The BLTS Archive - The Flux of Mortal Things
by Odan (oxmys@hotmail.com)

---

Warning: This story contains angst, violence, course language, and
homosexual relationships between women.

Disclaimer: No profit is intended in the writing of this story. Star
Trek: Voyager and its characters are the property of Paramount and
Viacom.

Archiving and downloading is welcome, as long as you credit the
writer. Many thanks to Meagan for her beta-ing.

---

If there had been a time before now he could not remember it.

It seemed as if all his life he'd done nothing but cross this
desert. The sun beat down on his naked form, raising salty
perspiration that the scalding winds failed to cool. Around him
towered stone ribcages carved by ancient lava flows, sculptured by
the winds over endless centuries into sterile fingers imploring the
sky. Above, as always, circled a small speck, the shavokh waiting
for him to collapse from hunger or fatigue. He ignored it, as he did
the sharp stones cutting into his feet, the thirsting of his parched
throat, the stench of ash and sulphur from a volcano that had erupted
miles away. His quest was more important than such trivial matters,
though he could no longer recall what had sent him out here. He only
knew that he was being compelled, driven on in an urgent quest
for . . . what? Water? That was logical; water was essential for
survival in the desert. And he could see the oasis shimmering ahead,
always out of reach. He drove himself towards it, digging his feet
into the treacherous slope of the dune. Was it a mirage?

Again he heard the voice; faint, distant, calling him back, warning
of dangers ahead. The voice was familiar, someone he trusted.
Perhaps he would return once he had drunk his fill, thank his friend
for their concern. Give assurances that he had come to no harm.

Then he could see it clearly - it was no illusion! A slash of cool
blue across the arid plain, crystal-clear water beckoning him. There
was a woman there bathing. Beautiful, exotic, sensuous, her golden
skin sparkling radiant as she cleansed herself. To his endless joy
he recognized her. It was this woman that he'd been searching for.
His aduna!

'Vorik . . .'

He ran towards her, stumbling over loose rocks, his imperative
driving him on. He called to her in the ancient tongue of his
people, crying out that she was his, that their minds had been bonded
to each other long ago. But then she was turning on him, rejecting
him, snarling as she drove her fist into his face. He fell back on
burning hot stones, screaming in rage and anguish. She had no right
to do this! He hurled himself at her, exalting in the unfettered
release of emotion. They locked in combat, his strength against
hers. She looked different now, her forehead marked by curved
ridges, skin a different hue, lips pulled back over sharp teeth that
snarled insults in a language that was not his own.

'You are Lieutenant Vorik of the USS Voyager. You are an engineer, a
Starfleet officer, a Vulcan.'

The voice was calling again and he fled in panic, knowing only that
it shamed him to be seen like this. He dived into the water but
found no relief there, tossed helplessly by swirling rapids.

'The emotions are strong, powerful, overwhelming. But the strength
of your mind is greater. Picture your emotions as a brilliant flame,
burning within you.'

Not a flame but a firestorm, it consumed him totally, made him beg
for release. He thrashed through dunes of burning sand that towered
like mountains. He screamed her name, pleaded for her to come to
him, but there was no answer.

'The water dampens the flame. You are apart from it, watching it.
You watch the flame grow smaller.'

He stumbled into the oasis, grabbing handfuls of water and flinging
them on his body, trying to cool the raging heat. Riven with a
terrible despair he collapsed, opened his mouth to the voice and the
water and let it flow inside him.

Vorik came round in his quarters, lying on the floor, his meditation
robes filthy with sweat and dried semen. The Vulcan felt a deep wave
of disgust at his condition, his lack of control at even the most
basic level. He pulled himself to his feet, staggered to the nearest
faucet and drank.

'To feel shame in these circumstances is not logical,' said the voice
inside his mind.

"Yes," he gasped.

'The emotions are strong, powerful, overwhelming. But the strength
of your mind is greater. Picture your emotions as a brilliant flame,
burning within you.'

He was apart from the flame, dousing it in his mind. It no longer
controlled him despite its rage and fury. Vorik watched the fire
grow ever smaller, reduced to a point of light until once more, with
the suddenness of epiphany, the sharp clarity of logic was guiding
his thoughts. He saw his path clearly, the single logical option,
exquisite in its simplicity. He would find B'Elanna Torres and mate
with her. Eagerly the young Vulcan leapt to his feet, but the door
refused to open for him. He tried the control panel, unaware that
this was the third time in an hour he had done so.

'Commander Torres is no longer on board Voyager. You must regain
your mastery of emotion.'

Vorik screamed through his raw throat, slamming his fists against the
unyielding doors. He hurled his kae out through the ship, searching
frantically amongst the many babbling voices for that unique
mindprint. Alien, beautiful, churning with savage, volatile passions
that tempted him in his darkest thoughts. He could not find it, she
was gone forever and he howled his torment, beating his hands against
the doors of his prison.

A Bolian walking down the corridor outside stopped in shock at that
terrible cry.

Commander Tuvok was standing guard outside Vorik's quarters, a phaser
on his belt. "Can I help you, Crewman Chell?"

Chell muttered an apology and hurried on. Behind the doors came the
faint sound of a man sobbing.

Tuvok was tired, both mentally and physically. He'd been here for
many hours, there were many more still to come. He closed his eyes,
focused his thoughts, reaching out once more to the tortured mind
inside.

'The emotions are strong, powerful, overwhelming. But the strength
of your mind is greater. Picture your emotions as a brilliant flame,
burning within you . . .'

---

The derelict sphere resembled a ball that had escaped from the toy
set of a gigantic child. For almost seventy years it had been in
orbit around the system's outermost planet; in all that time it had
been undisturbed. Everyone knew that with the Borg, death was a
relative term. Fear had overcome the lure of easy technological
pickings; fear based on practical experience and long-told legends
dating back thousands of years to when the Collective first sent its
scouts to this region of space.

The interlopers showed no such concern. They too had become legends,
albeit of a more recent kind. Like the Borg in those early years
they were explorers, seeking to improve themselves through contact
with other species. Unlike the Collective they had forsaken conquest
and the enhancement of their bodies by technological means,
preferring to better themselves and their culture through co-
operation and self-contemplation. It was a never-ending struggle,
but one they believed enriched them.

Nevertheless they approached the Borg vessel with caution, though
with the expertise that comes with prior experience. Speed and
heading were matched between the tiny flyer and its target.
Multiphasic scans checked for dormant power and life signs, verified
structural integrity and the presence of a breathable atmosphere.
Hails containing Borg identification codes drew no response.

Only the empty eye sockets of drone skeletons witnessed the
intrusion, an alien blue shimmering amongst the inky blackness.
There were two of them, transporting past any security devices still
active in the outer hull. Both women wore grey ribbed jumpsuits and
large backpacks, phasers held ready in their hands.

As soon as her pattern had stabilised, Lieutenant Commander Torres
had her tricorder open and running a scan. "I'm not picking up any
lifesigns . . . no active energy signatures, no Borg!" She snapped
it shut and switched on her sims beacon. "Let's go!"

"Wait," said Seven of Nine, intent on her own readings.

Torres shifted her weight from one foot to the other, eyes darting
around the corridor. The light from her beacon flickered over ranked
alcoves, cavernous alien skulls pieced by cybergrafts, savage
surgical instruments where limbs should have been. It reminded her
of the temple they'd seen on their shore leave to Teldar Ves; the
stone-carved demons with Borg implants erupting from every orifice.
The war orphans with their sunken cheeks and dead eyes. An
involuntary shiver ran through her body. "Come on, Seven. This
place is giving me the creeps already."

Seven refused to be hurried, scanning and recalibrating until she was
sure. "I am detecting numerous electromagnetic readings at minimal
power, but I cannot pinpoint their location. It's possible there are
many systems still operative."

"Has your proximity transceiver activated?"

"No."

"Then let's get on with it! Kahless, it's freezing in here." Torres
strode off down the passageway, boots ringing on the metal floor
grates. Seven ran after her, grabbing the half-Klingon engineer by
the shoulder.

Torres spun round so fast even the normally unflappable Borg was
startled. "WHAT?!"

"I will go first. I'm more familiar with this type of vessel, and my
implants should detect any security devices still active."

Torres' eyes twinkled with amusement. "Trying to protect me, Ensign?"

Seven inclined her head. "It is simply the logical course of action,
B'Elanna."

"Fair enough. Besides, I like looking at your ass move in that tight
jumpsuit."

The Borg raised an eyebrow, then decided to favour Torres with one of
her more subtle smiles. Slipping past her, Seven began sweeping her
beacon over the alcoves. The once efficient order of the vessel had
been replaced by chaos. Overhead panels had burst open to spew out
snake-like power conduits. Frozen biofluid from ruptured tubules
formed rows of fang-like stalactites. Broken pieces of
carbosilicate, dust particles, loose equipment and fragments of bone
had fallen to the floor over time and become stuck there by layers of
frost.

She stopped in her tracks, examining an alcove opposite. It was
occupied by a tactical drone, Species 893 . . . Menti Naka, held
together by its exoskeleton cage. The skull had fallen to the ground,
exposing the alcove's access node, which appeared intact. "Try this
one."

Torres had the micropower conduit ready, connected to her backpack
generator. Using her gloves to wipe sixty-eight years of accumulated
grime from the access node, she plugged it in. "Powering up."

There was no telltale green flickering light above the alcove, no
energy reading on Seven's tricorder. "Dead."

"Ghuy'cha!" Torres swore. She unplugged the conduit, stamped her
feet on the grating to warm them.

"Your thermal suit should be maintaining your temperature," said
Seven as she moved on down the passageway, checking the access node
and interlink conduit of each alcove. All appeared to have been
burnt out by the same massive electro-kinetic discharge.

"Well it doesn't bloody well feel like it. How do you think Vorik's
doing?"

"The Doctor will not discuss his condition with me."

"I heard he rejected the hologram again," said Torres, her words
punctuated by small clouds of condensation. "Now Tuvok's supposed to
be helping Vorik through it. Maybe he's going to have sex with him!"

"That would be a 'logical' course of action."

Torres giggled; an incongruous sound in this frozen
necropolis. "It's just as well I'm here. Vorik would probably try
hacking out of his quarters with his hard-on to get at me. Did I
ever tell you what happened last time he went through the Pon farr?"

The Borg stopped again, examining a medical servo-armature that might
be worth salvaging. "No." The implant was covered with some type of
fungi. Biomatter had flourished for a time, feeding on the decaying
corpses of the drones, before dying as the heat leeched out and power
to the UV lights failed.

"Do you have any idea where we are in this thing?" asked Torres,
changing the subject yet again. Her wrist light cast ghoulish
shadows on the walls . . . serrated cutting blades, alien jaws fallen
open in silent screams.

"I do not."

Torres gave a derisive snort. "So much for Borg efficiency. You'd
think they'd know about signs or something. Well, is it viable?"

"The damage is too severe," Seven replied, continuing with her
search. "Signs would be irrelevant. Each drone is interlinked to
the sphere's vinculum and therefore knows its location at all times.
However I will be able to orient myself as soon as we locate any of
the major adjuncts or a working access node. Is the movement of my
buttocks pleasing enough for you, B'Elanna?"

"What?! Oh yes, very."

It took them twenty-three minutes to find an alcove that Seven could
use, another five to power it up without damaging the long dormant
neuro-circuitry. The skeleton was removed and Seven stepped inside,
closing her eyes as her interface node clicked into place. She
opened her mind to the sphere.

In 3.08 seconds Seven had identified the obsolete algorithm guarding
the unimatrix and cracked it; she didn't even have to use any of the
cryptographic subroutines RiN-sep had provided. After that came the
slow and tedious procedure of tracking down and relinking thousands
of isolated components. Whole sections were unreachable, others
responded with data streams of pure gibberish. Eventually she was
able to locate some working systems that fit her target list,
instructing them to power up and run self-diagnostic tests. One
surprise was that the sphere's sensor grid was still functioning.
She logged the position of the grid's data nodes so they could be
recovered later, then broke her link.

Seven opened her eyes to a pitch-darkness, no sign of her partner.
The Borg prioritised her ocular implant and the passageway leapt out
into vision, a glowing ethereal world without shadows. Devastation
had been wreaked on the walls. Panels were sliced open, conduits and
neural-connectors spilling out onto the floor grates. Data nodes had
been wrenched out of their sockets, skeletons tossed from their
alcoves at random. From somewhere ahead Seven could hear the sounds
of more destruction, accompanied by faint Klingon curses.

She tapped her combadge. "Seven to B'Elanna."

No answer. "B'Elanna, respond."

"Yeah Seven, what is it?" Her voice was breathless, coming in short
gasps.

"I have finished here. State your location."

"How the hell would I know? Just follow the noise." A loud crash
echoed down the corridor, accompanied by a faint: "Shit!"

Seven let out a deep sigh of exasperation. Stepping out of the
alcove, she picked her way through the litter of shattered bone and
metal. The damage was irrelevant, as the entire sphere would be
destroyed in a few hours anyway, but the Borg couldn't help feeling a
surge of anger. This was far more than was necessary to salvage a
few components. It was as if Torres was engaging in deliberate
vandalism, a gratuitous act of vengeance for her dead husband. Her
behaviour had been somewhat erratic over the past few days . . . lack of
appetite, frequent mood swings. At the time Seven had put it down to
nerves over their upcoming mission.

As she turned the corner into the next adjunct, Seven noticed a small
skeleton lying on the floor, miraculously undamaged. A pre-natal
drone, what was it doing here? The maturation chambers must have
opened when the ion storm struck, the child left to wander the
corridors until it died of starvation.

Instinctively, irrationally, Seven reached down to touch the
skeleton, only to have the bones crumble away in her fingers.

---

'Entropic decay. It's a natural law of the universe,' thought
Chapman. 'All things must die . . . people, stars, ships . . .'

From where he stood Voyager looked as if it had been cut in half.
One side was illuminated by the system's bloated red sun, the other
half vanished into inky blackness, broken only by the occasional
window or running light.

Chapman stepped off Voyager's dorsal spine onto the darkside, waiting
till the magnetic sole had clamped to the hull before shifting his
other foot. His photonic amplifiers activated, the hull reappearing
in granular shades of grey, the computer adding red and green
outlines around danger areas and airlock ports. He waited until the
molecular scanner cut in, projecting a head-up display onto his
faceplate, then looked down at his boots.

"Starboard side now. Hull plate TH-0778. I'm picking up some impact
craters that weren't there before. Must have happened when we went
into orbit, something fairly high density. I'm picking up
monotanium . . ultra-diamond . . . traces of . . . looks like
molecular-bonded ceramics."

"Haven't these idiots heard of orbital cascade disaster?" asked Jenny
Delaney, who was keeping an eye on them with the external
sensors. "They've got enough junk floating around this system to
build a Borg cube."

"I guess when you're fighting a war you're more interested in making
wreckage than cleaning it up." Chapman began stepping along the hull
plate, making sure that each scan overlapped the previous one by half
a metre. "How are those shields holding?"

"Hull plate TH-0778. Remains of Lieutenant William Chapman, struck
by an abandoned space toaster moving at 20,000 kilometres per hour."

"Hull plate GN-7689," said Soolan. "I'm picking up microfractures."

"What? We replaced that one six months ago!"

"I've got another one here," said Ensign Tabor. "GN-897A."

Chapman turned towards where the others were working, further down
the hull near the warp pylons. He could see the glow of the thermal
radiators on their EVA suits. "What does the log say?"

"GN-7689 has been recycled . . . sixty-three times over the past ten
years!"

"Looks like replication pattern failure," said Tabor. "This one's
got cracks all the way through to the inner core. Recycled eighteen
times, replaced five years ago after our quantum slipstream tests."

Chapman swore quietly to himself. Black hairlines were materialising
on the hull plate in front of him, the scanner building up an
uncompromising image of what lay beneath. "Looks like we've got them
here as well. Computer, magnify."

Microscopic fissures expanded into vast canyons, smooth metal to a
landscape pockmarked like the surface of Luna. From a distance
Voyager always looked pristine, her seamless blend of form and
function often praised by alien engineers. It was only when viewed
through the cold objective gaze of his scanner that her imperfections
were obvious. Stress fractures, molecular decoupling, the
distinctive particle impact craters that only came from weapons
fire. A history of the past decade written across her surface in
wear and tear.

"At this rate we'll never make it back to the Alpha Quadrant," said
Jenny. "You're the structural engineer, Will. How long do you
think . . . another ten years before she falls to bits at maximum
warp?"

"What this ship needs is a major overhaul at Utopia Planitia. What
it gets is alien shipyards with poor quality control and incompatible
systems. And there's a point of diminishing returns, even with
replication technology . . ." Chapman took another step. He was
picking up something else, the familiar deformation pattern from a
multiphasic tractor beam. A legacy of their fatal encounter with the
Borg three years ago. "Still, as Seven of Nine would say, we'll
adapt."

"And how was Seven?" Jenny chimed in immediately.

Chapman mentally kicked himself right off the hull.

"You should know Jenny," said Tabor. "Or was that your sister?"

"Or was that you *and* your sister?" Soolan chimed in, sniggering.

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Jenny, her tone the
epitome of innocence. "But I know Seven went to Will's quarters
after she took Harry to Sickbay last week. Maybe she wanted those
broad, handsome shoulders to cry on."

"I've never seen her cry," muttered Tabor. "The Borg slut."

Tabor's prejudice seemed anachronistic to Chapman. He knew there'd
been a time in human history when women were ostracised for having
too many sexual partners; maybe Bajorans were more traditional in
that regard. "What happened is none of your business," he
snapped. "Let's concentrate on the job, shall we?"

Silence was his only answer, but he could sense their amusement over
the comm channel. Memories of last week's pleasures were never far
from the surface, now they returned once again the skilled
application of Seven's body to his own. Those sapphire eyes that
shone with their own light when she was amused: *"Shall we dance,
Lieutenant? I promise I'll not damage you this time."*

She was simply correcting a mistake, Chapman knew, their disastrous
first date was an imperfection that could not be tolerated. He could
have refused; it wasn't Seven's promiscuity that alienated the crew,
it was the way she went from one partner to another without forming
any emotional connection, using them like some kind of holodeck
program. But despite his poor record with women he'd fooled himself
that he could get through to her. Or perhaps he'd been lying to
himself, maybe his motives had been more primal, as base as hers.

But he'd heard her cry.

At night when he was half-asleep, exhausted from their exertions, he
had heard Seven crying. He knew without asking that it was because
of what Harry Kim had said to her in the messhall. He'd rolled over
to comfort her, but in her tear-soaked eyes there was none of the
light he'd seen earlier, instead a complete absence of emotion;
something chilling, inhuman. The face of the Eater of Souls.

And Chapman knew that she'd shut him off, like all the others.

---

'khesterex thath! that's what this whole stupid mission's been
right from the start . . . need a fully-equipped away team and two
whole months to explore, catalog and salvage this Borg bowling
ball, instead there's two of us and an eight hour window . . . 38
minutes 10 seconds behind schedule already . . . thank you miss
perfection i AM aware of the time . . . that Borg hasn't changed
much probably fucks by numbers too not that i wouldn't mind
finding out, wrestling that strong body to the ground and forcing
her surrender that'd be something . . . she smells of warm blood
and cool metal, not dead and cold like this place, like this gagny
locking clamp it's frozen solid, try warming it with the laser-bore .
. . argh lowest setting dummy! kahless that was close nearly
burnt the whole thing to crisp, a neural energy matrix for god's
sake rare prize indeed . . . slowly now, don't want the thermal
stress to crack it . . .'

The clamp broke free with a sharp crack and they lifted the matrix
off its support rod, sliding it carefully inside a large thermoplastic
bag. Seven sprayed the delicate unit with thick white foam that
hardened in seconds, protecting it from shock or cross-
contamination. The bag was sealed and tagged, placed on a
pile with the others.

They'd been at it for well over three hours now, working against
time and the restrictions the captain had lain down. Nothing that
could have a temporal or weapons application - which ruled out
biogenic cloning vats, multiphasic cutting beams, or chronoton
field conduits. Limited time and space ruled out the massive
regeneration facilities, matter-to-energy converters or the
complete transwarp drive. Much of the biotech had decayed;
other items such as shield generators or nanofactories were
now obsolete, replaced by new adaptations.

Torres wiped perspiration from her forehead ridges, then
unsealed the magnetic clasps at the front of her jumpsuit. "I'm
going to have Tabor look at this suit's regulators when I get back.
First I'm freezing, now I'm drowning in sweat." She uncapped
her water bottle, raised it to her lips and shook it . . . a couple of
drops came out. "Argh! Must have drunk ten litres already."

Seven passed over her own bottle. "One of us will have to beam
over to the flyer and replicate some more water. We're running
low on protective foam as well." She knelt to check the
synchronisation of the pattern enhancers. "The two of us are
insufficient for this task."

"I know. Those bastards on the Liaison Daki are probably
hoping we'll fall down a vertical shaft or something."

"You are not Borg," said Seven. "Why should they desire your
death as well?"

"I was assimilated four years ago - the Unimatrix Zero thing,
remember? I haven't got a soul any more. Probably think they'd
be doing me a favour." She massaged the scar tissue above
her left ear.

"Are you all right?" asked Seven, noticing the gesture.

"Yeah, I've been having some headaches, that's all. I'm fine."

"You should have the Doctor examine you when we return."

"I'm *fine*, Seven."

"You suffered a high velocity traumatic impact to your skull__"

"I SAID I'M__" Torres grit her teeth, controlling her temper with a
visible effort. "Look, let's get on with it shall we? We're already
behind schedule." She smacked the combadge on her chest.
"Torres to Tom Paris. How's our transporter signal?"

"Annular confinement integrity at 98.7%," answered the flyer's
computer. "All systems are at optimal levels. Anti-contaminant
protocols on line."

"Alright, beam them over."

"Do you blame me for Tom's death?" Seven asked quietly, as the
stack of salvaged components dematerialised.

"No," said Torres, regretting having snapped at her. She was too
edgy; this cursed Borg charnel house. "Tom would have risked
his life for any of us, you know that."

Seven didn't reply. Watching her, Torres found herself
considering irrelevant things: the delicate lines of the Borg's
neck, the unsubtle curves beneath her jumpsuit, that scent
brushing against the edge of her senses, teasing . . . "Look,
Harry can be a petaQ at times."

"Harry is a petaQ all the time," replied Seven, tapping her
combadge. "Seven to Tom Paris. Command Delta Three
Epsilon."

A dark cylindrical object materialised within the triangle of energy
formed by the pattern enhancers. Over five metres long, its
carbonite hull was pitted from years of micrometeorite impacts
and solar wind ablation. 'DANGER: ANTI-MATTER
CONTAINMENT HAZARD' had been sprayed over the surface in
bright new UV paint, in four different languages. Voyager had
been running advanced courses in spatial clearance for several
months now. This Tehr-jen class subspace inversion mine was
supposed to have been disarmed by Harry Kim and used as a
training aid, but somehow ended up floating in deep space
along their flight path, a code-activated transponder attached to
its hull.

Torres removed an isolinear spanner from her thigh pocket and
used it to disconnect the magnaseals. Together they lifted off
the inspection hatch, exposing gleaming silver and gold
components, stamped with lettering and numerical codes in the
R'larri Forbidden Language.

'now let's seeeeee what have we got here? sensor grid,
reaction drive, anti-matter confinement chamber,
countermeasures pod . . . bloody thing's a spaceship not a
spatial mine . . . anti-tampering systems deactivated, sensor grid
and propulsion systems deactivated . . . pain in the ass, done all
this on the trip here but no harm in being thorough . . . morons
who populate this system don't even comprehend the idea of
failsafe engineering. harry's got to be nuts, volunteering to
disarm these fucking things, man's got a death wish . . . alright,
open detonator housing . . . '

The detonator housing slid back and Torres inserted the remote
activator, seating it in place with a slight click. The Federation
device had been wrapped in a custom-made sleeve in order to
interface with the R'larri technology. It began to run through a
series of compatibility checks, exchanging data with the mine's
processor.

'something's wrong, can't access the program for the magnetic
interlocks, all gibberish . . . oh bugger! forgot to load the
translation protocols how could i have been so stupid? . . . not
concentrating that's the problem, can't focus, those blue-grey
eyes framed in silver, that Borg's got the same hot looks,
confidence and easy sexuality that tom had . . . subsection beta
algorithm, loading arming subroutines and since when have i
been interested in women anyway? mynah! enough anti-matter
here to tear a hole in the fabric of space and all you can think
about is sex . . . but dammit it's like she's radiating pheromones
or something__'

"You have made an error."

"I can SEE that Seven. I'm fixing it now."

"You're loading the arming subroutines before magnetic integrity
has been confirmed!" exclaimed Seven, disbelief that anyone
could be so stupid evident in her tone and suddenly Torres was
furious with this rude, arrogant, perfection-obsessed Borg
whose idea of exploring their humanity was to fuck half of
Voyager! Why she'd even contemplated screwing__

"I have had twenty-three lovers in the past eighteen months,"
Seven responded coldly. "That is nowhere near half of Voyager's
compliment. How many lovers have you had in your lifetime,
Commander?"

'what the . . . oh shit did i say that out loud? what the hell's the
matter with me can't think straight, want to hit her, to run or fight
or fuck and would you believe it, she's taking out her
TRICORDER, activating the field medical subroutines and
talking to me in that superior condescending tone that always
manages to PISS ME OFF!'

"Commander Torres, you have been showing symptoms of
fever. I believe it is affecting your ability to__"

Torres slapped the tricorder out of her hand. It hit the wall and
ricocheted into a vertical transit shaft, falling to the bottom in
echoing clangs.

They stared at each other for a long moment, Torres' nostrils
flaring as she sucked in the vessel's stale air, hands trembling
from the adrenaline rush.

"Go get the sensor nodes, Ensign."

"Our orders are to stick together."

"I'm giving you another order."

Seven grabbed her backpack and stormed off. Torres stared
after her, until the sound of her boots on the grating had faded.

With the light from Seven's beacon gone, the darkness pressed
in a little closer.

---

Over-Scholar Eem-hontu-sa reached up to adjust the
ocularscope she usually wore in the laboratory, before realising
it wasn't necessary. Flustered, she pretended to scratch her
primary crest instead, saying, "Computer, magnify two thousand
please." She'd been working with this Federation technology for
three months now, but it still took some getting used to.

The holographic simulation exploded into her face like a star
gone nova, cells the size of Husii disks shooting past, pursued
by enormous black nanoprobes. The R'larri cybernist flinched
as one of the technological monsters appeared to reach down
with its arachnoid legs to assimilate her. She took a judicious
step backwards.

Eem-hontu-sa was tall for her species, almost two metres high
with delicate avian features. She wore a conservative tube skirt
and dark green vest, cut away at the rear to accommodate her
vestigial wingstumps. All her clothes were edged with intricate
patterns that resembled decoration, but were actually the history
of her people, spelt out in centuries-old codes. Her bird-like
appearance was enhanced by her cybernetic talons, both
covered in fine mesh gloves of tactile fibre. The originals had
been severed ten years ago by an extremist faction of the R'larri
Cultural Defence Force.

Eem-hontu-sa whistled through her serrated beak, the universal
translator converting the sound into a human-like clearing of the
throat. "If I may have your attention?"

There were sixty-eight of them crammed into the holodeck,
mostly visiting scientists or cybertechs with a scattering of
Voyager personnel. There was a general shuffling, limbs moved
to circulate the blood or signify attention.

"As the Doctor demonstrated most aptly in his simulation, Borg
nanotechnology of previous generations can be successfully
excised through a combination of micro-surgical procedures and
neural suppressants," said Eem-hontu-sa. "We are now going
to rerun that simulation using the nanoprobes removed from
Lieutenant Kim. If our host would care to do the honours . . ."

"Certainly," said the Doctor. "Computer, run program CMH
Seven Two Beta."

To the exuberant strains of Vivaldi's 'The Hunt', Borg
nanoprobes swarmed after their prey, pursuing them through a
sea of crimson body fluids. With vampire-like ruthlessness they
latched onto blood cells, rewriting their DNA in mere fractions of
a second.

"What is that horrible noise?" whispered Over-Scholar Polorta to
Icheb. A genetic engineer from the minority T'mani species, he
was humanoid but with translucent skin and grey membranous
strands in place of facial hair.

"I believe it is the Doctor's latest weapon against the Borg,"
replied Icheb with deadpan seriousness. Polorta gave a loud
hoot of amusement.

"And now," said Eem-hontu-sa, giving them a disapproving look.
"Enter the defenders."

The antinanites were lean, bullet-shaped robots, propelled by
tiny microscopic engines. They began smashing into the
nanoprobes, forcing them to adapt by generating armour. The
antinanites assisted them, adding their own layers, creating an
impenetrable cocoon of armour that sealed the nanoprobes
completely. When the survivors tried to link up the antinanites
altered their signature to make themselves identical to the Borg
probes, linked with and assimilated them, converting them to
their cause. It went on like that for several minutes: attack and
defence, each countermeasure turned against itself. A war
carried out in infinitesimal proportions.

"Normally the nanoprobes would have the advantage in these
circumstances," said Eem-hontu-sa, unconsciously shielding
her throat with a claw. "However, each of the antinanites is
generating its own dampening field. This disrupts the link that
the nanoprobes need to work collectively. As the antinanites are
programmed from the outset to operate as individual units, they
have the advantage. But now . . ."

Cells were turning black and dying, or mutating into perverse
simulacrums, moving on to infect others. White cells appeared,
the body's natural defense mechanism, but they too were
poisoned, others converted.

"Realising they are isolated and near defeat, the nanoprobes
create synthetic pathogens throughout the host body. The host
faces death or permanent injury; immediate radical surgery is
often the only viable option."

"Fallen like the jo-stalk in the harvest," muttered Polorta.

RiN-sep lifted himself off his seat and moved to the front of the
holodeck. He was short and stocky, with a long narrow head that
hung down over his armoured thorax. Unlike the other Menti
Naka cybernists he disdained the protective collars typical of his
profession, wrapping his neck in a simple scarf, dyed red in
mourning for those killed in the Blood Death. "Thank you Over-
Scholar, a most telling demonstration. As you no doubt all
realise, this latest adaptation represents a significant change in
Borg ideology. Previously the Collective regarded the destruction
they caused as irrelevant, a mere by-product of their relentless
course towards perfection. However, after their disastrous
invasion of fluidic space, and the efforts of our Federation allies
to create a so-called 'Borg resistance movement', we are now
seeing more aggressive, militant behaviour patterns."

"For instance, several past attempts to study the Borg at close
quarters were successful because they ignored individuals
unless they posed a direct threat. Now however, the Borg move
instantly to isolate and destroy any trespasser on board their
vessels."

---

Its edges radiating white heat from her phaser, the panel toppled
into the abyss of the central chamber, a tumbling bright outline,
falling in silence for long seconds before the crash of impact.

Seven of Nine sprayed coolant around the hole, then carefully
stepped through onto the induction rail. A mere fifteen
centimetres wide, it was used for transporting components
around the sphere at high speed. Lights from still-active power
units glinted a hundred metres below, like stars in the infinity of
space.

"Seven?" came the voice over her combadge.

She took her time answering. "Yes, Commander Torres?"

"B'Elanna."

"I am busy. Do you require assistance?"

"I'm sorry."

Seven made no reply. Apologies were irrelevant.

"Don't be mad at me."

"I am not angry." It was true. The cortical inhibitor was a most
efficient device, the fear of plunging into the depths below
abstract, like an intriguing intellectual puzzle. She moved along
the rail like a tightrope walker, one foot in front of the other,
keeping perfect balance.

"You've turned on your inhibitor, haven't you?"

"Yes." When she reached the point above her target the Borg
sank into a crouch, slowly turning away from the chamber,
shifting her centre of gravity. Seizing the rail with both hands she
kicked off with her toes, swinging beneath, capturing the twisted
remains of a stanchion between her boots. Leaning forward,
Seven reached out and grabbed a dangling conduit, pulling
herself in.

"Turn it off . . . please. I need to talk."

It was the sensor grid plexus, its walls, roof and floor lined with
nitrium alloy to protect the data nodes. Sometime over the past
few years a support bearing had collapsed and sheared off the
access walkway. An entire wall had gone with it, exposing the
plexus to the vast hall behind her.

"Please Seven."

Seven thought about ignoring the request, but she remembered
all too well Kim's sneering face in the messhall. 'Do you have a
daily prescription, or do you just switch it on whenever you have
the urge?'

Her inhibitor deactivated and emotions came flooding back into
her mind: pain, anger, loneliness, frustration, powerful feelings
tearing at the muscles of her heart. The urge to flee once more
into drone-like oblivion was overwhelming. She'd regarded
Torres as a friend; she'd thought they'd gotten past the petty
squabbling that had marked their first years on Voyager, but it
was clear what the Klingon really thought of her . . .

"I'm sorry. It's been so long. I miss him."

Severed from the Collective, regarded with suspicion and fear by
the others, it was Tom who'd made the first overtures of
friendship towards her. Seven had been the last one to see him
alive.

"Yes, so do I."

There were only five viable data nodes and Seven moved quickly
to free them, using her exoskeleton-covered fist to smash the
locking clamps. She didn't bother with bagging and tagging
them individually, just shoved them into her backpack and
sprayed foam inside. For years the nodes had been mindlessly
storing information, erasing the old when it became irrelevant.
Somehow they symbolised everything the Collective stood for.

Unbidden, the memory leaped to mind: Icheb quoting Shelby to
Ni-par-deski, the R'larri Over-Leader.

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Seven of Nine had always been conscious of the Collective's
presence throughout space. She understood the vastness of
their realm like no human being ever could. But it was only now,
in this vessel with its endless rows of skeletons in their obsolete
alcoves, in this system filled with ancient legends and
superstitions, that she had a sense of their presence through
time, centuries of conquest and assimilation, the remorseless
acquisition of biological and technological cannon fodder.
Looking out into the central chamber she could count at least fifty
different species, rank upon rank, like terracotta soldiers
guarding the tomb of an ancient Chinese emperor. How many
worlds had been destroyed, cultures wiped from existence,
species scattered throughout the galaxy, prevented from ever
reaching their potential? Probably not even the Borg Queen
herself bothered to count them all. And where was the higher
order, the perfection in this monolithical existence? Did the
Queen even know what perfection was any more, where they
were supposed to be going?

With sudden awareness Seven realised that she was seeing not
the past but the future. That one day the universe would be full of
the silent, floating mausoleums of her people. The Borg,
believing without question that they were improving themselves,
were in fact slowly and inevitably stagnating, grinding to an
evolutionary halt. The Collective might exist for thousands of
years, might succeed in assimilating Voyager, humanity, the
entire galaxy. But it would all end like this.

It was then that she heard the noise.

For a microsecond Seven told herself it was settling debris, an
object she'd disturbed earlier coming to rest. The sound was
faint; without her enhanced senses she wouldn't have heard it at
all.

Someone was moving on the level above.

"Commander Torres, state your location."

There was no response.

"B'Elanna, where are you?"

The vastness of the central chamber made the platform where
she'd left Torres appear microscopic. The Borg switched to her
ocular implant, her cortical processor bleeding in sight from the
organic right eye for depth perception and colour matching. She
could see the pattern enhancers, the scattered tools, the
subspace inversion mine . . . something was lying behind it.
Seven clicked up the magnification, tried enhancing the image.
A crumpled grey form, lifeless and still.

'Fear is irrelevant,' Seven told herself.

There was only one exit from the plexus, the way she'd come in.

Without hesitation Seven leapt out into the abyss, fingers
grasping for the rail. The implants in her left hand struck the
metal with a *clang!*, the sound reverberating throughout the
chamber. Using her great strength she pulled herself up,
hooking over an elbow, then a leg, rolling her body on top of the
induction conduit . . .

The intruder was crouched on the rail two metres away, watching
her.

Seven's first thought was that she was hallucinating.

"B'Elanna?"

She was completely naked, shivering in the subzero
temperature. Her feet were bloody, the flesh stripped by the
frozen metal. Oblivious to the peril she was in, Torres stared at
the Borg, pupils so wide they seemed to fill her eyes. An
irrelevant thought struck Seven; Chakotay's ancient tales of
shapeshifters, people who could take on animal form.

Moving very slowly so as not to startle her, the Borg sat up on the
rail. "B'Elanna, do you understand me?"

There was something shiny clasped in Torres' fist. A
combadge, bloody from where the pointed ends were cutting into
the skin. Seven felt her heart skip a beat. She reached across
her chest, pressing fingertips against her own communicator.

"Seven to Tom Paris," she whispered. "Lock onto our comm
signals. Emergency bea__NO!" she shouted as the combadge
dropped out of Torres' hand, vanishing into the depths below.

"Please repeat your transmission."

"Lock onto *my* combadge. Adjust the annular confinement
beam for *two* persons, activate the transporter on my signal."

"Understood."

Torres lifted her injured palm to her face, licked the blood. "jIH
dok." A soft growl, quiet as a whisper.

She looked up at Seven, her face expectant, as if waiting for a
response.

Seven took a deep breath, stuck her right hand between her
teeth and pulled off her glove, letting it fall away. Gripping the
rail
in front of her, she reached out for the Klingon. "B'Elanna, take
my hand."

Torres took hold of Seven's hand in her fingers, raised it to her
face, sniffed the palm. Her lips pulled back over her teeth, a
sharp exhalation of delight.

Seven smiled. "That's it. It's me, Seven. Your friend." She slid
her fingers around Torres' palm, the flesh so hot it seemed to
sizzle against her touch. That made no sense, the Klingon's
body temperature should be__

Torres' bloody feet slipped on the rail and she plunged over the
side, yanking Seven after her, falling in less time than it took to
realise what had happened; a sickening crack then incredible
pain in her shoulder, the overwhelming urge to vomit.

She was holding them both by a single hand above the chasm,
agony now as Torres clutched at Seven's useless limb,
screaming, her cries nowhere near human, high-pitched like an
animal in distress.

The Borg's right hand was numb - she couldn't grip with it. She
could feel Torres' bloody palms slipping over her flesh.

She did the only thing possible.

"SEVEN TO PARIS, EMERGENCY BEAM-OUT!"

---

"The artist must have had an amazing eye for detail," said the
Doctor. "Especially considering the circumstances. It's likely the
individual concerned got quite close to the drone." The C/MH
stepped closer to the holoimage, until he appeared dwarfed by
the enlarged painting. "Note the detail in the ocular implant, right
down to these lines here, which I believe represent thermal
imagers."

"Brave, whoever they were," said Lieutenant Kim. They'd
discovered it during their shore leave on the Other World (or
Teldar Ves, as their R'larri guide insisted on calling it). He'd
claimed it was over fifty thousand years old. Painted on the
rockface in faded pigments amongst the great plain stalkers,
hunters slaying long-extinct beasts, and renderings of ancient
Gods was the figure of a solitary Borg drone, staring back at
them over the millennia.

"It's different somehow, the exoskeleton."

"That's because it's not a complete exoskeleton as we know it.
It's clothing."

"What?" Kim leaned in towards the holoimage. The processor
in his biosynthetic arm adjusted the limb's position to keep his
balance.

"Look here," said the Doctor. "The line around the neck where
the skin meets the collar. That tactical armour is clipped over the
top as well, with these black seals. It's clearly designed to be
removed. I think the undergarment has a similar function to the
dermaplastic biosuit Seven used to wear. It's designed to
regenerate the skin around the exit points for the cybergrafts,
plus some built-in environmental regulation and waste
synthesis." His voice grew excited. "We're looking at what could
be a very early stage in the Borg's evolution!"

"Then how the hell did it get out here?" asked Kim. "They can't
have had transwarp in those days, surely. We're a long way from
the origins of Borg space."

"We don't know anything about the origins of the Borg," the
Doctor pointed out. "Maybe they were exiles, or explorers. A
militant group, in search of the perfect society. Or they could
have been sending long-term scouts throughout the Quadrant,
like the Dominion Founders. The early Borg could have been
quite peaceful in that regard. Even assimilation might have been
voluntary, a chance for the individual concerned to become
something greater than they were."

Kim stared at the painting. Despite its differences, the artist had
captured one thing that clearly hadn't changed . . . that blank drone
expression. None of the excitement or apprehension you might
expect from an early explorer, the joy of discovering and
interacting with strange new worlds, cultures and lifeforms.

"Somehow I doubt it."

"Culhane to the Doctor," came a voice over the comm. system.

The Doctor's head came up. "Yes Ensign?"

"I have a priority subspace communication from the Tom Paris.
Patching through to you now, sir."

"Seven of Nine to the Doctor. Medical emergency."

The Doctor and Kim were at the comm panel in less than a
second.

"I'm here," said the Doctor, his expert eye taking in Seven's pale
features, the distinctive way in which she was cradling her arm.
"You've dislocated your articulatio humeri!"

"My injuries are irrelevant," Seven replied curtly. "Over the past
few hours Commander Torres has been acting in an
increasingly irrational manner. According to my scans her
neurochemistry has become unstable. I am detecting unusual
brainwave activity and excessive amounts of adrenaline in her
circulatory system. The tricorder readings are being
downloaded as we speak."

Kim tensed. "She might have picked up an infiltration virus__"

"No! It was the first thing I checked!" snapped Seven, adding a
belated, "Sir."

"That's impossible!" muttered the Doctor, as his diagnostic
protocols analysed the readings. "Seven, you must return to
Voyager at once!"

Seven used her left hand to enter the requisite commands, not
wasting time with questions. Only when the course had been
laid in and engaged did she ask, "Why?"

"I believe Commander Torres is suffering from the plak tow."

"Your diagnosis is flawed! The blood fever only affects Vulcans!"

"Look, it's a long story. When Vorik last went through Pon farr he
briefly formed a telepathic mating bond with Torres. She started
exhibiting the same symptoms. It's the only explanation for
what's happening now."

"But that was seven years ago!" said Kim. "She shouldn't be
going through this again. We made sure there was no contact
between them this time!"

The Doctor frowned. "The only answer I can think of is that when
the telepathic bond was made, a subconscious command was
implanted. Like the link a Vulcan child forms with his arranged
bride. It's working as a biological clock; Torres is going through
a seven year mating cycle just like a Vulcan would."

"What are the possible consequences to B'Elanna?" asked
Seven.

"I don't know. Vulcans have been known to die during the Pon
farr. You must get her back here as soon as possible."

"Our warp core has been removed. At impulse it will take us at
least four hours, perhaps more."

"That may be too late!"

"Then Voyager must come to our assistance."

"That might not be possible," said Kim. "We're stuck between
three hostile battlefleets here. If we go shooting off at maximum
warp in an unexpected direction . . ."

"In that case she must be treated. I will use a hormonal
suppressor."

"It won't work," said the Doctor. "It's like trying to put out a
firestorm with an airponics sprinkler."

"Then sedation with triptacederine."

"Too risky. She could slip into a coma and die."

"Modified nanoprobes__"

"That won't work either! Look, the problem is that the Pon farr is
psychological as well as biological. We've had some success
with holographic partners but even that's uncertain."

Seven and the Doctor glared at each other. They were both
perfectionists. Neither of them was used to being without
options. "Then how was it treated seven years ago?"

"The blood fever is purged in three ways. Intense meditation,
ritual combat, mating with the chosen partner. B'Elanna fought
Vorik."

"That would not be advisable for us," was Seven's dry response.
"My ability to throw a right hook has been severely
compromised."

"I'll talk to the captain," said Kim. "Maybe if we inform all the
factions that we've got a medical emergency. But they may not
believe us, or care."

"Keep me informed. Seven of Nine out," she said, cutting the link
before the Doctor could start harping on about her injured
shoulder. Out of sight of her colleagues, the Borg let her head
slump.

"What did the Doctor want?" asked Torres, her voice faint. There
was a bed in the aft compartment, but Seven had tilted back one
of the crew seats instead. The Klingon was wrapped in a
thermal blanket, strapped to the seat by thick safety belts.

"He says you are suffering from the Vulcan blood fever. How
much do you remember?"

"The Pon farr?"

"Yes."

"Then I need to see Tom. Where is he?"

Seven stared at her in horror.

"Where's Tom?"

"He is . . . on board Voyager. They are coming for us."

Torres' head rolled sideways. Red and green tricorder lights
reflected off the subtle curves of her forehead ridges. "Tell him to
hurry."

Seven waited until her breathing had gone shallow before
saying, "Tom, give me a view of the Borg vessel. Maximum
magnification."

A circular shadow against the greater darkness of space. This
far from the sun, the sphere was barely visible. "Confirm the
remote activator signal." There was no way to be sure if the
commander had finished arming the mine, not without returning
to the vessel. But her instructions had been clear. After the first
successful salvage attempt the Menti Naka and R'larri
governments would soon overcome their superstitions. There
would be a scramble for Borg technology, perhaps sparking
another conflict over the prize.

"Activator signal confirmed," said the computer. "However we
are still thirty seconds from minimum recommended safe
dist__"

Her finger stabbed down on the touchscreen with unnecessary
force.

The photosensitive viewscreen went dark as a blinding flash
eclipsed even the radiance of a sun, ripping the Borg sphere to
shreds and hurtling the radioactive fragments across space.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the explosion appeared to
reverse in on itself as every particle of matter for over a million
kilometres tried to push through a tiny hole in subspace.

The flyer began to shudder, its engines screaming in impotent
fury as it was hauled back into the inversion. Clenching her teeth
Seven advanced the impulse drive to maximum, ignoring the
structural integrity warnings the computer was blaring at her.

If the fabric of space was weak in this area, or if there'd been
imperfections in the mine, the inversion would turn into ever-
widening subspace splinters radiating out from its omega point.
Should one of them touch the flyer she and Torres would, if they
were lucky, be dead before they knew it. If not, they'd be trapped
in a subspace limbo for the rest of eternity.

---

The kubii trees had been shedding for the past three days, their
kite-like flowers released to drift over the blast crater in which
New LiH-tos nestled, raining down an endless stream of pollen.
Seven and Torres had given up trying to brush it off; as a result
they, along with everything else, were now dusted in a carpet of
bright yellow. Most of the crowd were using breathing masks,
augmenting them with metal face pieces, hammered into the
distinctive scalloped architecture of Borg implants. For once
Seven didn't stand out, for which she was glad. There'd been
problems earlier in the day, when they'd visited the Menti Naka
temple. But here she was anonymous, just another drone
amongst thousands.

They held hands so as not to be separated in the crush, not
knowing where they were going, just letting themselves be
drawn along. Traders worked both sides of the street, their
round stalls like an endless line of open clams. Spectators sat
on the hardshell roofs, feet dangling off the edge as if the
merchants were all specialising in footware. T'mani, R'larri, and
Menti Naka were mixed together in a haphazard fashion, drinking
and talking and hooting with laughter as they watched the
parade. It was hard to believe they'd been slaughtering each
other with genocidal intensity a mere twelve years ago.

Torres was chewing on a jo fruit, juice running down her chin
and staining the front of her shirt. Even as dusk approached it
was still quite warm, the heat generated by the mass of
surrounding bodies. She'd taken off her Maquis jacket and tied
the arms around her waist, bobbing behind like a large leather
tail. Seven was dressed as scantily as R'larri law would let her
get away with; a blue T'mani overcloth, slit to expose her leg
implants. It was risky, yet there was a streak of stubbornness -
or perhaps arrogance, Seven readily admitted - that made her
refuse to hide her Borg heritage.

"Anyone you know?" shouted Torres, grinning as she pointed
over her shoulder.

An enormous statue of carved stone was emerging from an alley
behind them. The head of a Borg drone, implants erupting from
its mouth, forcing the teeth apart into a mute scream. It was
hauled by Menti Naka priests marching in lockstep, their eyes
fixed ahead in blank stares. Small children scampered ahead of
it, shouting, "Resistance is futile! Resistance is futile!" Seven
felt the crowd pressing against her as they moved out of the path
of the juggernaut. She turned forward again, jumping as she
found herself facing a covey of Borg drones. Cybernetic limbs
made of woven jo-stalk were brandished in her face. "You will
be assimilated! Resistance is futile!"

Seven shoved past them, her mouth tight, hauling Torres after
her. Ahead the crowd was squeezed together once more as it
moved past the bulk of a six-wheeled armoured vehicle with
police markings. A R'larri Under-Commander was sitting on the
turret hatch, one hand draped casually across the riot gas
projector. She wore black body armour sculpted in the shape of
a Borg exoskeleton, a multi-lensed helmet adding to the effect.

Red heavier-than-air smoke rolled along the ground. Above their
heads a holographic image of the Aux raged about retribution for
the Blood Death. R'larri bystanders jeered, hurling jo fruits at the
projector until it fizzed out. Torres tossed the remains of her fruit
into a rubbish container, from which it was retrieved and eaten by
one of the street children. Other Menti Naka orphans clustered
around Seven, recognising her as an offworlder, not realising
her implants were real.

"I have no money. Go away."

"Lighten up Seven," said Torres, passing out the few R'larri
coins she had left.

"Your generosity will only increase their persistence."

A child snatched the holocamera hanging off Seven's shoulder.
The Borg tried to grab him but he dropped to the ground and
scrambled away between the legs of the crowd.

"You little Qa'Hom!" shouted Torres. She shoved her way after
him, earning a rain of curses from others in the parade. An
annoyed T'mani tried to clobber her with a wooden Borg cube.

"Let him go, B'Elanna! Damn!" Seven followed in her wake,
pushing through to the side of the street. A rocket arched into the
sky and exploded, igniting kubii flowers in brief falling trails of
fire. Lasers wrote political slogans across the clouds. A
holoimage of Ni-par-deski appeared, her primary crest red with
anger, spitting out words like photon torpedoes.

To Seven's surprise, by the time she made it to the sidewalk the
thief had been caught. A large Menti Naka in the robes and red
half-mask of a religious student held the struggling youngster in
a single hand. With the other he plucked the holocamera from
the child's grasp and presented it to Torres.

"Thank you," said Torres, her chest heaving from exertion. She
took the Doctor's camera and hung the strap around her neck,
turning to Seven as the Borg eased her way along the sidewalk
toward her. "Hey Seven, I'm out of money. You got a donation for
this guy?"

The Menti Naka raised his equine head, smiling as he noticed
the approaching ex-drone. Without changing expression he
brought a pistol out from beneath his robes and shot Torres in
the face.

Seven of Nine saw everything in slow motion; Torres smashed
forwards, blood and flesh flying. With a single powerful
movement the assassin flung the street kid aside and turned on
Seven, his pistol whining as the gauss batteries recharged.
There wasn't even time to feel fear before he pulled the trigger
again.

It was a T'mani bystander who caught the bullet, stepping from
between the stallshells where he'd been urinating, his head
bursting apart and organs turning black. That moment was all
Seven needed. In less than a second she'd closed the distance,
crushing her attacker's wrist in her cybernetic hand. He opened
his mouth in a high scream, clawing at the Borg's eyes. Seven
deflected him with a Tanyk Defence and drove a hammer fist at
the alien's vulnerable forelobe, his eyes rolling up as he fell to
the ground stunned.

In the edge of her vision the Borg saw a canister tumbling
through the air. Instinctively she threw herself where Torres
should be, hitting solid paving stones instead as the world
exploded in plasma fire. A wave of intense heat washed over
her, drifting kubii bursting into flame and scorching her clothes.
She scrambled along the curb, the harsh stone scraping her
knees and elbows through the thin overcloth, angry over her
decision to wear such an inefficient garment. Everyone was
screaming now, ululating alien cries as they fled in all directions.
Seven had a brief glimpse of Torres stumbling ahead of her,
hand clutched to the side of her face. Stallshells began
slamming shut, spilling those who'd been sitting on their roofs
onto the street. Seven lost sight of her partner in the chaos.

The armoured car was trying to move down the street, but the
massive Borg head blocked its path. Disrupter fire lit the air, a
beam streaking past Seven's ear. She dived beneath the
foundation of a stallshell, hitting the combadge on her chest.
"Seven to Voyager! Emergency, two to beam up!"

The only answer was a static-garbled chirp. Inches from her
face, the pavement suddenly turned black as an energy beam
scorched it.

For a brief, terrifying moment Seven of Nine felt tight bands
clamping down on her muscles, her whole body held rigid in
place, staked out for its own sacrifice. Then her cortical inhibitor
activated; it was as if she was standing apart from herself, that
another person was shaking in fear under the stallshell. Tactical
analysis programs went primary, sucking in data from her
enhanced senses and converting it to smooth colourless
datastreams flowing through her mind. There was a surge of
incredible power as nanoprobes superoxygenated her blood. In
microseconds she had formulated a plan of action and carried it
out, hurtling away from cover faster than any sprinter, aiming at a
steel gate that was ajar ten metres away.

It was the loading dock of a slaughterhouse, the ground flecked
with dried blood. The walls were tipped in laser fencing, the
doors chained shut. Seven realised too late she'd walked into a
trap.

From the street behind her stepped a Menti Naka in a red-half
mask. His eyes were bright with fanatical hatred, ancient robes
incongruous with his ultra-modern disrupter rifle. A lasersight
beam flickered towards Seven, reflecting off the drifting pollen.
"TiH-nan guides the hand that will crush the Eater of Souls."

Torres charged through the steel gate, gauss pistol clasped in
her bloody fist. Without slowing down she emptied it into the
assassin, his disrupter tumbling from lifeless fingers. Seven
snatched it up and together they ran across the courtyard to the
loading dock. Seven didn't bother with subtlety; blasting apart a
chain and sending the door flying back on its hinges with a
single powerful kick. She felt her arm seized in a vice-like grip
and then they where charging past long racks hung with bloody
carcasses, startled workers gaping at them in astonishment. An
aproned Menti Naka holding a cutting laser stepped into their
way. Torres didn't give him the benefit of the doubt, smashing
him to the ground with her empty pistol and leaping over the
body.

The front door was sealed by monotanium bolts. Seven burned
a hole through the thin walls, ending up in a narrow backstreet.

The street merchants, veterans of years of civil and military strife,
were closing up at the sound of the disturbance, their stallshells
crashing shut like a row of snapping jaws. A hundred metres
down the road Menti Naka street kids were throwing stones at a
R'larri armoured car. Seven quickly grabbed Torres by the
shoulder and pulled her back into a doorway. She hit her
combadge again. "Seven of Nine to Voyager. Respond!"

" . . ii . . . voy . . . car . . . ear . . ou."

"Dampening field," muttered Torres, her voice slurred as if drunk.
Blood covered the side of her head and she was swaying on her
feet. The eyes were unfocussed, one pupil larger than the other.
Seven reached out a hand to hold her steady. "Voyager,
remodulate your signal! Two to beam up, now!"

"Al . . . ive . . . ot . . even."

A barely audible scream erupted from the armoured police
vehicle. The children bent over in agony, clutching their ears and
soiling themselves. Seven felt a wave of nausea ripple through
her body, then everything sounded as if through water as her
cortical processor stabilised her inner ears. Torres, who had no
such protection, buckled at the knees and vomited onto the
paving stones. The vehicle accelerated down the street towards
them, intakes howling in the pollen-choked air. Menti Naka
children desperately scrambled to get out of the way. One
wasn't fast enough, knocked flying into the gutter and lying still.

"This is Voyager. Your signal is weak but readable."

"TWO TO BEAM UP, NOW!"

And then everything turned to stark black and white as they were
pinned under the lights of the armoured car. It didn't slow down,
didn't swerve, the sound of its turbine rising to a shriek as it
drove straight at them. There wasn't time to run or fire, just the
sheer sense of impossibility as they were suddenly occupying
the same space as the hurtling multi-ton vehicle, fading to non-
existence within the embrace of the transporter beam.

---

Seven of Nine watched Torres toss and turn against her
restraints, her eyelids twitching in REM sleep.

Reaching down, the Borg brushed aside the hair that had fallen
across her face. The tip of one ear was missing and there was
some faint scar tissue the Doctor had not been able to
regenerate. If the assassin had been using a directed energy
weapon, Torres would be dead. The bullet had been stopped by
a remnant of cortical node casing, which the Doctor had thought
too risky to remove four years ago.

Seven could only regard that as ironic. When Torres, Janeway
and Tuvok had completed their mission to aid Unimatrix Zero
she'd tried to convince them to retain some of their more useful
Borg implants, citing the advantages gained in analytical
processing and enhanced physiology. All three had refused
even to discuss it. The Federation prejudice against artificial
enhancement was irrational and deep-rooted, dating back to the
Eugenics Wars. In that aspect they were no different from the
superstitious aliens inhabiting this system.

"Voyager to Tom Paris."

Chakotay had appeared on the commscreen, his normally stolid
face wrinkled with concern.

"Captain," said Seven, getting straight to the point. "Torres' neo-
cortical readings are becoming highly erratic. You must proceed
to our immediate assistance."

"That may not be possible, Seven. The Planetur keep bouncing
us around various departments and the R'larri CDF aren't even
answering our hails. The Aux thinks you've been assimilated.
He's talking about blasting your flyer out of this system. You're
going to have to change your approach vector to take you away
from the Menti Naka battlefleet."

"Assholes!" cursed Seven, an expression she'd picked up from
Lieutenant Kim - it seemed appropriate. The flyer's warp core
had been removed partly to give more space, but also to satisfy
the paranoid requirements of the Liaison Daki. Now they were
refusing to help. "Their petty politics are irrelevant!"

"It took three weeks of negotiation to allow an impulse-powered
flyer and two personnel through their sectors, let alone a fully-
armed starship! Every politician and warlord will use this as an
opportunity to stick their oar in."

For a fraction of a second Seven pondered the nature of that
obsolete colloquialism, then dismissed it with irritation. "There
is no need to put Voyager at risk. I will handle the situation."

"How on Earth do you . . ." An indefinable expression flickered
across Chakotay's face. "I see."

"I am placing the flyer on autopilot." Seven opened the medkit
next to her and removed a hypospray, loading it with 20
milligrams of inoprovalene. "Ensure that a constant monitor is
kept on our flyer with the long-range sensors. I will be . . .
occupied. Seven of Nine out." She pressed the hypospray
against Torres' neck.

"Seven, wait!"

"Sir?" she asked, not bothering to hide her impatience. She
hoped Captain Chakotay would not forbid her action due to
some foolish human notion of propriety or jealousy.

Chakotay studied her for a long moment, then just said: "Good
luck."

The commscreen blinked off.

"I have never needed 'luck' to copulate," muttered Seven. It took
her ten precious minutes to recalculate the optimum flightline
that would take them around the Menti Naka fleet while still
avoiding top-secret military zones, suspected minefields, and
the numerous radioactive debris fields left over from the war.

By the time she'd finished, Torres had revived, dark eyes
watching the Borg over her thermal blanket. Seven studied her
for a moment, then pulled the sling up over her head, wincing as
she did so.

"Computer, activate autopilot and autonomous response
systems." Seven unsnapped the fastenings on her boots,
kicking them off her feet and placing them neatly under the
console. "Inform me of Level One emergencies only." She
unsealed the front of her jumpsuit, removing it with some
difficulty. "Activate proximity detection. Vessels on intercept
vectors and Objects-In-Course only. Audio cue, loud." The
thermo-compression pad was last, peeling it off her shoulder
and dumping it in the recycling chute.

Seven leaned over Torres. The Klingon's eyes moved to her
breasts but the gaze was unsteady, with none of its usual fire.

"Commander Torres, we have a problem."

"What happened to your arm?" croaked Torres. Seven tucked a
water bottle between her thighs and unscrewed the cap.

"That is the problem," the Borg said, raising the bottle to Torres'
mouth. She drank avidly. "I am required to make love to you, in
order to save your life. It is an activity I take great pleasure in."

"However I have damaged my shoulder. While I was able to
reduce the dislocation, it is still sore." Seven took the bottle
away. "Klingon love-making practices are quite vigorous, often
involving injury. My cybernetic body would normally allow me to
handle your rather aggressive sexuality, but I fail to see the need
to injure myself any further."

"What the hell are you raving on about?" muttered Torres.

"I have therefore decided to leave you bound to this seat. You
will be forced to serve my needs, on my terms. It amuses me to
dominate my lovers."

"What . . . what makes you think I want to screw you anyway, you
stuck-up Borg?" A tiny spark of familiar ire.

Seven smirked. In a single deft movement she ripped apart the
thermal blanket, exposing Torres' naked body. "My first attempts
at intimate relations were on the holodeck. A controlled
environment, but I was inexperienced then. Do you know the
subject I chose to lose my virginity with?"

"I've no idea," Torres growled. She felt drowsy, as if recovering
from a heavy dose of triptacederine, but it was like there was
something else inside her, forcing its way through the murky
haze. A deep sea predator rising to the surface, drawn by the
smell of prey.

Seven leaned over and whispered in her ear. "Chakotay. That
was impertinent of me, don't you think? I knew Captain Janeway
was attracted to him; I wanted to find out what lay behind that
attraction. And I did. He was very patient with me, very . . .
instructive. Both on the holodeck, and in real life." Skilled hands
began to massage the dusky flesh of the Klingon hybrid,
measuring the sensitive regions, the involuntary responses. "I
was unaware of the presence of the emotional inhibitor at the
time, of course. When I was severed from the Collective the
neural pathways were inadvertently cut, but over the years they
had grown back, regenerated. I almost died." The Borg slid her
hands down to the junction of Torres' legs. The ankles were
strapped to the sides of the seat, leaving the thighs parted,
vulnerable to her attentions. "Fortunately I was able to modify the
inhibitor's programming. It serves me well."

"Yeah," said Torres, gritting her teeth. "You can be a drone
whenever you want. Haven't left the holodeck, have you Seven?"

Seven gave a cold smile and dug her fingers into a bruise,
eliciting a sharp gasp of pain. Her other hand was
simultaneously stroking the clitoris; it was larger than on human
females, supposedly less sensitive. But the results were
instantaneous: the Klingon's pelvis bucked against the straps,
soaking her hand. "You are very wet, Commander. I have never
had a lover as wet as you are now."

She began to work both hands in conjunction. A low growl
erupted from her captive; nostrils flared, trying to draw in the
Borg's scent.

"More," Torres gasped, the plea escaping before she could stop
it.

"Pain and pleasure," mused Seven. "I have not yet explored that
aspect of my sexuality." She stopped to lick vaginal fluid off her
fingers.

"BiHnuch!" Torres hissed. "Take off these straps and I'll show
you some fucking pain! Let me go, that's an order!"

Seven raised her eyebrow in the manner she knew would annoy
Torres the most. "Do you intend to have me court martialed,
Commander? I would enjoy telling an inquiry everything we did,
how we used our fingers and mouths and tongues on each
other, how you begged me to pleasure you again and again.
And you will beg me, I will make sure of that."

She bent her head, her full lips matching perfectly with the
swollen folds of Torres' vulva. The Borg slipped her tongue into
the drenched sex, working with the expertise that only comes
with constant, practical application. Torres felt an overwhelming
pressure building, as if all her pent-up sexual frustration was
being sucked out through her vagina by Seven's greedy,
insatiable mouth. Insane with lust and rage she hurled herself
against her restraints, roaring incomprehensible Klingon curses
until she was spent, collapsing back on the seat, her breath
coming in long, shuddering gasps.

Satisfied, Seven reached down and entered a code into the
seat's touchpanel. The safety belts snapped open, sliding off
and dropping to the floor.

"NOW you're ready B'Elanna," Seven said, her voice thick with a
hunger that surprised even herself. "Now you're ready to fuck
me like a Klingon should."

---

Harry Kim screamed in agony, slamming his fist into the side of
the turbolift. Scorching fire was crawling up his arm; he knew
that if he looked he would see the flesh turn grey and shrivelled,
black lines advancing up his shoulder to assimilate his entire
body. The lift spun around him and there was just enough time
to gasp "Computer halt turbolift!" before the bile rose in his throat
and he threw up all over the floor.

The purging made him feel better, slightly anyway. Trembling
fingers pulled a hypospray from his pocket. With the benefit of
long experience Kim activated it one-handed and pressed it
against his neck, muttering, "Fuck this arm and fuck the Borg
and fuck Janeway too!"

His combadge chirped. "Are you all right, Lieutenant?" The
hologram's voice was soft with concern.

"I'm fine Doc. How can this arm hurt so much when it's not even
there anymore?" His right hand gripped the dermaplastic where
flesh and bone used to be.

"Phantom pains. According to your biomonitor the Borg implants
are still inert."

Kim's laugh had a bitter edge. "Well they've got ways of making
their presence known. Ahh, get a detail to clean up turbolift Beta-
Three will you?" There was an acrid taste in his mouth.

"I told you, genetic resequencing will put an end to this. I can
clone you an entire new body."

"It's against Federation law," replied Kim mechanically, staring at
the pool of vomit on the floor.

"I hardly think you're going to turn into Khan Noonien Singh! Is it
any more moral to dope yourself up with kelotane every day?"

"WELL GO TO HELL! IF YOU'D DONE YOUR JOB PROPERLY
THIS WOULDN'T HAVE HAPPENED IN THE FIRST PLACE!"

A disapproving silence was his only response. Kim knew that
his outburst had been unfair, but he couldn't bring himself to
apologise. Tom always used to say, when talking about the
shuttle accident that ruined his career, "Those whom the Gods
wish to kick in the ass with fate they first poke in the eyes with
arrogance." Well he was right there. He was more right than he
knew.

"Resume turbolift."

The doors hissed open and he found himself face to face with
the Aux himself. TeS-ket, his head of security, stood behind the
warlord as usual, staring at Kim with cold eyes. "Ahh!
Lieutenant Kim. I was looking for you." The Aux's nasal holes
constricted at the smell coming from the turbolift. "You appear
pale. Is there a problem?"

Kim gave a feeble smile. "An old war wound, sir. From our
crusade against the Eater of Souls. It gives me trouble now and
again. How can I help you?"

"I have heard disturbing reports from Captain Chakotay," said the
Aux, putting an arm around Kim's shoulders. The lieutenant
flinched as the fingers touched his amputated stump. "It
appears that your . . . away mission? . . . to the Soul Eaters of the
Outer World has gone disastrously wrong. Our Whisper Grid
has detected a large subspace detonation in the area. One of
your crew was seriously injured and the flyer has deviated from
the course we agreed upon." The Aux was leading him down the
corridor, just two war veterans having a friendly discussion. "We
offered our assistance naturally, but your captain has refused
our help. Now your team is heading back here, perhaps with the
intention of assimilating your entire crew. They will not respond
to our hails."

"That has nothing to do with the Borg sphere, sir. One of the
females on board the vessel is undergoing her mating cycle."

The Aux stopped in mid stride. "Mating . . . cycle?"

Kim gazed innocently at the Aux, knowing his prudish view of
reproduction. "Yes sir. Our Chief Engineer is half-Klingon, a
race with voracious sexual appetites." He leaned his head
close. "An old friend of mine, Tom Paris? He made the mistake
of bedding her once, and well, I don't like to go into details but . .
.
he died."

"I see!" said the Aux in alarm. "Are the rest of us males in any
danger?"

"Not at all sir. The Borg, Seven of Nine, is handling the
situation."

"Well if SHE doesn't survive it won't be any loss," said the Aux.
He threw back his long narrow head and gave a great roar of
laughter. TeS-ket joined in with sycophantic earnest.

As usual Kim's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "No. I guess it
won't be, sir."

---

She was an excellent mate, a skilled lover, strong, arrogant,
demanding submission. It was exciting; she responded to the
challenge with vigor. Battles were lost and won over a field of
flesh, victories counted in ecstatic cries and the torrid throes of
pleasure. Long moments of truce, when all they did was listen
to the sound of each other's heartbeat. Time had ceased its
linear course; there was only now, these sweaty couplings and
whispered secrets haunted by memories of a sterile
technological hell barren of her lover's presence. Fearful of
losing everything she pursued, tracked her scent across the
unfamiliar deserts of an alien world, forced surrender,
demanded tribute and eternal allegiance; a pledge of love
everlasting.

"I cannot feel love." There was fear in Seven's eyes.

Torres held the Borg tightly, realising they were completely alone
here, a tiny bubble drifting in a vast emptiness that contained
only blackness, silence, and death.

---

"There were hundreds of them at the university, always
demonstrating and making fine speeches about 'Equality
Between Species' and 'Living in Mutual Friendship' - so many
slogans. They protested against how the T'mani Planetur was
profiting from 'The Cycle of Inter-Species Hostility', and the
politicians would accuse them of being *usserborg*, of wanting
to assimilate everyone into a vast collective. Maybe they were
right." Polorta tipped up his bottle, draining the last few drops.
"And they held 'Cross-Cultural Interchange Festivals', which
were usually just an excuse for us all to get drunk."

Chakotay smiled. "Sounds like a good idea to me." The captain
didn't take his eyes off the viewscreen on his ready room desk. It
showed a tiny blue triangle, representing the Tom Paris,
threading its way through a confusing mosaic of coloured
symbols and formless blobs. Even that image was a gross
oversimplification. Astrometrics was tracking the course of over
half a million objects that might conceivably threaten the flyer,
from military patrols to smuggler flights to rogue chunks of
debris. Chakotay noted with wry amusement that they hadn't
had to order a change of course yet, even though the flyer had
been on autopilot for over four hours. Seven of Nine was
showing her usual efficiency.

Every few seconds the image would flicker as Voyager's
sensors remodulated. Solar flare activity, the Aux had claimed.
Menti Naka e-warships were flooding the electromagnetic
spectrum, trying to send the flyer off course into a minefield.
Fortunately their jamming technology was inferior to Federation
inertial navigation systems.

Polorta frowned at the bottle of synthehol in his hand. "This stuff
is no good. It doesn't get you drunk!" He placed the empty bottle
on its side, muttering, "Fallen like the jo-stalk in the harvest."

"That's why we drink it," replied Chakotay, popping the cap on
another bottle with his thumb. He slid it across the table toward
the T'mani.

"Argh! You Federation types are worse than the R'larri. No fun at
all. Do you think they're all right?"

"I hope so. Those two are very special to me. B'Elanna and I
were comrades-in-arms even before Voyager. Seven of Nine is .
. . a former lover. And I kind of took personal responsibility for
her from our previous captain."

"I don't know many who would attempt to de-assimilate a drone
that's been in the Collective that long. She was an exceptional
woman, your Captain Janeway."

Chakotay shifted his gaze to the geneticist. ''Was', not 'is'. Hell,
why do I keep fooling myself?'

"Yes, very exceptional."

Polorta grinned. "Perhaps not as exceptional as a man who
would take an ex-drone to bed with him. I don't know anyone on
my planet who's done THAT!"

"Yes, we once spent two hours working on a single position.
She insisted on perfection."

Polorta hooted in amusement and took a hefty swig. Chakotay
had long stopped being repulsed by the sight of the liquid
moving down the alien's digestive tube. Unlike most elderly
T'mani, Polorta's skin was still reasonably translucent.
Chakotay couldn't help wondering if he'd been doing some gene
resequencing on himself.

"Do you know that the Borg are probably the only corporeal
species that can comprehend . . . really grasp the vastness of
space?" said Polorta. "We scientists claim to do so of course,
but if an individual were to realise such an incredible distance in
all three dimensions they would go mad. Like numbers. Half a
billion deaths for instance. You talk about it, make dramatic
speeches about it, conduct computer simulations. But to really
understand the destruction of so many individuals, all of whom
thought they were the most important person in the universe,
with all their years of life, their goals, lovers, families, friends .
. . "
Polorta raised the synthehol bottle and gulped the entire
contents down, not taking the bottle from his lips until it was
completely drained. The empty vessel was placed on its side
like the others. "Fallen like the jo-stalk in the harvest."

Chakotay stretched back in his seat, his joints cracking. "That's
your last one. Guests have only got so many replicator rations
you know. I had to cut them down when one of your Menti Naka
friends tried replicating a thirty piece divan in the messhall."

"It was not! It was a Culde set. We used to play it at Cross-
Cultural Interchange Festivals. At least I think it was Culde. We
were rather drunk at the time." He stood up and moved to the
replicator. "One more. I've never had any alcohol that doesn't
give you a hangover before. You should share the secret of this
gift with our people, captain!"

"Violation of the Prime Directive."

"Ahh testicles."

Chakotay blinked in surprise, before he realised that the
universal translator had simply translated Polorta's epithet too
literally. "Why *do* you keep saying that?"

"Testicles?"

"No. 'Fallen like the jo-stalk in the harvest.'"

"We'd say it at drinking parties at the university. They harvest jo
fruits in a single night, millions of them, so the challenge was to
get as many bottles as you can lying down by the dawn." A fresh
bottle materialised and he brought it back to the table. "Of
course, the students often ended up throwing them at the T'mani
police when they came to break us up." Polorta dropped into the
chair again with a solid thud.

"It was at one of those drinking parties that it happened. We'd
just gotten started. I remember I was talking to a Menti Naka
student by the name of YoR-im. My best friend, except during the
annual Husii tournament of course, was Re-welta-dos. He was
an Over-Scholar there; very unusual for a R'larri male even in that
enlightened city. The day before, Ni-par-deski had delivered the
ultimatum calling for all Menti Naka to leave the planet. It
sounded like the usual propaganda, but we were teasing YoR-
im that she'd have to do her course by correspondence, when
suddenly every red blood cell in her body exploded." He took
another swig from the bottle.

On the viewscreen, the blue triangle moved a fraction closer to
Voyager.

"In seconds every Menti Naka in the room was in the death-
coma, like a laser-scalpel removing tumors. The bioweapon
had been infiltrating their systems for years, you see. Those
students thought that by mingling with each other they would
eliminate specism, that you couldn't harm one without harming
the other. But they were proved wrong. Yes, very wrong."

Chakotay said nothing, aware that Polorta wasn't even talking to
him now, more to himself.

"With a quarter million corpses lying about there was a great risk
of disease, and the R'larri feared that the Aux would retaliate by
destroying the city, so we all fled, a great column of us. TiH-nan
only knows where we headed, or how we were going to feed
ourselves. The greatest minds of the planet acting like Borg
drones, doing what everyone else was doing. They were waiting
for us on the tollroad." His pale eyes were looking straight
through Chakotay, as if he were the one translucent. "They
divided us up, T'mani from R'larri, and made us sit on the road
while they marched the R'larri out into the jo-stalk fields. It was
harvest time you see. The jo fruits were ready to be cut. They
use an automated laser you know, they can do that because
every stalk grows to exactly five and twenty joints. They lined the
R'larri in rows, like the jo-stalks, and made each one hold up a
jo leaf as if they were a plant. Then they sliced off their heads
with the harvest lasers. Have you ever seen a hundred thousand
people decapitated at once, Captain Chakotay?"

"Not that many."

"Ahh yes. But the problem is a R'larri is not a jo-stalk. Not
everyone in that field was fortunate enough to be five and twenty
joints high, especially the children. You see, the R'larri
secondary nervous system is set lower than the main brain, so
you can have the top of your head cut off and still be alive, in a
fashion. I watched children stumbling around that field, alive yet
dead, for five hours until they let us go."

Chakotay wasn't listening. A red triangle representing a R'larri
warship was moving on an intercept course towards the Tom
Paris. His combadge chirped. "Delaney to the Captain!"

"I saw it Jenny. All hands, Red Alert!"

"Of course Re-welta-dos, being a R'larri male, was also shorter
than the others. I recognised him from those silly yellow shoes
he always wore."

Polorta watched the captain rush out the door, as the alarms
sounded as they had twelve years ago as his students died.
The T'mani placed the empty bottle on its side next to the others,
saying, "Fallen like the jo-stalk in the harvest."

---

Seven of Nine had been unprepared for the intensity of the past
few hours. She was not used to a partner who could match her
on a physical level, one who insisted with equal ferocity on an
emotional bonding she was reluctant to give. The Borg knew her
decision to leave the inhibitor in place had the aspect of
cowardice, but the thought of being emotionally dependent on
another individual had always been terrifying to her. The inhibitor
had become a crutch to survive the loss of Captain Janeway,
then later to avoid the possibility of commitment to one of her
lovers.

Her last argument on the subject had taken place in Sickbay,
over the unconscious form of Lieutenant Kim. Excessively
curious as always, the Doctor had wanted to know why Kim had
been struck in the face, though it could have no possible
relevance to his medical condition. Her revelation of the
lieutenant's comments prior to his injury had given the Doctor
another excuse to bring up her continuing refusal to have the
cortical inhibitor removed.

"You said the procedure is dangerous," she'd shot right back. "I
see no long-term benefits, except perhaps for yourself."

"And what is *that* supposed to mean?"

"I am not ignorant of your feelings towards me."

The Doctor had spluttered like a faulty plasma injector. "I'm
simply trying to assist your development as an individual!"

"I said I was willing to engage in an intimate relationship with
you. You refused." Seven could not stop a hint of pique from
entering her voice. She did not like being rejected; it implied
some inadequacy on her part.

"I refused to be another field notation in your ongoing research
into your own sexuality. 'Experiment no. 12B. Sex with the
Sentient Hologram - A Case Study.' No thank you. I'm a doctor,
not a petri dish." The Doctor had shut his tricorder with a
distinctly annoyed snap. "No sign of concussion, though he'll
have a few bruises. But there's far too much kelotane in his
system. He's been exceeding his dosage *again*."

"I have engaged in numerous intimate affairs, both with Voyager
crewmembers and outsiders. The possession of strong
emotions has proven unnecessary and irrelevant, even
dangerous."

"Dangerous! That cortical inhibitor is like an unexploded bomb
inside your head! You nearly died the first time it activated. It is
designed to SHUT DOWN your primary functions. It's meant to
KILL you Seven, if you were ever severed from the hive mind long
enough to develop your own emotions."

"Then the inhibitor was flawed. I was able to adapt its effects. It
has made me more efficient by serving as a cap on my
emotions. Only the more extreme ones are filtered."

"You can't explore love with a safety net! If there's one thing I've
taught you over the years, is that life has got to be *lived*. You've
got to take *risks*, Seven. Do things that frighten you."

Kim had groaned on the table then, providing a welcome
distraction.

"There's times I think this entire crew is bent on committing
suicide," the Doctor had muttered, running a thrombic modulator
over Kim's forehead. "I've got a captain who insists on placing
Voyager in the firing line of three mutually hostile species, a chief
Conn officer trying to live up to the reputation of Mr Paris,
Lieutenant Kim here volunteering for mine-clearing duties, and
my best friend bringing a whole new definition to the term
'unsafe sex'."

That had been the same night she'd seduced Lieutenant
Chapman. She'd used the cortical inhibitor then too, in the
lonely desolation of the early hours. Seven remembered well the
look of rejection on Chapman's face when he'd realised.
There'd been a note in her perscom file the next day, a quote
from Shakespeare.

They that have power to hurt, and will do none
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow;
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces,
And husband nature's riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die;
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity;
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

She hadn't known Chapman was the poetic type.

Torres stirred, turning to look at her. Seven saw confusion on
her face, as if she was wondering why they were lying naked in
each other's arms on the floor.

"How do you feel?" asked Seven.

"What . . . what happened?"

"We made love."

" . . . love?"

Seven buried her face in Torres' hair, feeling an urge to drift there
forever, to avoid the outside world with all its responsibilities and
pain. There were things that had to be attended to, but she did
not want to face them.

Order beckoned via the inhibitor, a return to the passionless
simplicity of the Collective.

A sudden memory of those ranks of Borg skeletons put an end
to that thought.

"I'm hungry," said Torres.

Seven broke open an emergency ration pack, passing the bars
of concentrate to Torres who wolfed them down. Despite her
hunger she stopped halfway through each bar and offered it to
Seven, who always took a small bite.

"I'm hungry," said Torres again.

Seven picked up another ration bar but Torres pushed it away,
leaned towards her. "Hungry."

"No."

"Yes," replied Torres huskily, pressing her lips against Seven's.

"Voyager to Tom Paris!" The two women tensed as the signal
blared across the cabin, Torres' hands clenching into a painful
grip. "We're picking up a R'larri CDF frigate closing on you fast!"

"Vessel approaching, bearing One Nine Zero Mark Three," said
the computer. "Vessel is locking on with target acquisition
sensors. Unimatrix shielding activated."

The flyer lurched as a tractor beam latched onto the hull and the
inertial dampers kicked in, the autonomous safety protocols
dropping them out of impulse to all stop.

"Thank you for the timely warning," muttered Seven. She kissed
Torres hard on the mouth, jumped to her feet and slid into the
pilot seat, wincing from her sore body. "Hail them."

The face of a R'larri Over-Commander appeared on the
commscreen. "I am Over-Co__ WHAT INSULT IS THIS?" she
screeched, her primary crest turning red at the edges.

Seven frowned in puzzlement . . . then realised she was
completely naked.

"I fail to see the point in dressing for someone as unimportant
as you," Seven replied. "This is the Federation vessel Tom
Paris, registration NCC 74656-C. We are in undisputed space
on an authorised flight vector. You will release your tractor beam
at once!"

"I do not take orders from you, soulless drone!" The R'larri
covered her left eye with her fist, a finger sticking out like an
ocular implant. "What purpose do you have in this region of
space? Are you acting on behalf of the Menti Naka? Answer me
now, or must you consult your Collective first?"

"Our mission has been approved by all members of the Liaison
Daki. Release this vessel or face the reprimand of your
superiors!"

"I shiver with fear," scoffed the Over-Commander. "What will the
Daki do, talk me into oblivion? It is all they are good for. I believe
you are on a mission of espionage. You will lower your
defensive shield so that we may inspect your vessel."

"We have just returned from the derelict Borg sphere orbiting
Teldar NiPi," said Seven, taking pleasure from the way the R'larri
suddenly turned pale. "We have salvaged numerous Borg
artifacts. If you wish I can beam the artifacts on board your
vessel so that you may examine them more closely."

The Over-Commander gave a loud squawk and clutched at her
throat. The comm link was abruptly severed. A few seconds
later the tractor beam followed.

"Asshole."

The Borg swiveled her seat round, frowning as she took in the
mess littering the flyer. Crumpled thermal blankets, the contents
of several first aid kits (mainly tubes of lubricant), discarded
water bottles. Torres sat cross-legged on the floor, devouring
the contents of the ration pack.

"Computer, open a channel to Voyager." Seven got to her feet
and began picking her way through the mess, making for the
containment locker where she'd stashed her backpack.

"Chakotay to Voyager, is everything all right?"

"Captain, we will be within transporter range in eight minutes.
Beam Commander Torres and myself directly to Sickbay. Lock
on a tractor beam and bring the flyer in on automatic. Institute
full anti-contaminant procedures." Clutching the backpack to her
chest, she sat down next to Torres, not bothering with her
clothes.

"Is there a problem?"

"Seven of Nine out," said the Borg, grabbing the last ration bar
before Torres could get at it.

---

Lieutenant Kim intercepted Chakotay on his way to the turbolift.
"What's this about Seven flashing an Over-Commander?" he
asked, a grin on his face.

An odd thought occurred to the captain, that this was the first
genuine smile he'd seen Kim give in a long time. "The R'larri
Cultural Defence Force has just put in an official complaint. They
claim Seven threatened to assimilate one of their vessels.
There was something about 'an alien perversion' too, but I didn't
want to ask."

"That's our Borg, diplomatic as ever. Speaking of which, the
Menti Naka are insisting on their traditional right to bear arms in
front of their enemies. I came up with compromise. We provide
them with replicated firearms that look like the real thing, but
don't work."

"Hell no! That's just the excuse the R'larri delegation need to
walk out again."

"They say we're leaving them 'emasculated'. I don't think you
understand the cultural__"

"No, I don't think *you* understand. No weapons, Harry!" The
turbolift doors opened in front of them and Chakotay stepped
inside. "Deck Five."

Anger flared in the lieutenant's dark eyes. "I spent *three days*
negotiating with those bastards!"

"No weapons!" said Chakotay as the doors closed.

The lift provided a temporary illusion of sanctuary. Chakotay
closed his eyes against the flashing level indicators, trying to
focus himself, to let the tension of the past few hours drain away.
If there was one thing he hadn't missed from his years in
Starfleet it was the constant diplomatic maneuvering with hostile
alien species. The arguments over trivial matters of protocol and
status, the constant resurfacing of old hatreds, the tendency to
regard every concession as a weakness to be exploited for their
own benefit.

'Now there's a real arrogance,' Chakotay thought. That 'We've
learned to live together, why can't they?' attitude which
Federation ambassadors who'd never had to survive under
Cardassian occupation were infamous for.

The doors slid open at Deck Five and he strode down the
corridor to Sickbay. There was a security officer outside the
doors, as per his instructions. Chakotay gave him an abstract
nod before entering.

B'Elanna Torres lay unconscious on a biobed. Seven stood
beside her, a hand resting on the Klingon's shoulder. They were
both naked, though for once Seven lacked her usual immaculate
appearance. Chakotay resisted the urge to stare at the bite mark
on her cheek, even though he knew the former drone was
seldom embarrassed when it came to sexual matters.

"All right Seven, what was all that about?"

Seven nodded at her backpack which was sitting in a biostasis
field, protective foam leaking out of its ventilation holes. "It
contains Borg data nodes. A site-to-site transport was required
to get it pass the inspection teams. I will explain in my report."

"It can wait. What are their injuries, Doctor?"

"Take your pick. Dehydration, bruises, bites, lacerations, strains,
sprains, hairline fractures, bi-radial clamp stress__"

"Klingon love-making is rather vigorous," interrupted Seven,
glaring at the Doctor.

"I can imagine. Commander Torres has passed out from
nervous exhaustion. Seven needs to regenerate for at least
twelve hours."

"I'm fine. I must remain with B'Elanna until the effects of the Pon
farr dissipate."

"There's a security officer on the door," Chakotay pointed out. "I
don't want a repeat of what happened on Sikari IV."

"That is not necessary, Captain. I require the portable
regenerator from my alcove."

Chakotay flicked a glance at the Doctor.

"I don't see any problems," said the C/MH.

"All right then. But twelve hours, that's an order. I want you both
at peak efficiency tomorrow. We've got another meeting with the
Liaison Daki."

The Doctor raised his eyebrows. "I thought they were no longer
talking to each other."

"Oh they'll come. They know we've got Borg technology from the
sphere. They can't risk us passing it along to one of the other
species." He stepped forward, placing his hand on Torres'
upper arm, his fingers brushing against Seven's.

"How do you feel?"

"Sore."

Chakotay gave a wry smile.

She didn't pull away, even thought it had been a long time since
he'd touched Seven in any fashion. Seeing her like this, love
bites marring her perfect features, stirred old memories: of
Seven's body beneath his, slim yet incredibly strong; her eyes
filled with child-like wonder and newly discovered passions.
Eager yet fearful of the pleasures he could provide, shameless
and demanding in her own needs. Deep inside himself
Chakotay felt the stirrings of a long-repressed hunger and he
slammed a iron clamp on his thoughts. The captain and the
ensign stepped apart, the usual masks dropping over their
faces.

"We were not able to complete our mission," said Seven,
annoyed at the implied inefficiency.

"You've brought in a good haul despite everything. Transwarp
coils, data nodes, an energy matrix - that should give the
scientists something to play with. At least they're willing to put
aside their differences. I'm hoping to set up some kind of
research exchange. I'd also like to try recruiting some more
crew for Voyager, half a dozen from each species."

Seven and the Doctor looked surprised. "They'll never see their
homeworlds again," said the Borg.

"One way or the other," Doc muttered.

"We need to make up our losses," said Chakotay. "And it'll be an
important symbol for these people - the three species, joining
together for a journey into the unknown. There's bound to be
some who are willing. To explore, the spirit of adventure. It's
why we joined Starfleet, isn't it?"

"Speak for yourself," said the Doctor snootily. "Some of us had
no choice in the matter."

---

'B'Elanna never cries'. Tom had said that the first time he died.

Not exactly true, but a lifetime of loss had drained much of her
tears. She could count the passage of her life in funerals like
this, in the empty spaces where friends and family had once
stood. Torres felt no sorrow anyway, just a great emptiness
where her heart was supposed to be. She knew that Tom would
have taken her heart with him when he died, as a trophy he had
won after long struggle. But if she went to Sto-Vo-Kor instead of
Tom's afterlife, it meant that she would never find her heart
again.

Chakotay was standing in front of them, saying all the expected
things. Perhaps he would let her borrow a shuttle, to go search
for her heart.

"We've lost not only our captain and one of our best officers, but
two good friends as well. We can't bury them, and there's not
been much time to mourn them. But the one memorial which I
know would have true meaning to both of them would be for the
rest of us to get home safely__"

None of the crew were listening of course; they just stood there
with dead eyes as jagged implants of stone forced their teeth
apart into mute screams. Rank upon rank, a memorial to an
ancient apocalypse. She and Seven walked between them,
climbing to the summit, the Menti Naka children who'd come to
beg fleeing at the sight of the former Borg drone.

The statues ended in a vast atrium, several hundred metres on
each side. In the centre lay an open sarcophagus. Offerings to
a more recent holocaust were stacked in great piles around it;
thousands of R'larri skulls, many with the top half sliced off.
Flowering vines had grown up through the curves of white bone,
sprouting elegant blooms of yellow, red, and ultramarine through
empty eye sockets and exposed brainpans. Seven studied them
with a detached curiosity, taking a picture with the Doctor's
holocamera.

'They're beautiful,' Torres thought. 'Those Klingon poets are
right, there can be a tranquil beauty in death.'

From between the statues opposite came the Menti Naka priest,
his robes flowing around sandaled feet. An armoured collar
surrounded his neck as a talisman against Borg assimilation
tubules. He was fat, well fed, unlike the scraggly orphans he
shooed from his path.

"The body of Queen TiH-nan, a distant ancestor of the current
Aux," the priest said to Seven of Nine. He seemed amused
rather than shocked by the presence of a living demon in this
holy place. "She watched over the Menti Naka during our long
journey to this Other World."

"She was one of you, an ordinary individual," said Seven. "Yet
you worship her as a Goddess. Explain."

The priest radiated with the superiority of someone who knows
all, yet is perfectly willing to take the time to enlighten the
ignorant. "There are times when a person, through their great
achievements and the way they inspire others, transcends
mortality, becoming a divine being to those who come after." He
extended his hand towards the stone coffin. "You can see for
yourself."

Torres approached the sarcophagus cautiously. A shrivelled
corpse lay inside, teeth bared in a rictus of death. The Queen's
auburn hair had become one with her desiccated flesh, melded
into the neck with its four pips and red-shouldered Starfleet
uniform. Torres stumbled back in horror, struck out at the
smooth metal that imprisoned her chest. The clamshell slid
back into the biobed, releasing her.

Torres had woken up in Sickbay enough times to know instantly
where she was. The only difference was Seven's distinctive
scent all over her body. The Borg lay on the next biobed, a
portable regenerator plugged into her spinal implant. Staring at
the sleeping ex-drone, Torres found herself wrestling with the
overwhelming urge to curl up next to her.

"Activate Command/Medical Hologram," she whispered.

The Doctor materialised, a tuft of hair sticking up from the side of
his head. "Please state the__"

"Keep your voice down!" Torres hissed.

The Doctor looked around, saw only Seven asleep on the
biobed. "She's regenerating. She can't hear us." He picked up
a medical probe and began to run it over Torres' body.

Torres slapped his hand away. "Where are my clothes?"

Annoyed, the Doctor pointed silently at a closet. As Torres
dressed he resumed his scan. "Your serotonin levels appear to
have returned to normal, but I recommend a few more hours of
observation to__"

Torres strode to the door, stopping abruptly when it refused to
open.

"It's locked," said the Doctor.

"Computer, override security lock-out on Sickbay doors.
Authorisation Torres Gamma Ten."

"And the captain's removed your command access privileges."

Grabbing a laser scalpel, Torres popped open the door access
panel.

"And there's a security officer outside the door, with orders to
stun you if you open it before 0600 hours tomorrow."

She turned and hurled the panel at the Doctor's head. The
hologram winced as it passed through him, shattering to pieces
against the opposite wall.

Torres' energy seemed to be drained by her brief outburst of
temper. She slumped against the doors, sliding down until she
was sitting on the floor.

"Stuck in here with Captain Photon and 'Bonk Me' of Borg," she
moaned. "What have I done to deserve this?"

"I'm sorry our company offends you," said the Doctor in a miffed
tone. "The captain wants everyone fresh and alert for tomorrow's
meeting of the Liaison Daki, so I advise you get some slee__"

"How's Vorik?"

The Doctor was surprised at the question. "He's recovering.
Some minor injuries but he'll be__"

"What kind of injuries?"

"I can't discuss that."

"Was he in pain?"

"Well I'm sure he__"

"Was he in terrible, agonising pain with lots of gratuitous
humiliation thrown in for good measure?"

The Doctor sighed. "You will be pleased to know that he had a
grueling experience, and like all Vulcans will suffer horrible
nightmares throughout his life."

"Good." She frowned at the Doctor in the dim light of the
monitors. "What's wrong with your hair?"

"An addition I made to my program for when I'm activated in the
middle of the night shift," said the Doctor, beaming proudly. "It's
called a 'bedhead'. Do you like it?"

"Oh Kahless," Torres moaned. "I'm in hell."

"Well it wouldn't be the first time," the Doctor quipped. "Get
some sleep . . . please. Deactivate Command/Medical
Hologram."

But Torres didn't move, sitting with her knees hugged to her
chest, staring at Seven of Nine.

Four years earlier, when she'd been assimilated as part of
Janeway's ill-fated plan to create a Borg resistance movement,
there'd been a brief, terrifying moment before the neural
suppressant kicked in. Torres had felt herself losing to the hive
mind; shrunk in a microsecond to the size of a particle falling into
a black hole. Yet at that same moment her mind had stretched
to encompass tens of thousands of light years, she'd bathed in
the song of billions of voices, she'd understood the reasons for
Seven's pride and fear and loneliness and her desperate need
to connect; and when the suppressor had yanked Torres back to
individuality she'd cried for the first time since she'd been a
child.

She had never wanted to experience anything like that again,
ever. But once more her personality had been ripped away, this
time by the lust of the Pon farr. Drowning in someone else's
katra. It was like being raped.

"Leave my soul alone," Torres whispered to the sleeping Borg.

---

Security Chief Ayala added another PADD to the growing pile in
front of Chakotay. "TeS-ket, our local representative of the Menti
Naka secret police, has made several attempts to subvert
members of our crew, but he's not finding it easy. His Under-
Commander, on the other hand, is a little different. He was quite
interested in the, er, recreational possibilities of the holodeck. In
exchange I got a peek at this little item."

Chakotay stiffened in his chair. "These are Voyager's *shield
harmonics*!"

"For the past eighteen days. And we've been rotating them as a
matter of routine. Either the Menti Naka have got advanced
scanning technology we don't know about, or our police friend
has been more successful than we thought."

"I can't believe they've managed to turn one of our crew! There
must be another explanation."

"There is," said Lieutenant Kim. "They could be tapping directly
into our computers. They've had months to smuggle the
required programs on board and work out how to infiltrate our
systems."

"Need I remind you," said Commander Tuvok, "that our main
processor is protected by both Starfleet shieldware programs
and special security algorithms developed by Seven of Nine."

"There's currently half a dozen cryptologists specialising in Borg
algorithms on board this ship," Kim pointed out. "Not to mention
quite a few cybertechs with the skill to adapt nanoprobes for
espionage purposes."

"One of the *scientists* is doing it?" exclaimed the Doctor. He'd
changed his appearance for the staff meeting, giving himself a
red-shouldered command uniform, bare of insignia. "They're the
ones who invited us here in the first place!"

"It is only logical to assume that the secret police have infiltrated
the peace faction," said Tuvok.

"Harry, I want a Level One diagnostic of Voyager's systems
starting right now," said Chakotay. "And Ayala, I want TeS-ket off
this ship; I don't care what excuse you make up. I'm getting tired
of his games."

"Tell him we think he's caught a Borg infiltration virus," said Kim,
giving his usual replicated smile as he got to his feet. "That'll
give him a few sleepless nights."

Tuvok remained in his seat while the others left. "Captain, there
is a matter of some importance I must discuss."

Chakotay was speed-reading his way through a PADD. "Can it
wait, Tuvok? The meeting's in five minutes and I'm trying to
assimilate as much as this as I can."

The Vulcan shifted in his seat, an involuntary reaction so
unusual that Chakotay looked up in surprise. "Are you all right?"

"The matter can wait till after the meeting, Captain. I take it that
is
Seven's away mission report?"

"Not quite. It's a digest of the information she retrieved from the
sphere's sensor nodes. Apparently those sensors have been
active for the past sixty-eight years, gathering data from across
this entire system. Movements of battle fleets, defensive grid
analysis, decrypted messages between governments.
Information of immense tactical and propaganda value to any
one of the three species. Seven thought this was one item the
Liaison Daki shouldn't get hold of." Chakotay frowned as one
particular item caught his attention. "At least, not unless we want
them to."

Tuvok's expression didn't change, but the reprimand in his voice
was clear enough. "You intend to use the information to buy
concessions at the peace conference."

"Or a little bit of persuasion. I'm sure the T'mani wouldn't want
the Menti Naka to find out who REALLY developed those
bioweapons." The item was a decrypted message from the
R'larri Cultural Defence Force, a list of T'mani geneticists
involved in a joint 'biological harvesting project' twelve years ago.
One of the names, Chakotay noticed, was 'Over-Scholar Polorta'.

Tuvok spoke deliberately and concisely, so there would be no
misunderstanding. "That could well constitute a breach of the
Prime Directive, and is definitely a violation of Starfleet morality."

"As if that's never happened on this ship. You know Tuvok, for
someone who's over a hundred years old you're awfully naive."

Tuvok stiffened. "I fail to see the logic in that answer. What does
my so-called 'naivete' have to do with Starfleet's guiding
protocol?"

"I've studied the history of Starfleet, the real history, not just the
glossy version they teach you at the Academy. You served with
Captain Sulu. He ever tell you about some of the stunts the great
James Kirk got up to?"

"Captain Sulu did not share any confidences with me."

"Well I once shared confidences with a retired admiral by the
name of Leonard McCoy. He was Ship's Surgeon on board the
Enterprise in Kirk's day. And you wouldn't believe the times Kirk
blatantly interfered in the culture of a species he didn't approve
of. He's a hero now of course, because his methods worked
and made the Alpha Quadrant safe for the Federation."

"You can always find a reason not to obey the Prime Directive,"
replied Tuvok. "The ship, the safety of a crewmember, the
arrogant assumption that you know better than an alien species
whose culture and motivations you can only scratch the surface
of. Perhaps your experience with the Maquis has made you too
cynical in this matter. I will be noting this conversation in my next
datastream report to Starfleet. You can make your decisions
regarding the data nodes accordingly, Captain."

The Vulcan rose and walked out, the doors hissing shut behind
him.

Chakotay rubbed his eyes. It was moments like this that he
missed someone he could share a confidence with, someone
like Kathryn. He'd never established the close rapport with
Tuvok that should exist between captain and first officer. He'd
drifted apart from Torres and the other Maquis over the years,
due to the hierarchical nature of Voyager's command system.
His brief liaison with Seven of Nine hadn't come to anything.
They'd both taken it as far as it could go, then broken off by
mutual agreement.

The captain pulled himself to his feet. Now for the meeting with
the Liaison Daki. He wasn't looking forward to it.

---

"There was the land, on which walked the T'mani, and the sky,
through which the R'larri flew, until we descended to the ground,
taking up the tools with which to shape the land. For thousands
of years R'larri and T'mani shared the planet in harmony. Then
the Menti Naka came, their arkships burning the sky. With the
aid of treacherous members of our race, those content to serve
as their drones in exchange for whatever petty trappings of
power they were given, this gang of thieves, the derelict trash of a
justly extinct planet, conquered our peaceful world. Whole cities
were ground into mountains of rubble on which they raised
idolatrous temples to the reeking corpses of their ancestors.
Our libraries and museums were burnt, so our history could only
be taught in secret. Our children were forbidden to speak the
R'larri language, forced to vomit out the guttural Menti Naka
tongue. Our males were torn from their positions of contentment
and service, polluted with alien ideas__"

"They are petty crawling things, Captain Chakotay, whose wings
have long since wilted. So useless the Borg did not even want
them as drones." The Aux clasped his hand over his throat in
mockery. "Menti Naka can evolve into Gods, whereas the R'larri
worship whatever flies over their heads. So what difference
does it make if they bow down to us or their Great Roasted
Bird?"

Ni-par-deski spat out an obscenity so obscure the universal
translator could not decipher it. "Fh-ytiII -trIhn! The Winged
Falayarr of the Sun, you corpse-worshipping excretion! Every day
your foul-smelling queen rots in our Falayarr's heat. When she
has been turned to dust then so will your entire parasitic race!"

The exo-linguist switched over, a tinny voice in Chakotay's ear
comm. *"I think that was 'Spirit Stealers' who devour the
essence of the living, leaving them like zombies. Probably
another Borg myth."*

"Ask this *peace-loving* race about the half a billion Menti Naka
cut down in the night by their cowardly bioweapons__" The Aux
broke off as the doors slid open and Seven of Nine walked
through, carrying a Borg transwarp coil.

*"Defensive postures, all delegates,"* said the exo-linguist.

No matter how tense things were in the conference room, it
never failed to crank up a notch whenever Seven was present.
Tuvok had argued against having the former drone at the
negotiations, but Chakotay knew it kept everyone focused. Their
hatred and fear of the Borg was the one thing all three species
had in common. Besides, she was a living reminder of
Voyager's successful resistance against the Collective. If that
also made the delegates somewhat nervous of Voyager, so
much the better. There were some tricks of negotiation they
never taught you at Starfleet Academy.

Seven placed the ring-shaped drive unit on the table, then sat
down opposite Torres. She tried to catch her eye, but the
Klingon avoided her gaze.

"As you should all know by now," said Chakotay, "our away team
was able to salvage numerous items of Borg technology from
the derelict vessel at Teldar NiPi. This is a component from the
transwarp drive. We were also able to retrieve several data
nodes, autonomous regeneration sequencers, interlink
processors and the central core of a fully adaptive neural-energy
matrix. A full list is available from your inspection teams."

Chakotay paused to drink from the glass of water in front of him.

"We were quite lucky, as it turns out. A day later and there
wouldn't have been anything to salvage. It appears that a rogue
subspace inversion mine detected the Borg sphere. Fortunately
our long-range sensors picked up the approaching object and
our team was able to evacuate in time."

"How very fortunate," said the Aux dryly.

"You blew it up!" screeched Ni-par-deski. "You didn't want us
getting our hands on it!"

*"The Aux seems amused rather than upset. Ni-par-deski isn't
as angry as she's making out either, she's probably glad the
Borg vessel isn't around any more."*

Chakotay felt a twinge of annoyance. Crewman Chirac was
supposed to assist the universal translator and interpret alien
body language, not extrapolate from it. "Over-Leader, your own
security people inspected the flyer before and after the away
mission. The warp core and armaments were removed as per
this committee's instructions. All artifacts recovered from the
Borg sphere have been cataloged by a team of scientists from
all three species."

"But your crew beamed to Voyager before the flyer landed," said
Desihret, the T'mani internal security minister and actual (if not
official) ruler of the Planetur. "That is a violation of our
agreement!"

"Lieutenant Commander Torres and Ensign Seven of Nine
required emergency medical treatment which, I should point out,
would not have been necessary if you had all given Voyager
permission to pass through your space."

All nine delegates glared at him.

"Your scientists have proposed the establishment of an inter-
species research group to study the Borg threat," said Chakotay,
taking advantage of the rare silence to put a word in edgeways.
"These artifacts, plus all the information and experience the
Federation has gathered on the Borg over the years, will give
them a major head start."

Ni-par-deski jumped in then, as he knew she would. "And where
will this 'research group' be located? Which region will have the
honour of its presence?" The R'larri politician looked ready to
debate this issue for the next decade, but Chakotay wasn't going
to give her the chance.

"It doesn't have to be located in any one place. Our latest
subspace transmission and holographic imaging technology
will make communication between your universities, even those
located in the outer system, virtually instantaneous." He saw the
look of surprise, quickly masked, from Torres and Seven.

If Tuvok felt any shock at this blatant violation of Starfleet
protocol,
it didn't show on his face. "What Over-Scholar Eem-hontu-sa
and her colleagues are suggesting is merely an extension of the
co-operation that already exists between your species. You
trade with each other, your officials interact to solve legal and law
enforcement problems. You already have joint agricultural,
environmental and re-building programs. All necessary
because you share the same system."

"What we're talking about is forming a common alliance against
an outside threat," said Chakotay. "Not out of friendship, I realise
that's too much to expect at this time, but that same necessity.
And while we're on the subject, I also think it's a good time to
start arranging joint defence exercises with your battlefleets."

The suggestion created hoots of disbelief among the various
military Over-Commanders.

"We've already had such exercises," said Desihret. "They're
called wars."

"Perhaps you will wait until the Collective arrives before deciding
to co-operate," Seven butted in. "Your disharmony will prove your
undoing."

"Spoken like a true drone," scoffed the Aux. He placed a fist over
his left eye, a finger sticking out towards her.

*"I'm not sure what that fist thing means, but I think it's supposed
to be pretty damn insulting,"* said Chirac.

Chakotay flashed Seven a warning glance which she ignored.
"Your petty squabbles are irrelevant! The Borg WILL come. You
WILL be assimilated unless you form an adequate defence.
Adapt to this situation or you will cease to exist as a species."

There was a moment of shocked silence around the table, then
the Daki exploded with rage.

"Captain Chakotay I insist this abomination be removed from our
presence immediately!" screeched Ni-par-deski. "I will not
continue these discussions otherwise!"

"We will not be insulted like this!" shouted Desihret, pounding
the table with his fists. "The Planetur reiterates once more its
demand that this drone be handed over for us for trial!"

"I second the motion," said the Aux, his mouth twisting into what
Chirac didn't have to tell Chakotay was a sneer. "Perhaps we
will find common ground after all."

"Supported!" said Ni-par-deski. "A joint trial by all three species
will unite them and achieve the result you seek, Captain
Chakotay."

"Just try it, petaQ!" hissed Torres, with a venom that startled the
others.

Chakotay's face was impassive, letting their outrage wash over
him, dissipating with nothing to hurl against.

"Ensign Seven of Nine, there's a group of R'larri and Menti Naka
scientists on Holodeck One trying to puzzle out that neural-
energy matrix. Go help them." A reminder that there were *
some* people staying focused on the issues wouldn't hurt.

Seven left without another word.

Without thinking, Torres began to stand up to follow the Borg,
only to be restrained by Tuvok's gentle hand on her shoulder.
She looked at him in surprise. He was staring straight ahead,
not meeting her eyes. Torres realised what she'd been about to
do; her face flushed red with anger. Shaking off the Vulcan's
hand, she pretended to be engrossed in her PADD.

---

Tuvok exited the turbolift at Deck Nine, in time to witness
Chakotay shoving Seven up against the wall. "Pull another stunt
like that again and I'll bust you down to Borg drone! I can do
without your superior attitude, both in the conference room and
outside it. What we do here could save the lives of billions, do
you understand that, Ensign?"

Seven's face was pale, but she didn't back down. "Perhaps it is
you who is arrogant. You overestimate our ability to influence
these people__" She stopped, noticing Tuvok.

Chakotay let go of her, embarrassed over his loss of control.
The two stepped apart, as if reluctant to be seen together in any
fashion.

"We'll talk about this later," muttered Chakotay, turning and
walking away. Seven watched him go, her mouth tight, then
made for the turbolift.

Tuvok waited until the turbolift doors had closed before pressing
the entry chime.

"I SAID GO AWAY!"

"It is Commander Tuvok. We need to talk."

There was no immediate response. Tuvok was debating
whether to use his command access codes when the doors slid
open, revealing Torres dressed in a blue nightgown. Her eyes
were red-rimmed through lack of sleep. She checked the
corridor, then grunted, "Come in."

Torres' quarters were dark, the only light coming from the
meditation lamp he'd given her two years previously. "Where is
Miral?"

"I asked Samantha to look after her for a few more days. I'm not
exactly myself at the moment." She inclined her head towards
the door. "Guess I'm not the only one. I can't remember the last
time I heard Chakotay losing his temper. That Borg's got a way
of pissing everybody off."

"I had some bad news for the captain earlier," said Tuvok,
without elaboration.

Torres picked up the Vulcan lamp and stared into its flame.

"What the hell is he playing at, Tuvok? Being asked by a peace
faction to provide neutral ground for arms reduction talks is one
thing. Now Chakotay seems to want to forge his own United
Federation of Planets. Starfleet Command hasn't authorised
this technology transfer, have they?"

"Need I remind you, the captain has the authority under General
Orders to interpret the Prime Directive according to his own
circumstances. It is not the first time we have chosen to share
our technology."

"Like that fiasco with the Hirogen?" She looked up at him, cast
shadows turning her forehead ridges into disapproving furrows.
"What do you want, Tuvok? I'm not in the mood for more
counseling."

"How are you feeling?"

"Well I don't know," said Torres. "Let's see . . . I made a
complete mess of the away mission, nearly killed me and
Seven. For the rest of my life I'll have this incredible urge to fuck
myself to death every seven years. And I've given our resident
hedonist a blueprint into all my sexual fantasies. I mean hell, I
did *everything* with her. Didn't hold back." Torres' hands
tightened around the lamp; the Vulcan heard a distinct crack as
the ceramic broke. "You know, Tom was reluctant to take
advantage of me in that state, even though he had a hard-on fit to
bust his pants. But that Borg, I'm just another notch on her
alcove."

"I believe she was trying to save your life."

"Targshit! I'm going to kill Vorik for this!"

Tuvok said nothing.

Furious over his lack of response, Torres shoved the meditation
lamp at him. "Here, you can take this! I've had enough of
Vulcan's playing around with my head."

"Lieutenant Vorik is dead."

In the lamplight she could only see half his face and a single
pupil, dark with emotions he would never express.

"But . . . the Doctor said he was alright!"

"A false recovery, similar to the one he experienced seven years
ago. Earlier today Vorik relapsed into the blood fever. I
attempted to . . . guide his condition but my mental abilities are
not as they once were. The responsibility is mine."

The lamp dropped to the ground and shattered, plunging them
into darkness.

Tuvok made his way to the light panel, his martial arts training
enabling him to move with confidence in the dark. He adjusted it
to half-power, turned to see Torres sitting on the bed, her face
buried in her hands.

"You should not blame yourself, Commander. Vorik would have
been the first to tell you that. He had the greatest respect for
you."

"I know," she choked out. "A few months ago he . . . he knew his
time was coming and he asked me . . . it brought back all those
memories, of Tom and Sikari IV. I was furious with him." Torres
pulled her hands away, clenching them into fists. "But that's a
lie. The truth was I didn't want to risk becoming close to
someone again. I'd heard the joining is so . . intense."

"It is," said Tuvok, so quietly that Torres wasn't sure if she'd
imagined it.

"So that's another one of us gone." The Klingon gave a bitter
laugh. "Vorik, Tom, Joe Carey, Bandera, Durst, Hogan, Seska,
Jetal, Kaplan, on and on and on. One long line of corpses
spread over forty thousand light years. Pointing our way to the
Alpha Quadrant." She rose to her feet, made a beeline for the
replicator. "Synthehol. No forget that . . . blood wine. Let's toast
our dead comrades."

"You need to be sober. There is another important matter we
must discuss."

Torres picked up the jug of blood wine, took a swig, grimaced in
disgust and tipped it into the recycling chute.

"Three years ago I was diagnosed with a degenerative
neurological condition."

"I don't want to hear it, Tuvok. Not now!"

Tuvok continued as if she hadn't spoken. "There is no cure, at
least none available in the Delta Quadrant. This morning I
informed Captain Chakotay that I no longer felt able to continue
as his first officer. You are the logical candidate to fill the
position."

"Are you crazy?!" Torres blurted. She squeezed her eyes shut,
realising what she'd just said. "Oh shit, I'm sorry."

"Apologies are not necessary."

"So that's why you didn't take the captain's seat when Admiral
Paris ordered you to."

Tuvok raised an eyebrow.

"Come on Tuvok, you can't keep something like that a secret."

"My taking command would have created a rift between the
Maquis and Starfleet personnel. Chakotay's appointment was
only logical. But you are correct in that my future deterioration
was a factor."

"And now you want TWO ex-Maquis running the ship? Starfleet's
never going to accept that! They've already refused to share the
latest weapons technology from the Dominion War."

"There were security issues involved with sending that
information thousands of light years into alien space."

"Yeah right. Look Tuvok, I've got enough problems being a
mother to Miral, let alone this crew. I'm about as suited to be first
officer as Seven is to be a bloody counselor."

"You are the captain's friend, yet independent enough to speak
your mind, and the daughter-in-law of Admiral Paris. I suspect
you will make a better first officer than your predecessors." The
Vulcan turned to leave.

"Haven't you been reading those reports from Chapman?" said
Torres angrily. "In a few years it won't make any difference.
There won't be a ship for us to command - Voyager's falling
apart!"

Tuvok paused at the door. "Like everyone else you insist on
confusing the issue. Voyager is merely the means to an end.
We will continue our journey in another vessel."

"Like what, a Borg sphere?!" Torres shouted.

But Tuvok had already left.

---

"Leave my soul alone, leave my soul alone,"
that voice so arctic and that cry so odd
had nowhere else to go . . . till the antique
gramophone wound down and the words began
to blur and slow, " . . leave . . my . . soul . . alone . . "
to cease at last when something other died.
And silence matched the silence under snow.


There was silence among the group. Eem-hontu-sa covered her
throat, then tried to conceal the superstitious gesture by
massaging her neck muscles. Like the rest of them she was
sitting on a piece from the replicated Culde set. The huge multi-
coloured cubes were scattered throughout the messhall. RiN-
sep had tried to organise a game, but it had died out due to lack
of enthusiasm.

"I was only connected to the hive mind for a few hours," stated
Tuvok. "But the stanza is appropriate. It was written by Dannie
Abse, a poet in Earth's early 20th century."

"It appears our beliefs are not that separate after all," said RiN-
sep. "Do you remember anything about your assimilation,
Under-Commander Torres?"

"No," Torres lied. She poked at her food, unable to muster the
appetite for one of Chell's concoctions. She'd been having
problems sleeping for the past few days, tired all the time. Over
the years Voyager had become permanently short-staffed;
double-shifts were now a matter of routine. The Doctor had
proposed transmitting some Mark One EMHs from the Alpha
Quadrant to make up their losses. Torres had a mental image
of Jefferies tubes full of bald-headed Doctors, all arguing the
merits of Verdi and Berlioz as they scrubbed the warp plasma
conduits.

Their mission to the derelict Borg sphere had been postponed
yet again while Chakotay dealt with the R'larri delegation walking
out of the conference. Seven of Nine was putting the extra time
to good use, sitting in the corner in earnest conversation with
Will Chapman. Compliments, smiles, non-verbal enticements,
jokes about their ill-fated first date . . . no doubt all pre-rehearsed
on the holodeck and timed for effect. Torres watched their
interaction with distaste. Even Tom in the early years hadn't
been that cold-blooded about acquiring a sexual partner.

"To deliberately allow oneself to be assimilated," said Eem-
hontu-sa, shuddering. "You risk losing the soul."

"Oh for TiH-nan's sake," scoffed RiN-sep. "You don't believe in
that superstitious beak-clacking? We're supposed to be
scientists."

"She's right though," said Kim. "Losing an arm is nothing. The
Doc can fix you up with another one. Hell, he even wants to fix
me up with a whole new body! As a good Starfleet puppy-dog I
had to refuse. But my soul, I lost my soul to the Borg Queen.
And I don't mean that bitch with half a body either." His dark eyes
turned towards Torres, confirming her suspicions. Kim's pupils
had shrunk noticeably. "I mean Captain Kathryn Jane-'We'll-Do-
Things-The-Starfleet-Way' of Borg."

"Harry, when did you have your last shot?"

"Piss off! Why don't you tell them the truth about our noble
captain, B'Elanna? There was a time when only hot black coffee
used to flow through her veins. Not any more."

"Lieutenant Kim. Perhaps you should return to your quarters,"
said Tuvok. A vein had started pulsating at the Vulcan's temple.

"Was that an emotional response, Tuvok? I'm sorry, I didn't
mean to commit blasphemy." Kim leapt up, grabbed his seat
and slammed it down on the table, scattering plates and cutlery.
Everyone jumped to their feet, cursing.

"Polorta, what's this?" asked Kim, ignoring the tirade of abuse.

"It's a Culde-nan," answered Polorta, trying to locate his glass
under the enormous game piece.

"Wrong. It's a Borg cube. Children on Earth, they used to sing
this nursery rhyme. 'Ring-a-ring-a-roses, a pocket full of posies.
Attischu! Attischu! We all FALL DOWN!' What's that from, does
anyone know?" He leaned close over Torres. "I'll tell you. A
plague that wiped out a third of Europe in our fourteenth century.
The Black DEATH!"

"Harry, get out of my face before I break yours!"

"Can we change the subject please?" asked Eem-hontu-sa
plaintively.

"No. So why do the Menti Naka, a race driven from their planet by
the Borg five hundred years ago, happen to play a game
involving great big cubes, hmm? Bad taste, perhaps?"

"You should know about that, Lieutenant Kim." None of them
had seen Seven approach. "I will escort you to Sickbay. You
appear to have exceeded your daily prescription of kelotane."

"There's no need, *Ensign*. I'm sure you've got more important
things to do. Like polishing Janeway's coffin."

"Your efforts to incite an emotional response from me are futile."

"Yes, but that's 'cause you're cheating." Kim's finger tapped
against the side of Seven's head; she pushed it away. "Do you
have a daily prescription, or do you just switch it on whenever you
have the urge?"

"Harry, settle down and have another drink," urged Polorta. "Tell
us the story of the Doctor and his Photonic Cannon."

"Harry, stop acting like a petaQ and go with Seven!"

"Why the hell are you taking HER side, B'Elanna? Tom died
because of this stuck-up drone! We were always risking our
lives for HER, because Janeway was secretly in love with this
Borg bitch. But I notice she was quick to jump into Chakotay's
bed when he became captain."

There was dead silence in the messhall; everyone had stopped
talking. For a brief moment Seven's face went completely white,
before her ice-cold mask slammed into place.

Tuvok got to his feet. "Lieutenant Kim__"

"It's alright Tuvok," Torres stood up quickly. "I'll handle this." She
gripped Kim by the shoulders, saying, "Harry, we've been friends
for years, so please take this in the spirit it's offered," and
promptly rammed her forehead into his face.

The next day Seven had come to visit them in the brig. Torres
and Kim were sitting on the floor of the cell, playing Culde with
sugar cubes.

"I'm sorry," Kim muttered, unable to meet her eyes.

The Borg gave him a cold look, presented a single rose of dark
pink to Torres, and then walked out without saying a word.

"Seven's champion," mused Kim, as he assimilated a Culde-
nan by eating it. "I think she's got you in mind for her next
conquest. You better be careful, the two of you alone on the Tom
Paris together."

Torres snorted. "In her dreams. You know Harry, I couldn't help
noticing. With all those ridge-shaped lumpy bruises on your
forehead you look very . . . Klingon."

---

Icheb was regenerating.

He stood in his alcove, unconscious of her presence. Seven
could only stare at the Borg teenager, haunted by the memory of
those innumerable skeletons on the Borg sphere, of the
demonic statues surrounding the Menti Naka queen. And now
on Voyager, this row of alcoves used by herself and her
surrogate son, a mindless honour guard for their own dead
leader.

She lay as if in state, the alcoves throwing green flickers onto the
cover of her stasis tube. Biomedical nodes clung like robotic
parasites, ever vigilant, ready to alert the Doctor immediately of
any change in the condition of Kathryn Janeway, former captain
of the USS Voyager.

Seven of course knew, as only a few of the senior officers did,
that it was actually Borg technology that was keeping Janeway
alive. Her body swarmed with millions of nanoprobes, repairing
necrosing tissue, stimulating brain functions, trying to hold back
the effects of time. It was an exercise in futility. She knew it, as
did Commander Tuvok. They realised that Chakotay's hope of
encountering some miraculous alien technology that would
revive her was a ridiculous fantasy. Yet they always put off
confronting the captain about shutting down the stasis tube. In
the end, they'd been forced to admit, a Vulcan and a Borg could
be as irrational and emotionally driven as any human.

Seven took a cloth and carefully wiped down the transparent
aluminum cover, removing prints left by Voyager crewmembers
pressing their hands against it. With her facial muscles relaxed
Janeway seemed much older, skin sagging against the
cheekbones. There was none of that strength which had
supported the Borg in her first difficult years on Voyager, the
smiles or scowls that had created such deep joy, anger, or
contrition. There was a time when Seven imagined she could
see her auburn hair stirring, but she no longer indulged in such
foolish notions.

A tear shattered on the cover, flowing in tiny rivulets until it was
mechanically wiped up by her hand.

"I love you, Kathryn Janeway."

Seven heard the doors slide open behind her. She quickly
wiped her eyes before turning round.

"I thought I might find you here."

"There was a time when you didn't require the captain's
assistance to tell me to 'get lost', B'Elanna."

Torres looked down at Janeway's dormant figure, placed her
hand on the stasis tube. When she removed it there was a lone
pink carnation lying on the cover.

"It's probably just as well she's gone," said Torres. "Can you
imagine this ship ruled by Janeway for the next seventy-odd
years? I can just see our children launching a mutiny. Hell,
Miral's always practising on me."

"I heard about Vorik."

"Yeah well . . . I guess I owe you."

"You're welcome," replied Seven in a neutral tone.

Torres' head snapped up. "What do you want, an Oath of
Union?!"

"That is up to you. I only know that after what happened we have
three options. One, go back to disliking each other, as when we
first met. Going over the same petty arguments, the same guilt,
like those fools on the Liaison Daki. Two, accept what
happened and continue as friends . . ."

"Or Three," said Torres dryly. "Become Pon farr buddies. Mates
for life."

"We must adapt to our circumstances," said the Borg. "Perhaps
you think you can avoid pain by not forming another relationship.
You will fail."

"Piss off Seven! You and that fucking inhibitor, what would you
know?"

"I spoke to the Doctor yesterday. I am going to have the cortical
inhibitor removed."

Torres was speechless for a moment, then said bluntly, "That
could kill you."

"Do you think we're alive as we are now?"

"What?!" The comment annoyed Torres. It sounded like some
of that metaphysical garbage Chakotay was always pushing.

Seven placed both hands on the stasis tube. "Everything
changed when our captain was taken from us. We have all just
been going through the motions. Alive yet dead, like Captain
Janeway here. Or Lieutenant Kim. Or the Borg Collective." Her
blue-grey eyes drilled in the Klingon. "But I refuse to be a drone
any more."

"Is that why Chakotay's willing to go so far to help those idiots?
He's trying to give the crew a sense of purpose."

"Yes. He knows we must move on from this."

There was a long pause.

"I don't know, Seven. Right now, all I want to do is take you back
to my quarters . . . and sleep for a week."

"And when we wake up we shall make love. But more gently this
time."

"Well that's a relief. I doubt I can muster that performance again.
Well, not for another seven years at any rate."

Seven stepped over to her alcove and detached the portable
regenerator. Slinging it over her shoulder, the Borg reached out
to her friend.

"B'Elanna, take my hand."

"Gladly."

---

The End