The voices gradually died away, as she pushed further into the dark tube, grateful for her enhanced Borg night vision. It had been a risk, as was everything aboard this mysterious vessel, yet her stealthy efforts to move away during their strange, tense conversation surprisingly proved effective. At first, she feared that no exit would be possible, that she would truly be trapped in that cavernous laboratory, once more at the mercy of the Krigi scientists. Yet during one of the sustained rumbles, the lights had brightened briefly, and the corner of her eye spied the edges of a maintenance hatch peeking from behind a nearby console. Softly, as quietly as possible, she crawled to the hatch, her slow flight masked by a series of shorter rumbles that shook the ship ever so slightly, her torturers engrossed in their strange, strained conversation.
Now, deep in the recesses of the maintenance tube, she moved quickly, uncaring of creating noise. Survival was the only motivation on her mind, for she had pushed away everything else, every other emotion that threatened to overwhelm her in such a desperate time. And time itself was a commodity of unknown quantity. Judging from the energy levels in her body, Seven thought grimly, not much more would be left to her. Already, her arms were tiring, as they moved swiftly to propel her forward and up the short ladders. The pain around her left side was starting to dull, but she knew that she left a viscous trail of blood. Too easy to trace.
A dull light shone ahead, off to one side, and she slowed her progress. She gasped once, inhaling and exhaling carefully as the ache in her side intensified unexpectedly. Her lips thinned with pain. She moved forward, lifting her face gingerly near the lit hatch, pressing her keen ears to ascertain the likelihood of danger from the other side.
For long seconds, the Borg listened, yet nothing could be heard from the other side, not even a hint of murmuring voices. It was entirely possible, she admitted, that the hatch was dense enough to foil even her enhanced senses, but it was a chance she must take. Time was wearing thin. Her energy levels were falling too quickly to allow for risk aversion.
Slowly, she opened the hatch. When still no movement could be heard, she cautiously poked her head into an empty room. Grimacing slightly as she leaped down into the darkened space, Seven studied the room in a single thorough sweep.
Evidently, it was a supply room – carefully stacked uniforms lined the shelves, an assortment of differently sized boots stood neatly on the floor, and variously colored shirts lay in transparent containers. When her eye caught the curved opening, she pressed back against a stack of containers, obscuring her form from passersby, of which, luckily, there still were none.
A chill wended down her back. Of course, she thought, the Borg influence in architecture. Her eyes studied the hallways and room visible through the opening. Familiar green lights flickered on dark angularities, and she fought off a haze of paralyzing dread. This was not a Borg vessel, she reminded herself sternly. She was the only Borg aboard. There proved little comfort in such thoughts.
A stab of pain reminded her of the urgency of her situation.
Seven of Nine moved forward, towards the opening. As she walked, her arms reached out to the walls, using them for support as her now-unsteady frame bent slightly into a battle-ready crouch. She quickly crossed the hallway, then turned into the next room, crouching near columns and behind consoles as she made her way to another opening.
Her body tensed. Krigi voices, along with the first vibrations of emotive resonance, began to fill the air. Some were coarse and excited; others were low, tense and strained. She heard battle fire, heard sharp cries of pain, then more shots in the near distance. The sounds were moving closer, edging towards the room she occupied.
Tuvok held up a hand, forestalling Janeway’s impatient question. Then he moved his head away from the hatch. “Seven is no longer here,” he whispered rapidly, his words a low staccato beat. “The rebels have penetrated and apparently have captured Intern Leov. There is some concern about Sylvan.”
Theos, a junior Vulcan security officer, signaled urgently, pointing to his wrist guide. “She moves above us.”
Janeway twisted her head, reading the new signal clearly. “Let’s move.”
This time, the two junior Vulcan security officers assumed the lead, with Janeway close behind and Tuvok in the rear. The quartet moved quickly, backtracking then climbing new sets of ladders to access the next level.
A strange calm had settled over Janeway. She allowed the new information to fill her mind. Rebel success meant a death sentence for the young Borg. There would be no more room for mistakes in this mission. Time was no longer on their side. Her jaw tightened as she forced her thoughts away from Seven of Nine. She needed to concentrate on the goals – locate the objective (Seven), recover the objective, complete the mission. More personal thoughts could warp her judgment, which would perhaps more surely help kill Seven. She knew that a part of her was scared of what could happen, was terrified of failing and losing the one person who had captured her heart and body more completely than anyone else ever had. But Janeway also knew that this part could not now be allowed to dictate her actions. She would lose control later, if necessary. Right now, the Captain was in command, and the only thing that mattered was completing the mission.
As they clambered through the darkened tube, Janeway became aware of a liquid film covering her hands. She stopped the group, shining a small light directly on the slick flooring. A faint sanguineous smell wafted to her nose. She knew her face had paled. “I think this is from Seven. Let’s go.” She extinguished the light decisively.
Somehow, she thought numbly, her voice still resonated strongly, even as her heart seemed to plummet a thousand light-years into a dark, bleak space. She concentrated instead on the sound of their scuffing as they moved deeper into the darkness, focused on the steady weight of her phaser rifle across her back.
A dull light shone, illuminating a small exit hatch. She saw Lt. Theos hold up his hand and move his ear to the hatch. Forcing herself to wait quietly, she swallowed in anticipation when he manipulated the hatch. It opened into a dimly lit room, a rather basic supply closet.
Phaser rifles ready in their grasp, the away team moved silently into the hallway, wrist devices locking onto their Borg target — who was somewhere in the near rooms, yet separated from them by a sudden wail of screams, a hail of disruptor bursts, and a dense fog of heat and palpable fear.
Seven twisted behind a column, falling to her knees as a wave of dizziness obscured her vision momentarily. She gasped, clutching at her left side, feeling the sticky ooze of free-flowing blood on her hand. Another dizzy spell hit, and she rocked weakly on the floor, head bent. She heard footsteps approaching. Someone was running, even stumbling, into the room. Other footsteps followed.
She struggled to sit up, to inspect the new intruders, but her body refused to respond. Only with the greatest of effort was she able to lean back heavily against the column. Her mind, however, was able to understand what was happening to her body. It was shutting down. Her muscles no longer were able to bear the weight of a Borg-enhanced body — that was why her limbs felt too heavy, too leaden, to lift. The required energy was not available, because her body was clearly running out of energy. The wound at her side slowly was transforming into a mortal one, her nanoprobes apparently no longer possessing the power to coagulate properly.
Only her mind continued to work, Seven reflected with faint irony, yet without a functioning body to command, its function would be reduced to a droll, clinical analysis of the last minutes of her life.
She began shivering, her body cooling due to lack of energy. Seven stared dully ahead, unseeing, her thoughts turning down one more path, away from her own weariness and pain.
Kathryn. My Kathryn. I have loved you. I wish to see you one more time. I wish…
Her vision blurred as tears gathered. Then, without warning, her head was yanked upwards, and her eyes met the wild green gaze of a bloody Krigi soldier.
Janeway steadied the phaser compression rifle, her right hand slipping down to rest on the trigger. She crouched forward, motioning to her team. They moved in synchronized steps, keeping low to the floor, rifles forward.
A rolling heat permeated the corridors, indicating that environmental controls were malfunctioning in this section of the vast Krigi starship. The captain felt sweat begin to pour down her face, into the now-uncomfortably warm dark sweater. The hallways were starting to fill with a light, white haze, no doubt steam and fog from various chemical liquids escaping from explosions and damaged pipes.
The screaming seemed to have abated, and now only a duet of voices could be heard amidst scattered disruptor fire. The voices were hoarse, yelling, but she couldn’t fully comprehend the words.
She crept closer. The Krigi were in the next room.
She twisted her head around the next corner, in time to see a navy-clad Krigi rebel cut down by a blast to the head. He fell heavily, slumping over yet another dead rebel. More blasts erupted from the far room, crashing into walls and columns.
The hoarse voices continued their verbal onslaught, and now she could understand their words.
“The Borg is ours, fools! You won’t get it!”
“Sylvan’s path is our path!”
Yet another volley of bursts were dispatched, and she saw the fallen arms of another navy-clad rebel appear in the doorway. More blasts followed, but the battle now appeared to be a one-way shoot-out. The antagonists seemed to have realized this as well, for their cries stopped, and a tense silence seemed to emanate from the far room.
She held up her left hand, fingers twisting in Voyager’s silent battle language, ordering her team into formation. They fanned out, two on each side of the opening, low enough to seem mere shadows in the dim light and angular silhouettes.
A discernible throb of fear seemed to pulse from the room, and movement could be heard. Janeway looked to Lt. Theos at her side, expecting his keener Vulcan ears to provide more information for action. He returned her gaze with an inscrutable stare, but his fingers already were moving in the battle code. She readied herself, knowing the other two also were reading the plan.
The soldier fell away, to reveal another holding a pale form up close to his chest, almost as though she was a living shield. Janeway froze, rifle pointing straight at the Krigi’s head. Her finger twitched on the trigger, but then he lifted the body further up, obscuring his form even more.
All movement stopped. The remaining conscious Krigi soldier was the focal point of all attention, with four phaser rifles aimed at him and his captive.
Janeway’s throat constricted as she studied the captive. Seven…what have they done to you, love?
The ex-Borg’s face was a deathly white, her eyes hidden behind shuttered lids, her mouth parted slightly, jaw slack. She seemed to be shaking hard in her captor’s grasp, and her arms hung weakly at her side. The head, shorn of the beautiful golden hair, appeared mottled, even bruised. The light jumpsuit she wore was torn in places, and Janeway spied a dark spot, clearly a bloodstain, adorning the left side, running darkly under the Krigi soldier’s arm.
“Let her go.” Janeway’s voice was a lethal whisper, drained of all emotion but a tightly tethered fury.
In response, the Krigi soldier jammed his disruptor gun into the right side of Seven’s face. “Come closer and your Borg creature will die.”
The captain didn’t move a muscle, staring coldly at the slightly panicky Krigi. “If you let her go, we can offer you protection. The rebels are overrunning this vessel. Be smart about this.”
The soldier’s eyes seemed to swirl even more frantically, and his grip on Seven visibly tightened. The muzzle of the disruptor pressed more forcefully into the Borg’s face, as the Krigi swung his head back and forth, quickly sizing up the four members of Voyager’s away team.
“I don’t make deals with Borg lovers,” he said flatly. “Get out of my way. Now.”
Even in the heat, Janeway felt a chill spread down her spine. It was fear — fear that Seven would die in this terrible place, murdered by a desperate foot soldier after enduring unexplained tortures. But in the space of a heartbeat, the captain had pushed away this potentially debilitating thought, and her mind focused like a laser on the only options left to her. Violence and deception.
“All right,” she responded calmly, allowing her shoulders to sag dejectedly. “Everyone, put down your guns.”
She ducked her head as she made a show of placing her rifle down on the floor, throwing in a few gratuitous flourishes of her right hand. As expected, the Krigi watched her rifle hand carefully, unaware of the slight twisting of her other hand.
But Tuvok was watching carefully, easily reading her signal. As she placed the rifle on the floor, feigning a small stumble, the senior Vulcan security officer whipped up his rifle and fired a single, accurate shot at the Krigi’s partially exposed right shoulder. Without a sound, both Krigi and captive slid to the ground.
Janeway rushed to Seven’s side, ignoring the Krigi soldier, who was being dragged off to one side by Tuvok. She lifted the Borg’s head, cradling it in her lap. Pressing her hands to Seven’s face and neck, Janeway was appalled to find cold, clammy skin. Seven was shivering uncontrollably now, her movements jerky and spasmodic.
The captain was vaguely aware of Tuvok and the others forming a protective perimeter, the two junior officers flanking the doorway, while Tuvok stood guard in front of her. She heard him talking in quiet tones to Voyager, apparently arranging immediate teleportation back to the ship. But her attention was squarely centered on the woman she held.
The situation was dire, the captain knew. In the sweltering heat of the room, Seven should not have been shivering, her skin should not be as icy as it was. Clearly, worried Janeway, the Borg’s internal systems were failing, or perhaps had failed. Janeway carefully laid her down on the floor, then quickly whipped off her sweater and placed it over Seven’s upper body.
Now clad in a simple black tank top, clinging stickily to her in the relentless heat, she peered at Tuvok. “Status?” she asked simply.
His sober eyes turned to her. “Captain, the commander assures me that Voyager will beam us back as soon as possible. At this moment, however, they are under attack, and shields are at maximum.”
Janeway nodded and turned back to Seven. The young Borg continued to shiver, but otherwise was unresponsive. Janeway soothed her face with gentle knuckles, whispering quiet reassurances that she herself tried hard to believe. With a stricken heart, the captain studied Seven’s physical changes, noting the sunken, hollow cheeks, the dark patches under the eyes, the bald head darkened by bruises and lesions, the thinness that spoke of more than simply physical deprivation. Her hand shaking, Janeway lifted the edge of the black sweater to examine Seven’s wound on the left side, and was dismayed to find the blood pouring freely from the damaged flesh.
Even as she comforted the silent Borg, Janeway shook with mounting fury. She wanted to lash out at Sylvan, at the Interns, at this bitter species blessed by talents and damned by hatred. Her hands continually skirted over Seven’s cheeks and neck. Then, without another thought, she bent her head, kissing lightly on Seven’s brow.
“Captain.”
She raised her head, meeting Tuvok’s steady gaze.
“Krigi are approaching.”
She nodded, stroked Seven’s cheek once more, then gathered up her rifle and crouched into position laterally from Tuvok. She watched as the junior officers at the doorway tensed, their arms tightly coiled around rifles.
A chorus of staccato footsteps beat towards them, a military precision echoing starkly down the corridor. Janeway inhaled in anticipation, as she lifted the rifle into position.
Suddenly, a voice erupted the ship’s communications relay. “This ship is now under the control of the rebel forces. Put your weapons down. You will not be harmed.”
Janeway stood over Seven of Nine. Slowly, she reached out to stroke the Borg’s human right hand. Seven’s warm skin felt good, a reminder that she was recovering, albeit slowly, from her ordeal.
“She’ll be all right, Captain,” said the Doctor cheerfully, his baldhead glinting brightly under the bright lights of sickbay. He made a final sweep of Seven’s body with the tricorder, grimacing slightly at the readings. “But she’ll be weak for quite some time. Right now, I need to get our lovely Borg back to her alcove for some intensive regeneration.”
The captain nodded. She stepped back as the holographic doctor easily picked up Seven and shimmered away.
She strode out of sickbay, feeling an ache in her chest, missing the young blonde’s company with a new sharpness. Patience, Katie, she’ll be back with you soon.
Around her, crewmembers scurried about on various tasks, mostly performing necessary repairs. The ship had been damaged only lightly in the battle with Sylvan’s forces, thanks to a pair of small, elite rebel ships that had continually run off other Krigi vessels. According to Chakotay, if not for them, the Federation starship likely would have suffered tremendous physical damage and grievous casualties. During the final farewell to the rebels, Janeway and Chakotay had made a special point of thanking the stalwart commanders of those two small ships.
She greeted various crewmembers with real warmth, yet many chose not to intrude, sensing a deep pensiveness in their leader. Alone and silent, she made her way to her quarters, but paused ten feet from the door and turned on her heel.
Shortly afterwards, she settled into a chair, the green glow of the Borg alcove shining above. A book lay open yet unread on her lap, as the Federation captain sat watching her lover.
Her eyes darkened, as she tried to guess at Seven’s ordeal. The Borg had not yet regained consciousness, so they still didn’t know what had occurred initially to draw down so much energy. And they had no idea what other traumas were inflicted.
The Doctor had called on every facet of his time-tested skill and knowledge of Borg physiology to staunch the bleeding and reenergize seriously depleted nanoprobe levels. Apparently, the number of functional nanoprobes in Seven’s body had dwindled alarmingly, and sickbay’s nanoprobe reserves barely met required infusions. Nanoprobe technology was intricate, based on a complex equation involving synergy levels and symbiotic adjustments to the host life form. Another hour, he had dryly informed the captain, and Seven’s body would not have been able to sustain enough nanoprobes for one Borg, much less for others that Sylvan was hoping Seven would assimilate. Janeway had only swallowed, then frowned at his ill-advised attempt at humor.
Her eyes now traced the sensuous full lips, the curve of bold cheekbones accentuated by new hollows.
I have missed you so much.
Coming Soon – No Less Human – Chapter 16…no, it’s not over yet!