The transformation had liberated billions of Borg, and had rid Seven of her Borg nature—synthetic implants that regulated many of her critical biological systems. Physically she was still as strong as ever. However, mentally she was now torn between her own thoughts and a voice that constantly repeated, “You are Annika Hansen.”
Seven had struggled valiantly against this voice for months, but her control had begun slipping recently as a series of traumatic occurrences overwhelmed her: her aunt’s ever-worsening condition and the deaths of her former crewmate and dear friend B’Elanna and her little daughter, Miral Paris. Seven had not questioned her ability to keep the voice in check until she realized that she would be forced to do it alone; all her other friends departed aboard Voyager on a dangerous new mission to the Delta quadrant.
When Chakotay learned that Seven was struggling alone, he realized he had to help her through it. They formulated a plan and were now only days away from leaving Earth to begin their new journey.
Clearly in the last few hours something had pushed Seven beyond her formidable endurance.
There was an untouched glass of nutrients by Seven’s computer interface, but otherwise the desk’s surface was clear. What the hell happened? Chakotay thought as he teetered frantically toward panic. Shifting his attention to Seven’s computer, he noted that her message center was active on the display and the most recently completed transmission had come from the hospice center. With trembling hands, he activated the playback and one of Irene’s nurses appeared on the screen.
“I’m so sorry to tell you this, Professor Hansen, but Irene has passed away. I was certain you would want to know immediately. We will keep her remains in stasis. We know how important it is for you to say good-bye.”
Despair and anger welled in Chakotay’s heart. He had been fond of Irene and comforted by the eagerness with which she had accepted Seven into her life. She was a bright and compassionate woman, and Seven had bonded with her quickly. Irene was the first real family Seven had ever known. Irene’s illness had contributed to Seven’s current state and the nurse who had contacted her with the sad news couldn’t have known the damage she had done. Still, Chakotay felt the irrational urge to wring the nurse’s neck.
He perched on the edge of Seven’s bed, taking her clammy hands in his.
“Seven, you have to listen to me. I know this is difficult, but we both knew this day was coming. Irene wouldn’t want to see you like this. She loved you and only wanted the best for you. You brought great happiness to her life when you came back and the way you have cared for her during the last few years of her life has been her greatest comfort. Come with me now so we can say good-bye. We’ll stay as long as you like. But you have to snap out of this. Seven? Seven, can you hear me?”
The long silence convinced him that Seven was lost. He hurried to the computer and dispatched two urgent messages.
Now, all he could do was wait.
You are Annika.
Seven stood in the open plaza of a magnificent city. Wide moving walkways transected the white marble ground at regular intervals and on several levels. The massive courtyard was surrounded by tall steel-and-glass edifices, and the sky had a faint amber glow. There was a long reflecting pool shallowly filled with dark water directly before her. There were strange statues and well-trimmed trees manicured in absurd shapes scattered about. The city appeared to be completely deserted, and the eerie silence suggested the city was not the bustling metropolis the structures suggested it was.
She approached the pool and examined her reflection.
You are Annika, the voice said again.
Seven refused to be baited into another argument with the intruder in her mind. Surely by now it knew where she stood on the issue.
You are Annika.
“I am Seven of Nine,” she murmured automatically.
Suddenly, the water began to tremble. Seven backed away cautiously as a small figure emerged. She was both familiar and completely alien.
A young girl with long strawberry-blonde hair stood on the water. Her face was unmistakably human, but her arms reached almost to her knees, and her wide, large feet each had only two toes and a claw-shaped appendage. She was swathed in diaphanous lavender fabric that reached her ankles.
“Why do you resist?” the girl asked.
“Who are you?” Seven demanded, terrified that she already knew the answer.
“I am Annika/You are Annika,” the girl and the voice replied simultaneously.
“I am Seven of Nine,” Seven shouted back defiantly.
A sad but wicked smile spread across the girl’s face.
“Not anymore,” she assured Seven.
Seven suddenly found herself immobilized. Her skin began itching and tightening and felt as if it were solidifying. A gasp caught in her throat, stopping the scream that rose from the core of her being.
Annika began to giggle.
Help me, Seven thought in terror.
But even if her plea had been audible, there was no one left to hear it.
A light knock sent Chakotay hurrying from Seven’s side and down the stairs. He opened the front door to find a calm and very self-assured young cadet standing before him.
“Icheb.” Chakotay smiled in relief before gathering him into a friendly embrace. “Thanks for coming so promptly.”
Icheb returned his affection a little formally before pulling away to ask, “Where is Seven?”
“Upstairs,” Chakotay replied evenly.
Worry darted across the young man’s face. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”
Chakotay raised a hand to forestall further questions.
“Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll explain.”
Icheb’s chin lifted and his head tilted slightly to the right, as if he were processing a request he found disturbing. It reminded Chakotay of the days when he, like Seven, had been more Borg than not.
Finally Icheb made his way into the living room and perched himself on the end of the sofa, his hands folded compliantly in his lap.
“Before I go any further, Icheb, I need to ask you something,” Chakotay began hesitantly.
He nodded slightly for Chakotay to continue.
“How have you been feeling these last few months?”
“Very well, thank you,” Icheb replied automatically.
“Are you sure?” Chakotay asked.
“Quite.”
As the young man looked healthy enough, Chakotay wasn’t inclined to push the point further, though it was still difficult to understand, given Seven’s state.
Chakotay swallowed hard before continuing. A deeply ingrained sense of duty made it difficult for him to risk compromising the trust Starfleet had once placed in him, as well as Icheb’s future with the organization he had wholeheartedly embraced. Unfortunately, Seven’s life might now well depend upon it.
“As I am sure you are aware, several months ago, the Borg invaded Federation space and were only defeated by a race of aliens called the Caeliar.”
“I have heard the name, Captain,” Icheb replied, “though I have no knowledge of their activities during that battle. Cadets are under strict orders to not pursue any inquiries regarding the Caeliar at this time, though many of us, as you may imagine, are understandably curious.”
“Of course you are,” Chakotay said. “And as of now, it’s just ‘Chakotay.’ I resigned my commission a few days ago.”
“Why?” Icheb asked defensively, as if he had taken Chakotay’s action personally.
“I can’t serve Starfleet and help Seven at the same time, and right now, she needs me more than Starfleet does,” Chakotay replied.
Icheb drew a breath to ask another question, but Chakotay continued.
“What I’m about to tell you is sensitive information and I am trusting you to keep this between us.”
Icheb’s cheeks reddened as the implications of this request sank in, but he finally nodded his assent. He had only learned to love and admire Sta
rfleet from the crew of Voyager, who had rescued him from the Borg. However, there was no question where his greatest loyalty would always lie.
“We don’t know much about the Caeliar,” Chakotay said. “But we do know that they didn’t so much defeat the Borg as assimilate them.”
Color quickly drained from Icheb’s face. Assimilated was not a word one could just toss around among former Borg.
Chakotay continued. “It is my understanding from Seven that the Borg were actually spawned thousands of years ago by the Caeliar, quite unintentionally. What the Caeliar did at the height of the invasion was to bring those lost souls back into their gestalt. The Borg were transformed into Caeliar and to hear Seven describe this transformation, it was a frightening but ultimately wonderful thing.”
Icheb rose in alarm.
“But I’ve spoken with Seven several times since then. Was she …?” he began.
“No,” Chakotay assured him without letting him finish the obvious question. “Seven was transformed. Her Borg implants dissolved. And though she was momentarily able to experience the Caeliar gestalt, she was ultimately severed from the connection. As best we can tell, she is now fully human.”
“How is that possible?” Icheb demanded. “Seven could not survive without her implants or the regeneration process. They could not just disappear. Something must have replaced them.”
“That’s my belief as well,” Chakotay said, nodding. “The Caeliar are composed of catoms—engineered particles that can be programmed to take on any form. I believe her implants were replaced by catoms.”
“Is that a good thing?” Icheb asked warily.
“Physically, she’s fine. Starfleet Medical, and the Doctor, have confirmed it. But ever since the transformation, Seven has been hearing a voice in her head that insists Seven is Annika Hansen.”
“But she is Annika Hansen,” Icheb said, “though I know she does not prefer that designation.”
“Annika was assimilated at the age of eight. Seven’s memories of that child are few and far between, and many of them are painful. She has always thought of herself as Seven of Nine. She grew and matured as a Borg and is now reluctant to heed the will of the voice which seems to insist she must abandon all that she became as a Borg. Initially, she attempted to adapt, hoping the voice would subside. But over the last few weeks, Seven has experienced a succession of traumatic events: the hospitalization of her aunt, the loss of B’Elanna and Miral, and the departure of most of her former crewmates aboard the Voyager fleet. Since then, Seven has found it more difficult to deal with the voice.”
“Seven is losing her battle, isn’t she?” Icheb asked.
“I’m afraid so,” Chakotay replied. “But I think that together, we can help her.”
“How?”
“Before we get into how, I need to know something,” Chakotay insisted. “You, too, were once Borg. Did you sense anything at all like what Seven has described?”
“No,” Icheb said without hesitation. “But you must remember that shortly after Voyager returned to Earth, I was imprisoned, along with Seven and the Doctor, and for several days was denied the ability to regenerate. My Brunali physiology completely reasserted itself during that time and I lost the use of and need for my few remaining implants. They have since been removed from my body.”
“Good,” Chakotay said, relieved.
“But how …?” Icheb began and was quickly silenced by another knock at the door.
“Hang on,” Chakotay instructed before moving briskly to answer it.
As expected, another old friend, Sveta, stood before him, her strong features coldly calculating and her mane of fine white hair pulled into a neat braid that ran down the center of her back almost to her waist. Though she had been responsible for bringing Chakotay into the Maquis more than ten years earlier, she didn’t appear to have aged a day since then.
“Thank you for coming,” Chakotay said sincerely.
“You said it was urgent,” she replied warily.
“It is,” he insisted. “Please, come in.”
Sveta cast a penetrating glance directly into his eyes. He understood her concern. The last time she’d seen him he’d been mired in his own dark struggle, and she had rebuked him harshly for wallowing in his despair. They had not parted on good terms, but now was not the time to try to mend fences.
Fortunately, Sveta seemed to immediately sense both his urgency and his command of himself and the present situation. “It’s good to have you back.” She smiled as she crossed the threshold.
“It’s good to be back,” he agreed.
CHAPTER TWO
The Doctor would never be able to have a biological offspring. He was a hologram, so procreating was an impossibility. Still, he believed the sense of deep pride he experienced while sitting aboard the U.S.S. Galen— an experimental medical vessel he and his creator, Doctor Lewis Zimmerman, had designed, with considerable help from their longtime associate, Lieutenant Reginald Barclay— might be like the pride a new parent would feel.
The first sickbay he had ever known—on Voyager— had been efficient in its specifications, if a little too utilitarian. Though no one would necessarily enter Galena’s evaluation suite and applaud the décor, the Doctor believed that the softer browns and subtle greens of the color scheme made the space welcoming. More important than these superficial changes were the design features he had insisted upon, which made the entire suite more pleasant and useful for both physician and patient.
His private office was situated near the entrance so he could see when anyone entered, even if the computer was not programmed to alert him about new arrivals. The sickbay consisted of three emergency biobeds and a series of private exam rooms, innovations he knew his patients would appreciate. Separate surgical, intensive care, and recovery wards were adjacent to the main sickbay. Two larger wards one deck below could be activated in the event of a fleet-wide catastrophe. The Doctor hoped against hope never to see those wards used, though his many years in Starfleet had convinced him that such hopes might be unrealistically optimistic.
The Galen’s primary function was to provide medical support to the Federation fleet that would depart for the Delta quadrant as soon as its diagnostics were complete. As such, the vast majority of the medical vessel’s space was the Doctor’s domain. However, unlike other medical starships, the vessel was meant to be staffed almost entirely by holographic personnel in times of emergency. Therefore, holographic emitters had been installed throughout the ship. Unlike a holodeck, they did not alter the space into whatever an individual might desire; they activated emergency medical, engineering, or security holograms as required.
While the Doctor had focused his attention on creating the perfect medical facility, Zimmerman and Barclay had focused on the hologram designs. Thus far, those with whom the Doctor had interacted—primarily doctors and nurses— all appeared to be meeting or exceeding expectations. He doubted if anyone required to use Galen’s facilities would question who the real staff were versus who the holographic staff might be. The Doctor fervently hoped that one day, such distinctions would be meaningless.
His office chronometer beeped, alerting him that he was due on the bridge. Reg had a request for Galen’s commanding officer, and he didn’t like facing her alone.
Of course, this had nothing to do with the officer herself. Clarissa Glenn was an intelligent, articulate, and eminently professional officer. She had also completed her medical training and Starfleet’s rigorous command track—a rare accomplishment. Though Glenn held the rank of commander, as the ship’s lead officer she enjoyed the title of captain. Thus far, the Doctor had been impressed by Glenn and the other organics assigned to the Galen. All seemed to respect the significance of the vessel’s undertaking and certainly treated him with the deference and respect due any senior Starfleet officer.
But Barclay had been tongue tied in Glenn’s presence from the moment they were introduced. The Doctor didn’t have to guess why. The captain w
as young and quite attractive. She was a few inches taller than the Doctor and kept herself in excellent physical condition. Her hair was long and reddish-blonde; she usually kept it neatly braided when on-duty. Her eyes were an unusual shade of light green. In short, Glenn was everything Reg could have wanted in a woman, even without considering her other formidable accomplishments, and this tended to make Reg a nervous wreck.
The Doctor hurried down the short hallway toward the turbolift, which took him up two decks to the bridge. He wondered if Reg would ever grasp the fact that he was a fascinating man, and should feel more than comfortable interacting with Glenn.
Probably not, the Doctor thought, then was cheered by the prospect of beginning a new and challenging project.
Commander Clarissa Glenn sat in the center seat of the Galen, a calm expression on her face. Prior to reporting for duty that morning, she had spent an hour in her quarters practicing dashtenga yoga, a hybrid that combined ancient hatha poses with more rigorous Vulcan breathing and meditation techniques she’d learned years ago during her medical residency on the Tendara Colony. Strengthening her body and clearing her mind were as essential to her as eating and sleeping. Her command duties often made it challenging for her to maintain those rituals. However, the commander understood the benefits far too well, and always made time.
The Galen’s bridge might seem small by some standards, but Glenn decided that the three rear stations arranged behind her single seat—tactical, ops, and science—and the single-man flight control panel in front of her created a cozy, minimalist space from which to direct the ship’s operations.
Star Trek Voyager: Unworthy Page 2
