“But I’m not going to give my life. I just want to [362] strengthen her so she can save herself,” protested Janeway.
“She may not see any difference,” the Doctor pointed out. “From what the Vashnar said, a healer who can’t heal herself dies. Even with a dozen others available who could help her.”
Distress etched lines on McCoy’s face. “The Vians said Gem’s instinct for self-sacrifice had become stronger than her instinct for self-preservation. Because of us. Me. Good God, I taught these people to martyr themselves. They let themselves die, and they don’t have to!”
“And the Vashnar allow it,” Janeway remarked stonily. “They’ve all but abandoned their medical technology, because the Anjurwan give themselves so freely.” She shook her head. “This has to stop. The Anjurwan may be childlike, but they’re a sentient race. It’s hard to believe that the Vashnar can live with themselves, exploiting other intelligent beings like this.”
“Over ninety years, what is readily available and freely offered becomes habit,” Tuvok pointed out.
The Doctor turned to look at the empath, who lay watching them vaguely. “Our good country doctor, here, taught her ancestor a lesson,” he mused. “Why can’t we teach Pearl a new one?”
Janeway gave him a quizzical look. “What do you suggest?”
“Perhaps,” he replied, arching an eyebrow, “we can convince her that you are a healer.”
“But I’m not an empath.”
“Neither was Doctor McCoy, but the lesson was learned from him. Captain, I watched the Vashnar so-called doctors rather closely. I think I can duplicate the motions by which the Vashnar ‘focus’ the healers. If you’ll—”
[363] “Of course.” Janeway nodded, smiling. “I’ll play the healer. But I won’t ‘give my all.’ Just enough, and no more.”
“Captain,” broke in Tuvok, “perhaps I should—”
“No. Pearl saved my life; I’m going to do what I can to save hers. Doctor, if you please.” She extended her hands.
The EMH took them, leading her toward the watching empath. Pearl’s eyes widened as she took in the ritualistic motions of the Doctor turning the captain toward her “patient.” She remained motionless as Janeway’s hands moved over her, not quite touching her.
“Now,” murmured the Doctor. McCoy opened a tricorder. Decisively, Janeway laid her hands upon Pearl.
The young empath stared full into the eyes of the captain, blue into blue. She didn’t move.
“It’s working,” whispered McCoy. “She’s linking with the captain. She’s getting stronger.”
The moment stretched out. Pearl’s color began visibly to improve. The Doctor’s eyes shifted to Janeway’s face. She had in turn paled, and she trembled slightly.
“That is sufficient. The link should be broken now,” Tuvok directed.
Time for a new part to the ritual. The Doctor stepped forward, reaching around the captain to take both her hands in his and draw them away from Pearl. He turned Janeway toward him and smiled. “Excellent. Well done. You may now rest.” He pointed her toward the nearest biobed, and Janeway, without demur—and with Tuvok’s help—stretched herself out on it. The Doctor turned to assess Pearl’s reaction.
Slowly, her eyes enormous, the empath sat up and stared [364] from the Doctor to the captain, then back. Her expression of astonishment moderated into curiosity.
“She’ll recover now,” remarked McCoy, smiling. “She’s weak, but your captain’s a strong woman. Pearl just needs rest.”
“I’ll make sure she gets it,” Janeway murmured. “I’ll tell Kiv.”
“You’ll be here, resting yourself,” returned the EMH sternly. “I’m sure Commander Chakotay can pass the word along. ‘Doctor’ Kiv will be in your debt. You saved his ‘best healer.’ ”
“If her people are as imitative as Doctor McCoy seems to imply, she may return to them with a revolutionary notion.” Tuvok folded his arms and cocked an eyebrow at the captain.
She smiled. “I’m counting on it.”
“Pearl, you can’t—get back in bed, girl—”
McCoy tried to restrain Pearl, who had slid off the diagnostic bed, but the Anjurwan—graceful despite her exhaustion—eluded him. She approached Janeway. Her blue eyes assessed the captain, then moved to Tuvok, then returned. She reached out a hand.
Janeway took it, her smile softening. “You’re welcome. I—Oh!”
Pearl returned the smile, holding Janeway’s eyes for a long moment. Then she turned to Tuvok, easing her hand from the captain’s. She held it out to the Vulcan.
Tuvok took it, curiosity apparent even on his normally bland face. Then his eyebrows rose.
“Did you feel it too? Did she ‘touch’ you?” Janeway breathed.
[365] “Indeed,” he murmured back. “An empathie communication of remarkable emotional order.”
Pearl slipped her fingers from Tuvok’s, her smile warm. She turned toward the Doctor.
He began to shake his head as she approached. I don’t want to see that lovely smile turn to fear. He stepped back. “Don’t touch me. I’m not—”
Undaunted, she caught first his right hand, then his left, holding them in both of hers. Her expression now both determined and apprehensive, she stared into his eyes.
“Pearl—” What? What was that? Did she say something? Impossible. Her lips didn’t move, and at any rate she has no vocal cords. But I could swear she said—
The apprehension faded from the lovely empath’s face, and her smile bloomed. The soft voice seemed to whisper in his ear once more, gentle words that he couldn’t quite catch, and then faded. She turned away, still smiling, and he fought down the sharp desire to draw her back, entice her to speak again. Did she—? But how could she? I’m a hologram! She couldn’t—but I think she did. Wonderingly, he stared at the Anjurwan.
Pearl looked at the captain, then at the Vulcan, then at the Doctor, and nodded as if a question had been answered. Then she gestured. The signs were simple.
“ ‘I’d like to go home now,’ ” Janeway surmised. Pearl’s closed hand moved to her mouth, then opened like a flower. “ ‘I have something to tell.’ ”
“You just do that, girl,” approved McCoy. “I don’t want any more of your sisters and brothers on my conscience.” He turned to the Doctor. “I think I’m done here. You might as well shut me off.”
[366] The EMH regarded him for a long moment. “Thank you.” McCoy’s eyebrows arched. “Well, you’re welcome. Thank me for what, exactly?”
“For a lesson in—good old country doctoring.”
“Any time,” returned his colleague nonchalantly. “You know where to find me. Just don’t forget, good medicine isn’t all science, not by a long shot. Sometimes you gotta go with your gut. It’s more like art. It takes a gift.”
The Doctor looked at Pearl, who gazed luminously back, and allowed a smile. “I think you just may be right.”
Seventh Heaven
Dustan Moon
The doors to the starship Voyager’s bridge swished open and Captain Kathryn Janeway entered with Seven of Nine at her side. Janeway felt refreshed from her night’s rest, alert from her morning cup of coffee. “All I need is a fast starship and astrometrics to steer her by,” she said with a bright smile, greeting the officers on the bridge.
Lieutenant Commander Tuvok, standing to her left, looked up from the security console, arching an eyebrow. “Captain, I believe the actual saying states the need for ‘a tall ship and a star to steer her by.’ ”
Janeway shook her head. Vulcans. She smiled privately to her first officer, Commander Chakotay, who had risen from his chair when she entered. Warmth glittered in his eyes, and not for the first time Janeway felt the subtle tug of attraction for this handsome Native American, an attraction she fought to keep at a professional distance. She turned her head, focused on the Vulcan security chief. “A paraphrase for the times, Mister Tuvok.” And then, wryly, “Must be too early in the morning.”
Bef
ore Tuvok could reply, Seven spoke up. “Captain, may I begin modifications now?” Undoubtedly, Seven [368] considered standing unoccupied for even a few moments an inefficient use of time.
Janeway looked her way. Seven’s pale blue eyes regarded her without emotion, reminding her of cold steel. Not surprising—most of the time, Janeway could look within those eyes and practically see a calculating automaton lurking in the depths. But at other times, those rare moments after a trial aboard the ship had brought Seven’s humanity to the surface, Janeway could sense a strong-willed woman fighting to break through inviolable Borg conditioning, fighting to reclaim her life as a person.
There were times when Janeway wondered if that day would ever come.
Janeway pointed to the port bulkhead. “Proceed. You may begin by replacing the relay circuits in the aft panels.” She reached out, touching Seven’s shoulder. “When you’ve finished your work, I’d like you to join me for lunch today.”
Seven stiffened; the remnants of Borg technology implanted to her brow and cheek glinted in the light “My biological system has no need for nutritional supplements at this time.”
“Nevertheless, I want you to join me.”
Seven frowned. “Understood.”
So cold. Janeway sighed as Seven pulled away and methodically stepped over to the aft bulkhead, placing her tool kit on the deck, working the panel free. There was a day when Janeway wouldn’t have let Seven get within ten meters of Voyager’s circuitry, but over time, Seven had proven to be an invaluable member of the crew, even risking her life on several occasions to save them. Janeway sensed a desire on Seven’s part to please her by carrying out assignments [369] effectively, and Janeway was only too happy to oblige. Seven’s experience with the Borg gave her, among other things, a unique perspective on conduits and circuitry, and intuitiveness human technicians simply did not have. On a ship that still had over sixty thousand light-years to cross in order to reach home, every modification for efficiency counted.
Leaving Seven to her task, Janeway crossed the station tier, savoring the flavor of coffee that still lingered on her tongue. She walked down the steps and sat in her command chair at the center of the circular deck, secretly wishing she could have carried one more cup with her, not so much for the coffee’s taste, but to relish its soothing warmth in the palms of her cold hands. She sighed and rubbed them briskly together—a time and place for everything, especially for the captain of a starship.
Crossing her legs, Janeway stared at the viewscreen. Stars flowed past like dandelion puffs on the wind. It never ceased to fascinate her, the intricate beauty of space, the bold brushstrokes of worlds while approaching a star system, the grand perspective of galaxies when one drew back. A masterpiece collection of stellar proportions, a gallery of stars, each subject portrayed in elegance by its own subtle lighting.
If only that gallery wasn’t so damned long.
Janeway brushed the thought aside. “Helm, what’s our heading?”
She expected the pilot to respond, but it was the voice of the operations officer, Ensign Harry Kim, that shot across the bridge. “Captain, long-range sensors are detecting intense gravimetric distortion 5.2 light-years dead ahead.”
“Cause?”
[370] “It appears to be a quantum singularity.”
Janeway’s heart skipped a beat. “On screen and magnify.”
She stared at the image on the viewscreen. Her floating dandelion-seed stars appeared caught in a zephyr. Luminous gases curled into the grip of a burgeoning vortex; stars in the background swirled in distortion. Janeway held her breath.
“Detecting transwarp signatures breaking free of the gravity well.”
Transwarp signatures.
Borg.
Janeway released her breath with a call to action. “Battle stations! Shields to maximum. Tuvok, have security teams on all decks break out phaser rifles and set to rotating modulation.”
As the warning klaxon sounded, a vessel shot from the vortex, and stars visible in the background twisted back into shape. Janeway uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, biting her lower lip. The hull of this ship seemed like the layers of asymmetrical darkness common in Borg design, but this was no cube. The ship was triangular in design, pyramid-shaped, and closing fast.
“Helm, hard about. Take us to maximum warp. Weapons, reprogram phaser banks to rotating modulation and stand by.”
Ensign Kim, called out. “Transwarp vessel at 2.3 light-years and closing.”
Seven of Nine’s voice rang over the bridge, her diction stiff and precise. “Captain, I am unfamiliar with this vessel, but the structure is definitely a Borg configuration. You will not be able to outrun it.”
“Then we fight.” Janeway was standing now, facing [371] tactical, her heart pounding to the rush of command. “Tuvok, arm aft torpedo bay, high-yield photon warhead. Hold for my command. Tom, evasive maneuvers. Work your magic.”
Light suddenly erupted in green phosphorescence. From the corner of her vision, Janeway saw a flashwall come to life on the port side of the bridge, sweeping toward starboard. Ensign Kim blurted out what the captain already recognized. “Polaron beam. We’re being scanned!”
Janeway felt fury. The scan violated the sanctity of her vessel and the members of her crew ... and she was helpless to stop it. The flashwall passed through her without pause, but it seemed to backtrack over Seven of Nine, then resumed its course across the rest of the bridge.
Before Janeway had time to contemplate the subtle shift of the scan, two Borg materialized, male and female, one to each side of Seven, clad in black armor implants, cyborg appendages, and a hideous network of life-support tubes jammed into their pale flesh at various points. Servos whined as the Borg clamped cybernetic hands onto Seven’s arms. Tuvok shouted, “Security breach,” but it was all over before he could raise his phaser, before Janeway could shout a command.
The Borg dematerialized.
Seven of Nine was gone.
Seven of Nine struggled against her two captors as they led her along a platform that crossed the expanse of a vast pyramidal atrium in the center of the Borg ship. The walkways began at each corner and joined in the center to a torus structure. The torus encompassed a flowing blue pillar of transwarp power cascading from the peak of the pyramid, [372] tumbling like a waterfall to the courtyard below. Borg moved like ants down there, and multitudes could also be seen working within tiers of open chambers that ran the length of the three walls, many of those levels crackling with green plasma light from regeneration chambers. The vessel’s spacious interior was almost aesthetic in design, an illogical waste of space, but it was clearly capable of barracking a formidable army.
As Seven absorbed her surroundings and calculated the tension of her captors’ grips against the maximum application of her muscular force, she felt an emotion she had never experienced as a member of the collective Borg hive, one she was now all too familiar with.
Fear.
“I will not be reassimilated into the Borg! I demand that you release me!”
The female Borg spoke. Klingon. “Cease your struggling. Resistance is futile.”
Seven was surprised they had not injected her with nano-probes by now. Borg procedure was simple and efficient: assimilate and absorb. It was inefficient to struggle with a species, yet that is what they were doing. What were they planning with her? Interrogation? Torture? Pain was irrelevant.
Assimilation was not.
“No! Resistance is not futile!” Seven slammed her shoulder against the female. “I do not want to be a member of the collective! I will fight until I am assimilated or dead.”
Both Borgs tightened their grips, the bionic appendages constricting on Seven’s arms like handcuffs. They jerked her back into place and continued marching forward. The [373] female spoke. “You will not be assimilated. You will not be terminated. Cease your struggling.”
For Seven, hearing a Borg utter such words was shocking. “Repeat your prior statement,” she
said.
“You will not be assimilated. You will not be—”
“You are Borg. Why are you not assimilating me?”
“Because you do not wish it.”
Seven spat words like venom. “Since when have the desires of a species mattered to the Borg?”
“When we chose the honor of individuality over the degradation of the collective.”
Seven’s mind raced. Awareness of individuality? Recognition of singular entities instead of a linked whole? These were Borg like her then, aware of self. “Who are you? What is it you seek from me?”
Her captors stopped and the female stared at her, one eye biological, the other a misshapen spectral Borg implant, glowing bright red. “You were Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One. You served on grid nine two of subjunction twelve in cube three seven six four. You are no longer linked to the collective. What designation have you chosen to express your individuality?”
“Seven of Nine.”
“Unacceptable. That was your Borg designation. You are no longer Borg.”
Seven felt hot emotion burning within her. Rage. “We are all Borg. We shall all remain Borg until every last implant and suffusion of their technology can be removed from our biologic selves. Until that day, I am Seven of Nine.”
The female inclined her head, assessing Seven’s statement. Then she tapped her metallic breastplate with her only [374] biological hand. “My name is Ohm. I will refer to you as Seven of Nine, as you wish.”
Venom flowed through Seven. “It is not my wish. It was never my wish.” With all her might, she lunged against their cyborg grip. Futile. “Release me and let me return to my ship.”
“No.”
“If you truly respect me as an individual, you will acknowledge my will. I do not enjoy being restrained. Release me immediately”—and her face twisted into a sneer as she spoke the Borg’s name—“Ohm.”
“We cannot. The Primary has given orders that we bring you to him.”
“Who is this ‘Primary’? That is not a Borg designation.”
“We are not Borg.”
STAR TREK: Strange New Worlds II Page 31
