The Mata hummed steadily, its powerful engines tamed into a neutral state, as it lay in space looking down on the Federation starship Voyager. This Krigi ship was special. Unlike the lean battle-ready ships of the Krigi military, this scientific vessel was shaped like a top, swelling in size as one scaled the upper levels. It was a deceptive design, seemingly innocuous and far from an obvious threat. One would not think it housed the most advanced research facilities in the Krigi Empire, and that it contained a most impressive arsenal of conventional weapons, as well as an even deadlier complement of experimental weapons. Most importantly, however, this odd ship housed the personal research facilities of Researcher Sylvan, the empire’s finest scientist and most powerful political personality.
The Researcher stood in his private laboratories, a cavernous space on the middling level of the Mata, the only level on the ship that did not adhere to a Borg design. Rather, its shining expanses of white on white were a shocking contrast to the dark, curved sensibilities of Borg design, and, unlike every other room on the ship, the laboratories were sequestered behind a series of thick duranium doors and walls. There would be no entry without permission.
The Researcher’s laboratories were accorded the type of respect often given to holy places, and if the Krigi were a species devoted to god worship, they probably would have constructed miniature replicas of these laboratories and sprinkled them on every Krigi colony, ship and planet. But no such crude worship catered to these labs from which sprung invention after invention, an almost miraculous stream of practical genius that steadily linked the man with the glory, and the glory with the destiny.
No other Krigi mind, perhaps, grasped this link with greatness as tenaciously as the Researcher himself.
He stood now in his lab, wearing a short green tunic, his cybernetic legs carrying him effortlessly to a series of re-engineered biobeds. He paused at the side of a biobed, his eyes scanning it for any discernible flaw. Almost absently, his fingers trailed over the light metal, over the various crevices and depressions that secreted medical tools and devices. His fingers lingered over a series of circular holes running along the long sides of the bed, and he moved to flick a switch on a nearby console. Immediately, light bands blazed on the bed, reaching horizontally to link together. He tested these bands, his assessment one of pleasure as their tensile strength proved solid and strong under his fingers.
They were a new invention — photonic restraints, impervious to weapons fire, and impossible to slash and break through. They were designed to instantaneously match pressure, so that a captive would find his strength immediately corralled by increased photonic energy. They were perfect for their intended use, he reflected with satisfaction. The only weakness was reliance on an energy source, so he had made sure that these were linked to at least half a dozen separate power sources. If they all failed, then the ship itself would have shut down — and in that case, there would likely be far more worrisome factors than a loose captive, he thought dryly.
Sylvan moved deeper into the laboratories, stopping in a corner. Here, he had determined, would be the location of the Borg regeneration alcoves. His eyes swept the area dispassionately, noting with satisfaction that power relays and plasma conduits already had been dutifully installed to his specifications.
Almost soundlessly, his powerful mechanical legs carried him to a large screen, one of several in the vast laboratories. This one was his primary work port. He settled into the large control chair, pressing the familiar panel as the screen lit with graphical displays of Borg bodies and various cybernetic implants. Soon, he thought, they would know so much more about the Borg. So much knowledge to gain about how Borg bodies operated in tension between cybernetics and organic material. Soon they would unlock the secrets of the nanoprobe technology through which the Collective reproduced so quickly, so efficiently, so tragically.
His own cybernetic legs, he knew, were a poor comparison to the Borg’s advanced blend of technology and organics. But they had their uses, he admitted. Indeed, nearly thirty years of research on neurology and cyborg mechanics would soon prove eminently useful. So many people believed that the battle against the Borg would be won through the impressive weapons technology he had conceived and unleashed. But they were wrong. They were small-minded.
It wouldn’t be brute force that would destroy the Borg. No, the Collective’s demise would be at the hands of something breathtakingly subtle. For the seeds of the Borg’s ultimate defeat would already have been sown in its very make-up. Sylvan believed this with a passion. Technology can be turned against its user. All that was needed was more data, creative passion and a ruthlessness that brooked no obstacles, moral or otherwise.
Soon, he repeated silently in a grim mantra, his thoughts turning to Voyager’s drone. Very soon.
He leaned back in the chair, eyes shifting as they played over the graphic images on the screen. He took a deep, contented breath. This was his home, his sanctuary, for Researcher Sylvan had been living out amongst the stars for almost thirty years. He rarely visited planet-side, so strong was his aversion to being on a planet, something he now associated with ambushes, traps and futile surrender.
The Borg incursion, he recalled, gripped with a familiar loathing and fear, had taken the planets and moon colonies with a frightening efficiency. Dozens of cubes had surrounded Krigi planets, picking off any star bound vehicles that had tried to escape and sending whole legions of lockstep warriors to the cities and towns. It was carnage. Those not assimilated were killed, or had committed suicide. He had seen the video footage, before it too had ceased transmission.
Sylvan had been lucky. He had been stationed far out on the periphery of Krigi space, conducting a series of scientific experiments on warp signatures and cloaking technology. Fortunately, he had escaped the initial assimilation. But the Borg found him one week after the initial atrocities — one long week in which he had mourned the deaths of his friends, family, and beloved new wife.
A handful of drones had transported over to his small science ship, before a lucky shot somehow disabled the Borg vessel’s transporter relays and before a stray Krigi warship could engage the Borg ship. The battle on his ship had been pitched, with his fellow scientists desperately using experimental lasers and disruptors to cut down the intruders.
Sylvan himself would never forget the drone that attacked him. It had come after him with an implacable determination, striding powerfully through disruptor blasts, adapting and stepping imperviously through shields. Only when he used a highly experimental modulating laser did it falter, as he sliced off its left arm appendage and disabled its rifle. Yet it continued its ominous advance, managing to catch his legs as he tried to escape through a maintenance tube. He had screamed in agony as his legs were crushed systematically; as the powerful cybernetic arm dragged him relentlessly back down into the corridor, as the arm descended on his head even as his laser simultaneously sliced through its neck, decapitating the drone as he sank into a screaming blackness.
Hours later, he had regained consciousness, still lying in the corridor, a Borg arm weighing heavily against his shoulder. He had lain there for long minutes, wondering why the ship was so silent, why no movement could be heard. He wondered if any compatriots had survived the Borg attack.
Then, summoning a strength he had not known he possessed, he reached for that life-saving laser weapon, ignoring the shattering pain resounding throughout his now-useless legs, and methodically sliced apart the Borg drone. The tears streaming down his face soon dried in the red-hot heat of a new fury, one that burrowed deep into his psyche and fed on the angry wreckage of destroyed dreams.
It had been a new drone. One newly created in the recent days of nightmarish skirmish between Krigi and Borg. When he sliced apart the head, rendering it totally unrecognizable, he shouted a hoarse, final farewell to this drone, which had once been his beloved wife.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
“It is illogical to refuse their request based on an unsubstantiated ‘feeling.’ Frankly, I would not expect to hear this rationale from you.”
“I cannot explain it, nor will I comply.” Seven stared straight ahead at Tuvok, realizing that she appeared gratuitously stubborn, yet was compelled to continue her course of defiance. She could see Chakotay shaking his head, while Janeway sat watching the exchange with a tight face.
“You understand all that Voyager could gain from this exchange.” Tuvok stated.
“Yes.”
Tuvok studied her with a new intensity. Usually, he counted on Seven of Nine to provide objective reinforcement in decision-making scenarios. It was unlike the young ex-Borg to cling to a vague, unspecified distrust. Perhaps, he hypothesized; the emotive resonance associated with the Krigi had impaired her cognitive functions.
“Is this ‘feeling’ connected to the Krigi’s obvious dislike of the Borg Collective?” Tuvok asked, trying to locate the most logical explanation behind her unusual refusal. “Is it possible their emotive resonance has affected you in a way that we are not aware of?”
“Their dislike of the Collective and of me has no bearing on my position,” Seven asserted firmly. “Nanoprobe technology is powerful and could easily be misused. I am not comfortable with providing the Krigi with a significant supply. I believe Researcher Sylvan is less than forthcoming with his true intent. In addition, we do not know enough about the post-assimilation history of this species.”
“First of all, how is this different from any other exchange we have conducted in this quadrant? Second, we don’t read minds, Seven. We have to trust them, in the same way that they trust us. And I haven’t seen anything to indicate that they are misrepresenting themselves,” pointed out Chakotay testily. The first officer shook his head in impatience. “I don’t agree with your assessment, Seven. Sylvan himself mentioned the healing properties associated with the nanoprobes. Our own research on the nanoprobes corroborates this. There is no evidence to assume that these uses will not be explored.”
Seven said nothing, moving to the view port and turning her back on the three senior officers.
Janeway sat up, frowning slightly. “Would it reassure you, Seven, if we asked for a synopsis of the medical and scientific research they have prepared thus far on nanoprobe technology? Perhaps that will give you a basis for understanding their interest.”
Seven did not respond immediately. Her shoulders tensed, however, as the captain spoke. Janeway noted this with an internal wince, knowing that Seven was uncomfortable in her presence. Because of preparations for the new shield modifications, there had been precious few opportunities to see the younger woman, Janeway reflected with a pang, and even on those rare occasions Seven had rebuffed the captain, firmly and seemingly without emotion. But the captain knew better. The blonde’s cold reserve disguised a deep, intense pain that Janeway had been allowed to glimpse only once, in the corridor before that first meeting with Sylvan. The very memory of Seven’s anguished eyes still shook the captain’s heart.
Softly, the ex-Borg officer repeated her position. “I will not comply.”
Chakotay again shook his head. “Seven, this is for the good of the ship. Would you really kill this trade? You’ve seen what those weapons can do!” His voice rose in irritation. “How can you be so selfish?”
Seven turned her head, ice blue eyes raking him coldly. “You may characterize my actions as selfish if you wish. The nanoprobes are mine, and I will not accede to this request.”
The first officer inhaled sharply, and his eyes seemed to burn with a new intensity. Tuvok glanced sharply at him, apparently reading something disturbing in Chakotay’s eyes.
“You think the nanoprobes are yours, Seven?” Chakotay questioned silkily, “I would disagree with that assessment. Those little machines in your bloodstream are really the joint property of every species from which the Borg stole technology —“
“Chakotay.” It was Janeway, her frown more pronounced. Her eyes sternly warned him against proceeding on this path of discourse.
He shook off the captain’s warning. “It’s true. Admit it. It’s what most of us think. She has as much right to refuse this request as the Borg have a right to assimilate species after species.”
“Enough!” Janeway glowered at the larger man. “Seven is an individual. She is not the Collective. This line of discussion is not helping matters.”
The captain peered intently at Chakotay, not liking the light flickering in his eyes, the coldness tightening his face. His words had chilled her, hitting her in the gut with a renewed dread for how the crew viewed Seven of Nine — as Borg, as living representation of the universe’s most feared genocidal force.
Yet Chakotay’s words held something more, an intent and interpretation more invidious than any she could have ever devised in relation to Seven. It was the implication that the ex-drone had little right of herself — not her nanoprobes, and probably not even her cortical node, her strength, her conditioning. For, she realized with a disquieting insight that momentarily paralyzed her, using Chakotay’s logic then everything about Seven, except for her human components, was borrowed, stolen, and illegitimate. Parts of Seven, yet never truly hers. His perspective would mean the ultimate depersonalization of the ex-Borg woman.
It was a thoroughly unsettling revelation about her first officer’s attitude towards Seven, and the captain felt her body stiffening, her gaze hardening on Chakotay, who stared back defiantly, his eyes darkening.
“Seven may be an individual, Captain,” responded Chakotay evenly, “but she is an individual with grave responsibilities. Because of what she i—was … she has less margin to act independently. There are simply some things she cannot and should not refuse.”
The ex-Borg officer stood absorbing the exchange, her face still turned to the star field. Quietly, she stated, “You never truly trusted me, Commander.”
Chakotay stiffened, then turned his head to study Seven’s back. He walked gingerly over to the blonde officer, and stood directly in front of her, his dark eyes meeting hers directly. The captain watched his movements closely, her eyes narrowing and her stomach tightening. At the other end of the room, Tuvok stood ramrod straight, not a muscle moving on his wiry frame.
“I trust you do your best to help this ship in times of conflict,” he asserted simply. “But I do not trust your judgment when it involves the Borg Collective.” Chakotay gazed once more into ice-blue eyes, then moved away, lowering himself heavily into a chair at the end of the table.
A muscle pulsed in Seven’s jaw, and she swallowed once, twice.
A surge of guilt rasped through Janeway, as she recognized his sentiment as similar to one she had flung at Seven that fateful night in the cargo hold. The captain held her breath, closing her eyes briefly as she willed away the pain associated with that memory.
“I find your statements presumptuous and misguided, Commander.” It was Tuvok, his flat voice falling like stones in the strained silence of the conference room. All eyes shifted to the stolid Vulcan, who stared at the first officer with an unfathomable expression.
“Seven of Nine is not to blame for the Collective’s transgressions, and you have no right to punish her,” Tuvok stated dispassionately. “She is an individual, and therefore should be accorded the full rights and responsibilities we allow to all individuals. Those rights may be denied if she performs criminal acts as an individual, but until that point, I do not believe you, or anyone else, can impose additional responsibilities on her. Least of all, based on her actions under the bidding of the hive mind.”
The Vulcan continued to stare stonily at the first officer, who flushed slightly and dropped his eyes. The captain chose that moment to clear her throat and stand. She swept the room with eyes suddenly steely and hard.
“Well said, Tuvok,” Janeway declared firmly. But, she thought forlornly, I should have said it.
“If you gentlemen will excuse us, I would like to speak with Seven alone.”
Tuvok nodded quickly, waiting patiently as Chakotay slowly unfolded himself from his chair.
“I was only thinking of the ship and this crew,” muttered Chakotay, in a voice at once defensive and imperious, and his eyes avoided Janeway.
Together, the two men exited the room.
Janeway watched them leave, and then turned to study Seven. The younger woman remained still, quietly and pensively staring out into the star field. Suddenly, the ex-Borg seemed so very young, so very vulnerable and alone. Not for the first time, but with a new heaviness, the captain wondered how lonely Seven had been, severed from the only reality she remembered and thrown into life aboard a starship, surrounded by so many people who shunned her very presence.
With an aching heart, the silence stretching like a chasm between the two women, Kathryn Janeway turned to Seven of Nine and tried to reach out, past all the hurt and pain of recent days.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
The two distinguished Krigi scientists walked quietly through the thick duranium doors, their bio-signs easily read by the sensors. They were the only ones, aside from the Researcher, allowed without challenge into his inner laboratories. Sylvan turned his head to watch their approach. He leaned back in his chair once more, drumming his fingers idly on the side console.
He continued to watch silently as they lowered themselves into familiar chairs facing him. Reaching up to stroke his postulthe, something he’d been doing more frequently in recent days, he asked mildly, “Comments?”
The junior assistant lifted her chin, meeting his eyes directly. “Why ask for the nanoprobes? Was it really necessary to be so antagonistic?”
His lips stretched infinitesimally, in the Krigi approximation of a grin. “The drone’s hostility towards me was amusing. I merely decided to exacerbate it. If they comply with the full request, I will be pleasantly surprised. If they do not comply, then I will be ‘reasonable’ and they will be grateful. Either way works in our favor.”
Leov nodded once, then shrugged. “The engineers report that shields installation is nearly complete, and the tests turned out perfectly predictably, of course. According to their estimates, based on a new familiarity with Voyager’s systems, weapons testing installation should take a maximum of three days.”
The Researcher grinned once more. “Perfect. Once the weapons deal is agreed upon, the drone will have enough time to complete the other requests. After all, information about the Borg decision matrix and Borg leadership culture is best given willingly. It would be far too inefficient to extract that information from the cortical node. When our requests are fulfilled, then we move.”
At this, Srange looked up sharply, her tense movement calmly observed by Sylvan and Leov. She threw a pleading glare at her companions. “Please reconsider this course of action. We can find another way.” Her tone was beseeching, the resonance one of honest entreaty.
The Researcher made a motion, one of impatience and frustration. “Srange, why waste years of further research, not to mention even more lives, when the means are within our grasp? It is not efficient.” Sylvan barked in his impossibly flat voice, eyes brightening with unconcealed displeasure. “You knew this might be a possibility as soon as Mercut reported this encounter.”
“But we may not have the support of the empire if we proceed!”
“Srange.” It was Leov, her voice a gentle counterpoint to Sylvan, her tones soothing. “They will follow us. If this opportunity turns out as well as we believe, the end will be within reach in a mere matter of years, not decades, not centuries. We might even be able to tell our children about how we destroyed the Collective. Think of it, Srange…a glory of unimaginable magnitude, not only for ourselves, but for the Krigi people.”
Sylvan stood. He moved slowly to Srange, knowing that she tracked his every move, and was determined to imprint the gravity of this decision on her. He loomed over the seated woman, his cybernetic legs glinting in the stark white light.
His eyes had gentled, settling into a rich, complex deep purple, and those eyes held her with a quiet, almost hypnotic power. Even after decades of working with Sylvan, Srange thought weakly, his gaze still carried such a magnetic pull.
His hollow voice was a jarring contrast to the charismatic gaze. “It is destiny, Srange. Do not fight it. How else can you explain a chance meeting with a crew that harbors a severed, fully functional drone? Who ever heard of such a thing? In all the vastness of space, the improbabilities of this occurrence are staggering. We were meant for this path. From destruction, comes opportunity. From suffering, comes virtue. Embrace this, Srange. It is what will be.”
He looked over to Leov, and then back to Srange, his purple eyes swirling with barely concealed excitement. “Moreover,” he continued, “I believe our path will be easier than previously imagined. During my meeting with the drone, the captain displayed a strange unease. She was tense, withdrawn, on edge. Her interaction with the drone was unquestionably strained. It is possible that she is of the same mind as many of her crew — they tolerate the drone for its capabilities and technical assistance during this voyage home, but have no love for it. By including nanoprobe technology as one of our conditions, the drone’s position on Voyager may be complicated as a result of its refusal to comply.”
“Are you suggesting that we approach the captain about our plan?” Leov asked sharply.
Sylvan shook his head. “Not at all. I merely posit the probability that this operation may move forward more easily than expected. Our engineers report that, in their casual inquiries aboard Voyager, the crew seems generally disassociated from the drone. Its closest friends seem to be a small child, the captain, and several members of the bridge crew and senior staff. However, based on my assessment of the captain, it may be that such a show of solidarity for the drone is a calculated gesture to invite the support of junior crewmembers — a hope that leadership behavior will be mimicked by junior crewmembers.”
“On strategic and tactical levels, however, the drone is perceived to be quite useful even among the crew,” pointed out Leov. “That alone merits caution on our part.”
“Of course, Leov. I have not forgotten the need for caution,” Sylvan remarked softly. He turned again to Srange, who silently watched the exchange. He moved to her side and laid a deliberate hand on her forearm. “Will you call Mercut? We must inform him of our requirements.”
“Yes, Researcher,” Srange replied, feeling a sick twist in her stomach. She stood quickly, then hesitated, asking, “Mercut has been asking about the passenger complement on the Avenger. What should I tell him?”
Sylvan’s eyes grew cold. “Tell him to stop asking such questions. Tell him we will inform him of all he needs to know. The … passengers … are not his concern. At least not yet.”
Srange nodded. With a gnawing unease, she turned and left the laboratory.
Sylvan watched her departure, then looked at Leov.
The other woman stared back. “She will comply,” she gently assured him.
His eyes glittered. “Of course she will.”
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
“Computer, seal the conference room, authorization Janeway lambda pink nine, one, one.”
Janeway exhaled a long breath, studying Seven’s back with some trepidation. The ex-Borg had returned to her pensive vigil in front of the view port.
“Don’t worry about the nanoprobe issue, Seven” the captain said firmly. “I will respect your wishes. I will deal with the Krigi. I can be persuasive … sometimes.”
Slowly, the captain approached Seven, every step increasing her anxiety. There seemed no way around it, but she didn’t want to deal with Seven’s coldness, didn’t want to strive against the Borg mask that cut off every opportunity to reconcile. And reconcile they must, for this Starfleet captain could not even contemplate the possibility of living forever separated from the warmth and love of this Borg woman.
First, she knew, she had to atone somehow for the hurt she had so cruelly wreaked on Seven.
Her fingers twitched, wanting to reach out and caress that stiff shoulder. But she stifled the urge, knowing any physical touch would be rejected immediately. Instead, she walked near the blonde woman to the view port. Seven still refused to look at her, and so Janeway took the time to study the still profile.
Finally, the captain spoke, her voice low and husky. “Seven, I’m sorry for what Chakotay said. I want you believe me when I say that I don’t share his feelings.”
“Indeed.”
Janeway flinched at the single word laced with bitterness.
“You need not worry about my feelings, Captain,” stated the ex-drone, her voice once again flat without inflection. “My existence has always inspired fear and dread and hatred in others, first as a drone of the Collective, and now here on Voyager. I am accustomed to the phenomenon.”
The words seemed to reach into the captain’s very heart and entrap it in a vise of grief. This, Janeway realized, is what she had forgotten. This is what all the ugly thoughts loitering in her mind ignored in their vendetta against Seven’s Borgness. This is what she could never forget again.
For nearly two decades, the woman beside her had toiled in virtual enslavement to a fierce power, helplessly performing its bidding, even as her body was mutilated in its service and her mind held captive to a single overwhelming directive. In all that time, she had known nothing of love, of nurturing, of kindness. She had been used in the cruelest, most impersonal way that any sentient being could have been used — and escape had merely provided another cruelty. For here on Voyager, she could rely upon no mental filters to wash out the hate she encountered. Here, condemnation of her stolen past was wielded like a blade, blithely cutting her out of the social fabric of the starship and casting her into an existence relieved only by small mercies and few friendships.
Janeway closed her eyes, as the realization ripped through every part of her soul. “Seven,” she whispered, her voice breaking on the name, eyes welling with tears.
“I do not require your pity, Captain,” came the cold voice.
Janeway glanced sharply at Seven, taking in the Borg reserve, the eyes like ice chips, the proud leonine neck. She took a breath, choosing her words carefully. “I don’t pity you, Seven,” she answered firmly. “But I do know when you are being treated unfairly, and it is my job to see that it stop. I can’t take back the words I said to you, just like I can’t erase anything that Chakotay or any other member of this crew has said. I will promise, however, that you won’t ever hear that sentiment from me, ever again.”
She moved closer to the ex-Borg woman, gratified that Seven did not recoil. “What I said was wrong. It was misguided. You may not believe me now, and you may not trust me anymore,” she took another, harsher breath as the probable truth of her words sent pangs of regret through her heart, “but that is the truth.”
Janeway searched the narrow face for a reaction, was disappointed to find no apparent change. She took another breath and tried again, her voice gentler. “Seven, will you come to my quarters tonight? I would really like a chance to talk with you … to apologize, to make amends, for my behavior. Please, please let me have that chance.”
She stopped, her heart pounding so hard she felt she had to strain to hear Seven’s reaction, if there was one. The blonde woman simply stood as before, staring out into the star field. The ensuing silence seeped like poison into Janeway’s heart, unleashing wild uncertainty and despair with each passing minute. Yet she held herself very still, grimly forcing restraint and patience on a body that wanted neither.
Finally, Seven of Nine turned her head to the captain, blue eyes shuttered. “I will not comply. I already know how of your … feelings. You find my Borg implants repulsive. You are ashamed of our romantic relationship. Discussion is futile.”
Seven’s voice was harsher, hoarser, more laden with emotion than the captain had heard in days. Janeway felt her heart beat faster, felt a tendril of hope curling through her soul.
As the ex-Borg turned to leave, Janeway quickly grasped Seven’s left forearm. The Borg looked at her in surprise and the captain tightened her grip.
“No. You don’t know how I feel,” she whispered huskily, eyes pinning Seven with a new intensity. “You now know my irrational fears. You know things about me that I am ashamed — ashamed and disappointed — to admit about myself. But you don’t know how I feel about you, Seven of Nine.”
The arm she held seemed to tremble, before Seven firmly wrenched it away.
“I must report to astrometrics, Captain,” said the younger woman, voice low and ragged.
Seven was halfway to the door before the captain once more caught her arm, this time moving to place herself between Seven and the exit, even as both hands grasped Seven’s shoulders to forestall further motion.
Blue eyes now flashing with a cold fire, Seven swallowed heavily as she tensed in Janeway’s grip.
“It may not make a difference to you anymore, but I feel that you have a right to know,” the captain said softly, fighting to control her breathing under Seven’s icy glare. Janeway paused, eyes tracing over the pale face. “I love you, Seven. I know I’ve made mistakes and hurt you. But I need us to be together. I need you.”
Her words seemed to shake the blonde woman, whose breathing suddenly grew markedly uneven. Seven’s pale eyes had darkened considerably, while her lips seemed to quiver. The silence between them seemed to stretch out interminably.
One breath. Another breath.
“I do not believe you.” Seven’s voice broke on the last word.
Somehow, the captain found the strength to absorb that devastating sentence. She nodded woodenly, feeling oddly detached from the pain it had caused. “I know.”
Her right hand moved slowly, down the length of the other woman’s left arm, tracing lightly over cool Borg metal. When she firmly gripped Seven’s Borg left hand, she heard the woman inhale sharply.
“I’m asking you to trust me once more, Seven,” Janeway murmured, her eyes staring calmly into Seven’s startled pale blue gaze.
“I won’t let you down again,” she continued, husky voice quavering ever so slightly. Then she brought the cybernetic hand to her lips, gently kissing each metal-tipped finger.
Seven’s gaze was now riveted on Janeway’s lips on her hand, and her breathing had deepened considerably, if unevenly. The Borg mask was discarded, and in its place crept a lost expression, uncomprehending and utterly vulnerable.
Seeing this expression, Janeway felt her insides shake, felt her throat constrict. Her left hand moved deliberately to Seven’s waist, pulling the other woman closer, then it curved upwards, fingers gliding to rest in the depressions of Seven’s abdominal implant, which were easily felt through the biosuit. She felt the heat from the younger woman and raised her left hand to cradle a smooth cheek.
Breathing shakily, Seven leaned into the gentle hand, closing her eyes with a small sigh. Janeway tenderly released the Borg hand in order to pull the blonde woman into a deeper, more inviting embrace.
They stood together for a long time, feeling the pain of the past few days drop away. Later, there would be discussion. But for now, it was enough to hold each other, and begin to heal together.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
The Krigi woman rounded the corner, careful to maintain an easy, relaxed gait. She nodded formally to various passing officers, her curt demeanor warning them off casual conversation. No one bothered her as she made her way through various levels of the warship.
She moved to a familiar corner, one from which she could monitor movement from the nearby corridor and walkways. Leaning against dark metal, she waited patiently. No other person came by for a long time, and she began to wonder if her contact had lost his nerve. Then the pad of footsteps caught her attention, sent her pulse beating wildly.
He moved quickly to her corner, positioning himself in the shadows.
“You’re late,” she hissed.
He shrugged. “I came as soon as I could, Srange. Quickly now. Do you know the plan yet?”
Her eyes narrowed. “He will move as soon as the drone completes the requests.”
The Krigi man studied her for a long moment. “Killing it will be much harder once it is aboard the Mata and in his possession. Would it not be simpler to kill it now?”
Srange shook her silver head. “No. The Voyager crew would then be drawn into the resulting conflict. It is unfair to involve them. This is not their fight.”
“But the stakes are so high,” he protested, resonating dread and fear.
She stared stolidly at him, feeling a now-familiar sadness ache through her. “There will be more than enough bloodshed in the near future. I will not sacrifice this innocent crew as well. We must respect some boundaries, even if Sylvan does not.”
He saw the determination in her set jaw and decided to drop the point. “Very well. The others have been contacted. Many are with us.”
She nodded. “He believes none will challenge his course.”
His eyes flashed and his words carried a hard-edged anger. “His course is abomination. This drone must die.”
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^