The planet’s capital was dark, and quiet.  The only lights were the scanning beams of the Borg drones and the occasional flash of an energy weapon.  The only sounds were sporadic weapons fire, scattered shouts, screams, and pleas for mercy.  Quietly, efficiently, the drones moved through the streets and buildings, pitiless, implacable, unstoppable.

The unimatrix was searching a small apartment block, floor by floor, dwelling by dwelling.  Their Tertiary Adjunct, Seven of Nine, broke the lock on an apartment door, shoved the door open, and moved inside.  She walked steadily from room to room, scanning back and forth, using the thermal sensor in her ocular implant to search for the telltale warmth of humanoid bodies. 

There: through the door of the bedroom, she saw the heat signatures of two of the planet’s inhabitants, one large, one small, huddled together.  Her audio sensor picked up a voice whispering.  The door was flimsy.  She broke through it easily, ignoring the screams within.

A female and its subunit, another, immature female, in the corner: Species 6137, she noted mechanically.  The mother was clutching its child, crying out desperately, “Ama tano ka, ko nara pa, yama….”  It was praying.  Seven of Nine moved into the bedroom.  The child whimpered.

“Goddess!” the mother cried.  “Goddess!  Help us, please!”

Only Seven of Nine answered.  “You will be assimilated.”

“No!”

“Resistance is futile.”

“Please,” sobbed the mother as the drone approached, “please, take me, but not my daughter!  Spare my daughter—”

Seven of Nine seized the creature by the hair, pulled it up, and plunged her assimilation tubules into its throat.  Its cries turned into wet choking noises.  She allowed it to fall facedown on the bed, where it lay, twitching, as the nanoprobes flowed into its brain.

The child’s scream was thin and shrill as the drone reached out for it—

“NO!”

There was an electronic chirp, followed by the voice of the ship’s computer.  REGENERATION CYCLE INCOMPLETE, it chided.

Seven of Nine looked around frantically.  Where was she?  What was happening?

The Cargo Bay.  Cargo Bay Two.  She was on Voyager.

She sobbed, and covered her face with her hands.  Her heart was pounding.  She was sweating, and trembling.  Her legs felt weak.

A dream, she told herself.  Only a dream.

Only—

It wasn’t just a dream.  She remembered the assimilation of Species 6137.  She remembered assimilating the woman and her child, and others.

She remembered it all.

She gagged.  She was certain she was going to vomit.  She had to get to Sickbay.

She hurried from Cargo Bay Two, with her right hand over her mouth and her left arm across her stomach.  She entered the turbolift at the end of the hall and closed here eyes.  “Deck Five.  Sickbay,” she groaned.
 
 

The Doctor materialized.  “Please state the nature of the medical emergency.”

“Doctor—“

“Seven!  What’s the matter?  Are you ill?”  He opened a medical tricorder and scanned her quickly

“I—I had a dream.  A nightmare.”

“Easy,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulder and taking one of her hands.  “Easy.  Come over here,” he said leading her to his office.  “Sit down.  Breathe deeply.  There, that’s good.  Let me get you a glass of water.  Here you go.  There.  Better?”

She nodded.  He pulled his chair close to hers.  “Can you tell me about it?”

She described her nightmare.  “It was so real,” she said, “so lifelike.  I remember those events, but this—this was like living them again.  It was—horrible.  I felt like I was trapped in a drone’s body, unable to move, unable to speak, or do anything but watch while it all happened again.”

The Doctor shook his head.  “It sounds terrifying.”

“I do not understand,” she said.  “I have had disturbing dreams before, but this—never anything like this.  Why is this happening to me?  What does it mean?”

“Well,” said the Doctor, considering.  “As we both know, I’m not an expert in such matters.  However, it seems to me that the most important element in your dream was the little girl at the end, right before you woke up.”

“Why?  Because I was a little girl when I was assimilated?”

“Yes, exactly.  Do you remember when you first came on board?  When B’Elanna asked you if you felt any remorse over what you’d done as part of the Collective?”

“Yes.  I didn’t.  Not then.”

“No.  But you do now.  I think this dream shows that you’ve begun to identify closely with your victims.  I mean, with the Borg’s victims.”

“My victims,” she said bitterly.  “You were correct the first time, Doctor.”

He sighed and crossed his arms.  “Seven, you weren’t responsible for what you did as a drone.  One of the most important steps in becoming an individual is accepting the responsibilities of an individual.  You are responsible for your actions now.  You are not responsible for the Collective’s actions then.”

“I feel responsible, Doctor,” she said, looking up at him with a pained expression.  “I feel that woman’s hair in my fist, and her struggles as I pulled her to her feet.  I see the fear in her face.  I hear her choking as I stabbed her in the throat.  I can hear the screams—the screams—.”  She looked down again.

The Doctor took her hands in his.  “The screams of her little girl.”

“Yes.”

“Seven, could you have resisted the Collective?’

“I didn’t even try, Doctor.  It never occurred to me.”

“You didn’t try because there was no ‘you,’ Seven.  You weren’t a person.  You were a drone.  A tool, like a laser scalpel.  If someone uses my laser scalpel as a murder weapon, is the scalpel to blame?”

“Of course not.”

“Even if it didn’t try to stop itself from being used as a murder weapon?”

Seven said nothing.

“Seven—Seven, we’ve had this conversation before, and I know my arguments don’t make you feel any better about yourself.  But please think about what I’ve said.  You may remember doing these things, but they’re not your memories: they’re someone else’s.  A Borg drone’s.  You’re not a Borg drone, not anymore.”  He leaned over and kissed her forehead.  She seemed much calmer, now.   “Would you like to return to your alcove?”

She shook her head.  “No, Doctor.  I would not like to return to my regeneration alcove.”

He nodded.  “I understand.  Still, you need rest, even if it’s just inefficient human sleep.  And there aren’t any beds in Cargo Bay Two.  Why don’t you stay here for the night?”

“Sleep?  In Sickbay?”

“Why so sceptical?  Don’t you think what you’ve been through qualifies as a sleep disorder?  And where better to monitor your condition?  You can take biobed four.”

She thought that over.  “Very well,”

He walked with her over to biobed four, where she took off her shoes and lay down uncertainly on her side, doing her best to make herself comfortable in the unfamiliar position.

“There, that’s not so bad, is it?  You’ll master this activity in no time.”  He kissed her again, on the lips, wondering, not for the first time, how that felt to a human being.  “Good night, my dear.”

“Good night, Doctor.”

He checked the readings on the monitor above her bed and dimmed the lights. 

“Doctor?”

“Mmm?”

“Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it.  Reactivate me if you need anything.  Computer.  Play Dardanus by Jean-Philippe Rameau, Act Four, Scene Two: the Trio and Chorus of Dreams.  Deactivate EMH.”

The Doctor vanished.  The quiet strains of a tender rondeau floated through the darkened Sickbay.  Seven smiled slightly.  She wanted to ask the Doctor if he had much success with music therapy in sleep disorder cases.  But she was so tired.  She drifted off to sleep, as the dreams sang softly: 

Par un sommeil agréable
Que tous vos sens soient charmés!
Dormez, dormez.
Par cet enchanteur aimable
Tous les chagrins sont calmés.
 
 

For as long as Tom Paris and B’Elanna Torres had been living together, Tom had been showing up early for work on the Bridge and in Sickbay.  B’Elanna was not a morning person: she slept as late as possible, and was always in a rush when she finally got up.  If Tom was around, all he heard was, in the way, in the way!  Sleeping late wasn’t an option, so he’d long ago resigned himself to being first out of bed and first out the door, leaving only a kiss on the cheek and half a pot of hot coffee behind him.  B’Elanna usually mumbled goodbye, or something.

“Computer,” he said as he entered Sickbay, “activate EMH.” 

The Doctor materialized.  “Please state the nature of the medical emergency.”

“It’s seven-thirty, Doc.”  Tom’s eyebrows went up when he saw Seven asleep on the biobed.  “Well.  Is she moving in, or just sleeping over?  Should I leave you two alone?”

“Mister Paris…”

“Hey, don’t get me wrong Doc, I think it’s great you two have come so far so fast.  Of course, you might have a little more privacy if you got some quarters together…”

“Mister Paris!”

“Hey, relax, Doc, I’m only kidding.  Was Seven having trouble regenerating?”

“Yes.”

“Is she all right?”

“I think so.  It’s nothing a trained counsellor couldn’t fix, anyway,” he said sourly.

Tom nodded.  “Well, don’t you think you’d better get her up?  She has to be in Astrometrics in half an hour.”

“I’m aware of the time, Ensign.”  He looked at Seven and sighed.  “Still, I suppose you’re right.”  He moved over to her biobed.  “Seven.  Seven?”

She stirred, opened her eyes, smiled when she saw him, then noticed Tom across the room.  She sat up, flustered.  “Ensign Paris.”

He waved.  “Hey, Seven.  Rough night?”

“Yes.  Computer, what time is it?”

OH SEVEN THREE FOUR HOURS.

She looked at the Doctor accusingly.  “You let me sleep too late,” she said, sitting up and getting down from the biobed.  “I must prepare myself and report for duty in Astrometrics.”  She hurriedly slipped on her shoes and started for the door.

“Seven,” said the Doctor, catching her hand to stop her.

“Yes?”

He smiled.  “Don’t forget to eat something.  Hunger leads to inefficiency.”

“I will obtain a nutritional supplement on my way to the lab.”  She glanced over at Tom, who was studiously ignoring them, then moved closer to the Doctor and kissed him.  “I will come see you this afternoon.”

“I’ll be here.”  He released her hand, and she hurried out of Sickbay.

The doors to Sickbay opened again, soon after she left.  Crewman Marla Gilmore looked in.

“Hey, Marla,” said Tom.

“Good morning, sir.  Good morning, Doctor.”

“Good morning,” said the Doctor, coldly.  “What do you want, Crewman?”

She entered Sickbay hesitantly.  “I’m sorry, Doctor, I—I’ve been having headaches again.”

The Doctor opened a medical tricorder and scanned her.  “Well,” he said, “no sign of chemical dependency.  I suppose you really are in pain.”

Tom winced and looked up from his console. 

“It’s probably just stress and exhaustion,” said the Doctor.  “How are you sleeping these days?”

“Better,” she said.  “Well, a little better.”

“Very well.  Ensign Paris will run a full bioscan and give you some more painkillers.”  He put down the tricorder, turned his back on her and walked back to his office

Paris patted biobed three.  “Table for one,” he said.

Gilmore walked over and lay down on the bed.  As Paris began scanning her, she said, “The Doctor doesn’t like me, does he?”

“Hmm?  Oh, no, that’s just his way.  You should have met him when he was first activated.”

“No.  No, he doesn’t like me.  Or anyone else from the Equinox.”

“Well…” Tom hesitated.  Gilmore was a good officer who’d been trapped in a bad situation.  He didn’t know her that well, but B’Elanna spoke highly of her and her work in Engineering.  She also said that what happened on the Equinox bothered Gilmore more than any of her former shipmates.  “Well,” he said finally, “can you really blame him?  From what Seven told me, that was a pretty bad scene, after Ransom deleted his ethical subroutines.  The Doc doesn’t talk about it much.”

“I don’t blame him, “ she said.  “I don’t blame him at all.  I guess I wouldn’t like me, either.”

Tom smiled down at her.  “Give him time.  The Doc’s a good guy.  Once he gets to know you better, he’ll warm up to you.”

Gilmore smiled back, weakly.  “Maybe you’re right.”

Paris completed the scan.  “Well, as the Doc once said to someone else, you have a beautiful brain, Gilmore.  Looks like it really is just stress and lack of sleep.  Here,” he said after replicating some tablets, “take one of these at night before you go to bed.  If you’re still in pain after three days, come see us again.”

“Thank you, Ensign,” she said, got up, and left.  Tom watched her leave, then walked over to the Doctor’s office, stood in the doorway, and folded his arms across his chest.

“Doc.”

“What is it, Mister Paris.”

“Don’t you think it’s time you cut Gilmore some slack?”

The Doctor looked up.  “No.  Why?”

“Oh, come on, Doc!  That crack about chemical dependency was way out of line.  The woman is suffering from chronic pain.”

“I know that.  I scanned her, remember?  And do you remember how many drug addictions we had to treat when she and the others came aboard?  Their EMH was handing out painkillers and mood elevators like candy.”

“Gilmore wasn’t one of them.”

“No.  No, unlike them, she could live with herself without any help.”

“That isn’t fair, Doc.  You said it yourself, exhaustion and stress.  What do you think is causing that?”

“I don’t know.  Her conscience, I hope.”

“Look, B’Elanna works with her every day.  She says that Gilmore’s a good officer, and a good person.  She says that what happened on the Equinox is tearing her up.  She says—”

“Ensign,” said the Doctor impatiently, “Crewman Marla Gilmore is an accomplice to murder.  Multiple murder.  I’m glad to hear that she feels remorse for what she did, and that she’s been conducting herself well aboard Voyager.  Perhaps B’Elanna’s testimony will convince her court-martial to be lenient. Until then, you’ll have to excuse me if I don’t like to make friends with murderers.”

“Murderers,” said Tom.  “You mean, like Seven?”

“I beg your pardon!”

“I’ve got work to do,” said Tom, and walked away.

The Doctor stared after him for a moment, then angrily turned back to his work. 
 
 

Captain Janeway was taking a break, sitting on the couch in her Ready Room, sipping her coffee and reading Tasso.

The cruellest stars were ruling in the sky;
the milder lamps were spent, and did not shine;
and so they rained their influence from on high,
into the air infusing a malign
power; and as it grew it made men die,
die everywhere, throughout the camp.  No sign
of letting up.  The night brought no sweet chill,
and afterwards the day was hotter still. 

Something was wrong.  Janeway looked up from her copy of Jerusalem Delivered and out the window at the cruel stars of the Delta Quadrant.  Voyager was dropping out of warp.  What was happening?

“Captain to the Bridge.”

She put down her book and left her Ready Room.  “Report,” she said.

“Captain,” said Harry Kim, “we’ve had a close approach with a quantum filament.”

“How close?”

“Four point seven kilometres.” said Chakotay, studying the console between his chair and the Captain’s.  “The Computer dropped us out of warp when the filament brushed the navigational deflector”

Janeway nodded.  Less than five kilometres.  That was close.  A collision with a quantum filament at Warp 6.2 would have been disastrous. 

“Well,” she said, sipping her coffee and affecting a lack of concern.  “Nice to avoid a spatial anomaly for a change.  Good work, gentlemen.”

“Captain,” said Harry, frowning, “I’m detecting more quantum filaments in this area.”

“Oh?”  That was unusual.  Quantum filaments were rare and usually solitary phenomena.

“Yes, ma’am.  Dozens more.  Operations to Astrometrics.”

“Astrometrics here.”

“Seven, scan this sector of space for quantum filaments.  I’m reading thirty-nine within a light-year of our position.”

“Stand by.”  After a moment, Seven called back to the Bridge. “Confirmed.  There are one hundred and sixty-four quantum filaments within range of the Astrometric sensors, ranging in length from a light-month to a light-year.”

“A hundred and sixty-four?” said Janeway, taking her seat.  “Seven, give us an astrometric overview on the bridge viewscreen.”

The view on the screen switched to a three-dimensional star map.  The area of space ahead was criss-crossed with a tangle of glowing amber lines.

“It’s like a Sargasso Sea in space,” said Janeway.  “I think there are more quantum filaments in this one area than we’ve seen in the whole Alpha Quadrant.”

“Correct,” said Tuvok.

The Captain sipped her coffee again.  “Well.  Can we get through, or do we have to go around?  Harry?”

“We can go through, but not at cruising speed.  Filaments less than a light-month in length won’t show up on long-range sensors: the one we brushed was only a couple of light-weeks long.”

“I concur,” said Tuvok.  “It would be dangerous to proceed at greater than half speed.”

Janeway made a quick mental calculation, and sighed.  She didn’t like the idea of crawling through this sector at Warp Three, but it was still quicker than going around.  “All right.  Helm, plot a course to take us through, giving all known filaments a wide berth.”

“Course plotted and laid in,” said Ensign Jenkins.

“Warp Three.  Engage.  Seven, are you getting all this?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Good.  You’re going to make some astronomers very happy when we get back to the Federation.”

Harry looked up from his console.  “Didn’t a Galaxy-class cruiser run into a quantum filament at some point?”

“Yes,” said Chakotay.  “The Enterprise, on Stardate four-five-something—”

“Stardate 45156.1,” said Tuvok.

“Thanks.  Ro Laren told me about it.  She was serving on the Enterprise when it happened.”

“Who?” asked Janeway.

“Starfleet Lieutenant Ro Laren,” said Tuvok coldly, “wanted for desertion, and for numerous other breaches of Starfleet regulations and Federation law.”

“That’s her,” said Chakotay, grinning.

Janeway was intrigued.  “Part of your cell?”

“No, she was with Santos and Kalita.  I met her when we combined our forces for the raid on Lumok Nor.  Tabor introduced us—she was Bajoran, too.  We stayed up half the night swapping Starfleet stories.  Though I have to admit, her stories were a lot better than mine.”

“So what happened?”

“Well, the Enterprise crashed into the filament and was badly damaged.  Ro said she was trapped on the bridge with the Transporter Chief and the Ship’s Counsellor.  The Counsellor took command, and—“

“The Counsellor?”

“That was my reaction, too.  The watch officer was dead, and the Counsellor outranked everyone else.  She ordered them to—“

“Captain,” said Harry.  “Sorry, Commander.  Captain, I think you’ll want to have a look at this.”

The Captain got up and joined Harry at Ops.  “What is it, Ensign?”  She started to raise her coffee mug to her lips, stopped, and put it down. 

 “Seven of Nine to the Bridge,” she said.
 
 

“The cube has suffered catastrophic damage,” said Seven of Nine, turning from the image of the wrecked Borg vessel on the monitor to face the Briefing Room and the senior staff.  “Apparently, it collided with a quantum filament while travelling at high warp.  The transmissions that Ensign Kim detected are Borg distress signals.  Since the cube is still sending out distress calls to the Collective, the accident must have occurred within the last ten days.”

“Any survivors?” asked the Doctor.

“Unknown.  Judging from the damage, I would estimate that about three thousand drones must have been killed on impact, and that most of the remaining two thousand died soon afterwards when the cube lost life support.  Depending on the amount of time that has passed since the accident, there may be a small number of survivors in air pockets, or they may all have died from energy starvation.”

Many of the senior staff shifted uncomfortably in their chairs.  Four point seven kilometres.

“Are there any other signs of Borg activity in this area?” asked the Captain.

“No, ma’am,” said Harry.

“Well,” said Janeway, “why not?  Why hasn’t the Collective sent another vessel to rescue any survivors and salvage the wreck?”

“I believe,” said Seven, “that this cube is now irrelevant.  It has been heavily damaged, and survivors, if any, are few.  The Collective must have weighed the benefits of a rescue and salvage operation against the potential costs of another vessel colliding with a quantum filament, and abandoned this vessel altogether.  The Borg will simply avoid this area in the future.”

Janeway looked around the table.  “So,” she said, “what you’re saying is, we’re not likely to be disturbed if we go in for a closer look.”

Seven raised an eyebrow.  “Correct.”

Chakotay looked at the Captain.  “What did you have in mind?”

“What I have in mind,” said the Captain, folding her hands on the table in front of her, “is that our intelligence about the Collective is almost a year out of date.  What I also have in mind is that transwarp coil we stole from the Borg Queen’s vessel.  It got us twenty thousand light years closer to home before it burned out.”

She looked around the Briefing Room.  Many of the senior staff shifted uncomfortably in their chairs.
 
 

“Everyone here?” said Chakotay, looking over the away team: B’Elanna, Seven, Ashmore.  Where was Robbie?  Robbie was never late.  “Computer, locate—“

Crewman Roberta Rucker rushed through the doors into Transporter Room Two, clumsy in her environmental suit.  “Sorry, I’m sorry, Commander.”

Chakotay smiled at his old Maquis comrade.  “That’s okay, Robbie.  The wreck’s not going anywhere.”

B’Elanna looked at Rucker, puzzled.  Robbie was never late.  She looked tired, and her eyes looked red and swollen.  Had she been crying?  “Hey, Robbie,” she whispered, “is everything all right?”

Rucker ran a hand through her short blonde hair and smiled.  “I’m fine.  Just having a little trouble getting organized today.”  B’Elanna noticed that her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Okay, everyone,” said Chakotay, “listen up.  Let’s go over the plan one more time.  We transport over.  Seven?”

“I will orient us and lead us to the starboard transwarp drive compartment.

“B’Elanna?”

“Ashmore and I will salvage the transwarp coil.  If we can.”

“While Lieutenant Torres and Crewman Ashmore are salvaging the transwarp coil,” said Seven, “I will proceed with Crewman Rucker to the starboard computer core, to search for data nodes with strategic information on the movements of Borg vessels.”

“And when you’re done?”

“We will return to the drive compartment, and the Away Team will transport back to Voyager.”

Chakotay nodded.  “Good.  All right, I want you all to remember a few things.  The section we’re beaming into has an atmosphere, but it’s thin, and cold, like a Himalayan winter.  You won’t die if your suits are compromised—not right away—but don’t go cracking your helmet seal for some fresh air.  I promised the Doctor that none of you would come back with altitude sickness.”

“Remember that a wrecked ship is a dangerous place to be.  Don’t touch anything you don’t have to.  Treat everything as a potential hazard.  Your lives are worth more than any piece of Borg technology.  Is that clear?”

“Yes, Commander,” they answered.

“We’re probably going to see a lot of dead bodies, and they won’t be pretty.  We may also encounter some drones that are still alive.  Avoid contact with survivors if you can.  If Seven is right, they’ve been severed from the Collective, and we can’t predict their behaviour.  They may ignore us, they may attack us, we just don’t know, so stay away from them.  Stick to the plan.  Get in, get what we’re looking for, and get out.  Understood?” 

He looked from face to face as they answered affirmatively.  “All right, then,” he said, putting on his helmet and locking it down, “let’s suit up, and get ready to transport.  Lang?”

The transporter operator nodded.  “Any time you’re ready. Commander.”

The away team suited up, activated their magnetic boots, and clumped up onto the transporter pad with their toolkits.

Chakotay took one last look at his Away Team, then turned to face Ensign Lang.   “Energize.”
 
 

They materialized in blackness.  “Lights,” said Chakotay.

Their flashlight beams waved around.  They were in a corridor.  B’Elanna activate her helmet light, and looked down to switch on her wristlights.  She looked up again, into the eyes of a Borg drone

“Oh God,” said B’Elanna.  She tried to jump back, and almost fell over backwards in her magnetic boots.  When she regained her balance, she realized that it was dead.  The corridor was full of dead drones.  Their crushed and twisted bodies floated around the away team at odd angles.  They were coated with frost.  Crystals of frozen blood sparkled in the air. 

The wreck creaked and groaned.

Seven opened her tricorder and scanned the corridor.  “Temperature minus 50 degrees Celsius,” she said.  “Atmospheric pressure 300 millibars.”

“Welcome to Mount Everest,” said Chakotay.

“No radiation hazards,” Seven continued.  “No life signs.”  She holstered her tricorder and pointed down the corridor.  “The drive compartment is that way.”
 
 

The Captain paced back and forth on the Voyager’s bridge.  At the Security/Tactical station, Tuvok watched her, raised an eyebrow, but decided to say nothing.

“Away Team,” she called suddenly, “report.”

“Chakotay here.  We’re in the transwarp drive compartment.  The coil’s here.  Torres and Ashmore are working on it.  Seven and Rucker have gone on to the computer core.  No word on the data nodes.”

“Keep me posted, Commander.  Janeway out.”

“Remodulate the coil frequency,” said B’Elanna.

Ashmore worked on the coil.  “No effect.”

“Again.”

He tried again.  “It’s no use, Lieutenant.  The field regulator is fused.”

“Any luck?” asked Chakotay.

“Lots.  All of it bad,” said B’Elanna.  “The coil’s beyond repair.  It self-destructed, like the one from the Borg probe.  This was a waste of time”

“All right.  It was worth a shot.  We’re done here.  Let’s get ready to head back.  Chakotay to Seven of Nine.”

“Seven of Nine here.”

“The transwarp coil is beyond repair.  What have you found?”

“The computer core was badly damaged in the collision.  Most of the data nodes were destroyed.  The few that remain are unreadable.”

B’Elanna made a face.  “Terrific,” she said.

Chakotay looked at her and shrugged.  “All right, Seven, return to the drive compartment.  We’re ready to beam back to Voyager.”
 
 

“Understood,” said Seven.  “Crewman, we must—“

“Seven!”

Seven turned.  Crewman Rucker had her phaser out, and was pointing it at a Borg drone.  It stood motionless, blinking its single eye in the light from Rucker’s flash.

“Error,” it said.  “Input failure.” 

The drone had been disconnected from the Collective.  It stood there, confused and helpless, awaiting instructions.

Seven approached it.  “Seven,” said Rucker nervously, “the Commander said—“

Seven ignored her and switched on her suit’s loudspeaker.  “I am Seven of Nine,” she said, “Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero-One.  State your designation.”

“Five of Six,” it said,  “Tactical Auxiliary of Unimatrix Twenty-two.”

A tactical drone.  Seven saw, now, that its exoskeleton was heavily armoured, and its left forearm and hand had been replaced by a powergun.  Five of Six was designed to provide heavy fire support in combat situations.

The drone was no threat now, however.  Seven was turning to reassure Crewman Rucker when it spoke again.

“Help…”

She stopped, turned back, and stared. 

“Help me.”

She looked closer.  Her eyes widened when she realized what she was looking at.

Species 6137.
 
 

“What’s keeping those two?” asked B’Elanna.  “I want to get off this death trap.”

“I don’t know,” said Chakotay.  ‘Chakotay to—phasers!”

B’Elanna looked around in alarm.  Seven and Rucker had appeared in the entranceway.  A Borg drone—a big one—was right behind them.  She pulled out her phaser.  “Seven, Robbie, look out!”

Rucker scrambled out of the way, but Seven stood between the drone and the rest of the Away Team.  “Do not be alarmed,” she said, holding up her hands.  “Five of Six is not a threat.”

“Five of Six?” asked B’Elanna, taking aim.

“Seven,” said Chakotay, “what are you doing with that thing?”

“He is not a ‘thing’, Commander.”

“He’s a Borg drone.”

“Like I was,” said Seven.  “But like me, he has lost his link with the Collective.  And like me, he has begun to recover his individuality.  He is becoming a person again.  We must transport him to Sickbay.”

“What the hell is that on his arm?” asked B’Elanna, taking out her tricorder.  “Some kind of weapon?”

“Seven,” said Chakotay, “we’re not here to pick up strays.  We’ve done what we came here to do, and now we’re leaving, without him.”

“He’ll die, Commander.”

“He’s not our responsibility.”

“He’s transmitting a homing signal with his subspace transponder,” said B’Elanna.  “If we take him out of the quantum filament area, the Collective will come after him.  And us.”

“We can’t take him with us, Seven,” said Chakotay.

“His subspace transponder can be disabled!”  Seven’s voice had lost its commanding tone.  She sounded angry, desperate.  “His implants can be removed, as mine were!  More easily than mine were!  He has only been a drone for four years!”

“How do you know that?”

“He is Species 6137.  I helped assimilate his species.  I was there, four years ago.”

“Seven—Seven, I’m sorry.  Sorry for you, and sorry for him.  But we’re not taking him with us, and that’s final.  Everyone, prepare to transport back to Voyager.”

“No!  Commander, I want to speak to Captain Janeway!”

“Request denied.  I gave you an order, Seven.  You,” he said, switching to loudspeaker.  “Drone.  Five of Six.  Get out of here.  Go on.”  He raised his phaser again and took a step toward it.  “Comply!”

The Borg backed away a step.  “Commander!” cried Seven, pleading.  “Commander, please!”

“As you were, Seven.  Go on,” Chakotay shouted, waving his phaser at the drone.  “Get out of here!”

“Away Team to Captain Janeway,” said Seven.

“Damn it, Seven—“

“Please.”

Chakotay stopped and stared.  The drone was looking at him.  It had spoken to him.

“Captain here.  Go ahead.”

“Please,” said the drone.  “Help me.”

“Go ahead, Away Team.”

The drone was shivering.  Shivering in the cold.

“Commander Chakotay, report!”

Damn it, thought Chakotay.  “Captain, we’ve got a problem.  Seven of Nine disobeyed orders and made contact with a drone that survived the crash.  Its link to the Collective has been severed.  It’s—it’s showing signs of regaining its individuality.  Seven wants to bring it back to Voyager.”

“Is it a threat?”

“No,” said Seven.

“Unknown,” said Chakotay, glaring at Seven.

On the bridge of Voyager, Captain Janeway frowned.  “Do you recommend beaming it aboard, Commander?”

Chakotay’s jaw tightened.  “No.”

“Captain—“ cried Seven.

“That’s enough, Seven.”  Janeway considered.  “Commander, is the drone malfunctioning?  Is it violent?”

“No, Captain.  It’s just standing there.”

“Put it onscreen.”

The view from Chakotay’s helmet cam filled the Bridge viewer.  Five of Six looked out at the Bridge crew, shivering, pathetic.

“Please,” it said.

For a moment, Janeway just stared.  Then, she said, “Captain to Sickbay.”

“Sickbay here.”

“Doctor, we’re about to beam a Borg drone directly from the wreck to Sickbay.  I want you to erect a level ten force field around the isolation alcove, along with a dampening field to block the signal from its subspace transponder.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Commander Chakotay.”

“Chakotay here.”

“Prepare to beam it aboard.”

A pause.  “Yes, Captain.”
 
 

The Doctor applied a hypospray to Five of Six’s neck, and stood back.

On the other side of the force field, Captain Janeway watched as the former drone stirred, looked around, and slowly sat up on the biobed.  It was male, tall and heavily muscled: Seven had explained that the Collective added extra reinforcement to the musculoskeletal chassis of tactical drones.  His physique was emphasised by the form-fitting black dermacloth bodysuit the Doctor had designed for him.  His hair was still thin and patchy, but the Doctor had replaced his powergun and ocular implant with less obtrusive prosthetics.  He looked around, looked confused.

“Hello,” said the Captain, smiling.

He turned to face her.  “Hello,” he said.

“I’m Captain Kathryn Janeway of the Federation starship Voyager.  Can you tell us who you are?”

“Five of Six,” he said.  “Tactical--.”  He stopped, hesitated.  “No.  Norriam.  My name is Norriam.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Norriam.”

Norriam looked from the Captain to the Doctor, then at the other figures behind the force field: Chakotay, Tuvok—“Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One,” he said.  “I remember you.”

“Yes,” she said.  “You may call me Seven.”

“Seven,” he said.  He looked at the others again.  “Species 5618.  Species 3259.  Federation starship.  Am I in the Alpha Quadrant?”

“No,” said the Captain, “but we hope to be, soon.  We’re in the coreward area of the Delta Quadrant, about thirty thousand light years from your home world.”

“Thirty—thousand.”

“Yes.  Do you know what’s happened to you?  Do you remember anything?”

For a moment, he said nothing.  Then, “The Borg attacked my world.  I—I was assimiliated.”

Janeway nodded.  “Yes.”

“Oh,” he said, “Oh, Goddess.  My world.  They destroyed my world.  My people.  They were killed, or assimilated.  All of them.”  He fell silent again.

“I’m so sorry.  Would you like us to leave you alone?”

He closed his eyes, shook his head.  “How long?”

“How long have you been a drone?”

“Yes.”

“Approximately four years.  We found you in a Borg cube that was wrecked, in the middle of a patch of quantum filaments.  Do you remember what happened to your vessel?”

“No.  Yes.  I was—I was part of the Collective.  Then—I must have been unconscious.  When I woke up, the others were gone.  I was—alone.  It was dark, and cold.  So cold.  There was no one else.  I called and called, but no one came.”  He looked again at Seven.  “Until you.”

“How did you survive?” asked Tuvok.

“I found an energy storage cell—a battery.  I fed off of that.  But it ran out.  I was so cold.”

There was another pause.  “I’m afraid we know your people only by their Borg designation,” said Janeway.

“Species 6137.”

“Yes.”

“Boscan.  I am Boscan.  My world was called—Boscany.  I was a soldier.  We fought, when the Borg came. But they were too powerful.  There were too many of them.”

“I remember—we made our last stand across the line of the main road leading south from the city.  Our orders were, no retreat.  We had to fight to the last man.  We had to buy time for the city’s population to escape.  What was left of it.”

“The Borg came right at us.  A simple frontal assault, just wave after wave of drones.  They didn’t even shoot back, once our heavy weapons were destroyed.  We wiped out the first wave, but then—they adapted.  We rotated our frequencies, but we caused fewer and fewer casualties each time.  Then none, and they were on top of us.”

“It was like a nightmare.  I remember thinking, this isn’t real, this can’t be happening.  The Borg can’t be destroying our world.  Men were being assimilated all around me.  Some lost their minds, screaming and crying until the drones got them.  Some shot themselves.  I saw the Compcom kill himself with his pistol, before they could assimilate him.”

“The Platcom rallied a few of us.  We fired and fired.  Nothing.  Then he told us to fix bayonets and charge.  We’ll get some of them, he said.  We’ll send some of the motherless monsters into the Darkness ahead of us.  We fixed bayonets.  I remember, I was thinking how useless our bayonet training had seemed when I was a recruit.  He told us to stab for the face, the throat, under the chin.

“We charged.  We were yelling the Goddess’s name.  I saw a man put his bayonet right through a drone’s head.  I killed one.  At least, I think I killed it.  It was assimilating the Platcom.  I came at it from the side, and stabbed it in the armpit.  It fell over, and took my weapon with it.  It was stuck.  I was trying to pull it out when—when—”

The Doctor put his hand on Norriam’s shoulder.  “Easy,” he said.  “That’s enough for now.  You should rest.”  He turned to the other officers.  “Can we take this up again at another time?”

“One more thing, Doctor,” said Janeway.  “Norriam, I’m sorry, but there’s no way we can return you to your home, or even to the area of space that you’re familiar with.  Like I said, we’re on course for the Alpha Quadrant.  If you want, when you’ve recovered, we can let you off wherever you like, and you can make your own way from there.  Or, if you’d prefer, you can stay aboard Voyager, with us.  Seven was also a Borg drone, once.  Like you, we liberated her from the Collective, and she’s coming home to Earth, with us.  You’re welcome to come with us as well.”

Norriam considered, then nodded.  “Thank you, Captain Janeway.”

“You don’t have to decide right away.  Let me know when you feel up to talking again.  Gentlemen,” she said, turning to leave.

“Captain,” said Seven.  “Doctor.  May I stay a while longer?”

“Doctor?” said Janeway.

“A little while longer.  But he needs to rest, soon.”

Janeway nodded, and walked out of Sickbay with Chakotay and Tuvok.
 
 

“Bridge,” said the Captain, after the three of them had boarded the turbolift.  She turned to face her officers.  “He’s coming along well.”

“Indeed,” said Tuvok, “compared to Seven of Nine, his progress is remarkable.”

“So far,” said Chakotay.

“You still think this was a mistake,” said Janeway.

“We’re at war with the Borg, Captain.  If the Borg found Voyager in distress, they wouldn’t rescue us.  They’d assimilate us.”

“Well,” said the Captain, choosing her words carefully, “isn’t that the difference between us and the Borg?  That we have rules, even in war?  When a starship is wrecked, it’s our duty to rescue any survivors, even enemy survivors.”

“This isn’t about the laws of war.  This is about survival.”

“Yes.  But, survival as what?”

Chakotay didn’t answer.  The turbolift door opened on the Bridge.
 
 

“Norriam,” said Seven.  “When you fought the Borg, on your world, were you in the capital city?”

He shook his head.  “No.  I’ve never been to the Capital.  I was in the Lowlands, on the southern continent, in the hemisphere of water.”

“I see.”

“Why?”

She hesitated.  “I was at the capital city.”

“You helped assimilate my people.”

“Yes.”

“Is that why you rescued me?  When that other one wanted to leave me?”

“Commander Chakotay.  Yes.”

“Well.  Thank you.”

After a moment, she said, “I should let you rest.  We will speak again.”  She turned to leave.

“Seven?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“You know my name.”

He shook his head.  “No, I don’t mean your designation.  What’s your name?  Don’t you remember it?” 

She hesitated.  “I was called Annika.  Annika Hansen.”

“That’s a nice name.  Why don’t you use it?”

“It would not be appropriate.”

“Why not?”

She took a deep breath.  “Annika Hansen was six years old when she was assimilated.  Her life ended, and a new life began.  The life of a Borg drone.  My life.  She is a part of me, but I am Seven of Nine.”

He thought about that.  “I’m sorry,” he said.

She stared at him.  She could think of nothing to say.  The Doctor touched her arm.  “Seven, dear, he needs to rest.”

“Of course, Doctor.  You must,” she lowered her voice and turned away from Norriam, “you must watch him carefully for signs of implant rejection.  The Collective had difficulty assimilating Species 6137.  Many were—killed.  They could not adapt to life as drones.”

“I’ll be watching.”

Behind them, Norriam was staring at Seven of Nine, and remembering.
 
 

“Any other business?” asked the Captain, looking around the Briefing Room.

Seven spoke up.  “Captain—about Norriam.”

“Yes?  The Doctor says he’s doing fine.”

“He is well.  He wishes to be useful.  He wishes to be assigned some work to do on Voyager.”

Janeway glanced over at B’Elanna, saw her close her eyes and start stroking her temples with her thumb and forefinger.  “So soon?” asked Janeway.  “It’s only been three days since the Doctor removed his implants.  Are you sure he’s up to it?”

“Actually, Captain,” said the Doctor, “there’s no medical reason why Norriam can’t go to work right now.  He’s adapted to the loss of his implants much more quickly than Seven did—the result of spending less time as a drone, I’m sure.  In fact he’s almost ready to start eating again.  And, well, no offence, Seven, but his social skills are considerably better than Seven’s were at this point.”

Seven raised her eyebrows and glanced at him.  “Or yours, from what I’ve heard.”

“Yes, well, that’s true too, I suppose.”

Seven turned back to the room.  “Norriam was an adult when he was assimilated, and he spent only four years with the Collective.  His old personality has almost fully reasserted itself.  He has made it clear that he wishes to remain onboard Voyager.  I believe he is ready to join the crew.”

“Well,” said the Captain.  B’Elanna was staring at the table and working her jaw.  “What should we do with him?  With the new arrivals from the Equinox, we probably have enough staff in Engineering.”

Seven shook her head.  “Norriam does not have the training to work in Engineering.  He was a tactical drone, and a soldier before that.  I would suggest he should work under Lieutenant-Commander Tuvok, in Security.”

B’Elanna looked up in surprise.  Janeway turned to her Security Chief.  “Tuvok?”

Tuvok raised an eyebrow, steepled his fingers, and considered. “I would welcome a new recruit.  Casualties have been heavy, and an additional full-time guard would allow us to reduce the number of cross-postings from other Departments.  Although his military training was not up to Starfleet standards, his Borg enhancements will allow me to upgrade his skills rapidly.”

“However, I would hesitate to give him access to the ship’s defensive systems so soon after he has left the Collective.  Seven of Nine has proven vulnerable to the Borg in a number of unexpected ways.  Should the Collective gain control of a fully trained tactical officer, the consequences to Voyager could be disastrous.  So long as Norriam understands that his duties and training will initially be restricted, I have no objections to him joining my staff.”

Janeway raised her hands.  “It’s settled then.  Anything else?  Dismissed.”

“Have Norriam report to me to begin his training at oh eight hundred hours tomorrow,” said Tuvok.

“Yes, Commander,” said Seven.

“Honey, try to be a little less obvious next time,” whispered Tom.

“I didn’t say a word!” hissed B’Elanna.
 
 

“This is the Mess Hall,” said Seven of Nine.  “It was formerly the Captain’s private dining room.  It was converted for this purpose by—“

“Well, hello there!” Neelix bustled over, grabbed Norriam’s hand and shook it.  “Seven!  Always a pleasure!  And you!  How are you, Mister Norriam?  Or, is it Crewman Norriam now?”

“Crewman, I hope,” said Norriam.  “Mister--?”

“Neelix!  Ship’s cook, morale officer, and ambassador-at-large!  What can I do for you?”

“Crewman Norriam’s digestive system is now fully functional,” said Seven.  “He requires a nutritional supplement, as do I.  I believe two servings of steamed Chadre-Kab are indicated.”

“Right you are!  Two plates of Chadre-Kab, coming right up!  Just have a seat, and I’ll have them ready before you can say, ‘taste is irrelevant.’”

Seven saw that Kim, Torres, and Paris were eating at a table across the room.  Ordinarily, she might have joined them, but today there was no time for irrelevant conversation.  Kim waved.  She nodded, but motioned Norriam to a smaller table near the door.  The two former drones sat down. 

“Well,” said B’Elanna, “drones only, I see.”

Tom looked over his shoulder.  “Probably just in a hurry.  No time for irrelevant conversation.”

“I don’t know, Tom, “ said Harry.  “Looks like the Doc may have a little competition.”

“From Norriam?  No way,” said Tom.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said B’Elanna.  “He’s kind of cute, now that his hair’s grown back.  And he looks pretty good in that bodysuit.  He bulges in all the right places.”

Tom looked up at Harry.  “You okay?”

“Fine,” choked Harry, reaching for his water.

“Species 218—Talaxian,” said Norriam.  “What’s he doing here?  I didn’t think there were any Talaxians in the coreward region.”

“Mister Neelix joined the crew of Voyager soon after it arrived in the Delta Quadrant, while orbiting the planet Ocampa.”

Norriam nodded.  “The Caretaker.”

“Yes.”

“Why has he remained onboard?”

“I don’t know.”

Norriam looked at her curiously.  “Haven’t you ever asked him?”

Seven considered.  “No.”

“Here you are,” said Neelix, “two plates of steamed Chadre-Kab!  One for the lovely lady, and one for the—muscular gentleman.  Enjoy!”

“Thank you,” said Seven.

“Um,” said Neelix, hovering uncertainly, ”do you need any help—I mean—”

Seven looked at Norriam.  “Do you remember how to eat?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“We do not require your assistance, Mister Neelix.  Thank you.”

Neelix beamed, nodded, and went back to his galley.

“Did he have to teach you?” asked Norriam, spooning up some Chadre-Kab.

Seven frowned.  “Yes.”

Norriam, chewed, swallowed.  “This is good.  It reminds me of—”

“No, God damn it!  Listen to me!”

Tom, B’Elanna, and Harry looked up startled.  Crewman Bill Wood had slammed his fist down on his table and shouted.  His companion, Crewman Rucker, sat back quickly in her chair, crossed her arms, and looked away.

“Robbie—“ he said.

“It’s over, Bill,” she said.

Wood looked shocked.  “What do you mean, it’s over?”

“Uh-oh,” said B’Elanna.

“I’ll get my things,” said Rucker, got up, and hurried from the mess hall.

“Robbie?  Robbie, wait,” cried Wood, “I’m sorry, I didn’t—Robbie!”  He rushed out after her.

Norriam watched them leave.  “She was with you,” he said.  “On the cube.”

“Yes,” said Seven.  “Her name is Rucker.  She is an unusually efficient crewman.”

“His name is Wood.  Bill Wood.  He works in Security.  He is a former Maquis.”

“Yes.  So is she.” 

“Have they been together long?”

Seven frowned.  “I believe so.  As long as I have been onboard, at least.  They have shared quarters for the past two years.”

Norriam looked thoughtful.  “Her hair is the same colour as yours.  Is that common among humans?”

“No.”

“It’s not common among my people, either.  It’s considered very desirable.  Very beautiful.”

Seven looked up.  Norriam was looking at her.

“We should finish our meal,” she said, finally.
 
 

 “Your unarmed combat training is essentially complete,” said Tuvok.  “You are a quick learner, like Seven of Nine before you.  Your progress has been impressive.”

“Thank you,” said Norriam.

“I will assign you to your first duty shift tomorrow afternoon.  You will patrol the lower decks, in the company of Lieutenant Ayala.  This afternoon, however, we will test your capabilities with simulated combat situations.  Prepare yourself,” he said, stepping back.  Norriam adopted a fighting stance.

“Computer,” said Tuvok.  “Begin security training simulation Tuvok delta six, at basic difficulty.”

A Kazon tribesman appeared and hurled itself at Norriam, snarling, punching and kicking.  Norriam blocked its blows and caught it in a choke hold, wrapping his right arm around its neck and forcing its head down with his left.  It tried to throw him, but he was too heavy.  It tried to reach back and gouge his face, but he put his own head down against its shoulder, protecting his eyes.  Within a minute, the Kazon’s struggles weakened, it made a gurgling noise, and collapsed unconscious.

“Computer,” said Tuvok, “reset program.”  The unconscious Kazon vanished.  “Increase difficulty.  Begin.”

A second Kazon appeared, charging and swinging a metal pipe.  Norriam ducked, and came back up with a knee to the Kazon’s groin.  As it doubled over in pain, he drove the heel of his hand up into its chin, snapping its head up and back.  It sprawled out, unconscious.

“Computer, reset program.  Increase difficulty.  Begin.”

A third Kazon appeared, cutting and thrusting with a fighting knife.  Without hurrying, Norriam drew his phaser and shot it.  It collapsed to the deck, stunned.

“Computer,” said Tuvok, “freeze program.  Norriam.  Why did you stun the Kazon with your phaser?”

“It had a deadly weapon,” said Norriam.  “The quickest and safest way to restrain it was to shoot.”

“A prudent decision.  However, this program is intended to test your unarmed combat proficiency.  You may encounter situations where it is impossible or inadvisable to use your sidearm.”

“You didn’t say this was one of those situations.”

Tuvok raised an eyebrow.  “Indeed,” he said.  “That was an oversight on my part.  Please consider yourself unarmed for the remainder of the simulation.”

“Very well.”  Norriam handed over his phaser to Tuvok, who said, “Computer, reset program at present difficulty level.  Begin.”

The Kazon knife fighter moved in, stabbing and slashing.
 
 

Commander Chakotay left the turbolift on Deck Thirteen.  His old Maquis comrade, Lieutenant Ayala, was standing in the corridor, along with Norriam.

“Ayala.  What’s going on here?”

“It’s Bill Wood, sir.  He’s outside Robbie’s quarters.”

Damn, thought Chakotay.  He and Robbie had broken up a few days ago.  Wood had taken it hard.  What was he doing now?

“All right,” he said, “I’ll handle this.”

“Commander Chakotay?” said Norriam.  “He’s been causing a disturbance, sir.  I wanted to arrest him and inform Lieutenant-Commander Tuvok, but Lieutenant Ayala—“

“I said, I’ll handle it.”  Chakotay paused.  “Look, Crewman, I appreciate your devotion to duty, but these are my people.  I know how to deal with them.  Just do what Lieutenant Ayala tells you, all right?”

“Yes, sir,” said Norriam doubtfully.

“Come on, Norriam,” said Ayala, “let’s get back on the beat.”

Chakotay hurried down the corridor.  He could hear Wood shouting.  Then, he saw him, slamming his fist on the locked door of Rucker’s new quarters.

“Robbie, please, open the door!  Robbie?  Robbie, please!  Robbie, open the goddamn—“

“Crewman!”

Wood jumped like he’d been shot.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Chakotay—I—“

“That’s Commander to you, crewman.  Get moving.  That way.”

“I’m—I’m sorry, Commander, I—“

“You want to hit something?  I’ll give you something to hit.  Keep moving.”
 
 

Rucker was pacing back and forth in her quarters, hugging herself, blinking away tears.  She heard the doorbell.  “Who is it?”

“B’Elanna.”

“Oh.  Come in.”

The doors opened, and B’Elanna came in.  “Hi,” she said.  “I heard what happened.  Are you okay?”

“Yes.  I’m fine.  I’ll be fine, B’Elanna, really.”

“You don’t look fine.”  B’Elanna held up a bottle of amber-coloured liquid and a couple of tumblers.  “Want a drink?”

Rucker looked surprised.  “Is that firewine?”

“Your favourite.”

“B’Elanna, you hate Klingon firewine.” 

“No, I don’t,” B’Elanna lied, crossing over, sitting down on Rucker’s couch, and uncorking the bottle.  “Come on, Robbie, it’s your day off tomorrow, and you’re going on afternoons after that.  Sit down, have a drink, and tell me all about it.”
 
 

“Put up your gloves, Crewman,” said Chakotay, putting up his gloves. 

“Come on, Chakotay—“

“There’s only one way out of this ring, Crewman.  Through me,” he said, and flicked a jab that caught Wood right in the nose.  Wood stumbled back, shaking his head, blinking away tears, trying to get his guard up.

Chakotay followed him closely around the ring, jabbing, punching, hard, painful, aggravating blows.  He led with his left far out in front, right in Wood’s face, jabbing and backing away every time Wood advanced.  He did his best to dodge Wood’s punches instead of blocking them, letting Wood swing at empty air, letting his frustration build.

“What’s the matter, Crewman?” he asked.  “I’m not a little girl?  Is that your problem?”

Finally, Chakotay simply dropped his gloves and walked right at his opponent.  “Come on,” he said, “hit me!”

Wood swung, a wild roundhouse right.  Chakotay dodged it easily, and came back with a one-two combination to the head.
 
 

I am so drunk, thought B’Elanna. 

She took another sip.  The distilled bloodwine burned its way down her throat.  It was like drinking acid.  B’Elanna thought it was vile.  Robbie loved it.

Robbie was talking.  B’Elanna concentrated hard.

“I just keep wondering what went wrong,” said Rucker.  “If it was my fault.  What I could have done differently.”

“You, didn’t do anything wrong, Robbie.  These things just happen.”

Rucker sniffed, wiped her eyes and her nose, and took another drink.  “I can’t believe it’s over,” she said.  “What am I going to do?”

“Robbie—look, my mother told me a, a Klingon proverb.  It goes like, well, actually, I can’t remember how it goes in Klingon, but it translates something like, “life is a war with many battles.”  It means that, sometimes things go well, and sometimes they don’t, but you never give up no matter how badly you’re hurt, cause you’ve still got a war to fight.”  She stopped.  “I’m sorry, that’s not a very good proverb.  I don’t know what I’m talking about.” 

Rucker laughed, through her tears.  “Oh, B’Elanna.  You’re such a good friend.”

“Oh, no.  No, I’m not.”

“Yes.  You are.  I really love you, B’Elanna.  I—.”  She started to sob.

“Oh, no.  Oh, Robbie.”  B’Elanna took her friend in her arms, hugged her, stroked her hair, let her cry.  “There, there.  It’ll be okay.”
 
 

“Motherfucker!”

Wood lost control, lowered his head, and charged, catching Chakotay off guard.  His forehead crashed into Chakotay’s eye, snapping his head back, stunning him.  He staggered back against the ropes, covering up as Wood pummelled him.  Finally, he grabbed Wood in a clinch, fought with him as he tried to pull away, tried to keep punching.

Then, suddenly, Wood wasn’t punching anymore.  He was just standing there, trembling, sobbing bitterly, broken-hearted.  “I’m sorry…I’m sorry…”

Chakotay held onto him, put the palm of his glove on the back of Wood’s head, let him cry on his shoulder.  “That’s okay, Bill,” he said.  “That’s okay.  It’s going to be okay.”
 
 

Norriam walked into Cargo Bay Two.  His first work shift was over.  It had been a frustrating experience.  He still didn’t understand what had happened with Lieutenant Ayala and Commander Chakotay.  There was something about this crew that no one had told him.  He needed to talk to Seven.

Seven was already regenerating.  Norriam didn’t want to regenerate.  He hated regenerating.  He wanted to lie down in a bed and sleep, like he had before.  The Doctor had said that he would have to continue regenerating for the foreseeable future.  His new life was full of frustrations.

He set the controls for his alcove, stabbing and slapping the buttons angrily.  He was about to step up onto the platform, when he stopped, and looked over at Seven.

Seven of Nine, with the golden hair.  He stared at her for a moment, then stepped over, looked at her more closely.  He reached out tentatively, and brushed his fingertips lightly down her hair, the nape of her neck, her throat.

No.  He clenched his fingers into a fist, drew his hand back, let it fall to his side.  He returned to his alcove, faced front, and began to regenerate.
 
 

The modifications were complete.  The drone lifted itself to a sitting position, swung its legs off the side of the table, stepped down, and trudged out of the assimilation chamber.  Seven of Nine signalled for the next candidate to enter.  The rest of her unimatrix prepared their instruments.

Another partly assimilated drone walked slowly into the chamber and approached the workstation. Species 6137, noted Seven.  Male.  Suddenly, however, it stopped, and then backed away, trembling, making a strange noise.

“Nn…nn…”

Such malfunctions were not uncommon.  Two and Four seized it by an arm and a leg, heaved it onto the worktable, and locked it down.  It struggled feebly against the restraints.

“Nn…”

Two and Three began cutting and drilling into its head, removing its left eye and preparing to insert its ocular implant.  Seven amputated its right arm just above the elbow and prepared to attach a cybernetic replacement.  The drone continued to malfunction, continued to resist the procedure.  It waved its stump wildly when its forearm was removed, splattering Seven with its blood.  Its mouth gaped open.  Its remaining eye rolled wildly.

“Nn…,” it said, “nn…”

Something was amiss.  The drone’s life signs were becoming erratic.  They abandoned the modifications and concentrated instead on repairing its organic systems.  They were not successful.  Before long, it was dead.  They tried to reactivate it, but failed.

Wastage rates had been high with 6137 drones.  Many could not be assimilated.  Essential components were salvaged, and the corpse was destroyed.

Seven of Nine signalled for the next candidate to enter.  The rest of her unimatrix prepared their instruments.

Another partly assimilated drone walked slowly into the chamber and approached the workstation.  This one functioned properly, taking its place on the worktable.  Species 5618, noted Seven.  A female, only recently emerged from its maturation chamber: the chamber’s fluid still glistened on its grey skin and black exoskeleton.  Its right arm would not be modified, so Seven stood idle.  As Two and Three prepared to remove the drone’s left eye and drill out the socket, Seven looked at its impassive, expressionless face.

It was her own.

She shuddered awake, crying out in horror.  The alcove chirped.  REGENERATION CYCLE INCOMPLETE.  She stood trembling, sweating, looking around wildly.  A dream.  It was only a dream.  She put her hands over her face, tried to calm herself.  Only a dream.

“Doctor to Seven of Nine.  Is everything all right?”

She sniffed, wiped her eyes, looked around again in surprise.  “Doctor?  Doctor, where are you?”

“I’m in Sickbay.  Do you need me?  I can be right there.”

“No,” she said.  “I’ve–I’ve had another nightmare.”  She looked over at Norriam.  He was regenerating undisturbed.  She felt a stab of envy.

“Do you want me to come down?”

“No.  Don’t concern yourself.  I will be fine.”  Her trembling had stopped.  She tilted her head back, closed her eyes, took deep breaths.  She felt much calmer now.  She was in control. 

Suddenly, she was puzzled.  “Doctor, how did you know I had awakened?”

“I’ve set the internal sensors to alert me if your regeneration cycle is interrupted.”

She shook her head.  “Surely you have more important duties to attend to.”

“I can’t think of any offhand.  Are you sure you’re all right?” 

“Yes, Doctor.  Thank you.”

“Very well, then.  Good night.  Pleasant dreams.”  A pause.  “Je t’adore, Seven.”

“Je t’adore, aussi, Doctor.  Good night.”
 
 

The next morning, the Doctor was repairing Chakotay’s face with a dermal regenerator.  “So,” he said irritably, “I hear they have a wonderful new program in Holodeck One.”

“Do they?” said Chakotay.

“Yes.  It’s a game.  It’s called, Beat Your Head Against the Wall.  Whoever knocks himself unconscious first is the winner.”

“Sounds terrific.”

“I thought it would appeal to you.  Tilt your head this way.”

Sickbay’s doors opened.  B’Elanna walked in, slowly and unsteadily.  “Doctor,” she said.

“Yes?  What is it, Lieutenant?”

She winced at the sound of his voice.  “I need a hangover treatment.”

“Do you, indeed?  Well, you’ll have to wait until I’m done treating the human punching bag here.  Take a seat, and think about the virtues of moderation.”

B’Elanna didn’t answer back.  She just meekly sat on biobed two.  Chakotay grinned.

She looked at him dully.  “You look like hell, Chakotay.”

“Thanks.  So do you.”

“Thanks.  I feel like hell.”

“So do I.”

“What happened to your eye?”

“A head butt.”

“Ow.  That’s against the rules, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Was it Bill?”

“Yes.  I took him to the ring, let him punch himself out.  You?”

“Klingon firewine.”

“Ow.  With Robbie?”

“Yeah.  Good thing she doesn’t have to work today.”

“I should report you both to the Captain for counselling without a license,” said the Doctor.  “You’re obviously doing more harm than good.  To yourselves, anyway.”

Chakotay ignored him.  “Is she going to be okay?”

“I think so, yes,” she said.  “Him?”

“He’ll be fine.”  Chakotay looked more closely at B’Elanna.  She really did look like hell.  “You?”

“Me?” she said.  “I’m going to die.  I’m sure of it.”
 
 

Chakotay and Torres had been repaired, and the Doctor was walking down the corridor to Cargo Bay Two.  Over the past few weeks, he’d learned that creativity was essential when suggesting shared activities with Seven.  Her imagination in such matters was fairly limited: she loved to spend time with him, but her idea of spending time together was helping each other with their work.  When she had no work to do, she was restless and irritable, and she dreaded her days off.  Relaxation was inefficient, and enjoyment was irrelevant.

Speaking of which—I’d better hurry, he thought, picking up his pace, before she starts some make-work project and asks me to help.

When he entered the Cargo Bay, Seven was pointing out something on the computer console, and Norriam was nodding.  She looked up and smiled as he entered.

“Good morning, Doctor,” she said, holding out a hand to him.

He took her hand and kissed her.  “Good morning, my dear.”

“Good morning, Doctor.”

“Good morning, Norriam.  How are you feeling?

“I’m well, thank you.”

“Don’t forget your weekly medical maintenance, tomorrow at eleven hundred hours.”

“I won’t.”

“Excellent.  Well,” he said, turning back to Seven, “are you ready for our away mission?”

“Away mission.”

“Yes.  To Earth, to a city called London, on the island of Britain, off the coast of the European subcontinent.”

“We are going to the holodeck,” she said, disapprovingly.

The Doctor had prepared for this.  “This won’t be one of Mister Paris’s frivolous fantasies,” he assured her.  “This, as I said, is an away mission, to study the history and culture of a world that’s alien to both of us: Earth, capital of the Federation and the centre of human civilization.  Did you know I’ve never been there?”

“No,” she admitted.  “It did not occur to me.”

“It didn’t occur to me either, until just the other day.  Some day, hopefully some day soon, Voyager will be returning to Earth.  It will be home for most of the ship’s crew, but a strange new world for you and me.  I think it would be a good experience for us to explore this alien world for ourselves, before we arrive.”

Seven thought about that for a moment, then nodded.  “I agree.  I think we should invite Norriam to accompany us.  And Mr. Neelix.  They are strangers to Earth, like us.  It would be a good experience for them as well.”

“Uh…well…if you like, but…”

“I am joking, Doctor.”

“Oh!  Oh, of course,” said the Doctor, chuckling nervously.

She let go of his hand and took his arm.  “I am ready for our away mission.  Will it be a long journey to Earth?”

“No, only as far as Holodeck One.  They do wonderful things with transporters these days.”
 
 

Their tour began in Bloomsbury, at the British Museum.  When they entered the Egyptian hall, a giant statue of Ramses II moved the Doctor to recite from Shelley’s poem.  “My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,” he declaimed, “Look on my works, ye mighty, and—Seven?”  He looked around: there she was, in the corner, examining a plain-looking black carving

He joined her.  “What are you looking at?”

“The Rosetta Stone,” said Seven.

“Ah!” said the Doctor.  “I didn’t know this was here.  This is fascinating!”

“Yes.”

From the museum, they strolled over to Tottenham Court Road and turned south, moving through the mostly human shopping crowds, listening to thousands of voices speaking in Arabic, Bengali, and Cantonese.

“There is a flaw in this program,” said Seven.

“Oh?  Where?”

“The security personnel,” she said, pointing to a nearby constable’s peaked cap and buttoned shirt.  “Their uniforms are clearly anachronistic.”

“No, believe it or not, they actually dress that way.  Wait till you see the guards at Buckingham Palace.”

They walked hand in hand down Charing Cross Road to Trafalgar Square, where Seven raised an eyebrow at Nelson’s Column, making the Doctor wish he’d never introduced her to Freud.  They continued south down Whitehall to the Palace of Westminster.  Seven frowned when the Doctor explained that one of Earth’s oldest parliaments, now just a provincial legislature, still met there regularly.

“I do not understand,” said Seven.  “The British were imperialists.  Like the Borg, they conquered and assimilated other peoples.  Yet they valued liberty and individuality, and their own form of government was elective and representative.”

“They were peculiar people,” agreed the Doctor.

“What happened to them?”

“Over half the island’s population died in the spongiform encephalopathy epidemics of the early twenty-first century.  Since then, the native British have been slowly dwindling away.  Today, their civilization is almost ‘one with Nineveh and Tyre’, as someone once put it.  Only their legacy remains”

It was noon.  They listened as Big Ben tolled the hour, and the voices of muezzins drifted across the city, proclaiming that God was most great, that there was no God but God, and calling the faithful to prayer. 
 
 

Norriam scowled, tried again to enter the proper sequence of keystrokes, and failed again.  He lifted his hand, looked at his fingers.  They were trembling.  Something was wrong.  He made a fist.

The doors to Cargo Bay Two slid open.  “Oh!” said Ensign Samantha Wildman, stopping in the entranceway when she saw Norriam.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t think anyone was in here.  I should have announced myself.”

Norriam put his hands behind his back and stood at ease.  “That’s all right, Ensign—?”

“Wildman.  Your name is Norriam, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said, smiling.  “You’re authorized to be in this area, Ensign Wildman.  Please proceed.”

Wildman smiled back, and went searching for the spare components she needed.  She glanced over at toward Norriam, and noticed that he was looking at her.  Staring, in fact.

“Crewman?  Is something wrong?”

“I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t invade your privacy.  It’s just—“

“What?”

“Your hair.  It’s like Seven of Nine’s.  That colour is rare among my people.”

“Blonde,” she said.

“Yes.  Blonde.  It’s a very beautiful colour.”

Wildman suddenly felt very self-conscious.  ‘Well—that’s nice of you to say.  Thank you.”

He smiled again.  “You’re welcome.”
 
 

After touring Westminster Abbey, the Doctor and Seven walked west to Buckingham Palace.  Seven’s perspective on the sights was unique: she compared the giant statue of Queen Victoria to the Borg Queen, and made him laugh when she said that the guards at the Palace doors looked like they were regenerating.
 
From the Palace, they continued northwest, pausing to examine the sombre Artillery Memorial, and finally arrived in Hyde Park, where Seven was once again amused by the great bronze statue of Achilles.  They had a late lunch in the Rose Garden. 

“This is very educational, Doctor.  I am enjoying myself.  Thank you for suggesting this”

“My pleasure,” he said, feeling very pleased indeed.  He watched her as she ate.  He was sure she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.  He could sit and watch her for hours.

Suddenly, he realized that she had stopped eating and was returning his gaze.  As he came back to himself, she raised her eyebrows: yes?

“Sorry,” he said, looking away.

She reached out and caressed his cheek lightly with the backs of her fingers.  “Do not be embarrassed, Doctor.  I enjoy looking at you, as well.”

That only deepened his embarrassment.  He smiled weakly.  “Thank you.”

Seven finished her sandwich and sipped her drink.  “Ensign Paris calls it ‘making googly eyes at each other.’”

“What?”

“Staring at each other with rapt expressions on our faces.  He says that we do it often, and complains that it makes him nauseous.”

“Yes, ahem, well, he’s one to talk, after the way he and B’Elanna carried on, at first.”

When Seven was done eating, they strolled west again, arriving finally at the Albert Memorial, which shone brilliantly in the afternoon sun.

“This is a very elaborate monument.  Was he an important individual?”

“Well, yes and no.  He was Queen Victoria’s husband, and he was important to her.”

She pointed to the large round building across the street.  “What is that building there?”

“That, my dear, is our destination.  It’s a concert hall, the Royal Albert, where they’ll soon be presenting a special matinee performance of Acis and Galatea by George Frederick Handel.”

“I see.  For its historical and anthropological significance, of course.”

“Of course.  The Royal Holographic Opera Company is renowned for the authenticity of its period performances.  They’ve even been able to recreate castrati like Montagnana: we’ll see him on stage.”

“Very well.  Am I dressed appropriately?”

He smiled and kissed her cheek.  “Of course.  You look wonderful.”
 
“Flattery is irrelevant, Doctor.”  She smiled, nonetheless.
 
 

“Well,” said Wildman, after an awkward pause.  “I’ve got what I was looking for.  It’s been nice meeting you, Norriam.”

“Thank you, Ensign.  Have a good—.”  Norriam suddenly felt very dizzy.  He staggered, grabbed the console to steady himself.  His arms trembled.

“Crewman?  Are you all right?”

“No—No, I—.”  He took a step back and lost his balance, pitching over backwards, hitting the deck heavily.  The room spun around him.  He felt like he was falling through the deck.  Error, he thought.  Input failure.

“Crewman!  Ensign Wildman to Sickbay, medical emergency in Cargo Bay Two!”
 
 

The performance was approaching its climax.  The flocks shall leave the mountains, the woods the turtle dove, sang Acis and Galatea: the nymphs forsake the fountains, ere I forsake my love!  Torture, cried the baritone Polyphemus: fury!  rage!  despair!  I cannot, cannot bear!   The jealous Cyclops was preparing to hurl the boulder that would crush his rival, Acis, when the Doctor’s communicator chirped.

“Sickbay to Doctor.  Medical Emergency.”

He sat up, took his arm from around Seven and touched his communicator.  “I’m on my way.”

“Shhh!” said a holographic spectator.

“Computer, end program,” said Seven.

“Will you bring my mobile emitter to Sickbay?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.  Computer, transfer the EMH from the mobile emitter to Sickbay.”
 
 

Norriam lay on biobed four.  The Doctor stood at the head of the bed, examining the readouts.  Slowly, he shook his head, and turned to the Captain and Seven, who stood at the foot of the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “there’s nothing I can do for him.”

“Doctor!” cried Seven.  She looked stricken.

“Seven,” said the Captain, placing her hand on Seven’s shoulder.  “Are you certain, Doctor?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Janeway nodded.  “I think we’d better wake him.” 

The Doctor used a hypospray to administer an injection.  Norriam stirred, opened his eyes, looked briefly puzzled.  “Doctor?”

“Norriam—I’m afraid I have some very bad news.”

Norriam blinked.  “My body is rejecting my remaining implants.”

“Yes.  How did you know?”

He sat up slowly.  “I guessed.  Remember, I was a part of the Collective that assimilated my people.  About thirty percent of them died soon after they were assimilated.  Our immune responses were too strong, like Species 8472.  The Borg called it ‘wastage’.  The rest, like myself, required extensive modification.”  He paused.  “I won’t survive, will I?”

“No.  Your body is too dependent on your remaining implants.  If you’d had more time—.”

“How long do I have?”

“I’m not sure.  Three or four weeks, I believe.”

“I see.”

“Norriam, I’m so sorry.  We never would have removed your implants if we’d known—“

“Don’t be sorry, Doctor.  You’ve done me a favour.  I would have asked you to remove my implants even if I’d known it would kill me.  I couldn’t go through life with a powergun for an arm.”

“Norriam—“ said the Captain.  “Norriam, there is one way to save you.  We could—.”  She stopped.

“Return me to the Collective?” he asked.  The Captain nodded.  “No thank you, Captain.  I’d rather die.”  Janeway nodded again.  Norriam turned to the Doctor.  “What about my work?”

“I can treat your symptoms,” said the Doctor slowly.  “Your condition will continue to worsen under the surface, however.  In the end, you’ll be trading a slow decline for a sudden collapse.” 

“I think I prefer a sudden collapse to a slow decline.  If I take these treatments, will I be able to return to duty?”

“I believe so, yes.  Until the end.”

“Then please proceed.  Captain?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve noticed that some of your crewmembers wear Starfleet uniforms, even though they aren’t members of Starfleet.  With your permission, I’d like to wear a Starfleet uniform, as well.”

She smiled.  “Of course,” she said.  “I’ll have one replicated for you right away.  It will be waiting for you when you’re done here.”
 
 

Norriam and the Captain had left Sickbay.  The EMH and Seven remained.

“Another funeral,” said Seven.

“What?”

“Do you remember her funeral, Doctor?  Ensign Marika, from the starship Excalibur?  She was buried with full Starfleet honours.”

“Of course.  It was only a couple of months ago.”

She stared at the wall.  “I am a destroyer,” she said.

“Seven?”

“First Two, Three, and Four.  Now Norriam.  I cannot give life, only death.  I damage and destroy everything I touch.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is true.  Don’t try to comfort me, Doctor.  I don’t deserve to be comforted.”

“You didn’t assimilate Norriam.”

“Yes, I did.  I helped assimilate his entire species.”
 
“The Collective assimilated them.  Since you became an individual, you haven’t damaged or destroyed anyone.”

“I have assaulted Ensign Kim.  I have assaulted Commander Tuvok, and others.  I have endangered Voyager on several occasions, and its crew have endangered themselves for my sake.  You would all be better off without me.”

“No, we wouldn’t.  I wouldn’t.”

“How do you know that?  I may damage you someday, Doctor.”

That made him pause.  “Yes,” he said.  “Yes, you might.  And I might hurt you.  Have you considered that?”

“Irrelevant.”

“Seven—.”  He stopped, thought for a moment.  “Seven, why did you want us to bring Norriam on board?”

“You know why.”

“No, I don’t think I do.  Is it because you knew he would die soon after I removed his implants?  Did you enjoy the thought of him finding his life again, only to lose it?  Did you want him to suffer?”

Seven said nothing.

“What would have happened if we’d left him on that wreck?  The Collective had declared him irrelevant.  He would have died, wouldn’t he?  He would have died, confused, and helpless, and alone.  If you wanted him to die, if you wanted him to suffer, why didn’t you just leave him there?”

“I—.”  She stopped.

“Yes?”

“I almost did.”

“Well, why didn’t you?”

“He—he asked for my help,” she whispered.

“He asked for your help.  So you helped him.  And you asked others to help him.  And now, at the end of his life, he’s not confused, or helpless, or alone.  And most importantly, he’s himself again.  He’ll die as a man, not a drone.  When his time comes, and you’re standing by his deathbed, you know what I think?  I think he’ll thank you, for helping him live—really live—the rest of his life.”

Seven sobbed.  The Doctor was horrified: he reached out and took her hand, tried to pull her to him.  “Seven—Seven, come here.”

She shook her head, pulled away from him, but finally relented.  He held her, while she wept.  For Marika.  For Norriam.  For the others.  For all of them.
 
 

It was almost midnight.  Crewman Harper walked over to Rucker’s station.  “Ready to go home, Robbie?”

Rucker smiled.  “Yes, please.”

“Okay, I relieve you.  Have a good night.”

“Thanks.”  Rucker took another ten minutes to finish her report to Lieutenant Torres.  They’d been having problems with the Enaran power conservers in the EPS system.  B’Elanna would need to know exactly what went wrong, and what they’d done to fix it.  When she’d logged her report, Rucker waved goodnight to Lieutenant Carey and headed for the turbolift.
“Deck Twelve,” she said.  “No—cancel.  Deck Thirteen.”  She didn’t live on Deck Twelve anymore.

The car door opened on Deck Thirteen.  She walked down the passage to the main corridor, turned the corner, and, “Oh, GOD!”

She jumped back.  She had almost run into a security guard in the corridor.  Relief flooded through her.  She put her hand on her heart.   It wasn’t Bill.  It was the Borg, Norriam.

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “Crewman—? ”

“Rucker,” she said.

“Crewman Rucker.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to startle you.  I’m just getting off shift.”

“No,” she said, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

There was an awkward silence.  “Listen,” she said, ”how are you doing?  I heard that you’ve been sick.  Is everything all right?”

“I’m fine,” he said.  There was another pause.  “Well,” he said, stepping aside.  “You’re authorized to be in this area, Crewman Rucker.  Have a good night.”

“Thanks,” she said, smiling, “you too.”  She moved past him and hurried off toward her quarters.
 
 

Gilmore looked around.  It was sixteen-fifteen.  The entire morning shift had been relieved, except for her.  Where was Rucker?

Lieutenant Torres was working in her office.  She waved to Lieutenant Nicoletti to get her attention.  “Lieutenant?”

She nodded and came over.  “Gilmore?  Why are you still here?  Who’s supposed to relieve you?”

“Rucker.  I don’t know where she is.  She’s never late.”

“Huh.  Computer, locate Crewman Rucker.”

CREWMAN RUCKER IS IN HER QUARTERS.

“Lieutenant Nicoletti to Crewman Rucker.”  No response.  “Nicoletti to Rucker, respond please.”

Suddenly, Gilmore was afraid.

“Do you mind sticking around a little while longer, Marla?”

“Not at all.”  Something was wrong.  Something was terribly wrong.  She was sure of it.

“Engineering to Security.”

“Security.  Ayala here.”

“Ayala, Crewman Rucker is late for her shift.  The Computer says she’s in her quarters, but she doesn’t respond when I call her.  Can you go get her?”

“Sure thing.”  Robbie?  Robbie was never late.  Ayala logged Nicoletti’s call and checked the patrol schedule.  “Ayala to Thompson.”

“Thompson here.”

“Thompson, Crewman Rucker hasn’t reported for work in Engineering.  Computer says she’s in her new quarters on Deck Thirteen.  Check it out, see if she’s okay.”

“Yes, sir.”

Thompson arrived at the door to Rucker’s quarters and asked to be admitted, asked again—no answer.  He knocked and called Rucker’s name—still no answer.  “Computer,” he said, “open the lock on Crewman Rucker’s quarters.  Authorization Thompson, epsilon three -six.”

The door slid open.  The lights were off inside.  “Security.  Crewman Rucker?”  He walked in slowly.  “Crewman Rucker?  Security.  Is everything—oh, my God, security alert!  Medical emergency, Crewman Rucker’s quarters!”
 
 

Tuvok and Lieutenant Ayala arrived outside the door of Crewman Wood’s quarters on Deck Twelve.  Tuvok asked for admission, twice.  He was about to use his security authorization code to override the lock when the door opened.  Crewman Wood appeared in the doorway.  He had removed his uniform tunic.  Tuvok could smell synthanol in the air, on his breath.

“Commander?” said Wood.  “Uh—what can I do for you?”

“May we come in?”

“Uh—of course.”  Wood stepped back into his quarters.  Tuvok and Ayala followed him in. 

Wood’s phaser and combadge were sitting on his dining table.  Without being obvious, Ayala moved between Wood and the table.  “Bill,” he nodded.

“Ayala.  Uh—what’s this all about, Commander?”

“Where were you between midnight and oh-thirty hours last night, Crewman?”

“I—I was here, in bed.  I went to bed early.”

“You do not appear well-rested.”

“I had trouble sleeping.  Plus, I just got off shift an hour ago.”

“Was anyone here with you last night?  Can anyone corroborate your story?”

“N-no.  Corroborate?  Commander—”

“Crewman,” said Tuvok, “I must ask you to come with us.  Crewman Roberta Rucker has been murdered”

Wood stared.  “Murdered,” he said.

Tuvok took Wood by one arm.  Ayala moved up and took him by the other.

“Come with us, Crewman,” said Tuvok.
 
 

The Doctor drew the sheet back.  “Commander Chakotay, can you identify this body?”

Chakotay looked at her face, then turned away and closed his eyes.  Captain Janeway put her hand on his shoulder.  “Yes,” he said.  “It’s Robbie.  Roberta Rucker.”

The Doctor covered her again.  “Commander Chakotay has identified the body as that of Crewman Roberta Susan Rucker.”

“Doctor,” said the Captain, “what happened?”

“Crewman Rucker died at approximately twenty minutes past midnight.  Death occurred from cerebral hypoxia caused by manual strangulation.  From the contusions on her neck, I would say that she was strangled from behind.  Pressure was applied to the airway as well as the vascular structures of the neck, which probably explains—why no one heard her cry out.” 

“Crewman Rucker,” said Tuvok, “was last seen alive when she left Engineering at ten past midnight last night.  She was reported missing from Engineering at sixteen-sixteen this afternoon, when she failed to report for afternoon watch.  Her body was discovered in her quarters at sixteen-thirty.”

“Who found her?”

“Crewman Thompson,” said Lieutenant Ayala.  “I took the call from Engineering, and despatched him to investigate.  He opened the door on her quarters, and found her lying face down in her living room.  He called in a medical emergency, and had her transported to Sickbay, but she was DOA.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.  Dismissed.”

Ayala left.  Janeway turned to Tuvok.  “What have you learned from the internal sensor logs?”

Tuvok looked uncomfortable.  “Nothing.  Unless the ship is on security alert, security sensors are set to register only those events that would indicate an external threat: fires, explosions, phaser beams, transporter beams.  It is not Starfleet policy to keep the crew itself under surveillance.”

“No, of course not.”  She rubbed her forehead.  “You said you had Crewman Wood in custody.”

“Yes.  I took him to the Brig at seventeen-twenty hours.  He is my only suspect.  I have no physical evidence linking him to the crime, but he is the only person on board with a motive to kill Crewman Rucker.  He and Crewman Rucker recently ended their partnership, and this disturbed him greatly.  He was discovered harassing her on at least one occasion, by Commander Chakotay.  He could not account for his whereabouts at the time of her death.  He had the opportunity.  As a Security officer, he has the physical strength and training needed to strangle someone to death, quickly and quietly.  I trained him myself.  Furthermore, the manner of her death is consistent with a crime of passion.  I believe that Crewman Wood went to her quarters, persuaded her to admit him, and then killed her.”

Janeway turned to Chakotay.  “I remember that stalking incident.  That was only a few days ago.  Why wasn’t he being watched?”

Chakotay held up his hands.  “I—I didn’t think it was necessary.  I know Bill Wood.  I’ve known him for ten years.  He was angry, sure, but I thought I’d helped him through it.  I never imagined he’d do something like this.”

“This ship needs a Counsellor,” said the Doctor.  “After five and a half years of fighting their way through the Delta Quadrant, the crew is starting to show symptoms of operational exhaustion.”

Janeway paced back and forth.  “Yes, but murder?  On Voyager?  A crime of passion?  This type of thing has been rare for two centuries.”

“Indeed,” said Tuvok, frowning.  “Its rarity is what makes this particular case so shocking, and puzzling.”

Chakotay shook his head.  “I still can’t believe Wood did this.  He’s a good man.  He’s tired.  We’re all tired.  And he’s upset.  But he’s not a murderer.”

“Healthy and well-adjusted men don’t kill their life partners,” said the Doctor.

“They also do not—.“  Tuvok did not finish his sentence.

Chakotay looked at him.  “Don’t what?”

Tuvok stared straight ahead, not saying anything.

“Don’t what, Tuvok?  Join the Maquis?”

“Cease fire, Commander,” said Janeway, “that’s an order.”  She looked from her First Officer to her Security Chief, and back again.  “I want you to interrogate Wood together.  I think the two of you need to get reacquainted,” she said, with a hard glance at Tuvok.  “If Crewman Wood did this, I want to know it.  If he didn’t, I want to know it.  And I want to know it quickly.” 

She turned back to the sheeted form on the biobed.  “Rucker was a scientific pantheist.  Her beliefs require her body to be buried as soon as possible after death, without any preservation.  I will conduct the service at twenty hundred hours, to give everyone time to get ready.  Doctor, prepare her for burial.  Chakotay—you’d better say goodbye to her now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The Captain left.  Chakotay went to Rucker’s side, uncovered her face, and took her cold, dead hand in his own.

“I will await you outside, Commander,” said Tuvok.

Chakotay nodded, but said nothing.

Tuvok left, and the doors closed behind him.  Chakotay closed his eyes and said a silent prayer for Rucker’s spirit.  She’d tried to explain her beliefs to him once.  I am only a cup of water from a lake, she’d said.  Someday, I’ll be poured back, and become part of the lake again.  It hadn’t made much sense to him.

“Whachea, Robbie,” he whispered, placing her hand on her breast and drawing the sheet back up over her head.  “Rest in peace.”  He left Sickbay.  Tuvok was waiting in the corridor.

The two rode the turbolift to the Brig in silence, Tuvok standing stiffly with his hands behind his back, Chakotay leaning against the wall, looking at the floor, his arms crossed across his chest.

Suddenly, Tuvok spoke.  “I did not know her well.  But she was a good crewman.  She was cheerful, intelligent, and cooperative.  She was a hard worker, and good at her job.  And she was popular with her shipmates, both Starfleet and Maquis.  She will be missed.”

Coming from Tuvok, that was high praise.  Chakotay nodded in acknowledgement, but did not look up.

“Commander.  I apologise for my suggestion in Sickbay.  It was inappropriate.  I spoke without thinking.”

“So did I.  I’m sorry, too.”

Tuvok reflected for a moment before he spoke again.  “We have come to work so well together toward our common goal, you and I, Starfleet and Maquis, that I sometimes forget who I am speaking to.”

Chakotay looked up at that.  “So do I.  We’re all Voyagers, now.”

“Agreed.”

The door opened.  Chakotay left the turbolift, and Tuvok followed.  They walked in step toward the Brig.
 
 

The aft torpedo bay was crowded.  Captain Janeway stepped forward in her dress uniform, and stood beside the casing draped with the Federation flag.  She took a moment to compose herself, then looked up.  Most of the people present were Rucker’s Maquis comrades, but Janeway was pleased to see that there were many Starfleet personnel present as well.  Even Seven was here.  She had stayed away from Ensign Marika’s funeral.

“We are gathered here this evening,” she said, “to say our last farewells to Crewman Roberta Susan Rucker.  Born 2351 in the Federation colony on Almayne.  Joined the crew of USS Voyager in the Delta Quadrant on Stardate 48321.7.  Died in the line of duty, Stardate 53647.3

“Crewman Rucker’s friends called her ‘Robbie’.  I never had that privilege.  To me she was always Crewman Rucker.

“But though we were never on a first-name basis, I did notice Roberta Rucker.  I noticed that, during our first days in the Delta Quadrant, she was one of the first people in both crews, Starfleet and Maquis, to reach out to her new shipmates and start making new friends.  I noticed that I never heard a word of complaint about her.  I noticed that the same word showed up again and again on her evaluations: that word was ‘exemplary’.

“I had the good fortune to work with her on a number of occasions, in Engineering and on away missions.  I noticed that no amount of pressure seemed to bother her: the hotter it got, the cooler she seemed.  I asked her once, if she ever let anything upset her.  She said, I try not to Captain, it just upsets me.”  Many people in the room nodded at that.

“I had the pleasure of her company at dinner in my quarters, on a few occasions, with other crewmen.  She was a delightful dinner guest who never said a word about my cooking.”  The Captain smiled, and people in the room smiled back, even through their tears.  “Crewmen can be pretty quiet when they’re invited to the Captain’s quarters for dinner.  But evenings with Crewman Rucker were always easy, and filled with laughter.  I’ll treasure the memory of those evenings, always.

“Roberta Rucker was a woman of faith, as well.  She believed that the universe is divine, and that a part of this divinity is in each of us, and in everything.  Her beliefs call for no special words at a time like this, but I want to read something I found in one of her spiritual texts.  It was written on Earth, by a Roman Emperor, almost two thousand years ago.

“I am composed, it says, of form and matter; neither of them will perish into nothingness, as neither of them came into being out of nothingness.  Every part of me then will be reduced by change into some other part of the universe, and so on forever.  And as a result of such change, I too now exist, and those who begot me existed, and so on forever in the other direction.”

“Roberta Rucker is not gone.  She exists, and will exist forever, changed into some other part of the universe she worshipped.  She exists in our hearts, and in our memories.  And if she could speak to us, right now, she would say, don’t be sad for me: it will only make you sad.

“Goodbye, Roberta.  We’ll miss you.”
 
 

B’Elanna put her hand on the flag that covered Rucker’s coffin, wiped her eyes, and looked around.  “Robbie Rucker was my friend.  She—I—I recruited her into the Maquis.  We—“  She stopped, wiped her eyes again, and fell silent for a moment, struggling to keep her composure.

Finally, she spoke again.  “Robbie saved my life.  And I never thanked her for it.”

“We were running away from the ambush at Vorpis, trying to get back to the Badlands.  The Cardassian cruiser that was chasing us got a lucky hit, and all of a sudden the warp drive was off-line, and coolant was spraying everywhere.  I knew I could fix it, but I knew anyone who stayed in the engine compartment much longer was going to die.

“I ordered everyone out and told them to seal the doors.  Then I put a breathing mask on and started fixing the drive.  I was so scared.  I tried to remember the things my mother used to say, about it being a good day to die.  But I didn’t want to die.  The coolant was eating through my mask and I couldn’t breathe.  I could feel the skin on my hands sticking and coming off on the consoles.

“I don’t remember getting the warp drive back on-line.  Robbie said she found me collapsed on the floor near the warp core.  Cause she came back for me.  She disobeyed my orders, put on a mask, and came back into the engine compartment to rescue me.  By the time she dragged me out, her burns were almost as bad as mine.

“Later, we were both in the infirmary, and Chakotay told me what she’d done.  I was furious.  I yelled at her.  I swore at her.  I called her a useless petaQ, told her I was sorry I’d brought her into the cell, told her if she couldn’t follow orders then she shouldn’t be a Maquis.  She didn’t say anything.  She just lay there and took it.  Because she was my friend, and she knew I was scared and angry, and wanted to take it out on someone.  So she let me take it out on her.

“I never said I was sorry.  And I never thanked her.  Not then, not ever.  Not in seven years.”

B’Elanna broke down.  “I’m sorry, Robbie,” she sobbed, “I’m so sorry…”
 
 

The Engineering crew had stopped work to watch the service on the monitors.  Marla Gilmore had volunteered to keep working throughout the afternoon shift.  Now, she was sniffling, trying to blink back her own tears, failing.  There hadn’t been any funerals onboard the Equinox, not toward the end.  After each attack, the crew had taken their dead to the replicators and recycled them for food.  Gilmore had been forced to eat the emergency rations: she’d tried a meal from the replicators once, and vomited.  Max and the others hadn’t had any trouble: they’d made jokes, trying to figure out who they were eating.  Later, when the replicators failed, and everyone was forced to eat emergency rations like Gilmore did, they’d looked at her like it was her fault.

Gilmore had never told anyone on Voyager about that.

She felt hands on her shoulders, looked over, saw it was Lieutenant Nicoletti.  “You okay, Gilmore?”

She sniffed again, smiled weakly.  “Yes, Lieutenant,” she said.  “I’m fine.  I’ll be fine.”

She looked around the room, at her wonderful new ship, where the crew cared about each other and didn’t eat each other.

I’m so lucky, she thought.  I don’t deserve this.
 
 

The flag had been folded and removed.  “Ship’s company,” called Ensign Kim, “attention!”

Across the ship, Voyager’s crew stood to attention.  The Last Post played as Rucker’s coffin was cycled into the launch tube and fired.  Then the last notes of the trumpet died away, and it was over.
 
 

“The autonomic response analysis is inconclusive,” said Tuvok.

Chakotay shook his head.  “I think we’ve made a terrible mistake.  I think we’ve got the wrong man.”

Tuvok considered.  “I am beginning to have my doubts as well.  Nevertheless, he is still the logical suspect.  And there is one way to be sure.”

“A mind-meld.”

“The right of the accused to security of thought is well established in Federation law.  I cannot proceed without the Captain’s authorization.”

Chakotay touched his combadge.  “Chakotay to Captain.”

“Go ahead, Commander.”

“Captain, we want to attempt a mind-meld.  We need your permission.”  Tuvok folded his hands, touched his index fingers together, prepared himself.

A pause.  Then, the Captain’s voice again.  “Is there any other way, Commander?”

“No, ma’am.”

Another pause.  “Do it,” she said.

Tuvok nodded, and the two of them returned to the guardroom.  “Lower the force field,” said Chakotay, drawing his phaser.

Tuvok led Chakotay back into Wood’s cell.  “Please,” said Wood, “please…” 

“Crewman Wood,” said Tuvok, “the Captain has authorized me to perform a mind-meld with you.”

Wood’s eyes opened wide.  He tried to back away.  “No—No!”  Tuvok caught him by the arm, and pressed the tips of his fingers to the side of Wood’s face.  Wood’s body went rigid.  His face was full of fear.

“Your mind to my mind,” said Tuvok.  “Your thoughts to my thoughts.  My mind to your mind.  My thoughts to your thoughts…”
 

0005 Hours.

Norriam entered Cargo Bay Two.

Seven of Nine was regenerating.  He walked over to her alcove, adjusted the controls, sending her deeper down.  She wouldn’t wake up.  No interruptions.  No distractions.

He stepped up onto the platform, reached out, and caressed her hair lightly with his fingertips.

Her hair, like gold.  Like the others.

He remembered the others, before.  Going out on leave.  Blonde hair under a streetlamp.

Want a date, soldier?

Yes.  What do you do?

Anything you want.

Anything I want.

It had been so easy.  They were so stupid.  All of them. 

And now they’re gone.  All of them.  No one to investigate, no one to mourn.  The Borg had taken care of everything.  They had never died.  They had never lived.

He raised his hands to Seven’s neck, rested his thumbs lightly on her throat.  It would be so easy.

Like the Rucker woman.  She’d walked right up to him.  She was asking for it.

Who’s there?

Security.

Oh—hello again.

Sorry to bother you, Crewman. (moving inside) Has Crewman Wood come by here? (letting the door close)  I saw him get off the turbolift after you…

So easy.

She was so beautiful.

I had to kill her.

Like Seven.

Only—not yet.

There was still a little time.  Plenty of time for others.

He smiled, took his hands from Seven’s throat, plucked her combadge from her chest.

Plenty of time.
 
 

Tuvok broke the meld.  Wood sat there, calmly.

“I apologize, Crewman.”

“No need, Commander,” said Wood.  His speech was strangely Vulcan-like.  “You were correct.  I was the logical suspect.”

“Tuvok,” said Chakotay.

“Crewman Wood is innocent,” said Tuvok.

Chakotay grimaced and touched his combadge.  “Chakotay to Captain.”
 
 

0020 Hours.

Gilmore rubbed her eyes, tried to focus on the report she was completing.  It had been a very long day.  They had been having problems with the EPS system, again.  Voyager was using some kind of alien technology they’d picked up in the Delta Quadrant.  She still didn’t—

“Marla.”

She looked up.  “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Go home.”

“Yes, sir.  I just have to finish this.  Don’t worry about me.  I’m off-duty tomorrow.”

“All right,” said Lieutenant Carey.  “As soon as you’re done.”  He left her alone.

She was just finishing when someone spoke behind her.

“Crewman?”

She turned her head.  It was the Borg, the other one, Norriam.

“Oh.  Hello,” she said, smiling.

“Hello,” he said, smiling back.  “Crewman—?”

“Gilmore.”

“Yes.  Crewman Gilmore.  Can you help me?  Seven of Nine told me to ask for someone from Engineering.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.  I’m having problems with the power supply to my regeneration alcove.  Can you have a look at it?”

“Uh—” said Gilmore, looking around.  Carey and the rest of the night staff looked busy.  She looked back at her report, and decided she could finish it in her quarters.

“Sure,” she said.  “Just let me get my toolkit and I’ll be right with you.”

“Thank you,” he said.  “I’ll be in the turbolift.” 

He watched her as she fetched her tools.  She was blonde, like Seven, like the other one, like the rest.  She was perfect.

“Okay,” said Gilmore, “let’s go see what the problem is.”
 
 

Chakotay shook his head.  “I don’t understand.  If it wasn’t Wood, then who?”

Tuvok thought quickly.  In the absence of any physical evidence, he had only Logic to guide him.

What was the motive for Crewman Rucker’s murder?  She was a popular crewmember who got along well with her shipmates.  She had been faithful to Crewman Wood throughout their relationship, and was not linked romantically to any other member of the crew.  She possessed nothing of any real value, and nothing had been taken from her.  There was no discernible motive at all.

Frustration-aggression?  An argument between her and another crewmember that had gotten out of hand?  Unlikely.  There had been fights on Voyager, especially between the Starfleet personnel and the Maquis, at the beginning, when each had blamed the other for being stranded in the Delta Quadrant, and both had despaired of returning home.  But after more than five years, the two factions had come together to form a single crew.
 
A random act, then, like the murder of Crewman Darwin four years ago—or rather, the murder had been an end in itself.  Who would kill for the sake of killing?  He could think of no one.  He had seen the crew’s psychological scans.  The Starfleet personnel were stable, the Maquis less so, but there were no psychopaths among them, not any more.  Only a Vulcan would have the mental discipline to disguise such a severe psychoneurological abnormality.  He, Tuvok, was not the killer, and neither was Vorik, he was certain of it.

That left only the Borg.  Seven of Nine was aggressive, but not violent.  Her aggression took the form of verbal abuse, insolence, and disobedience.  And had she fallen again under the influence of the Collective, she would have attempted to escape the ship, or assimilate its crew, not commit murder.

There was only one possibility.
 
 

Gilmore walked into Cargo Bay Two, with Norriam behind her.  The regeneration alcoves were over in the corner.  She frowned.  Seven was regenerating.  Seven of Nine told me to ask for someone from Engineering, he’d said.

She turned toward him.  “I thought—”
 
 

Seven of Nine materialized in the starship’s control centre.  Two and Four had already beamed aboard, and were subduing the ship’s crew, preparing to assimilate them.  There were two of them, a male and a female.  Species 5618.  The male was struggling with Four and shouting.

“Annika!”

Four wrestled it to the floor.  Its resistance was futile.  While Four held it down on its back, Seven stabbed her assimilation tubules into its throat.  The creature went into spasms, as if it were being electrified.  Seven watched coldly as its flesh turned grey and its blood vessels black.  The nanoprobes were taking effect.  It was being assimilated.

“Run, Annika!”

Seven withdrew her tubules and turned at the sound.  The female was shouting and resisting as well.  Two was pinning its arms, but could not assimilate it.  Seven stood up from where the male lay trembling and gasping, and walked across the control centre to assist.
 
 

Gilmore was on the deck, unconscious.  Norriam kicked her toolkit out of the way, grabbed her by her tunic, heaved her to her feet, and propped her up against the console near the alcoves.  He took off her combadge, and flipped it away.  No interruptions, he thought.  He’d hurried, with the first one.  He wanted to take his time, this time.  He wanted to look into her eyes as she died.  He’d always enjoyed that, before.

Before.  Funny, he thought.  He’d always enjoyed fucking them first, before.  Now it just didn’t seemed to matter.

She was starting to regain consciousness.  “Nn…” she said.

His hands tightened around her throat.  Her eyes opened, terrified.

Now, only this mattered.

It felt so good to kill.
 
 

“Run!” screamed the female.  “Hide!”  Seven’s assimilation tubules pierced its throat and choked off its screams. 

As her nanoprobes flowed into its body, Seven wondered what the creature had been shouting.  Had it been praying, like the other female, Species 6137?  Prayer was futile.  They would be assimilated.  Their biological and technological distinctiveness would be added to the Collective.  Their gods were irrelevant.

Her tubules retracted.  The female was being assimilated.  Seven turned and moved to the command console.  She was preparing to retrieve the data in the ship’s main computers when she heard a small noise—a whimper.  Had they overlooked someone?

She stepped back, went down on one knee, and looked beneath the console.  There: an immature female, same species.  “Papa,” it shrieked, “papa, help me!”

Seven reached out for it, took hold of its garment, and dragged it out from under the console.  It would require time in a maturation chamber.

“No!” it screamed…

“NO!”

REGENERATION CYCLE INCOMPLETE.

What was that noise?  Seven looked up, and was horrified.  She was still asleep, still in the nightmare.  A Borg drone was assimilating a female crewmember in Cargo Bay Two.  Crewman Gilmore.  She was struggling feebly and making choking noises.

But—

It wasn’t a drone.  It was Norriam.  He wasn’t assimilating her.

He was strangling her.  Killing her.

This was real.
 
 

In Sickbay, the Doctor looked up from the microcellular scan he was performing.  Seven’s regeneration cycle had been interrupted.

“Doctor to Seven of Nine.”

There was no answer.

“Doctor to Seven.  Is everything all right?”
 
 

“Norriam!”

He ignored her.

“Norriam, stop!  Let her go!”

“Wait your turn, Seven,” he said.

Seven went to hit her combadge.  “Security to Cargo Bay—.“

Her combadge was gone.

She looked around, picked up an isolinear spanner, and tried to think of the foulest curse words in the Boscan language.  “Sister-fucker!” she yelled, throwing the tool at him.  “Motherless monster!”

Norriam ducked, but the spanner grazed his head.  He turned and glared at her with the eyes of a beast.  He released Gilmore’s throat, and knocked her unconscious again with a back-handed blow.  She slumped to the floor, still choking.

“Come here, Seven of Nine.   I want you.”

He walked toward her.  Seven’s mind raced.  Five of Six had been a tactical drone.  He was taller, more massive, and much stronger than her.  She had to stay out of his reach.  Suddenly, she remembered what Tuvok had told her on the first day of her unarmed combat classes.  Today, he had said, we will practice the single most important defensive technique you will ever learn.

She ran for the Cargo Bay doors.
 
 

“Seven?” said the Doctor.  “Seven, respond.  Computer, locate Seven of Nine.”

SEVEN OF NINE IS IN CARGO BAY TWO.

Something’s wrong, thought the Doctor.
 
 

The Cargo Bay’s doors were locked.  Norriam was approaching, unhurriedly.  “I made sure we wouldn’t be interrupted,” he said.

Seven turned, and got into a fighting stance.  Balance, she thought, I must keep my balance.  When Norriam got within range, she lashed out with a straight kick to his knee.

He howled in pain, but didn’t fall: instead, he half-hopped, half-lunged forward, grabbing for her.  Seven tried to step aside and trip him as he passed, but he crashed into her, and caught her hair with one hand.

She cried out as Norriam fell against the Cargo Bay doors, yanking her along by the hair, twisting her head back and to the side.  As the Boscan pulled her to him, she struck backwards with her cybernetic left arm, driving her elbow into his nose, then into his solar plexus, and finally swinging her fist down into his groin.

“Aggh…bitch!”  Norriam swung her around and slammed her face into the door, stunning her.  He turned her toward him, cupped her face in his hand, and smashed her head against the metal again. 

Her vision dimmed, blackened.  I am damaged, she thought, then felt Norriam’s hands close around her throat.  Blood ran from his broken nose, and his face was contorted with rage. 

“Fucking bitch, I’ll teach you,” he spat, spraying her face with blood and saliva.
 
 

“Computer,” said Tuvok, “locate Norriam.”

“Tuvok?”  Chakotay looked surprised.

NORRIAM IS IN CARGO BAY TWO.

“Is he alone?”

NEGATIVE.

“Who is there with him?”

SEVEN OF NINE AND CREWMAN GILMORE.

“Gilmore?” said Chakotay.

“Doctor to Tuvok.”

“Go ahead, Doctor.”

“Commander, I think there may be something wrong with Seven of Nine.  Her regeneration cycle has been interrupted, and I can’t contact her.”

Tuvok drew his phaser.  “Security to Cargo Bay Two, on the double.  Transporter Room, beam Commander Chakotay and myself directly to Cargo Bay Two.”
 
 

Seven saw the transporter beams sparkle over Norriam’s shoulder.  Norriam whirled, dragging her round in front of him, using her as a shield.  Tuvok levelled his phaser at Norriam and his hostage.  Chakotay drew his own phaser and knelt to check Crewman Gilmore. 

Tuvok took careful aim.  “Let her go, Crewman.  You cannot escape.”

“Drop your weapons,” said Norriam,  “or I’ll kill her.”

Tuvok took one, two deliberate steps forward.  “Let her go.”

“Transporter Room,” said Chakotay, pinning his combadge to Gilmore’s tunic.  “Medical emergency.  Lock onto my combadge.  One to beam directly to Sickbay.”

Gilmore disappeared in the transporter beam.  Chakotay stood up and moved to the side, looking for a clear shot.

“Shoot, Commander,” said Seven.

Norriam tightened his grip on Seven’s throat, cutting off her breath.  “Shut up,” he snarled.  “I’ll kill her.  I’ll break her neck.”

“Perhaps,” said Tuvok.  “But you will not escape.  Let her go.”

“Security,” called the guards that had arrived outside the Cargo Bay.  “Open these doors!”

“Let her go, Norriam” said Chakotay.

“I’m warning you—”

Tuvok fired.  The phaser beam struck Seven in the chest.  Her eyes and mouth widened, and she sagged against Norriam, falling out of the way.  Norriam cursed, tried to pull her back to her feet—not quickly enough.

Chakotay fired.
 
 

“How is she, Doctor?”

“She’s fine, Captain.  I’ve repaired both the head injury and the phaser contusion.  She’ll be fine.”

“What about her Doctor?”

“Me?” he said, giving Seven an injection with a hypospray.  “I—I can’t believe this.  This can’t be happening.  Just the other day, I was telling Seven, don’t feel badly for Norriam, it’s not your fault that he’s going to die.  Computer,” he said, looking up suddenly, “end program!”

Nothing happened.  He looked down at the deck, disgusted.

Janeway touched his arm.  “It never works for me, either,” she said.  Then, seeing that Seven was regaining consciousness, the Captain went to her bedside.  The Doctor followed, but kept behind her.

“Seven?”

Seven looked around, sat up slowly.  “Doctor.  Captain.  How is Crewman Gilmore?”

“She’s going to be fine,” said Janeway.  Seven looked around.  A horrified expression crossed her face: Gilmore was in the isolation alcove: a machine was doing her breathing for her.  She looked like a Borg.

“She looks worse than she is,” said the Doctor.  “There’s no brain damage.  I’ve repaired the injuries to her throat.  The respirator is just a precaution.  She should be off of it by tomorrow morning. 

“Seven,” said Janeway.  “How do you feel?”

“I believe I am fine,” she said, touching the back of her head.  “The Doctor seems to have repaired me as well.”

“You suffered a skull fracture, and some neck strain,” he said.  “Nothing too serious, but I want you to take it easy for a few days.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Seven,” said the Captain,  “what I really meant was, how do you feel about this?   About what’s happened?”

“I—I don’t know.”

The Captain nodded.  “Just remember two things.  First, what you did in that Cargo Bay was very brave.  I know how strong he is.  He could have killed you, easily.  By distracting him, by fighting him, you saved Gilmore’s life, and almost lost your own.  Second, the decision to bring him on board was mine.  Not yours: mine.  What happened to Crewman Rucker, and to Gilmore, and you, was my responsibility, and mine alone.”  Janeway took Seven’s face in her hands.  “Do you understand?”

She nodded.  “Yes, Captain.”

“Good.”  Janeway turned to leave.  “Take good care of them, Doctor.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Seven sat on the edge of the biobed.  How did she feel about this?  She couldn’t feel anything.  She felt—stunned.  Numb.  Was that a bad sign?  The Doctor would know.

“Doctor?”

“Yes?”

She paused.  Something was wrong.  The Doctor wasn’t looking at her.

“Doctor, is something the matter?”

“No.  Nothing.  Why?”

“Doctor, come here.”

He hesitated.

“Comply.”

He came to her biobed.  She took his hands in hers, and looked up into his eyes.

“You are experiencing guilt, as I did before.”

“Seven—”

“You should not feel guilty.  You saved Crewman Gilmore’s life, and probably my own.  Recall what the Captain said: it was her decision to bring Norriam on board.  And remember what you told me before.  You could not have foreseen what Norriam would do.”

“No.  You’re right.”

“Then—what?”

The Doctor didn’t reply, at first.  Then finally, he said, “I’ve—I’ve been very cruel to Crewman Gilmore.”

“Cruel.”

“Yes.  She suffered—severe emotional trauma while she was onboard the Equinox.  I—I haven’t been sympathetic.  In fact, I’ve been cold, and rude.  I’ve done nothing to help her.  In fact, the other day I suggested that she was pretending to be in pain in order to obtain medication.”

“Why?”

“Because…”

“Because of what happened on the Equinox.”

“Yes,” he said.  “Because of what I did.”

She frowned.  “That was not your fault.  Your program had been altered.  I do not blame you for that.”

“I wish—“

“Doctor?”

“I wish I could forgive myself that easily.”

She thought for a moment.  “Doctor, you have always assured me that I am not responsible for what I did as a drone.  When I have felt remorse, and guilt, you have comforted me.  I can do no less for you.  On the Equinox, you were a drone.  You were Ransom’s tool.  You were not responsible for what you did, any more than I was.  Please apply the same standards to your own behaviour as you do to mine.”

He sighed.  “All right.  Thank you, Seven.”

“Gilmore is an individual.  Yet, when she was onboard the Equinox, she was part of a Collective.  In her situation, she may have found the demands of that Collective as difficult to resist as I did.  I know that she feels the same way about her actions as I do mine.  Do not judge her too harshly, Doctor.”

The Doctor nodded.  “Ensign Paris said I should ‘cut her some slack’.  I’ll do my best.”

For a moment they just looked at each other.

“Doctor?”

“Yes?”

“Please hold me.”

He put his arms around her.  She closed her eyes, and put her head on his shoulder.  She felt comfortable, and safe.
 
 

“What are we going to do with him?” asked the Captain.

“Fuck him,” snarled Chakotay.  “Push him out the airlock.  I’ll do it myself.”

“We cannot do that, Commander,” said Tuvok.

“Maybe you can’t, but I can.  B’Elanna will help me.”

“Need I remind you, capital punishment is expressly forbidden by the Federation Charter.”

“We’re not in the Federation.”

“Yes, we are,” said Janeway.  “As long as we’re on Voyager, we are.”

Chakotay looked away.  Janeway touched his arm.  “I know you’re upset.  We’re all upset.  But we can’t forget who we are.”

He nodded.

“Given his condition,” said Tuvok thoughtfully, “we have the power to imprison him for life.  Still, given his condition, a life sentence does not seem like an adequate punishment for his crimes.”

“No,” said Janeway.  She paced a bit in silence.  Then, she said, “I’m going to talk to him,” and entered the guardroom.

“So,” said Norriam, as she walked in, “what are you going to do with me?  Imprison me?  Execute me?  Just let me die?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she replied.

“Well, you’d better make your mind up soon.  You don’t have much time.”

“Is that why you did it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Because you don’t have much time?”

“Yes.  Lost opportunities are never found again, Captain.”

For a long moment, she said nothing.  Then, finally, “I just want to know one thing.  Are you sorry at all, for what you’ve done?”

“For what I’ve done?  No.  I am sorry for what I haven’t done.  What I didn’t have a chance to do.  Still, I suppose that’s not up to me, is it?  By the way—I want to thank you, Captain.”

“Oh?  For what?”

“For giving me this opportunity.  For giving me a chance to live my life again, even for a little while.”

“You’ve done this before.”

“Oh, yes.  And I’d do it again, if I could.  Let me out, and I’ll show you.”

Her face hardened.  “You make it very difficult to feel sorry for you, Mister Norriam.”

“Yes, I suppose I do.”

Janeway was silent again.   Then, she made up her mind.  “I’ve decided what I’m going to do with you.”

“Oh?”

“I’m going to follow the Prime Directive.  I’m going to send you back to your people, and let them deal with you.”

“My people?” he snarled.  “I have no people, Captain.  My people are gone!  My world is gone!”

Then, suddenly, he understood.
 
 

Somewhere, in the Delta Quadrant, the Federation starship Voyager cruised at a speed of Warp 6.2, on its long journey home.

“Crewman Wood has returned to duty,” said Chakotay, concluding his report.  “The Doctor says that his mind-meld with Tuvok helped him recover more quickly than he might have.  Crewman Gilmore hasn’t returned to duty yet, but the Doctor says she’s recovering well, all things considered, and he’s doing what he can to counsel her for post-traumatic stress syndrome.”

The Captain nodded.  She wasn’t looking at him.  Instead, she was staring out the Ready Room window at the stars streaking past. The milder lamps were spent, she thought, and did not shine. 

“Is there anything else, Commander?”

“No, that’s all.”

“Thank you.  Dismissed.”

He rose to leave.

“Chakotay.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Do you blame me for Rucker’s death?”

“No, ma’am.”

She turned to face him.  “Really?  I would.  I could have listened to you.  I could have said ‘no’ to Seven, and left that—that thing in the wreck.  I didn’t, and Rucker died.  And Gilmore and Seven nearly died.  Because of me.  Because of my decision.”

“Captain, don’t blame yourself.  No one could have known what he was.  It’s hard to imagine something worse than a Borg.”

Janeway stared at her First Officer.  Did he really mean it?  Could she really see forgiveness in his face? 

Yes.  “Thank you, Chakotay.”

Chakotay paused in the doorway.  “And besides—he got what he deserved, in the end.”

Janeway nodded again.  Chakotay left for the Bridge.  Janeway sat for a while longer, staring off into space.  Then, she picked up her copy of Tasso and opened it to the page she had marked.

Each day the sun arises steeped in blood
as fiery vapors round about it burn—
in its appearance rests no hope for good,
but evil signs are easy to discern.
Nor does it ever set, but, flecked with red,
it threatens equal pain with its return,
making what’s been endured more wearisome
with promises of misery to come.
 
 

Norriam ran through the woods.  The Borg were slow.  Stupid.  He could get away.  He just had to stay ahead of them.

“Doctor.  When you removed Five of Six’s implants, did you remove his subspace transponder?

“No, Captain.  Like Seven’s, it was too difficult and risky to remove.  I merely disabled it.”

“Reactivate it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me, Doctor.”

He saw the green transporter beams ahead.  He turned, started to run in another direction, and saw more transporter beams.  He heard the whirring and clicking of servomechanisms, saw the glow of their eyes.  They were all around him.  He was trapped.

“Captain, it will attract the Borg!”

“Yes.  There’s an L-class planet about two hours from here at high warp.  We’re going to drop him off and be on our way.”

“Captain, that’s murder!  Worse than murder!  You can’t be serious!“

“Doctor, Five of Six is a Borg drone, and we’re sending him back to the Collective, where he belongs.”

“But, Captain—“

“Those are my orders, Doctor.  You can have them in writing if you want.  Carry them out, or I’ll relieve you of duty.  I’m sure Ensign Paris won’t share your reluctance to perform this procedure.”

A long pause.  Then: “Yes, Captain.”

For the first time since he was a small boy, Norriam began to pray: “Ama—ama tano ka, ko nara pa, yama…”  What were the words?  He couldn’t remember the words!

The drones loomed out of the darkness.  “We are the Borg.”

“Goddess,” he sobbed, “have mercy on me!”

“You will be assimilated.”

“No!  No!”

“Resistance is futile.”

He screamed, a hideous, mindless scream, as the drones reached out for him.
 
 

THE END
 
 

NOTES

The quotations from Torquato Tasso’s Gerusalemme liberata (Jerusalem Delivered) are Stanzas 53 and 54 of Canto Thirteen, edited and translated by Anthony M. Esolen (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 2000).