The BLTS Archive - Appleseed
by Angelina Vansen (angelina@gunmetaldark.com)

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Only in my arms are you appeased. I rock you and shush you and you're
my baby. You're the only one I'm ever likely to have. Sometimes I even
sing to you, Annika and Kathryn's lullaby. You know the words, you
sing with me. How disconcerting, my twenty-eight year old baby girl,
softly singing herself to sleep.

We rock together, you know the rhythm of it now. It's always the same,
whether in my Ready Room, at your station on the bridge or here in my
quarters. You're still crying, but I hardly notice. The sound of
Annika's sobbing has become the song of my ship.

You raise your beautiful face to mine, and I know what you want. The
rose-white softness of your lips on mine. You want my mouth and my
tongue, on yours, sweet like fondant, sickly and wrong. Sorry darling,
but I won't. I think I would choke if I kissed you now. It's not just
the sin; you look disgusting, Annika. Full of mucus and damp with
panic.

I hold your face to my breasts and kiss the top of those blonde
tresses. I know, sweetheart, we have had some good times, sometimes. A
picnic on the holodeck, once, when you were having a good day. We went
to the beach, and I watched you build a castle, precisely, and splash
your feet in the shallow little waves. Of course, you never let go of
my hand, but for a few moments, I managed to convince myself that it
was because you loved me, not because you were too afraid to let go.

It's the dark days, though, that I can't stand any more. Hours of
sobbing. Pleading with me. Take me back to the Borg, Kathryn. Activate
my transceiver, Kathryn, leave me, let them come and get me, Kathryn.
Over and over again. The violent suicide attempts, the violent
attempts to murder me. Breaking my cheekbone and then my arm. Two
ribs. Clinging to me in sickbay, your own wrists slashed and gushing,
refusing to let the Doctor treat you until he had healed me.

At night, I watch while you regenerate. In my quarters, because you
cannot bear the silence of the cargo bay, your long hair loose down
your back, colourless in the false night of my ship. By morning, I
already know you will be waiting by my bed. Watching for me to wake.

When I rise, you take my hand and we eat breakfast together. Then
you'll come gently to me, kneel in front of me and let me plait your
long golden hair, ready for work. It's impractical, really, all those
flaxen locks, longer than regulations allow. They hanging down to the
small of your back, but we can't cut it, because Annika doesn't like
to be touched by anyone but me, and God knows I couldn't do it.

When we walk down the corridor together, you are close to my back,
wanting to hold my hand but not daring to. Not on duty, Annika. Never
on duty. Crewmembers nod at us, and walk on by. The Captain and her
pet, her useless Borg pet.

On duty, you listlessly prod buttons by my side. Dressed in a uniform,
sitting to my right. You'd think you were catatonic sometimes,
darling. Unresponsive. If it weren't for the outbursts. Sometimes
genius: you'll calculate a perfect high-warp course-change in
microseconds and implement it while the rest of us sit there
open-mouthed. But mostly panic attacks, sweating, screaming. You'll
become convinced that Tuvok is staring at you, plotting, or that
Chakotay wants to rape me. I have to take you off the Bridge, away
from my crew and all their doubts in me. Into my Ready Room, and my
ears are full of your horrible sobbing once again. Oh, poor Annika, in
my arms, be my baby. Please don't cry. Then we'll go back to my
quarters and you'll make love to me.

It started as a punishment, but for me or you, I'm not sure. Kissing
your nerveless lips, your eyes are open. Watching me. I'd say you were
cool, but you're trembling like a leaf. Petrified. It doesn't stop me.
Christ I'm hateful. It doesn't even give me pause.

I make you lie on top of me and pleasure me, hands and mouth. I sob
and scream my pleasure, not caring, not caring. You bring me to a
cheerless climax and then follow me into the bathroom while I retch,
fetching cloths and towels. You don't ask why. Perhaps you even think
it's normal. Yes, everyone vomits after lovemaking, Annika. You don't
ever ask why I can't meet your eyes. You don't ever ask why I don't
pleasure you.

Oh, Annika, you're killing me. Two centimetres from my face all day,
always in torment. Chakotay's knowing looks, the humiliation. Should
have left you to them, shouldn't I? A statue of a woman in your Borg
armour, you once were beautiful. That bald, bloodless beauty that took
my breath away, right from the first. Strong and proud, one of many,
Seventh of Nine, selected for me. Just ripe for the plucking,
Katie-pie. Ready for you to use and destroy.

I nuzzle against your hair, sweet with my shampoo, freshly washed,
your plait long over your shoulder. I kiss your cheek, it smells of
powder. Chalky and plain. God I'm sorry, Annika. I can't do this any
more.

I soothe you. The backs of my fingers drifting, over your skin. I
sing, my voice out of tune, drowning with emotion. Your breath on my
neck, moist, still gasping. I slip the hypospray against your neck and
you don't even flinch. You trust me, Annika. Already I can feel your
muscles relaxing. You sniffle, and fall into my arms dizzily. Ssshh
now. Mama's Little Angel. Ssshh.

I hope you can't feel me doing this, Annika. I hope the dose was
strong enough. Your hair is soft; I stroke all the way down to the tip
of your plait. It's strong; your hair is thick. It goes around your
neck quite nicely, a spun-gold choker. How ironic.

I close my eyes and pull with all my might. I can't bear it any more,
my darling, I'm not strong enough to do this. You splutter,
strangling, struggling. That's why I had to trank you. You're too
strong. I open my eyes, wish I hadn't. Your face is terrible, eyes
bulging and crazed and your tongue hangs out, a long runner of spittle
hanging from the end. Don't want to think of you this way. Clawing at
your throat.

Shouldn't have looked. Oh, my poor darling, how you are suffering.
Darling, please stop this, please stop it. Please just be pretty and
perfect and dead. So I can mourn and love and move away from your
body, thrust out of my ship into the cold flawlessness of space. Baby,
I can't cope.

You fall and I catch you. Press a pillow across your dead face, just
to make sure. Kiss your tongue back into your mouth and close your
wild and staring eyes. Don't ever look at me with terror, darling.
It's me. I saved you. Only me.

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The End