The BLTS Archive - A Gift of Understanding
by Jaye (reader8901@fastmail.fm)

---

(Copyright June 2003)

Disclaimer: Star Trek and all related characters and concepts are the
property  of Paramount. No infringement is intended or profit made.

Archive: Drop me a note first so I know where it's going. Please keep
the text  (especially the disclaimer) intact.

Feedback: Sure but be kind, or at least constructive.

Note: Set around the time of "Day of Honor", when Chakotay's attitude
toward  Seven began to change. I go by the original birthdates for
Chakotay (2335) and  Seven (2348).

---

Seven of Nine walked stiffly to the cargo bay, acutely aware of the
eyes upon  her as she made her way down the corridor. The recently
liberated drone could  sense the stares boring into her back. Logic
indicated that fear, anger,  possibly disgust radiated from her newly
acquired crewmates.

How else would they react to a Borg in their midst? And not just any
Borg, but  the one that propelled Voyager into the fluidic realm of
Species 8472 against  their will *and* tried to assimilate them upon
their return to normal space.

Her mouth tightened as she recalled those critical moments on the
bridge. She'd  been extremely relieved to be reunited with her fellow
drones. The endless sea  of whispering voices soothed her mind. It was
home. But soon enough they were  gone forever.

Now there was near silence, only her own thoughts echoing in vast
spaces of her  consciousness. She still couldn't understand how she'd
failed in her mission to  assimilate this tiny vessel and its
imperfect inhabitants. It was a mystery how  easily she had been
distracted from her goal by a single unfamiliar voice.

The tenor of Chakotay's thoughts differed from anything she had
experienced in  her years as a drone. He had cut through the others'
presence like a legendary  siren, his song rising above them all to
beckon her to her doom. He touched the  soul of Annika, long-abandoned
and buried but still clinging to some dim memory  of uniqueness.
Chakotay's...individuality...had stirred something in her, and in
that moment of weakness she had lost everything. Her Collective, her
purpose,  her place in the universe.

Her home.

Now she was cut off from all she had known, adrift in hostile waters
with  neither compass nor sextant, and no safe harbor in sight.

As the cargo bay door slid open Seven dismissed her musings as
irrelevant and  focused her mind on the welcoming blankness of her
coming regeneration cycle.

She stopped short at the sight of a figure standing before her alcove.

---

Commander Chakotay was the last person Seven expected to see. His
hostility  toward the Borg had been obvious from the moment they met.
He had never trusted  the Borg to keep their word, breaking Captain
Janeway's agreement the second the  Collective tried to alter the
terms. She suspected his main regret in  exterminating the drones that
had transferred to Voyager was that she had not  died with the rest.

Strangely though, Seven never sensed any of those negative feelings
directed  toward her during their link. He had seemed to genuinely
want to reach her, to  know her, his own aura warm and caring.

Of course, once he got what he wanted---Seven incapacitated---he was
gone from  her mind like the rest. Leaving her empty and alone.

In the first weeks of her re-established humanity, the commander had
continued  to be openly distrustful. But he seemed to have mellowed in
the last few days,  providing Seven with duty assignments and giving
her opportunities to interact  with the crew.

Not that the crew particularly desired to interact with *her*.

In any case, his attitude toward her was irrelevant. Seven was now a
member of  Voyager's Collective, and he was second in its hierarchy.
By the protocols she-- -they all---lived by, she was at his coommand.

As he turned at the sound of her entrance Seven noted the sharpness of
his  profile, and how different his face looked when seen in full.

Chakotay's dark, expressive eyes, as well as the tightened muscles of
his mouth  and shoulders, conveyed tension. She straightened her spine
another millimeter  or two in reaction and gave a nod of
acknowledgement. "Commander."

"Seven of Nine." The reply was just as formal; even so, Seven couldn't
help note  the tone and timbre of Chakotay's voice. It had
a...texture, a softness, that  was pleasant to the ear. She was
surprised to witness a slight hesitation before  he continued, "I
wondered if I may speak with you a moment."

Seven clasped her hands behind her back at parade rest. "Proceed."

"Yes, well." Chakotay cleared his throat. One tawny hand rose to tug
at his ear.  Seven simply waited until he took a deep breath and
spoke. "I wanted to  apologize."

Confusion and surprise disturbed the calm order of Seven's thoughts.
Based on  the evidence of their past dealings she had expected a
lecture on her behavior,  a reiteration of protocols, even a homily on
the joys of individuality as the  Captain and the holographic doctor
were wont to subject her to.

But an apology? That was not a permutation she had considered.
"Apologies are  irrelevant," she intoned in proper Borg fashion. Then,
intrigued in spite of  herself, her stance and voice softened. Her
"Elaborate" came out closer to a  request than she originally planned.

"I've been rather hard on you since the Doc released you from Sickbay,
Seven.  Once you were severed from the Collective, I shouldn't have
continued to react  to you as if you were still a Borg. You deserved
to be given the benefit of the  doubt, the same as any other Voyager
crewmember. And for that I'm sorry."

He too relaxed slightly, his eyes twinkling as if inviting her to see
the humor  of the situation. Her lips instinctively quirked in
response to Chakotay's own  curving into a half-smile, the anomalous
indentations on his face known as  "dimples" briefly making their
presence known as he continued, "I'm afraid in  this case my
Borg-blinders kept me from seeing that 'ex' marked the spot."

Strange, that her facial muscles seemed so primed to smile in this
man's  presence, when they had not done so for almost two decades.
Seven again resisted  the urge to display enjoyment, but she knew her
own eyes reflected his pleasure  in the badinage. "It is interesting
that you limit your apology to recent  encounters." She arched a brow.
"Am I to conclude you view your rudeness prior  to my joining the crew
as above reproach?"

Those brown eyes brightened further in appreciation of Seven's
riposte. "Of  course. My attitude was entirely appropriate to the
situation. In fact, I  consider anything less than shooting you on
sight the height of restraint."

Seven glanced down, again fighting that unfamiliar twitch to her lips.
Her hands  dropped to her sides, mirroring his pose. She idly
reflected on how odd it was  that their proximity to each other had
not altered a single millimeter, yet the  distance between them had
lessened just the same. "Then I accept your  apology...and duly
appreciate the magnitude of your earlier control."

"I'm glad to hear it." Chakotay's demeanor altered slightly, becoming
at once  more serious and more openly concerned. "How are you settling
in?" he asked  softly.

Seven stiffened, unwilling to delve into the morass of emotions she'd
experienced since she awakened in Sickbay with a weakened body and
isolated  mind. "The process is...ongoing."

"I understand." His knowing gaze considered her. "I tried to tell the
Captain  that given a choice, you would probably have wanted to go
back."

With those words, in that moment, Seven realized that Chakotay alone
of all the  beings on Voyager had some clue to how she was feeling.
The powerful sense of  belonging, the seductive lure of submerging the
individual will in the flood of  the group mind. The terrible
vulnerability of singularity. She'd experienced  glimpses of his own
time in a gestalt---a smaller community not connected to the  rest of
the Borg. The memories were tinged with emotions she was just
beginning  to recognize---the passion and joy discovered in the
camaraderie warring with  fear and anger at the violation and
manipulation of his consciousness.

Seven pondered what it had cost him to willingly join the Borg again,
however  briefly. To plunge into that sea of whispers to reach out to
her and pull her  from the Collective to become an individual once
more.

She wondered whether he ever felt the loneliness of the isolated mind.

"According to the Captain, my wants in this case are irrelevant." She
winced at  the bitterness of her own tone.

An awkward silence fell between them. Seven was startled when Chakotay
closed  the gap, one hand lightly resting on her shoulder. The warmth
of his touch was  shocking, in both the change in temperature and the
unfamiliar sensation. "I'm  sorry," he murmured before dropping his
arm abruptly, as if suddenly regretting  his violation of her space.
He stepped back and turned, moving across the room.  "I made some
adjustments down here that I thought might make things easier for
you."

Again, Seven was thrown off-guard by the brief moment of rapport
between them,  and by Chakotay's apparent consideration of her
predicament. She followed the  commander's powerful figure down an
aisle, wondering what he considered an  appropriate form of aid in her
efforts to adapt.

They reached a corner of the cargo bay not far from the alcoves.
Technologically  enhanced memory functions and spatial observations
rendered a query in the form  of a statement. "The orientation of
these shelves has been altered, and panels  added to the back of the
framework."

"Correct." Chakotay paused by the last section and indicated a small
panel set  into the wall. "This has been coded specifically to you,
though the standard  security/medical/command overrides are still in
place." He tapped in his own  command code. Suddenly one section of
shelving swung outward, creating an  opening.

At his gesture, Seven preceded him into the oddly concealed space. The
"door"  shut behind them.

It was small, but not claustrophobically so. The panel-lined shelves
formed  eight-foot barriers on two sides, with the cargo bay walls
completing the  rectangle. Contrasting with the uniform gray of the
environment was a large,  overstuffed wing chair upholstered in a
pattern dominated by deep burgundy. A  few pillows of crimson and gold
were tucked against the back, while a throw in a  complementary
tapestry style adorned the back and top. A small table/cabinet  rested
by one plump arm. On it sat a teacup and saucer, a small ceramic dish
holding a spoon and mesh strainer, a teapot, a redwood box and a book.
A real  book, an antique-looking hardback covered in stiff navy weave
embossed with  gold. The standard lighting had also been replaced by a
wall sconce, its amber  light perfectly angled to fall across the
chair.

Stunned, Seven took in the clearly non-utilitarian furnishings. She
looked  toward her commanding officer for some explanation and found
Chakotay watching  *her*, a hint of anxiety or uncertainty clouding
his features.

Nervousness seemed to make him restless, as he indicated two doors set
in the  cargo bay walls. "I've had a small lavatory/sonic shower
installed here, and a  closet for your clothes and things." He looked
away with a slight shrug, his  tone distinctly offhand. "I thought you
shouldn't have to go to the gym or use  the communal facilities, even
if you don't need a whole cabin to sleep in."

He moved over to the table and opened the box. Scents of fruits and
herbs teased  Seven's nostrils over the short distance. "I checked
with the Doc," Chakotay  hastily assured her, "and all of these herbal
tea blends are safe for you to  consume." His fingers, long and strong
and golden-brown, ran across the small  packets. "They're arranged by
the power of their scents and flavors. You may  want to start on the
milder ones until your palate adjusts."

Seven's continued silence seemed to unnerve the usually unflappable
commander,  as Chakotay abruptly closed the box and made an
uncharacteristically jerky  gesture to indicate the room. "If you have
any changes that you'd like to make  don't hesitate to mention them. I
just thought---well, I figured you should have  a place of your own."

When Chakotay laid a hand on the chair, Seven suddenly noticed that
the  upholstery showed some slight imperfections, likely indications
of prior use. He  must have noticed her evaluation because his fingers
tightened on the fabric.  "I'm sorry the chair isn't quite new. We've
had to cut replicator rations  severely until all the repairs are
completed."

Seven detected a slight reddening on the flesh above his cheekbones.
"If you  don't like this chair, as soon as we have enough resources
you can create your  own and I'll take this one back to my quarters.
Um, would you like to try it  out?" He held out a hand to her.

She stared at the offered member, thinking again of their time in the
link.  Hesitantly, she reached out and let her palm rest against his,
narrowed eyes  waiting for him to flinch as his fingers closed over
the Borg metal still  embedded in the back of her hand.

But instead his expression simply relaxed with relief as he ushered
her onto the  seat, moving pillows and subtly encouraging her to shift
her limbs. It was  surprisingly easy to sink into the cushions, some
long-forgotten instinct  causing her to curl up her legs and angle
into a corner formed by the chair back  and one of the wide wings. It
felt...cozy, sparking some hazy recollection of  rainy days and
sheltering arms and hands cradling ceramic mugs, steaming and
fragrant.

Seven's thoughts were interrupted by the brush of Chakotay's fingers
once more  as he laid the book in her hands. She automatically read
the title, one finger  tracing the flowing gold script. "The Last
Unicorn," she said, "by Peter S.  Beagle." She looked up at Chakotay,
struck by his renewed serenity, as if her  accepting his gift have
given him some measure of peace in exchange. "Does this  mythical
creature hold some significance?" she asked, brow furrowing in
puzzlement.

Again Chakotay's cheeks colored. "It's a story I remembered from my
boyhood,  about a creature who is forced to become human. She's
separated from her people,  and changed so much by her experiences she
wonders if she'll ever fit in again."  He looked away, the flush
increasing. "It reminded me of you."

Again, Seven had that feeling of kinship, as if she wasn't entirely
alone in the  vastness of the universe, in the silence of her mind.
And on some level, Seven  felt contentment for the first time since
she had accepted her exile from the  Collective.

Safe harbor at last.

"Well, I guess I've delayed your regeneration cycle long enough,
Seven."  Chakotay made his way to the matching panel on this side of
the shelving and  activated it.

Chakotay was nearly through the opening when Seven felt sure enough of
her voice  to speak. "Commander," she called.

He paused and looked back. "Yes, Seven?"

"I will not be requiring another chair. This one is...sufficient."
Unconsciously  she grasped the book in her hands, feeling its texture,
reassuring herself of  its solidity, its reality. The fact of the
gift, and its significance. She said  softly, "Thank you."

Chakotay searched her face a moment, and what he read there made his
own  brighten into another of those surprisingly boyish smiles.
"You're welcome," he  replied, and left.

Seven pulled down the throw and tucked it around her legs, sat back
and noted  the way the light turned the cream-colored pages golden as
she opened her book.

Her regeneration cycle could wait.

---

The End