THe BLTS Archive - Galatea Redux
by Sylvia Tremblay

---

Disclaimer: Yah ta ta Paramount, yah ta ta Fox, blather babble not
mine, kvetch whine no money, bow scrape don't sue.  With recognition
and love also to Billy Wilder, who creates powerful women with black
and white magic.

Author's Note: This is my second attempt at fanfic— my other one was
O/K.  What can I tell you?  I dig weird couples.  If you don't get the
title, read Edith Hamilton's Mythology.  It rocks.  If you do get it,
continue to smile smugly as you're doing now.  It's the only thing
your liberal arts degree equips you to do, so enjoy it.  I sure as
heck do.  And for gosh sakes, rent the ORIGINAL Sabrina, and see the
dress.  You'll know the one I mean.  This takes place about four
months after the events in "Someone to Watch Over Me".

Rating: G?  I can't tell anymore; we have full frontal nudity on our
fragging national televison station.  Get your mom to read it; she'll
know the right thing to do.

Feedback: Is lapped up.

---

Seven of Nine was uncertain as she stood outside the door to the
Captain's quarters.  When she had first come aboard Voyager , the loss
of that absolute certainty that had been her constant companion while
she was part of the Collective had almost driven her to insanity.
Now, the nagging low-level self-doubt she felt when interacting with
Humans was just an annoyance, a presence in her mind she had learned
to accept the way a beekeeper accepts the ceaseless noise of the
insects that accompany him.

Not that she viewed the Humans as insects...well, not any more, at
least.  A crewman she recognized walked past her at that moment and
she started guiltily, as if he might have read her thoughts.  Seven
checked her internal chrono.  This was the time she had arranged to
meet with Janeway;  she must not be late.  Why destroy a well-earned
reputation for being an automaton?  Taking a deep breath, she rang the
chime and heard the Captain's gravelly "Come" just before the door
whooshed open.

"Good evening, Captain," Seven announced with confidence she for once
did not feel.  "Thank you again for agreeing to see me.  I realize
this week is especially busy for you— " the Borg woman trailed off as
she saw Janeway was sitting on her couch with a plate of food on the
coffee table and a dataPADD in her hands.  Her confidence took another
nosedive, and she found to her surprise that she was almost
stammering.  "I— am sorry.  You are still eating.  I should not
interrupt— "

Janeway took no apparent notice of her discomfort, waving her
welcomingly toward the padded chair in the small seating area.  "Don't
worry.  I'm almost done.  Frankly, I'm glad for an excuse not to
finish it.  It's Neelix's first attempt at a curry and it's not
entirely successful."  Her fingers flew over the PADD in a final burst
of activity, then she set it down on the table, a little roughly for
such delicate equipment, Seven thought.  "There.  The last report."
She rubbed the back of her neck in an effort to get the kinks out.
"Sometimes I wonder if I really need to do all of this paperwork, what
with the unique situation this ship is in.  But we all need routines
to keep us sane."

"That is true," the younger woman acknowledged.  She realized that
even though she was off-duty she was sitting stiffly, her back ramrod
straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap.  But she did not know
any other way to sit.  Even the Captain, her work finished, adopted a
semi-recumbent posture as she turned to study her visitor.

"How can I help you, Seven?" Janeway asked.  She had asked that
question many times when the Borg had had trouble adjusting to the
rules and regs of life on a starship, when Seven had come to her with
professional concerns, small and large, but this time the other woman
noticed a slight difference in the tone, an added warmth.  Of all the
Humans, Janeway had from the beginning been the most open and giving
of herself, and not just because she was the Captain or because it was
in the best interests of Voyager for her to maintain good relations
with the Borg.  Somehow, Seven felt a special connection to this
woman.  Was it merely her programmed-in respect of authority that led
her to see a friendship where none was offered?  Well, if that were
so, she would find out tonight.

"I— " she was stammering again! Some part of her neural net went to
work running a diagnostic on her speech centre— "I wished to ask your
advice."

Janeway nodded slowly, her face revealing nothing.  When the occasion
called for it, she was not one for cluttering up a room with useless
chatter.  Seven usually liked that about her.  Usually.

"It concerns a personal matter.  I know that we are not given to
discussing such things, but— I am not given to discussing them with
anyone."

"I'm flattered you decided to come to me."

Seven's gaze darted over the room before returning to the Captain.
She could feel her hands fidgeting in her lap, and clamped them
together forcefully.  "Several months ago, I became interested in the
prospect of — socializing with the crew.  The male members of the
crew."  There was still no change to Janeway's expression.  Seven
ploughed ahead, the words coming faster now.

"I spoke with the Doctor about it, and he appointed himself my
instructor in the finer points of 'dating', as he called it.   He
taught me how to meet people, the value of 'small talk', singing— "

"Singing?"  Janeway interjected, her curiosity finally getting the
better of her.

"Yes.  He told me I had a lovely voice— " she trailed off, momentarily
lost in thought, then resumed.  "Finally, I chose a likely candidate
and we— I— arranged a date."  Her voice became small.  "It was an
unmitigated disaster."  When Janeway opened her mouth to protest,
Seven forestalled her with a movement of her hand.  "Medical treatment
was involved."  Janeway's mouth closed.  The Borg woman took a deep
breath.  "I felt— I cannot recall ever having felt so much a failure.
More than that, for I had never before paid any attention to my
physical body, except when it felt pain or craved nourishment.  For
the first time, I was aware of my physical self, the way I imagined
most of the Humans aboard this ship must see it.   I felt clumsy, and
awkward, and somehow— " her voice dropped to a shaky whisper—
"monstrous."

"Oh, Seven," Janeway soothed.

"I wanted to run, to retreat and never try anything so foolish again."
The Borg shook her head and smiled wanly.  "And then he asked me to
dance."  At Janeway's puzzled expression, she supplied, "The Doctor.
He danced with me, talked with me,  and the feeling faded.  At the
time, I did not think about the implications of this."

Janeway arched an eyebrow at her, waiting.  After a moment, Seven
continued.

"Soon afterward, we had a misunderstanding.  I was angry, and — hurt.
That surprised me, and as a result I decided to reduce our personal
contact.  I told him I was no longer in need of lessons, as I had
found no one suitable.  That was a lie."  She looked to Janeway for
some betrayal of shock, of surprise.

Janeway disappointed her. "I see," was her only reaction, delivered in
the same gruff tone she used on the Bridge.  The involuntary twitch at
the side of her mouth escaped the Borg.

"Forgive me, Captain, but you do not."  Seven stared down at her lap
and watched her hands resume their fidgeting.  "I have been acting
like a lovesick teenage Human for weeks.  I turn up to every concert,
every party, every social function in the hopes that he will be in
attendance, and when he is I find myself too nervous to speak with
him.  I find excuses to visit Sickbay when I am in perfect condition.
Last Wednesday I escorted Ensign Lister there when he became injured
on my watch."

"Very noble," approved Janeway, her effort to appear serious becoming
strained.

"He was suffering from a hangnail."

It was then that Janeway barked.  Seven's head jerked up in time to
witness the Captain of Voyager dissolve in helpless, boneless
laughter.  She remained stolidly silent as the other woman attempted
to regain her composure, failed two or three times, then finally
mastered herself, wiping at her eyes as she took in great gulps of
air.  "Seven, I'm not laughing at you, really I'm not.  I just— think
it's wonderful."  She reached her hands out to clasp the Borg's
warmly.  "I'm happy for you."

"Happy that I am miserable?"  Seven queried, confused.

"No, of course not.  Happy that— oh, hell, Seven, I'm the last person
who should be advising you to go for the gusto, to take a risk."  The
older woman sighed expressively.  "What is that old Earth saying— 'Do
as I say, not as I do'?  The only thing I can suggest is to find some
way to spend a little quiet time with the Doctor, and find out just
what there is between you.  You don't have to leap right up and
declare your undying love, but these things tend to resolve themselves
very neatly given a bit of attention."

The Borg woman shook her head.  "There is nothing to resolve.  He does
not feel that way about me.  He sees me only as a friend."

Janeway smiled.  "If he were a living, breathing heterosexual male,
I'd say you were dead wrong.  However, I don't know enough about the
Doctor's programming to tell you for certain what he is or isn't
capable of feeling."   She paused as if deciding whether to reveal
something, then went ahead.  "There were rumours— not that I get a
chance to hear many— that he was sweet on an assistant of his a while
back.  I don't suppose there's any harm in telling you; I know you
won't repeat it."  Seven nodded, knowing the Captain was praising her
character, not implying she had no friends she could gossip with, even
though it was the truth.  "At any rate, I know that he's shown a much
greater capacity for emotion and compassion than I ever would have
imagined he could when I first met him."  The older woman gave Seven's
hand a final squeeze before releasing it.  "You might be pleasantly
surprised this time."

The Borg nodded grimly.  "You are correct.  It is better than what I
have been doing, this, this— " she gestured helplessly.

"I believe the word you're looking for is 'mooning'," Janeway supplied
helpfully, and was rewarded with  a look of genuine horror.

"But what should I do?" she asked when the look of distaste finally
faded.

"The easiest thing would be to tell him you want to resume your
lessons."

Seven stared at her for several seconds, then realization dawned.
"Oh.  Yes.  I believe I am beginning to see the possibilities."   Was
that a temperature change her sensors were registering in her
epidermal region?  Was the source external...or internal....

Oh.   Silently, Seven promised herself right there that she would
resolve this situation as quickly as possible.  The last thing she
needed was to provide the gossip mongers with a blushing Borg.

---

The Doctor was uncertain as he stood outside the doors to Holodeck
Two, where Seven of Nine waited for him.  He had been shocked by her
invitation, considering she had made a point of avoiding him for
months, ever since that disastrous incident with Paris.  Leave it to
the insensitive clod to discuss their wager right in front of her, as
though she had no feelings to hurt.  In that sense he and the Borg
woman had something in common.  Even after centuries of living
alongside technology, Humans were frequently unable to realize that
same technology had progressed beyond the level of the toaster.

He often pondered, in the down times between medical emergencies, the
question of exactly how far he had progressed.  The Doctor was one of
the most complex holoprograms ever constructed, equipped with all the
ability, arrogance and compassion of a Human doctor.  He had been
programmed with a personality, hard-wired to be sympathetic to the
life forms he treated so that they would feel less nervous about
putting their lives in the hands of a cold, calculating computer.
From a professional standpoint, his emotional algorithms were a raging
success.

From a personal standpoint, they were a godawful mess.  The very fact
that he thought of himself as having a personal life was a development
he was sure his creators had not envisioned.  They had made something
to serve humanity, a 24th century appliance.

"Well," he huffed quietly to himself, straightening his suit jacket as
he stepped forward to enter, "this is one toaster who's tired of
getting the crumbs."  That earned him a backward glance from a passing
PO, but he ignored it, for he was more interested in the fact that the
door had not just parted before him.

He palmed the panel to the right of the door, and was rewarded by the
curt voice of the ship's computer.  "Password authorization required."
That puzzled him; Paris' jazz club program was never restricted when
he ran it.  Holodecks were only locked down when the participants
wanted complete privacy.

"Authorization— oh, never mind."  In less time than it would have
taken him to speak it aloud, he accessed the main computer's password
matrix and fed in his code.  The doors promptly opened to reveal—

— a place that was definitely not  Paris' club.

---

Seven had liked Audrey Hepburn best.

She had spent all of her off-duty time for the past two weeks
researching the elements of what humans called romance.  Janeway had
steered her toward Renaissance poetry and painting, Classical
sculpture, and music and films of the twentieth century.  It was this
last that had captured her imagination most thoroughly.  The Borg
woman absorbed hour after hour of light romantic comedies, musicals
and three- hanky melodramas, trying to find role models for a role she
did not know how to play.

The waif-like woman whom Seven lighted on seemed an unlikely choice,
yet of all the long-gone shadows she was the one who seemed most real
to the Borg.  Some part of her— the lost child she had tried to bury
deep inside her, perhaps— identified with the type of character that
actress often played.  She always began the story as an innocent,
wide-eyed and vulnerable, and at first Seven felt her to be weak
because of it.  However, whatever improbable life experiences befell
the heroine, she always emerged wiser for it, yet still somehow with
that aura of innocence, that lack of fear strangely intact.  She made
Seven feel envious, and terribly old.  Yet almost unconsciously, she
found herself seeking to mimic the other woman's carriage and grace.

Then there had been days of practice in everything from dancing to
walking.  Seven had fed several of the films into the Holodeck
computer, where it recreated them in three solid dimensions.  Unlike
the more complex scenario programs, the Holodeck could only run the
movies as they had been filmed, though Seven was able to delete one of
the characters and 'fill in'.  Her eidetic memory was any actress'
dream come true.

She sang light opera.  She played the guitar.  She dove off a barge
into the Tiber River.  She made entrances.  She shoplifted from a
five-and-dime store.   She dressed up in diamond necklaces and tiaras.
She dressed down in black leotards and flat Chinese slippers.  She
danced.  And danced.  And then she danced some more.

And she kissed several men— fair- and dark-haired ones, blue-and
brown-eyed ones, tall, thin, compact, muscular— until their
distinguishing features began to blur.  She practiced the meaningful
look, the beguiling grin, the mysterious air, the pealing laugh.  She
studied the art of being in love.

Her favourite 'love scene' was from the film called Roman Holiday.
The hero and heroine, destined by the Fates of melodrama to have only
a short time together, finally give in to their pent-up passion in a
very tiny European-built ground conveyance.  While Seven did not fully
comprehend the social forces that would cruelly tear apart a princess
and a newspaperman, she did understand the desperation and immediacy
of the situation, and rather enjoyed throwing herself into the role.
Several times. Until she got it right, of course.

And then there was the dress.

It had used up three months' replicator allowance, but then Seven
never used her full ration.  Another week's worth got her the shoes
and jewelry.  It was a copy of a dress in one of the movies, with
certain modifications to fit the Borg's more generous proportions.  At
first Seven had felt too awkward to wear it, but putting it on had
given her a whole new feeling, unfamiliar to her in this particular
field of endeavour.

Confidence.

---

The Doctor walked into the night.

Slowly he took his bearings.  It was a warm summer night, on an
Earthlike planet somewhere in the temperate zone.  The grass cushioned
his steps as he traversed the manicured lawn, passing beautifully
tended gardens on either side of him, their flowers and neatly trimmed
shrubs edged in silver by the light of the full moon.  A huge body of
water, an ocean judging by the salt tang to the air, stretched before
him in the middle distance.  At the water's edge he could make out a
boathouse and a dock with a large yacht tied alongside.  Soft music
filtered through the trees, of a period and style similar to that
played at Paris' jazz dive, but infinitely more refined and obviously
being played by at least a fifteen- piece band.  He could make out
lights and the  movement of a dancing crowd past the stately pines to
his left, and to his right an indoor tennis court, one side screened
to take advantage of the summer heat.  He debated over the correct
direction to take, and finally decided to continue his path to the
sea, until a flash of white registered at the periphery of his visual
sensors.

She was on the tennis court.  And she was dancing.

Slowly, as if he had given up his free will at the instant he had seen
her, he approached the building.  She was dancing alone, holding the
skirt of her dress and spinning slowly and gracefully.  It was then
that he saw the flowing, billowing skirt was joined to the rest of the
garment only at the waist, and that another, more form-fitting slit
skirt enclosed her shapely legs, creating the impression of a peacock.
The top left her shoulders bare, and he realized he had never before
noticed how the length of her beautiful neck blended into her
perfectly fashioned collarbone—

He mentally shook himself.  The Doctor had been programmed with an
appreciation of feminine beauty; he certainly appreciated other women
in that way.  When he had tried to teach Seven the socialization
skills necessary for successful dating, he had plenty of time to
observe that she was a striking woman.  After all, he had been partly
responsible for her external form, at least those not dictated by
Nature or manufactured by the Borg collective.  Perhaps that was the
reason why even though he had definite feelings for her, he still
tended to look upon her with a paternalistic eye.

The Doctor was no longer feeling very paternal.

"Oh."   Her huge eyes were fixed on him and she had stopped her
dancing.  He thought he recognized trepidation in them before she
seemed to collect herself, at which point the familiar determination
supplanted it.

"I didn't mean to startle you."

"That's all right.  I was just— enjoying the dress."

So was I, thought the Doctor.  Aloud he attempted levity. "I didn't
know this was such a formal affair, or I would have worn a tux."

At that, Seven smiled in a way he could only describe as mischievous.
"You can change," she offered huskily, turning around.  "Don't worry,
I won't peek."  She threw him a devilish glance over her shoulder and
he felt the bottom of the universe drop out from under his feet.
Seven of Nine was flirting with him.

In an instant, he had changed into a white tux; clothes were a simple
matter for a hologram.  What was not so simple was trying to figure
out what in the hell was going on.  His processor struggled to
consider the possibilities, but had insufficient data to form any
conclusions.  In the end he decided to give up and just follow along,
a hard choice since his doctor's instincts protested any loss of
control.  Unlike some doctors, however, he at least recognized this
trait in himself.  It was the same one that months ago had prevented
him from telling her he was falling in love with her.

"All finished?" she queried.  He hesitated a moment before answering,
allowing his eyes to rake over her, taking in the way her golden hair
shimmered in the moonlight.  It was done in a softer style than usual,
loose and curled at the nape, and he felt an urge to reach out and see
if it was as soft as he remembered.  He quickly dismissed the thought;
after all, for a hologram with a perfect recall, the excuse was rather
pathetic.

"Yes."

Seven turned around and her whole face lit up in a smile.  Though he
knew it was medically impossible, he thought that if he had been a
human at that moment, his heart would have flip-flopped in his chest.
She walked toward him until only a very small distance separated their
bodies.  "Much better," she told him appreciatively, one hand reaching
out to take a lapel between index finger and thumb and gliding
sensuously down the fabric.  All he could do at this was stare at her,
his 'wit' subroutine effectively knocked out of commission by her
gesture.

Dimly he was aware the music had changed from a waltz to a slow
foxtrot.  He identified it as the twentieth-century standard 'Isn't It
Romantic' , and wondered at the irony.  Seven had evidently noticed
the song too, for her arms assumed the dance position.  "Aren't you
going to ask me to dance?" she pouted, and something in him snapped.

Without a word, he pulled her into a close embrace, suddenly
determined to give as good as he was getting, though he was still
unsure exactly why he was getting it.  She did not fight him, instead
relaxing bonelessly in his arms and leaning forward until her right
cheek was touching his.  Just as he was responding to this new
assault, he noticed that her dancing was absolutely flawless.  She
followed him effortlessly, the strength in her evident wherever their
bodies touched.  And at this moment, that seemed to be just about
everywhere.

"You dance divinely," he observed in what he hoped was a dry,
confident tone.

"Thank you for noticing," she shot back, her breath warm against his
ear.  "I've tried to expand on what you taught me."

I'll say.  "Have you been practicing on the Holodeck?" he asked
nonchalantly.  Surely he would have heard if she was dating someone;
the gossip machine on this ship was legendary.  He would have heard.
There was no doubt.

"I've been practicing," she evaded neatly.    Was that a giggle?  She
knew how to giggle?

"It's paid off."  He hesitated, then decided to plunge in.  "Am I more
practice?"

"I wanted you to see how far I've come."

Another evasion.  His hand ran possessively up her back, and he
thought he felt her shiver slightly as it reached bare skin.  Two
could play at this.  "I see.  Now what?"

Seven rubbed her cheek against his, causing him to sharply draw in a
breath.  He had no need to breathe, but he had been programmed with
some involuntary human reactions to make him seem more like the
genuine article.  At times like these, it was a decided inconvenience.
"You're very cross tonight," she whispered.  " Don't you enjoy dancing
with me?"

"You know I do," he murmured.  "Seven, please— " he managed, unable to
stand her coyness any longer.

"You want to know why I asked you here tonight," she said, surprising
him.  Her tone of voice was more like her own than it had been all
evening.

"Yes," stated the Doctor simply.

Seven broke the contact, stepping out of the circle of his arms.  He
let her go, but felt strangely bereft.  She walked over to the net and
held on to the post as if for support.

"I wanted to tell you I think I've fallen in love."

It was a full ten seconds before he could think of anything to say.
Most of his processor capacity during that time seemed to be taken up
with repeating the boolean value No no no no no several thousand
times.   Finally he managed to croak, "How do you know?"

"That is just it.  I do not know.  I was hoping you could help me, as
I am inexperienced in these matters."

He wanted to run from the Holodeck, but found that he could not make
himself move.  "I— don't know how much help I can be— "

"You are the only one I can talk to about it," she told him, her gaze
steady.

In contrast, he was finding it difficult to look at her.  In the end
he relented;  if he protested too much it might raise questions he did
not want to answer, not now.  "Yes.  All right.  What are the
'symptoms'?" he demanded sarcastically.

"Well," she began, leaving the net to walk toward the large windows,
"I enjoy his company."

"That could just be friendship."

"I know that.  But I enjoy it so much that I find silly excuses to be
near him.  And when I am near him, I can think of nothing to say."

The Doctor merely grunted at that.  She went on.  "When I dance with
him, I feel— beautiful.  And graceful.  And desirable.  And —"

"Yes, well, we're definitely getting warmer on that one," he
interrupted, unwilling to hear any more.  "What else?"

"When I kiss him—" she trailed off, and he shifted uncomfortably,
eyeing the nearest exit.  "I imagine it will be wonderful."

"You— you haven't kissed him?  Or—" Don't, I don't want to know —

"No."  Seven had started to walk back to where he was standing.   Her
hair was backlit by the moonlight, making her appear to be crowned by
a gossamer halo.  He bit back a groan, another damned preprogrammed
reaction.  "The sad truth is that he does not even know I exist— not
in that way.  He thinks of me as a competent officer, and as a friend.
But he is not interested in me romantically."

"May I examine him?  He must be clinically dead."  Seven arched an
eyebrow but said nothing.  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to insult him.  I
don't know anything about him."  Some masochistic impulse forced him
to ask, as nonchalantly as possible, "So, what's he like?"

"He is— difficult to describe. At first I found him arrogant, superior
and overconfident."

"Sounds like a sterling specimen."

"Please do not interrupt.  I grew to value him as a friend, a man who
lacked the prejudices of others and evaluated me on his own terms.
Soon, I came to appreciate his humour, his intelligence, his
integrity.  But when I realized he had the ability to hurt me, I was
frightened."  She stepped closer to him, close enough to touch, to
hold.  "You see, I had never felt that way— not as a Borg, at any
rate— and I did not like the feeling.  The Captain has praised my
bravery, but that is physical.  Emotionally, I am a coward.  Even now,
I am afraid to tell this man how I feel."  Her voice dropped to a
near- whisper.  "Tell me what to say to him, Doctor."

"I'm the last person to give advice on that subject," he commented
darkly.  Her gaze remained glued to him, and after a few seconds he
sighed and added, "I suppose you could just walk up to him and tell
him."

"You mean, just say to him, 'I love you'?"  He watched her lips form
the words. So this was torture.  "But you have not yet told me if I am
in love.  What is your opinion?"

"Why are you asking me?" he demanded, and to his horror he could hear
his voice shaking.

"I need you."

He shook his head, taking in her dress, her poise, her almost palpable
strength.  If this is the end, he reasoned to himself, make the most
of it.   "You don't need my help any more.  I don't know who you've
been doing all of this 'practicing' for, and frankly I don't want to
know.  If he's inspired you to wear feminine clothes or learn to flirt
with the best of them, hooray for him.  It doesn't make a damn bit of
difference.  You've always been a strong person.  You've always been
beautiful, inside and out.  The only thing that's changed is that you
know it now.  Somehow, you've realized the thing I've known for
months.  You are astounding, Seven of Nine.  You will never be more
beautiful, more assured, more your own creation than you are right
now.  What could you possibly need from me?"

Seven closed the distance between them, and her hand reached up to
caress his cheek.  He wondered if it was possible for him to burst.
She smiled warmly, her eyes searching his face as she spoke slowly,
deliberately, as if to an idiot child.  "I.  Need.  You."

And the Doctor stared at her.  And continued to stare.  And then he
stared some more.

"Perhaps it is as the humans say," Seven drawled after some little
time had elapsed.   "Actions speak louder than words."  And with that,
she kissed him.  It was not the desperate kiss of a princess, nor the
sweet and innocent kiss of the girl-woman, nor the impossibly handsome
and romantic kiss of two impossibly handsome and romantic people.  But
it did serve the purpose fairly well.

Fade to black.

---

The End