STAR TREK: Strange New Worlds II

by Dean Wesley Smith (Editor)

  Even now, as she watched Borg break down their instruments, Seven was still in shock. She had heard music before, on Voyager. She understood the mathematics behind production of musical frequencies, but the harmonics had never reached within her. Until now. Seeing her kind transform the horror of their assimilation into something wondrous touched feelings locked deep inside her.

  “Beautiful, aren’t they?” Hugh said, pointing to the Borg as they returned to their duties.

  “You have given them a sense of community,” Seven said. “They are singular, but not alone.”

  “The Primary gives them a sense of honor,” Ohm said, as if in correction.

  [387] Hugh shook his head. “No, I haven’t. I gave them nothing—it was always within them. They are just free now to express who they are.”

  “This week’s concert was surpassing,” Ohm said. She turned from the rail and faced Seven. “Next week, we perform my opera. What instrument do you play, Seven? Will you have something to add to the melody of our distinctiveness?”

  That tone again. It bordered on hostility. Seven did not know why. She stood tall. “I sing,” Seven said. It was true—she had been forced to sing in a holodeck cabaret.

  “Really?” Ohm’s tone mocked her as she swaggered closer. “Well now, what a coincidence. I am also a singer. A virtuoso.” Her chest rose with a deep intake of breath. Ohm tilted her head upward and belted out a progression of scales. Then, licking her jagged teeth, she looked down at Seven and sneered. “Your turn.”

  Seven crossed her arms, adjusted her stance. “An adequate attempt, but your range is limited and your tone is flat. The notes will be more resonant if you breathe from your diaphragm instead of your throat.”

  Ohm’s optical enhancement blazed red, and a Klingon growl erupted from her throat. “Human. Sever spinal cord at third vertebra. Death is immediate.”

  Seven met her gaze dead on. “Klingon. Shatter the cranial exoskeleton at the tricipital lobe. Death is immediate.”

  Hugh jumped between them, shoved them apart. “Enough! If we cannot respect the individual distinctiveness of one another, how will we be able to defeat the Borg?”

  Ohm staggered, regained her balance, bowed from the [388] waist to Hugh. “Forgive me, Primary. Your words are correct.”

  Hugh rested his hand on Ohm’s shoulder. His voice was calm. “Go, resume your duties. I wish to speak with Seven in private.”

  Seven recognized the subtle shift in Ohm’s features. A look of pain. She masked it quickly, and her face became as cool and blank as that of a Borg drone. “As you wish, Primary.” She spun about and left, her boots clanking hollowly against the deck.

  Hugh watched Ohm leave, then made a jerky mechanical turn back to Seven. “Flute,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I play the flute. I made mine from wood. Flutes constructed from metal are too shrill for my taste.”

  “Oh.” Seven did not know how to respond. “I am sure you play satisfactorily.”

  Hugh shrugged; the bionics hummed. “I try.” He stepped closer. “We need you, Seven. Now that I have seen you, I realize just how great that need is. You are able to survive with minimal Borg implants—you look virtually human.”

  “I am eighty-two percent biological.”

  “Exactly. When people look at us, they see monsters, murderers, but your appearance would be aesthetically pleasing to biological entities. If you join our nation, I would appoint you ambassador to the biologicals. You could help establish an understanding, help negotiate peace agreements. Perhaps one day we might even be able to join the Federation, sharing our technology in return for their support to help us free the Borg from the collective. Will you join us, Seven of Nine?”

  [389] It was hard for Seven to keep staring into Hugh’s human eye. He had so much passion for his cause, and it was ... noble. Hugh made a good leader. He made a good captain.

  “No,” Seven answered.

  Hugh’s whole body sagged. “May I ask why not?”

  “You may.” Seven took a deep breath. The formulation of the words was difficult for her. She realized why and felt surprise—she did not wish to hurt him. “My desire differs from yours, Borg Hugh. I respect your cause. It is ... good. But it is not mine.”

  Hugh sighed. “Do you have a cause, Seven?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see no evidence of it.”

  “That is because you have not been to Voyager. That is where I belong.”

  “But you are alone there,” Hugh said.

  “No,” Seven said. “I am not.”

  Hugh’s life-support coils throbbed softly. Slowly, he nodded his head. His optical enhancement glowed pale green. “I understand.” He paused, and hope shined in his eye. “Perhaps you would be willing to speak to the Federation on our behalf when you return to the Alpha Quadrant?”

  Seven nodded. “Acceptable. I will speak for you.”

  A smile spread across Hugh’s face. “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome. I am ready to return to Voyager.” Why was that so hard to say?

  “Wait,” Hugh said. “I have something for you.” He opened his hand; green phosphorescence swirled within. As the energy haze dissipated, something glittered with nacreous white swirls against his gray palm.

  “What is it?” Seven asked.

  [390] “A shell. Just a shell I picked up from a shore on our homeworld. Something to remember Hugh by.”

  “I do not understand. How can a mollusk serve to remind me of the Borg Hugh?”

  “Hold it to your ear.”

  Frowning, Seven took the shell and complied with the request.

  “No, turn it so the opening is at your ear.”

  She did so, resting the heel of her palm on her cheek’s metallic star implant. She listened. “I hear weak acoustical frequencies resonating off the air mass confined within the whorled chamber.”

  Hugh frowned. “You are thinking like a Borg.”

  “I am a Borg.”

  Hugh touched her shoulder. Seven stiffened, uncomfortable with his proximity. He pulled his hand back. “Try not to analyze. Reach for the humanity inside you. Close your eyes, amplify the harmonic in your mind, and associate it with naturally occurring sounds.”

  Seven closed her eyes. Listened intently. Picked the obvious parallel. “Wind,” she said.

  “Good,” Hugh said. Seven felt the soft touch to her shoulder again. She flashed her eyes open and Hugh pulled back his hand. Analyzing the sensation, she decided the weight of his hand was not uncomfortable, just the strange feeling that it evoked.

  “Go on,” Hugh said, smiling. “Close your eyes. You can do better.”

  She closed them again.

  “Now think of the wind. How strong is it? Gale force, or breeze?”

  [391] “Breeze.”

  “Yes, because the sound is soft. Maybe it’s an ocean breeze. Maybe it’s even a whisper.”

  “It is ... difficult for me to imagine these things.”

  Seven felt the warm touch of his hand. She kept her eyes closed as Hugh’s fingers tenderly cupped over hers. The sensation was pleasant, exhilarating, sending shivers of impulses where their hands made contact. Hugh’s voice was like the sound in the shell. “It is only difficult for you because the collective stole your ability to think for yourself. It was the same for me at first, but it gets easier over time. Try again.”

  Seven took a deep breath, held, then released it slowly. “I hear the breeze rustling through leaves—”

  “What color are the leaves?”

  “Green.”

  “What kind of trees are they on?”

  “Palms.”

  “Where are you standing?”

  “By the sea, and the breeze is rising off a glittering ocean.”

  Hugh’s voice was a whisper. “And how does the breeze smell?”

  “Fresh. Crisp.”

  “Maybe even sweet? Maybe there are flowers nearby, red roses, and their floral scent swi
rls on the breeze like downy feathers, and the sun is bright, and it warms the soft skin of your cheeks while the ocean laps against the shore.”

  “Yes. Yes.” Seven felt her heart rate increasing. She opened her eyes.

  Hugh tilted his head, and she had the sensation that he could see into the very depths of her soul. He was so close, [392] Seven could feel the brush of Hugh’s breath upon her face as he spoke. He squeezed her hand. “This is Hugh’s gift for you. For as long as you keep it, this will be my song from me to you.”

  As Seven looked in his eye and listened to the softness of his words, she felt a strange warmth flush through her. It was an odd sensation, different from the emotional response she felt when receiving Captain Janeway’s approval. Powerful and compelling, it drew her toward Hugh as if by electromagnetic force. She leaned closer, and a random image coalesced in her mind of a starship approaching the event horizon of a singularity. Hugh’s human eye glittered, and she sensed hidden galaxies swirling within, beckoning her to come explore every one.

  Fear.

  Seven felt a sudden rush of fear. Analyzed its cause. Recognized the voice of her subconscious. If she drew any closer, she knew she would cross the threshold and become so wrapped up in this singularity that she would never want to leave him.

  Clarity of logic became the circuit that disconnected the emotional conduit.

  “I must go,” Seven said, backing up a step. She felt the contact of Hugh’s hand break from hers, resisted the desire to feel his touch again. Hugh’s arm fell to his side. For the first time since she had been with him, Hugh seemed unsure of himself. His human eye glittered, moist with fluid. Seven watched some of the excess spill slowly down his cheek.

  “Thank you,” she said, gripping the shell. She turned before Hugh could see the moisture form in her own eyes.

  * * *

  [393] Captain Janeway sat on a ledge next to Seven’s alcove in cargo bay two. The lighting had been lowered in this section to Seven’s specifications, darkened like the corridors of a Borg ship, giving the room a nocturnal feel. Seven stood on the deck before her, silhouetted in the nickering light from the alcove.

  Janeway leaned back on one arm. “It was good of Hugh to open the conduit and send us back where he found us—he even managed to get us ahead of where we were. But I’m curious, Seven. Why didn’t you remain with them? Why did you choose us?”

  “The Borg Hugh’s offer was compelling, but I have duties aboard this vessel. It would not have been responsible to leave my post.”

  “Is that all? A sense of obligation?” Janeway flashed her sly smile. “Somehow, I don’t feel you’re being totally honest with me, Seven.”

  “Perhaps not. Were I of the collective, you would already know my deepest thoughts. But I am an individual. Is not privacy of thought part of being an individual?”

  Janeway chuckled. “Touché. But don’t forget that friendship is built upon the sharing of those private thoughts, Seven. Through the sharing, we get to know one another, understand one another, build respect, forge bonds.”

  Seven gave a clipped nod. “Understood. Then I shall share this with you. While the Borg Hugh was presenting me with the offer to join his people, I was not compelled. Yet later, while alone with the Borg Hugh, I felt oddly attracted by his presence. It was an emotional response I have not encountered previously. Powerful, but also disturbing.”

  “In what way?”

  [394] “The feeling defies logic. It was difficult for me to control. I can only describe it as an overwhelming sensation to ... couple with him.”

  “Mmmm.” Janeway smiled with warmth. “Romantic attraction. The gravimetric force of neutron stars and black holes can’t hold a candle to that one. You’ve had a taste of your humanity, Seven.”

  “Does it get easier in time to subjugate this feeling? I find its power ... disconcerting.”

  “Never. That’s the beauty of it. It’s a force beyond logic and algorithms. It’s like a tidal wave that rushes over you, filled with chaos, but exhilarating all the same as it carries you away. With the right person, it’s like being in seventh heaven.”

  Seven’s brow furrowed. “I do not understand the reference. Do you speak of some Starfleet division of the universe I have not been informed of?”

  Janeway chuckled softly. “No, Seven, it’s a metaphysical reference. Heaven is associated with mankind’s desire to achieve paradise, so saying you’re in seventh heaven is like saying you’ve touched the ultimate level of something. Passion is an overwhelming experience.”

  Janeway felt her own feelings drifting, carrying her to another place and time. Her eyes closed halfway. There was a long silence.

  Looking up, Janeway saw Seven watching her with a puzzled expression. “I must contemplate this emotion when I am more distant from the experience,” Seven said.

  With a soft groan, Janeway pushed herself up. “Well, don’t dwell on it too much. I’ve been trying since puberty and I still haven’t figured it out.”

  [395] “Captain? There was also another sensation I experienced, almost as powerful. As I withdrew from the Borg Hugh, I felt my chest muscles constrict. My throat experienced the same sensation, and there was a sudden hollow feeling within my abdomen.”

  Janeway felt that pang in her own heart. “Regret, Seven. It’s called regret.” She patted Seven on the shoulder, noted that Seven didn’t stiffen to the touch. “Get some rest. We’ll talk more after you’ve regenerated. I think we need to spend some time together soaking up a beach on the holodeck. It’s called ‘girl talk.’ ”

  “I shall look forward to our communication, Captain.”

  “Sleep well, Seven.”

  As Janeway walked away, Seven stepped onto the platform of her regeneration alcove, heard the cargo bay door swish open and shut behind her. The circular power matrix flashed in neon-green bolts of flux, and Seven suddenly realized how drained her body felt. Turning, she faced the cabin’s door, but before backing into the alcove and closing her eyes, she lifted a hand to her ear. In her palm was the shell.

  She could almost hear a whisper.

  Afterword

  John J. Ordover

  “... These are the voyages of the Starship Enterprise. Her five-year mission: to explore Strange New Worlds ...”

  Or in this case, Strange New Worlds II.

  The stories you’ve just read weren’t written by some sort of magical being called a “Writer.” They were written by people just like you. What did they have that you don’t have? Probably nothing. The major difference is that they sat down, wrote a story, and sent it in. The rest is details.

  Is it really that simple? In a way, yes. You can’t enter this contest just by thinking you really should get around to writing a story someday. You enter this contest by shutting down all those voices telling you to do something else instead, and sitting down to write. And write. And write. And write some more. As someone once said: “Write, rinse, repeat.”

  Writing well takes practice, and it takes the right kind of practice. The best practice comes from reaching down inside yourself, finding what you have to say that’s different from what anyone else would have said, and saying it in a way that only you could have said it.

  The best place to practice that is in worlds of your own imagining, not in the Star Trek universe or any other [398] preexisting universe. Then, when you’ve practiced and picked up a few tricks, maybe sent a few stories off to the editors of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Analog, or Asimov’s, take a shot at Strange New Worlds III (the rules follow this afterword; just turn the page).

  That’s the process that generated the seventeen superb stories you’ll find in this anthology, and that will make up Strange New Worlds III. Want your story to be one of them?

  Start writing now.

  Contest Rules

  Strange New Worlds IV

  1) ENTRY REQUIREMENTS:

  No purchase necessary to enter. Enter by submitting your story as specified below.

&nb
sp; 2) CONTEST ELIGIBILITY:

  This contest is open to nonprofessional writers who are legal residents of the United States and Canada (excluding Quebec) over the age of 18. Entrant must not have published any more than two short stories on a professional basis or in paid professional venues. Entrants under contract with a literary agent [or who work for a book publisher) are not eligible. Employees (or relatives of employees living in the same household) of Pocket Books, VIACOM, or any of its affiliates are not eligible. This contest is void in Puerto Rico and wherever prohibited by law.

  3) FORMAT:

  Entries should be no more than 7,500 words long and must not have been previously published. They must be typed or printed by word processor, double spaced, on one side of [402] noncorrasable paper. Do not justify right-side margins. The author’s name, address, and phone number must appear on the first page of the entry. The author’s name, the story title, and the page number should appear on every page. No electronic or disk submissions will be accepted. All entries must be original and the sole work of the Entrant and the sole property of the Entrant. Foreign-language submissions are not eligible. All submissions must be in English.

  By entering, entrants agree to abide by these rules and warrant and represent that their entry is their original work and grant to Pocket Books the right to publish, promote and otherwise use their entries without further permission, notice or compensation.

  4) ADDRESS:

  Each entry must be mailed to: STRANGE NEW WORLDS, Star Trek Department, Pocket Books, 1230 Sixth Avenue, New York. NY 10020.

  Each entry must be submitted only once. Please retain a copy of your submission. You may submit more than one story, but each submission must be mailed separately. Enclose a self-addressed, stamped envelope if you wish your entry returned. Competition runs from January 1st, 2000, to October 1st, 2000. Entries must be received by October 1st. 2000. Not responsible for lost, late, stolen, mutilated, illegible, postage due, or misdirected mail.