weeks and six days.

"Kathryn."

She calls me back. Halts my progress just before the door sensors recognise my approach.

"Your father was a stubborn man. He should never have been on that shuttle. He should never have taken the first test flight; nor the second; possibly not even the third. A test pilot should have flown it from the start. A skilled test pilot would have searched out solar flares on the second flight. We would have lost a test pilot and some valuable Federation technology; but we would have known about the shuttles vulnerabilities to wind sheers much sooner and with less devastating consequences. Test pilots we replace. Technology we replicate. Admirals, crack team Rangers and promising ensigns are another matter. But Edward was a proud man; proud of his work; of his judgement and apt to disregard procedure. He was proud of you. Proud of Starfleet; overjoyed to have the two of you in one place; finally he was able to pursue his work and not abandon his family. None of you should have been on that shuttle. His greatest strengths left him vulnerable to his greatest weaknesses. You are very much your father's daughter Kathryn. Don't repeat his mistakes."

Predictably. Pathetically, the only response I can make is a tiny, curt nod.

Avoid repeating the mistakes of the past seems to have been the theme of the last few days. Except this is not an evening's entertainment. A dalliance of days. This is a responsibility for life.

I must return home. I must talk to Seven.

I glance keenly at the Enterprise bridge as I pass through. The faces which glance back at me are so very young.

These are desperate times.

My mind is sharp again.

Seven Loves the Admiral

We arrived in the Alpha Quadrant three days ago.

Many people tell me this is home.

I am attempting to cultivate this basic assumption.

I have failed for ninety two percent of my residency in Federation controlled space.

Though in the time I have been here I have experienced much.

Experienced many emotions. Fear; apprehension; revulsion; sadness; loss; anxiety; lust; desire; love; synergy.

The list could go on, as humans are apt to say.

It is illogical to overstate ones case. As Vulcans are apt to say.

Resistance is futile. As I was once apt to believe; though in this situation it appears an apt motto. I experience emotions even when I do not wish to.

It is only when I am with Kathryn that I feel positive emotions. And though I do at times feel apprehensive when I realise her supremacy; this does not overpower my fledgling love.

My naive and impotent desire.

We have shared a bed many times; though never each other's bodies.

This makes me a little aggrieved.

There is still so much I fail to understand. I had tired to escalate our passions, as is befitting of two people who have exchanged bodily fluids and retire to the bedchamber. But she frustrated my intentions. In a manner I do not quite understand. Still kissing me. Still touching. Still exploring my body. While doing all of these things, she also refused me.

My mind whirls. Am unfortunate side effect of emotion. I wonder if Federation scientists can cure me of this affliction?

Perhaps I could research this. Whilst on Voyager I have heard stories of the pains of living. Perhaps many would appreciate this work.

Though I know they would not.

This morning, when we dressed, I stared at her shyly. Her body is flawless; creamy and white. Proportioned as though according to some ancient principle. Her hips are curvaceous; sensually mobile; and yet are slim enough as to beguile their true purpose; as to suggest this woman is more than a child bearer. The love she gives is so much more than the weak necessity of human sprit.

There is no mistaking what my hips were made for.

Her breasts are also well proportioned. Rounded, full and still firm. This much my fingertips have been allowed to discern. Though unlike mine they are not overbearing. Gross. Marred and spoiled by Borg appendage.

There is no mistaking for what purpose my breasts ere designed.

I yearned to touch her again. To know the texture of her skin; its smell; even its elasticity. This desire is powerful. Almost too strong. So desperate I must cry for the want of her. So desperate I am paralysed. Beaten and deflated by the power of my own desire.

I ponder: Is this what it means to be human?

To be brought low by the will of the flesh?

Then I think of Kathryn. And my heart swells in my breast. I remember her strength as she struggles to rescue some lowly manifestation of the bipedal geneature; simply because she sees within their make up some tiny representation of her own kind.

This is why I believe others would not wish me to alleviate them of emotion. Because it is impossible to alleviate only the negative. Because I would not wish to lose this thing I am learning to call love. Because I wish to be more than cold and empty. I wish to be more than Borg.

Though I cannot elucidate why. I cannot create a mathematical formula. A formula of syllables and words is impossible. I have no idea how to be human.

I remain in Kathryn's cabin.

I feel safe here. Chakotay will not seek me out in this place. He pursues me in other areas of the ship. Not relentlessly. Not passionately. Not with the kind of fire that excites me.

First he came with questions. Then with arrogance bolstered by the assumption I am a damsel in search of the alpha male. That is hardly his fault. I had also held that assumption, bolstered by the Doctor's prurient social lessons. My own unique source of societal prejudice; of peer pressure. Next he came baffled; his eyes confused; seeking direction. I experienced the emotion of pity.

I agreed to accompany him to Quark's because I felt sorry for him.

This was a mistake. The sadness which had touched me in the privacy of Cargo Bay Two seemed pathetic and false in the company of others. His confusion soon turned to anger. I removed myself from his presence. I stood at a view port and observed the new constellations. I analysed as far as my eye could see. My thoughts turned to Kathryn. I realised once again how little my eyes can see.

I returned to the ship and regenerated. When I awakened I heard many new whispers. As I journeyed from deck twelve to the Astrometrics lab I heard of drowning ones sorrow. Of dykes. Of prick teasers. I heard of a love which was too obvious. Of fate. Of wild predictions for the future.

I thought of a child. A part of Kathryn. More of Kathryn. More love.

It is idealistic and utterly fantastical. The idea is more appealing than it has ever been.

I experienced all of this within the space of twenty seven hours.

That was then.

This is now.

Though I have regenerated I am tired. I am restless. Disinclined to work. I experience the desire for sleep. To rest. To pause. Regeneration is comparable to eating. A pause in ones day to imbibe nutrients. It is not the rest of mind which I so crave.

This seems significant. I long to tell Kathryn.

I ached to touch Kathryn this morning. I ache now. My body remembers the feel of her, pressed up against me. This does not diminish the ache.

Fractions. Snippets which I cannot connect.

Internal chaos is beginning to defeat me.

I contemplate assimilating Kathryn. Knowing and owning her completely.

But like a good human being I turn to the strong tradition of poets and philosophers.

I spend the next three hours reading the Federation data base. Is assuages my sense of fracture.

When Kathryn returns to her cabin it is littered with padds. It is darkened. I have found I find darkness comforting. It helps hide the signs of emotion.

She ignores me. Contacts the bridge. Recalls all personnel from DS9. We leave for Earth at seventeen hundred hours.

The moment is rather anticlimactic.

I watch her glance curiously at me. In askance at the new carpet of plastic.

"Let me guess; you were too absorbed to clear up?" She smiles at me. One of her half smiles, where the corner of her mouth quirks upward.

I raise my own eyebrow; straighten my back; mock haughtiness. I am about to tell her that I am never 'too absorbed'; that I have been aware of my surroundings at all points. Then I realise this is not so.

"Merely disinclined." I eventually say.

She glances at me, her eyes narrow and she examines my face. I wonder if she can see the tear tracks I brushed away roughly.

I return to my reading; vaguely aware that she has squatted down on the floor, glancing though the padds as she stacks them into neat piles.

Finishing that task she comes to stand behind me; attempts to read the padd as I do. She must be failing in this endeavour. My visual acuity is greater than hers. My neural pathways can process information at a greater rate.

This does not concern me. I am absorbed in the narrative. What I am reading has much to say about my unique situation. I do not wish to stop reading. I desire to know how the events will transpire.

The novel is not a 'happy' one.

I know all too well the isolation of it's protagonist.

I have experienced that isolation on many occasions.

It is only now I truly understand its vacant depths.

Only in the age old words of another.

As Stephen Gordon shoots Raftery I begin to cry again. I cry in sympathy. I cry for myself; caught not between the sexes, but between races, between philosophies. I cry because of difference and the utter alienation which is inherent in the human personage. I feel small. I feel once again like the newly liberated drone.

My eyes blur and I can no longer read.

I reach up to wipe my tears away; but Kathryn's hand is there before my own. Gently catching my tears; running her finger across my lower eyelid, catching those that have not yet fallen. Her own eyes are full of concern. Her fingers are soft and delicate.

The Captain loves Seven

My love is crying. It tears my heart. For a brief moment I am too overawed to act, suddenly frozen before her grief.

Then I move to comfort her, to protect her. As I have always done. I wipe her eyes and remove the padd from her hand. She resists briefly, but it is quickly cast onto the coffee table and I draw her into my arms.

She stills against me. No sobbing into my shoulder. As quickly as they started her tears are over. But as she pulls away her beautiful, clear eyes are grey and troubled.

I stroke her cheek. Because I do not know what else to do. Because it comforts me.

I kiss her tenderly. Lightly. Delicately.

I close my eyes at her clean, almost ephemeral taste. She reminds me of spring mornings. Unformed, unchallenged. New.

"Want to tell me what that was about?" I ask quietly. I hold her eyes. I try to communicate with her by sight alone.

It is doomed to failure.

Seven regards me with those sad grey eyes, and states calmly. "Stephen has shot Raterfy. It is an end from which there is no beginning. First her father; now the horse with which he honoured her nature."

She looks at me again, her eyes watering a little. "It is an end." She repeats again.

I realise she expects a response. I flounder. Dreadfully. Have no idea of the narrative which has effected her so deeply. I retrieve the padd.

"The Well of Loneliness?" I cannot keep the judgement from my voice. The surprise; the slight derision; the gentle fun I poke at its title.

Seven flushes. She turns her head away from me and I feel my stomach contract. I curse my lack of tact.

I take her chin in my fingers and turn her to face me. She avoids my eyes; that alone almost breaks my heart.

I smile ruefully. Regretfully. Truthfully. Though she is one of the few people with whom I will be so open. For most others it is an act. A façade. A carefully determined ploy to lead them to trust in me. In all that I stand for.

"Why don't you tell me about it?" I prompt.

She hesitates. Seems unwilling.

"I'm sorry Seven, I didn't mean to mock you. I want to help." I am sincere. I cannot be anything else before this creature.

She regards me coolly, but I can see the telltale signs of a thawing.

"It is about the child of a beautiful Irish woman and a handsome, intelligent, pragmatic English nobleman." Voice haughty. Arrogant. Just as I love her.

She notices my interest and her face twitches.

"It is about their child." She repeats firmly, deliberately. Teasing me. "The couple are married. It is not a prurient novel. Though I do not believe this would fundamentally mar your ability to appreciate it."

I smile, lightly at first, though it continues unbidden and breaks into a full, open smile. I can feel the softness of my own eyes. I adore this woman.

I kiss this woman, who looks surprised. Pleasantly so. She does not question why I kissed her on impulse. That would be inefficient at this present time. Once upon a time I would be certain to hear about it later. Now I do not know.

So she tells me about Stephen Gordon. As much as she knows. We settle into my couch. Somewhere we have switched roles; her arms encircle me, I lay back against her taught body and seek comfort and affirmation I her caress. She stokes my hair distractedly.

She tells me about the curious queer woman, whom society can isolate and judge without needing to know why it does so. About the father who loved her and protected her from that world. A world too insular and too fragile to accept difference. About the isolation. About fear. About collusion. About rejection.

Her voice is choked with futility. Empathy. Sympathy. Death. Loss.

I still only partly understand.

Seven knows this. The arms encircling me grow slack.

I sit up. Her blue eyes are shadowed. Darkened with something troubling.

I cannot help but want to touch her face. I want to kiss eyes closed. Take away this burden. Even though this is impractical. Inefficient.

There are lessons my Seven has to learn.

"It is futile." She announces, as though to the universe at large. This is clearly meant to be a revelation. It is to her. I see the blankness of her expression. The near panic in her eyes. I understand.

I stand up and move to the replicator. "Drink? Dinner?"

"It is not necessary for me to imbibe nutritional energy at this point in time."

I ignore the jibe. I do not remind her of her manners. I am not her mother, if she wishes to be deliberately rude then I shall not stop her.

"Well I do." I tell her simply. She averts her eyes. It is the closest thing I will get to an apology. I carry the Cajun chicken dish to my dining table. Retrieve cutlery from the replicator. Sit and eat.

Seven joins me. Sitting just where she did three days ago. She observes me eating; the experience is not sensual; this is didactic.

How does one eat rice politely? Is it best to place chicken and rice on ones fork at the same time, or to take two separate mouthfuls?

It is faintly ridiculous. She sits primly; legs closely together, hands folded neatly in front of her; back ramrod straight. Seated at a dining table not eating. Her eyes watch the path of the food from the plate to my mouth. More intently does she watch me chew; savour; swallow.

Were I a more self-conscious individual I'd have thrown her out before now.

She watches me chew and swallow again. Her eyes are intense, as though working out a puzzle. She is like a small child, who having refused its food through defiance sits proud and envious as others eat. Sits hungry.

As Seven becomes more self aware pride will be her devil.

I stand; walk to the replicator; proffer her a fork.

"Just try it." I tell her.

She averts her eyes again. Though she does gingerly prod a small piece of the meat. She chews it; measures its density; its elasticity; its taste; whatever the hell else Borg measure.

"Intriguing." High praise indeed. We share a smile.

We share dessert. My Seven has a sweet tooth.

As I recycle the dishes I can feel her eyes upon me; that same intense expression. The expression which drives her to build Harmonic Resonance Chambers; the weapons system on the Delta Flyer. That drives her to read literature. To discern humanity. To discern chicken. To discern me.

This would not be the time to tell her she may never achieve that.

I smile at her. "I was going to replicate myself a cup of coffee but perhaps we could take a visit to the mess hall?"

Her eyes widen. She wonders if that is wise. As ever she defers to me. I tuck my arm in hers as we stroll through the corridor. I remove it as we enter through the large double doors. Though I stay close. I leave no one in any doubt as to exactly whom Seven is dating.

We show each other off. Proud to be seen in company. We will both deny it if asked.

She replicates hot chocolate. I as ever the dark, steaming, bitter coffee.

Tom and B'Elanna are seated at a nearby table. B'Elanna regards us coolly, Tom with a smile and a nod. Harry is openly aghast. Disbelieving. Tuvok joins us for a few minutes. An open declaration of support. Even this close to home he protects me. The crew understand. They avert their eyes.

We retire to the couch under the window.

Seven scans the room with a haughty air. I am thankful no one is paying us any attention; it would have ruffled more than a few feathers. Only I can see the involuntary flickers of her pupils. Only I know she is nervous. More than aware of her isolation. Of her difference.

I touch her hand and she moves her gaze to me, slipping her larger, paler hand into mine. I grasp it lightly.

"Talk to me about futility." I offer. I watch her head jerk a little to the right. Wait as she turns those analytical eyes on me again.

They are brilliantly blue. Arctic. A wasteland. A tundra. Where life survives at the extremes.

She thought I had ignored her comment. Ignored her need to grow. It pains me a little that she does no know I would never do that.

I hope this lesson goes part way to teaching her that.

"Life is a futile endeavour." She tells me. Expanding only a little on her previous statement. She will make me work for the information. An old game.

I adore her. I adore her familiarity; the peace that comes from knowing another individual understands. Wishes to play by the same rules. Even rules so protracted and peculiar as mine.

I pray we never lose the desire to battle.

"All life?" My voice is warm. Heated with humour, desire.

"No." Voice harder than I had expected. "Not all life. Some life. Some lives."

I smile sadly as she looks at me; an expectant fear. So vulnerable. So incredibly beautiful.

"Do you believe in fate captain?" I flinch a little at the formal title. She notices.

"No." Denial unequivocal. No room for doubt. I can almost see where this is going. I pays to stay two steps ahead with Seven. I can see the uncertainty in her eyes when she surveys all I call home. I know her mind will not accept this yet. No escape from psychology.

"Belief in a force which guides the universe, no matter how rudimentary or primitive, is a primary trait found in all alpha quadrant species." Unbelieving. Does not accept my rejection of humanity's history.

"Well not this specimen."

"Why?"

I shrug. "Because almost every theology, philosophy, ideology I have encountered leads to the inevitable conclusion that we are unable to take independent action. This is not something I accept."

"Very few belief systems advocate exactly what you have suggested in paraphrase."

I grin. "Maybe not overtly it doesn't lead to great PR; but it's the logical conclusion. Christianity assumes a sacredness of being through possession of a individual soul created by the personal God. The destiny of that soul has been predestined by the creator God. All the universe was created and is directed by a single hand with an unknown and undisclosed purpose which cannot be altered without undermining the divinity of a monotheistic god."

"A weak theology."

"Very; although only when reason is applied to counter it." Seven raises an eyebrow.

Asking: is their anything but reason? We share a secret smile. We have already developed our own code of communication.

"It is especially weak when one considers the fact Christianity has changed its perception of God and the universe many times over in order to accept new scientific discoveries."

"Copernicus and Galileo." Seven observes. I am surprised at her knowledge. A single moment of religious and scientific controversy in the history of Earth could be of no interest to the Borg. Yet it remains in the mind of this woman.

Perhaps they kept it alive as an example of the triumph of order and reason over fear and intolerance.

It was bizarre enough to be true.

I remind myself to ask her about it later.

I continue.

"The Ferengi believe in a divine pantheon of avaricious beings who bartered between themselves for control of the universe at it's inception. Two sides waged war; one side slaughtered the other whose blood ran to all corners of the universe and formed the Great Material Continuum which guides and directs the universe. The Chief Treasurer established a monopoly and the Rules of Avarice. The Great Material Continuum is the force which guides and creates life; in Ferengi terms creates opportunities for commercial transactions; the Rules of Avarice are a more formal code. The tension between the Great Material Continuum and the Rules of Avarice keep the universe in balance. All action is taken within this framework and thus predestined."

"The same theology."

"It's a familiar theme. Earth; Ferengi; Bolius: Kataria; Romulus; early Vulcan. You'll find the same ideas. There are variations; but the rubric remains the same. To create order in a world which had little when the theologies were developed."

"There are dissenting theologies. Buddhism."

I pause. Half a heartbeat. Drawl the words.

"To the Buddhist life is not real." Hardly an epigram. She understands, smiles with me. "You find the same thing in philosophy. From Plato to Rh'tar. Materialism to time travel. It's the same idea. Why d'you think I go to so much trouble to avoid temporal mechanics."

Seven looks troubled. "The theologies you have elucidated are fundamentally flawed and yet profoundly insightful."

"How so?"

"The universe had beginning. From this precise moment a complex chain of events has occurred which lead to the present; to this sofa; to this discussion."

"Unerringly?"

She visibly blanches.

"I do not understand."

"Why are we here on this sofa Seven? What would have happened it an atom had been in a different place at a different time."

"Irrelevant. It was not."

"To a point." I concede it is rather useless to discuss what would have happened if what happened hadn't happened. It can only lead to temporal mechanics. To pie in the sky. To those things which used to excite Mark.

"Explain to me about the origin of fluidic space; the Q; alternate universes. Parallel universes."

She opens her mouth. I can see the fire in her eyes. Can see her dying to tell me all she knows. I hope she catches on before we reach Earth. I could be in for a long thirty nine hours. Then suddenly her jaws clamp shut.

"I cannot." She tells me flatly, "Not completely."

"I know." My voice is soft. Though not apologetic.

I see the fear swilling around inside her; clearly visible on her face. These emotions are not subtle. They are raw. Painful.

I lay a hand on her arm. "Nor can I. There is so much about the universe we do not know. All those theologies and philosophies you are half aware of were developed without knowledge of fluidic space. Its incipience will most likely have been the big bang. But we don't know that. We can't."

She remains silent. Absorbing the news she is as vulnerable, as needy, as the rest of us.

"Do you understand Seven." I am gentle. I care. So deeply. "There is too much we don't know to be able to put faith in any one theory. In any theory."

"Do you believe in anything."

"I believe in life. In chance. Opportunity."

She nods. Retreats into herself. Thinks. Aligns the new data I have given her. She eventually glances at me. Then again.

"Whose lives were we talking about earlier Seven?" I know when she needs me to direct her.

She looks uncomfortable; as though she were hoping I wouldn't ask that question. Needing me desperately to ask. So much like a child.

"Stephen Gordon's; mine; B'Elanna's."

Misfits. Those battling society. Battling prejudice. Battling themselves.

I do not need to ask her to explain to me. It is bubbling forth from her lips. Unable to be contained. Too big for one person to consider.

"I am one individual. Alone. Isolated. Unique. Small. I will not be overly welcome on Earth; I shall experience prejudice and judgement. This will make me uncomfortable. I could chose to fight this prejudice but those who uphold societal norms are superior in numbers. I could chose to conform. To deny my identity. My difference. Neither solution is acceptable."

"No middle ground?" I ask.

"Self denial only."

"A bleak picture."

"Futility." She tells me quietly. Bleakly. We have come full circle. "One person cannot change society in a life time. One cannot deny ones psychology, ones biology. When the two are incompatible destruction is the only possible course."

I sigh and grasp her hand tightly. Overawed with my task. I cannot give this young woman hope. Can I? Her eyes are soft as they regard me. Can I? Is the fact we sit here, now, discussing this hope itself. Would it be naive to think merely my presence could impart thus?

I swallow more coffee. It slips down my throat and fortifies me.

"Society is not a rigid, uniform structure Seven. It is a reflection of the many individuals and groups that are part of it. I accept you, Tuvok accepts you, Chakotay, Harry, The Doctor, Tal Celes, the Wildmans. You have not been alone on Voyager, you wont be alone on Earth."

"The individuals you mention had no choice, Voyager is a small ship, I am difficult to avoid. They were required to adapt to my presence."

"And you to theirs." I add lightly.

She acknowledges my comment. Offers nothing further. I can see the fear in her eyes.

Earth is large. No one will be required to adapt to her presence.

Seven is afraid. So very afraid. So very human.

"Not one likes everyone Seven. I know for a fact there are individuals on this ship who dislike me. When Voyager was first lost Tom and Chakotay had quite the vendetta going for several months. And though I'm not supposed to know it turned violent on several occasions. Tuvok wouldn't associate with most of the ship were it not for circumstance. Nor B'Elanna I suspect, though I don't know her as well."

Her eyes narrow again. Begins to realise she is not as unique as the assumes. Is human just like the rest of us.

"We all have to interact with people Seven, whether through circumstance or through choice; we form networks; friendships; relationships. We chose who we have around us. By common consent we do not associate with those people we do not accept and who cannot accept us. The Doctor chooses to interact with you. Chakotay chose to interact with you. You wont be alone."

"Their interest was prurient." She spits the words out. Her faces tenses. Anger. Something else I must ask about later.

"So is everyone's." I tell her dryly. I watch her tense, become uncomfortable. She assumes I am about to begin talking about her breasts. About her aesthetic appeal.

"To a point." I amend. "Why do you enjoy spending time with Tuvok?"

"I do not feel ill at ease in his presence. He appreciates my linguistic brevity. We share interests. He is often able to offer an alternative interpretation on situations and events."

"You enjoy spending time with him?"

"Yes."

"You enjoy him. You come away from an encounter feeling calm, relaxed. Happy. Secure."

Her face lightens.

"We associate only with those who promote our sense of well being and purpose."

I nod. Sip at my coffee.

"I honestly can't comment on the book you were reading, I don't know it, but answer me this: was this 'Stephen Gordon' you mention free to associate with whom ever she pleased?"

"No. her options for personal interaction were limited. More so once her father had died."

Her face clouds again. Brief flashes of pain. Grief. I reach out to lay a hand on her arm and she smiles at me. One work of fiction upsets her. The woman who carries the knowledge of millions.

I cannot help but rub the biosuit. Small, intimate circles. She is surprised by the contact. Gratified.

"Society hasn't always been this diverse Seven. At times in the past it was often a stark choice between conformity or an intense struggle. We're lucky Seven. We have the moderate option. "

Seven lacks the emotional maturity to deal with it as it should be. To contextualise. To place things in a situation and a place. To relativise.

She is silent now. But she understands. In theory at least.

"There is a large Vulcan community in London. Perhaps you would like to live among Vulcans when we get to Earth."

Her brow furrows.

"I had not considered that."

Her brow lightens. "I could live on Vulcan."

I try to keep my expression neutral. "Always possible." I admit. Though my heart is contracting. I want this woman with me. Always. I contemplate living on Vulcan. The idea is appalling. A redhead in constant sun. An irrational being among the rational.

Seven is watching me intently. Those damn searching eyes. Those damn fine eyes. The ghost of a smile hovers on her lips.

I find myself mimicking her.

"Where will you be living?"

"San Francisco. I used to have a house North of the city, toward Oakland. But I think I rather fancy an apartment with a bay view."

The realist in me knows there will be plenty of free accommodation in the city. So many personnel dead. Pick of the properties. And I fancy something small. Unpretentious. Minimalist. Something to which I cannot get attached. Something which will it will not pain me to leave. Or to return to.

She is looking at me expectantly. But I do not make the offer. I do not causally ask. Because I do not need to.

I know Seven will come home with me to Indiana.

I know we will discuss where she will be living. We may even visit a few prospective houses.

I know she will come home to me. To San Francisco.

She knows it too.

Her eyes are intense as they regard me. Not the searching intensity of before, but hot and deep.

The mess hall melts away.

"I want to kiss you." My voice is low. Hoarse. I am on fire.

Seven swallows. Flicks a tongue out to moisten her lips. "I know." Is all she says. All she appears able to say.

I continue to stare at her. I do not know if my crew is watching. Frankly, I don't care. I am not ashamed of my passion for this creature. My love. I am not ashamed.

If they wish to gossip; to redefine old battle lines; pit Chakotay and myself against each other; they have less than two days to try.

It could be another full circle. Loyalties divided between the upstanding Starfleet captain and a renegade Marquis rebel. Except it is the upstanding captain who is fucking the Borg drone. It is the renegade Marquis rebel who has been stood up.

As we walk back to my quarters; forced nonchalance in the face of corridors and crewmen; I see little but respect in the eyes which glance at us. Mortimer Harris sneers a little. He has hated me since I pointed out the flaws in his attempts to redefine the origins of the universe. Jonas is openly hostile. He is still an angry man. I am saddened to realise he will be in prison inside of six months. Saddened to know I have failed another member of my crew.

This fact tinges the rest of the evening.

Failure.

Yet along side it resides Seven. Her hope. My hope. As I try to fall asleep her arm is steady around me and the failure is kept at bay.

Soon we will return to the bay. To earth. To mother.

My stomach tightens a little, and her arm tightens around me. I hope one day Seven will learn that the space between failure and hope is true potential, just as she is.

Though now we rest.

Tomorrow is another day.

Now we rest.