The BLTS Archive - A Hand to Hold
by VoyagerBabe (voyagerbabe2000@hotmail.com)

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Inside a rather small nebula with the unassuming moniker LX-14772,
things continued pretty much as they had for the several million years
the deep-space phenomena had already been in existence. Chemicals
mixed, mingled, and reacted. Gasses combined with crystals of liquid
that had frozen in the cold of space. Radiation of a dozen types oozed
unseen from the mass, and energy danced among it all, like an
enthusiastic coach egging LX-14772 on to bigger and better things with
each lightning-like flare.

In the general scheme of the nebula's existence, this day was pretty
much like any other day. The intrusion into it was no larger
comparatively than a needle might be to a human being, and LX-14772
kept right on doing what it had done for countless eons.

Much to the annoyance of one B'Elanna Torres.

She slumped down in the seat of the Delta Flyer, her entire body and
manner united in one massive scowl. "It's revenge. It's got to be her
idea of revenge."

The blue eyes of the pilot turned to her, a faintly quizzical look to
them. "You are referring to the Captain?"

"Who else!" "There are a large number of other individuals on this
ship. Given your behavior as of late, many of them could have reason
to seek revenge. The Engineering staff in particular."

The scowl deepened, transforming itself into an all-out glower. "I'm
sorry that I haven't been a merry little ray of sunshine lately, but I
still think that Janeway did this to us because we've been the reason
behind more of her headaches than the rest of this God-forsaken
quadrant combined."

Seven nodded thoughtfully, and B'Elanna wondered if she really agreed,
or if the Borg was just formulating enough social skills to know when
it would be an extremely bad idea to pick a fight. ""Perhaps. Or
perhaps it is because we are the only two individuals with the
necessary engineering and scientific skills, combined with the
bio-electric resilience required to successfully complete this
mission."

The mission. The reason they were there, risking life and limb in a
nebula that was hostile both to human and alien biology, but by some
freakish chance of nature, left those of mixed race alone. The Doctor
said it was because of the specially mutated antibodies present in
dual-species blood. She thought it was part of the grand plot the
entire universe had formed against her.

It was a very subtle plot, really. It started with something small and
innocuous...a black and red pile of cloth in the mathematical dead
center of her quarters. Tom Paris' uniform. The uniform that she had
told him no less than a few thousand times belonged in the recycler,
not the floor. The plot then escalated into a lengthy fight that
somehow quickly departed the subject of the uniform, ending in a
flurry of insults, hurt feelings, and a broken vase. That had
continued on to an alien race, who attacked when Voyager crossed an
invisible boundary into their space because the only pilot on the ship
who might have spotted the thin particle line was late for his shift,
fighting with her. Thankfully, their weapons did little actual damage,
but still managed to cause their deuterium supply to begin to rapidly
neutralize.

Which had led to LX-14772 and her present companion. The disgustingly
beautiful, utterly infuriating, Holier-than-thou Seven of Goddamn
Nine.

"The weather is lovely today."

B'Elanna's head jerked up from where it had been drooping sullenly to
her chest. "Excuse me?"

Seven looked at her, head slightly cocked like a dog listening to a
far-off sound. "The Doctor informed me at our last social skills
lesson that during a lull in the conversation, it is customary to
'break the ice' with an irrelevant comment, usually about the
weather."

"Seven, we're in space," she pointed out, "we don't have weather."

"On the contrary. I have noticed a .0028 variance in the humidity and
temperature of the ship from day to day. This could be construed as
weather."

B'Elanna felt like walking out the airlock and ending it all. It
wouldn't be a bad way to do. The Delta Flyer did have lovely airlocks.
"God, I wish Tom were here," she moaned. He, at least, knew when to
leave her alone. "I thought that you said that Mr. Paris was a
'disgusting, inconsiderate, juvenile pig' and that he expected you to
'wait on him hand and foot' as well as copulating with him at regular
intervals."

B'Elanna closed her eyes and gently thudded her head against the
headrest. It was really a rather soothing rhythm, and it took her mind
off the massive headache beginning to build. She rubbed at her
temples, wishing she had something to do other than just sit here with
the galaxy's worst conversationalist. Unfortunately, the entire
procedure was automated until the final step, the delicate process of
fuel collection kept out of the realm of human or non-human error.

She picked up an empty data PADD and turned to face Seven. "Look," she
explained tersely, "I've got a report to do here. So why don't you
regenerate, or contemplate your existence, or whatever else it is that
Borg do on their time off for the next hour and a half. Just as long
as it doesn't involve me."

With that, she swiveled the chair back harshly, kicking her feet up
against a locked portion of console as she began to write her monthly
engineering report, despite the month being less than a third over.
There really wasn't all that much to write about.

Less than a paragraph had been tapped out when she got something to
write about. The Delta Flyer lurched violently, and she went tumbling
out of her chair. Cursing fluently, she pulled herself back up,
unlocking the panels and scanning the readings. "What the hell just
happened, Seven?!"

"We entered into a pocket of extreme Theta radiation and Ziamine gas.
The hull is de-stabilizing." The Borg's fingers flew over her console,
attempting to keep the tiny craft on a stable course.

B'Elanna saw the bulkheads beginning to ripple under the strain,
twisting and puckering in ways that walls were not supposed to do. She
didn't need to look at the screaming red alarms of the internal
sensors to know that they didn't have long to live if they didn't do
something. "Why didn't the sensors catch it?!," she shouted.

"I don't know."

"Can you get us back to Voyager?" B'Elanna saw a portion of the wall
begin to bubble outward in the aft compartment, and she knew that the
weakened metal was just begging to breach. She tore a panel off one of
the storage compartments, hastily welding it into place to form a
makeshift patch, but as soon as she finished that spot, another began
to groan and bend.

"Negative. But there is a G-Class planet with a small moon within this
nebula. I can land us within one of the caverns on the moon, where we
should be safe from further hull degradation.

B'Elanna braced her heels against the deck, hauling back to rip
another panel from it's mountings. There were two more would-be
breaches to seal. "I don't care where you put us, just get us out of
this damn thing before I run out of things to patch with!"

The Delta Flyer looked like a wounded bird as it lurched and dipped
it's way through the nebula's swirling cloud of colorful energies
towards the small, rocky moon. The hull was visibly trembling now,
bubbling and churning like some strange metallic stew. Nonetheless,
the tiny craft pushed on ward, finally circling the moon and beginning
its descent.

The landing was not to be a smooth one. As the Flyer limped down
towards one of the large caverns, the strain on the right nacelle
support became too much for the suddenly-pliable metal. The engine
tore free, slamming the Flyer cruelly into the surface of the moon. It
lay, crumpled and badly wound on the edge of the cavern's rim, looking
like a child's discarded toy, parts of the weakened superstructure
having flattened out like pancakes under the tremendous force of
impact. Then it trembled, and slowly, almost gently, tipped over the
edge and plummeted down into the cavern that was now both shelter and
tomb.

Inside what was left of the Delta Flyer, the air was thick with smoke,
and the only illumination was provided by a few flickering remnants of
life in the shattered panels, and the light that filtered down from
the nebula itself. The chairs were torn from their mountings, one
tossed atop the crushed helm, as thick wads of burnt cabling and other
sections of the Flyer's innards dangled from the ceiling and walls.

Slowly, Seven returned to consciousness. Her first realization was
that she was blind.

No, not blind. Half blind.

Her Borg optical implant had ceased to function, along with every
other piece of Borg technology in her body. Her Borg-enhanced hand
refused to move, paralyzed in a strangely claw-like posture, and she
couldn't access any of the vast knowledge stored in her Borg memory
processors, leaving her with a feeling of sudden mental incompetence.

Her entire body was swept with an overpowering weakness, and she knew
that was the sudden strain of her fledgling human physiology trying to
pick up the load that the mechanical augmentation had previously
carried. Seven's mind raced as she lay beneath what remained of her
station. She made no move to rise, unsure of how to work this suddenly
foreign body she was housed within. Unsure if it would even function
without the Borg technology that had suddenly become inert, from her
large cranial implants to the microscopic nanoprobes in her blood.

Could she survive like this? Seven tried to recall what she could of
how the implants handled her body's functions. Respiration, major
neural function, and cardiac action was all biological, along with
gross motor skills and some sensory and verbal skills. She could
survive for the time being - albeit in a vastly disabled manner - but
she knew that she had at most 18 hours to get the implants
re-activated before she would die.

Best just to lay there until then, she decided. Conserve her energy,
wait for rescue. She had already launched a distress beacon when the
trouble first began, so all she had now was the endless, unknown hours
of waiting. Suddenly, she heard a small noise. A movement, a whimper
of pain, and she remembered that she was not the only passenger on the
ill-fated craft. Lieutenant B'Elanna Torres.

Breathing hard from the sudden exertion of her biological systems, she
pulled her way along the canted deck, crawling uncertainly like a
large and rather demented infant. Her human hand encountered something
warm and wet on the deck, and she raised it, curiously examining the
substance that coated her palm in the faint, intermittent light. It
was dark red in color, rather thick and sticky.

Blood.

Seven heard another whimper, followed by a longer groan of obvious
agony, and she allowed the sounds and the blood to lead her to the
engineer. B'Elanna lay against what had once been the side bulkhead,
now crumpled and pooled to be a mere one and a half meters high and
merged with the deck. She was in an oddly reclining pose, her legs
straight in front of her, her back cushioned by the malformed
bulkhead, as if the Flyer was trying to make up for what it had done
to her.

Even in the meager light, Seven could see that the other woman was
deathly pale, her eyes wide, but hazy with pain as her small body
trembled violently. Blood trickled from her mouth and nose in dark
rivulets, and coated her hands where they clutched spasmodically at
her abdomen. With surprising gentleness, Seven moved them aside, but
could not suppress a gasp of revulsion at what she saw.

There, deeply impaled in B'Elanna's gut, was a large, jagged shard of
torn bulkhead. The panel she had been trying to remove for yet another
patch had ripped in half during the crash, cruelly betraying her with
this horrific wound.

Forcing herself to turn away from the blood and torn tissue that had
been the Chief Engineer, Seven began a frantic hunt around the
wreckage of the Flyer. She felt helpless, at loss for her superhuman
eyesight that would have allowed her to find what she was looking for
in a matter of seconds, instead of crudely poking around on hands and
knees, wasting a good five minutes and slicing her palms to ribbons in
the process. Finally, though, her quest brought her to a medkit and
tricorder, and she hurried back to the wounded officer.

A hypo of simple painkillers and coagulants brought immediate relief
to the worst of the terrible pain and most of the bleeding, but Seven
couldn't stop her bloodied hands from trembling as she read the
tricorder's readouts. The bulkhead fragment had caused massive
internal bleeding and damage, and if B'Elanna didn't get to a surgical
facility within the hour, the Lieutenant would die right there in
front of her.

And the worst part about it, the part that was tearing into her as
surely as the duranium hull had torn into B'Elanna, was that there was
nothing she could do about it.

She was utterly helpless.

She was still looking at the readings when B'Elanna stirred. Her eyes,
though they had been open the entire time, began to clear, and the
dark, pain-filled pools slowly focused on her. Bleeding lips parted,
revealing red-stained teeth, and a hoarse whisper emerged, so stilted
and ragged with pain that Seven almost didn't understand her at first.
"I ... hurt."

"That is understandable," she replied. Seven tried to remember what
Mr. Paris had told her when he was instructing her in First Aid. She
had chosen the young medic for that instruction, as a poll of
crewmembers had shown him to be their preferred healer in
non-emergency situations, and she recalled what he had told her about
'beside manner.' Looking the injured woman straight in the eyes, she
softened her tone, trying to 'be gentle.' "Your abdominal cavity has
been impaled by a portion of bulkhead. Your spleen is ruptured, and
your liver and diaphragm severely lacerated. You have lost
approximately two pints of blood, and you are continuing to bleed
internally. I estimate probability of survival to be extremely low if
we do not get you back to sickbay within the next hour."

There was a pause, then slowly, B'Elanna repeated her previous
statement, eyes pleading. "I ... hurt".

This time Seven understood. She reached for the medkit, fumbling for a
moment with the medicine ampoule before her weakened, uncoordinated
fingers managed to load it into the hypospray. She checked the dosage
against the tricorder's medical database, then pressed it to the
engineer's neck. "Is that sufficient?"

Seven could almost see the pain fall away from B'Elanna's face, and
she gave a small sigh of relief as her lips moved to something that
was almost a smile. "Thank you." Her voice was still weak and shaky,
but Seven understood her easily now, and she nodded, feeling suddenly
embarrassed by the intense gratitude visible in the dark eyes.

"You are ... welcome."

Now that the pain had receded, the sharp intellect of a Chief Engineer
had resurfaced, and she seemed to sense that something was different
about Seven. "You're hurt too." It wasn't a question.

"My Borg implants were rendered inert when I was struck by a
electrostatic charge during the crash. However, I believe I can
survive up to 18 hours in this condition, though my efficiency has
been greatly compromised." She tried to smile, remembering that Mr.
Paris had said that as a facial expression, smiles were 'very
reassuring.' "Do not concern yourself with me. I am Borg."

B'Elanna almost laughed at that, but it came out a harsh cough that
brought up a mouthful of blood instead. Seven wiped it away with cloth
torn from the sleeve of her unitard, and was surprised to see that the
crimson-stained lips were smiling. "Not now you aren't," B'Elanna
pointed out.

Seven began to reply that she was still Borg, despite her
non-functional implants, but just then, the last flicker of power in
the Delta Flyer died, plunging them into near-total darkness. Only the
largest shapes were visible in the faint light that filtered down from
the nebula, shadowy forms barely outlined in the inky darkness.
Carefully, Seven eased herself down beside her injured companion,
resting against the bulkhead as she tried to avoid the now-invisible
but still deadly shrapnel that littered the deck.

Having done so, she was reaching to retrieve the medkit and tricorder
when she heard a voice. It was small and frightened, like a child's,
and it took her a moment to realize that it belonged to Lieutenant
Torres. "Seven?"

Medkit in hand, she leaned back against the misshapen bulkhead,
closing her eyes as she lay her head back wearily. "I am here."

"I don't want to die."

"That is a common trait. I have observed that few biological
individuals have a desire for their existence to terminate."

There was a silence, and then a heavy release of breath before
B'Elanna spoke again, her voice stronger this time, closer to what
Seven was accustomed to. "Not me. I've never really cared before. I
just thought if I died, I died. That was all there was to it."

Seven frowned and turned her head towards B'Elanna, though she knew
that the motion could not be seen. "Excluding individual cultural
mythology concerning the 'afterlife' that *is* all there is to it."

"Not like that. I mean, I never cared if I died. I took risks, I did
things that I knew could get me killed, but I thought that it wouldn't
matter if I did. Because..." Her voice trailed off, then returned
sharply. "Never mind."

Curious, Seven moved slightly closer, "Because?" There was a sharp
expulsion of breath, then the words came so quickly that Seven almost
didn't catch them all. "Because I didn't think anyone would care, all
right?! It would be one of those stupid funerals where everyone tries
to come up with something nice to say, but it's all the same old crap
about 'she was a good officer' because there's nothing real to say,
Joe Carey gets promoted, and no one cries, although everyone tries
to because they don't want to look cold."

Seven felt an odd sensation. If she had more experience with human
vernacular, she would have described it as a chill running down her
spine, and she felt herself shiver. What Lieutenant Torres had just
articulated was a possibility she herself had often wondered about.
She knew that she was a valuable member of the crew for her Borg
knowledge and technical skills, but if her existence was to terminate,
would anyone experience a personal feeling of loss?

Would anyone be 'sad' as she had been when One died? She didn't think
so. No one seemed to enjoy being around her much, and outside of a
professional or instructional capacity, she was usually alone.

Perhaps they would both die. Would anyone mourn?

"You are fortunate, Lieutenant." Seven's voice was hushed, but in the
tomb-like quiet of the wounded Delta Flyer, it seemed to resound.

"And why is that?" The other woman gave off a short, bitter chuckle,
"I mean, I don't know about you, Seven, but having a part of a
bulkhead jammed in my stomach and bleeding by the liter isn't my idea
of good luck."

"Because your previous fears about termination are unfounded. If you
do die, I believe that you would be greatly missed. Ensign Paris in
particular appears to have formed an extremely strong emotional
attachment to you." She spoke the words in her normal, matter-of-fact
tone, but they served as a harsh reminder of her own loneliness, and
Seven hoped that B'Elanna couldn't detect the growing morbidity of her
thoughts.

She didn't seem to, occupied by her own doubtlessly unpleasant
musings. "That's part of why I don't want to die anymore," B'Elanna
admitted softly, and Seven heard a definite quaver to her voice, as
though there were tears forming unseen in the darkness. "Because
there's someone who..." There was a harsh catch of breath, then a
sound strikingly like a sob before she continued, "Someone who loves
me now. I never had that before."

"I would think that would be considered a highly valuable commodity,"
Seven agreed.

"It is."

There was nothing more Seven knew of to say in response to that
comment. So she said nothing. Time moved with agonizing slowness, and
robbed of the precision of her internal chronometer, she imagined
hours to have passed, while in truth it was a mere fifteen minutes.
Lieutenant Torres' breathing and her own were the only sounds in the
darkness as they awaited rescue, and the former was becoming more and
more ragged and shallow as time passed. She estimated that it would
soon stop all together, and she would be alone.

She had begun to grow accustomed to the quiet, and was startled when
Lieutenant Torres spoke again, her voice carrying the same jagged
weakness as her breathing had. "Seven?"

"Yes?"

"Will you do me a favor?"

"If you are experiencing renewed pain, I can re-administer additional
doses of medication, but there is no other medical assistance I can
provide you."

"It does hurt like hell," B'Elanna admitted, "but I was actually
wondering if you would record something for me on the tricorder before
I die."

Seven sat up straight at that statement, turning slightly to face the
engineer. "We might still be rescued. Your death is not certain." She
surprised herself with the forcefulness of that statement. Acceptance
of the probable was efficient ... why did the statement bother her so
much?

"True, but it's likely. Will you do it?"

There was a brief pause as she considered it, then, "Yes. What is it
you wish me to record?"

"I've got all my personal good-byes on record, but I want to write my
will."

The metal implant on Seven's forehead dipped slightly as she frowned,
"I thought that it was customary for all Starfleet personnel to have
such documents on record."

"It is, but mine hasn't been updated in almost four years. There've
been ... a few changes in my life since then."

"Your sexual relationship with Ensign Paris." Seven made the statement
frankly as she opened the tricorder, and in the meager light the
instrument added to their surroundings, she could make out a small
smile on pale lips.

"Yeah. Things like that." She looked towards Seven and the tricorder,
"Are you ready there?"

Seven touched the appropriate keys and the small device blinked to
show it was prepared for an audio recording. "You may begin."

B'Elanna took a deep breath, then closed her eyes, leaning back to get
as comfortable as she could given the circumstances. "Last will and
testament, Chief Engineer Lieutenant B'Elanna Torres, USS Voyager."
She laughed slightly, but her injuries took exception to the action,
and she grimaced in pain. "Never thought I'd have a fancy title like
that to put on one of these." There was a pause, then she continued in
the same somber tone she had begun the recording in.

"This is made on Stardate 56735.3 and applicable from this point
forward. I am of sound mind, although I can't really say the same for
my body, considering that there is a half-meter of duranium sticking
out of my stomach at the moment. Hurts like hell, and I'm probably
going to die soon, so I guess I need to get this out of the way.

Captain: I don't really have anything to give you, but in a way, it's
all yours. I know we haven't exactly gotten a long too well sometimes,
but I still admire your courage and strength in getting us this far. I
want you to know that even during the times I was ready to imbed you
in the nearest bulkhead, I never forgot that your trust is the reason
I'm the Chief Engineer instead of just another engine-room flunky.
Thanks.

Actually, come to think of it, I do have something you might like.
Private replicator file Torres-996-warpfuel-beta. It's my special
coffee blend for those nights when I'm on my third shift in a row and
you give me yet another impossible project. Have yourself a cup with
my compliments, then get out and push ... we'll be home in no time.

Chakotay: You've been like the father I never had. You taught me to
find peace, and if it weren't for you, I know I wouldn't have lived to
see today. Not just because the Cardies would have gotten me six years
ago either, but because I would have destroyed myself with my own
guilt.

I want you to have your medicine bundle back. Yeah, I kept it. Bet
you're surprised after what I tried to do to my spirit guide! But take
it, and remember me. I also want you to have my plants. You were right
about those too ... having something to care for and watch grow taught
me patience and gentleness when I needed them most. Take care of them
for me ... and know that even from wherever it is you think my spirit
has gone now, I'll miss you.

Tuvok: You can have Ensign Vorik. With my compliments. Just watch out
for him in about 5 years ... he tends to get a bit overeager.

Neelix: My entire catalogue of personal replicator files. I know
you'll probably be a bit disappointed ... as a half-Klingon, I'm sure
you were expecting a lot of lovely moving entrees, but you'll have to
make do with quesadillas, refritos, and flan. Please, Neelix, consider
it my last request to you that you serve those things at my funeral
... without any leola root. In anything.

Doc: Watch out for Tom, will you? I give him to you to patch up every
time he goes on one of those crazy away missions. Make sure he lives a
long, full life before he comes to see me.

Harry..." Her voice trailed off, and Seven looked up in alarm when she
heard the Lieutenant begin to make strange gagging noises. Tracks of
excess optical lubricant had spilled out onto the engineer's cheeks,
and her small body was heaving with repressed sobs as she fought back
the emotion threatening to overwhelm her.

Unsure of what to do, Seven merely watched with and odd fascination as
the Lieutenant's fight stressed her already weakened body, staining
her fingers with  fresh, glistening blood where they clutched at her
abdomen. "Are you able to continue?"

Eyes bright with lubricant, B'Elanna looked up towards Seven and
nodded, biting her lip as she regained control. "Yes ... yes ... I'm
sorry."

Seven noted that there was a gasping quality to her voice now, and she
knew that her internal injuries were continuing to take their toll,
exacerbated by the recent bout of emotional turmoil. She had, by
Seven's estimates, less than fifteen minutes to live if they were not
rescued.

Placing a firm grip on her own feelings, she raised the tricorder to
take best advantage of B'Elanna's flagging voice. "Continue."

She began to dictate again, her words occasionally interrupted by
sharp intakes of breath. "I want you to have my bat'leth, Harry. Use
it ... to play with Tom on the holodeck. I know he likes ... that
program, and I think ... you'd be better at it than you think. You're
a tough ' little bastard now, Starfleet ... almost Klingon sometimes
in your bravery ... but still ... a nice guy.

You can also have any of the little sculptures or art from my quarters
... Kahless knows they were mostly from you anyway. You've got taste
... something I'll probably never have.

And Tom..." Seven was startled by the sudden change that came over her
shipmate with those words. Her face contorted as if in exquisite
agony, and a distinct trembling crept into her voice as the optical
lubricant began to flow freely again, spilling from her eyes to pour
down her cheeks. "Oh, God, Tom ... I'm so sorry for this. We were just
... just getting our lives back ... on track and now ... I go and die
on you. I love you, Tom ... I wish I could do something ... anything
to change this ... but it's too late. Too late.

You can have anything, Tom. If ... if I haven't promised it to someone
else already ... it's yours. If you...don't want it ... recycle it for
credits and use those ... for whatever you want. And please, I know
you ... and I know when something hurts you, that you close up ... and
you try to hide it ... by hurting yourself and pretending ... that
nothing matters any more. Please, if you really loved me ... live your
life without me ... and don't do anything to destroy ... the new life
you've made for yourself."

Her words cut off again, but this time it was physical, not emotional
pain that had seized her. The Lieutenant's eyes flew wide, and she
gasped in pain. "Oh ... oh God, Seven," she forced through clenched
teeth, "It hurts!"

Seven paused briefly, then shook her head, dispelling the brief
uncertainty as she reached for the hypo again. She was shocked to find
her arm gripped in a surprisingly firm hold, preventing it from
picking up the medicine.

"No!"

"But you are in pain." "Doesn't ... matter ... medicine would ...
would put me under if you gave ... enough to stop the pain. Must ...
stay alert. Must ... finish..."

"That is inefficient. You should allow me to ease your discomfort."

"This isn't 'discomfort', Seven .... oh DAMN!!" B'Elanna abruptly
doubled over, a terrible, inhuman scream issuing from her throat. It
quickly dissolved into harsh, choked sobs and cries, and Seven pulled
back, unsure of what to do in the face of such agony. She watched,
helpless to stop the engineer's suffering as the pain beat against the
smaller woman like a relentless tide.

Finally, the cries, the spasms, and the choking, pitiful gulps for air
subsided, and B'Elanna sank limply back against the bulkhead. It was
all but over now, and they both knew it. As brave as her spirit might
be, her body had been ravaged terribly, and it was beyond hope. Her
face was almost serene now, though her eyes were still glazed with a
pain that had grown too intense for her weakened body to fight, and
she turned her gaze to Seven. B'Elanna's voice was the barest of
whispers, and her words could barely be made out. "Seven ... will
you... hold my hand? I don't want to be ... left ... alone."

The surprise must have shown on Seven's face at this odd request, but
she did as she had been told, taking the cold, limp hand with
surprising care. She held it as one might hold an object of delicate
porcelain, something rare and fragile that might shatter at the
slightest mistake.

"I will not leave you."

"Promise?"

"I promise. Do you wish me to do it like this?"

Dark eyes fluttered closed, and a small, contented smile touched the
dying woman's lips. "Like that," she murmured, "I just don't want ...
to be ... alone ..." The last word faded away as though carried off on
a distant breeze, and a shudder went through the compact figure. It
lasted only a moment, then she went as limp as a rag doll, though
still with that smile of quiet satisfaction on her face.

--

The rescue crew arrived four hours later, by way of transporter relay.
They were dressed in environmental suits to protect them against the
dangerous nebula, and after setting up  the pattern enhancers around
the two women, were able to return them to the safety of Voyager's
sickbay within moments.

But it was a rescue that, though successful, came too late. By the
time the blue shimmer of the transporter sang into the darkened Flyer,
it was three hours and fifty-eight minutes too late to do anything to
save Lieutenant Torres. Her body had grown cold and stiff in the
chilling atmosphere of the dead spacecraft, but one white hand was
still clutched resolutely by the survivor, a woman who refused to
release her hold until they had arrived back on the ship and the
Doctor could take over for her.

As she lay down on the biobed to have her own injuries accessed, Seven
of Nine smiled. It was a strange smile, oddly mirroring that still
visible on the body of the Chief Engineer, but unlike hers, it was not
a smile of contentment.

Lieutenant Torres had not been left alone. She had fulfilled her
promise.

Yet looking at the face of the medic that tended to her, looking at
his ashen skin, the heartbreak visible in his blue eyes, the sudden
age etched into his youthful features ... she felt strangely as though
she had betrayed everything.

--

Harry Kim had slept less than three hours the previous night. He was a
man propelled by caffeine, and had in fact been so for the last week,
not having had the luxury of a night containing more than four hours
of sleep since B'Elanna died. His dark eyes were rimmed in red, his
boyish face beginning to look drawn and aged, but strangely, the
physical tiredness was not what made his broad shoulders slump or his
steps drag.

That fatigue was emotional, and he sighed deeply as he once again
pressed the touchpad to open the doors into the shuttlebay. Stepping
inside, he walked up to the wreckage of the Delta Flyer, piled
forlornly in the middle of the vast space. "It's oh-two thirty," he
announced calmly.

A phaser welder stopped it's rhythmic crackling from beneath the
ruined Ops station - his station, Harry noted detachedly - and a
creature emerged. Harry wasn't sure he could call it by its former
name, Tom Paris, or even by the simple designation of a human man, for
both of those indicated that the creature held some resemblance to the
being it had once been.

True, it still held something of the same physical appearance as it
had a week ago, though not much. The same tall, lanky build, although
Harry noted that the red and black uniform seemed to hang more loosely
than it had. It was losing weight. The handsome features were lined by
exhaustion, the blue eyes reddened and vague, the blonde hair
disheveled and streaked dark from soot. Long, graceful fingers that
had once danced nimbly across the helm were speckled with small burns,
numbly clutching the phaser welder as those dead eyes looked into
Harry's.

"Not done yet." The normally expressive and ebullient  tenor was cold
and flat, and it made Harry shiver. He quickly grabbed at his best
friend's arm as the pilot went to duck back under the shattered
console.

"Yes you are." He tried to achieve that 'command tone' that came so
easily to the Captain, but although in his own assessment, he failed
miserably, he apparently did well enough, because Paris did not fight
him. Instead he stood, letting the welder drop into the case that held
the other tools, then leaned casually against the bulkhead, long arms
crossing over his chest.

"I am?"

"Yes." Harry's voice became sharper now, as he allowed the worry he
was feeling to slip through. "You need to eat something, get some
sleep, talk to people ... it's called 'life', Tom!"

There was no reply, then the older man's lips quirked into an odd,
joyless smile, and he motioned for Harry to follow him back into the
rear compartment. There, he crouched near an area where the bulkhead
had buckled and pooled to barely a meter and a half in height,
motioning towards some dark stains on the metal. "I'm thinking of
renaming her the 'Lady MacBeth.'"

Harry frowned uncertainly, looking at the strange marks. "Why's that?"
He no longer understood his friend's sense of humor, which lately had
changed from merely off-beat to truly disturbing.

It's blood, Harry my boy. Blood that won't come off." He smiled
grimly, scrubbing briefly at the stains with the cuff of his sleeve to
demonstrate. "The metal was still partially unstable while she was
bleeding on it ... it's been sealed into the molecular structure of
the alloy."

Blood. Her blood. The young Ops officer felt a sudden clutch of pain
as he looked at the splotches. He looked up at Tom, trying to find
something in the blue eyes that he recognized, something that told him
that the man he knew had survived. What he saw instead frightened him.
He saw the eyes of a dead man.

"Come on, Tom," he urged, his voice compassionate, "Let it go. Get
some sleep."

The only response was a quiet shake of the blonde head, and the taller
man stood, picking up the tool he had dropped into the case and
slipping back under the console. Harry watched him for a moment, then
turned and left. He said nothing, made no sound of any kind until he
was outside the shuttlebay.

There, Harry Kim turned towards the corridor wall and stared at it,
looking blankly at the cool gray surface for almost a minute before he
decided what to do about the situation. Slowly, he curled his knuckles
into a fist, looking at the hand carefully before drawing back,
powerful arm and shoulder muscles propelling it forward into the wall
with bone-jarring intensity. "Damn you, Paris!" the words were hissed
through gritted teeth, ignoring the pain rocketing down his arm,
"Goddamn you!"

They never should have brought back the Flyer. To hell with all the
resources that had gone into it, didn't the Captain see the human toll
it was taking? Ever since the broken remains of the vessel had been
tractored into the shuttlebay, Tom had spent every possible moment
with it, working long after the repair crews had turned in for the
night. He was painstakingly restoring the damage, working over every
centimeter for hour after hour ... replacing burnt-out components,
welding fissures, re-setting pieces that had been ripped from their
housings. Ignoring the needs of his body and the pleas of his friends
as though by repairing the damage done to the Flyer, he could repair
the damage done to his life.

Harry wondered what would be next. When the Delta Flyer had been
returned to gleaming perfection, what then? Would the fever have
broken, would Tom feel free to let himself go and accept his lover's
death? Or would Don Quixote find a new windmill to charge?

Either way, there was nothing he could do about it, and either way, he
knew he had to try.

Unconsciously massaging his bleeding knuckles, Harry sagged back
against the bulkhead, looking up at the ceiling as if for inspiration,
for a way to cope. The last week had been, quite simply, hell.

A pall had fallen over the entire ship, a quiet as though the
extinguishing of B'Elanna's vibrant life had somehow diminished them
all. People went about their duties quietly, murmuring among one
another about how terribly she must have died, in such pain from her
devastating wounds and with only Seven of Nine for company.

Seven of Nine. She had been there for the entire thing, but she seemed
perhaps the least affected of anyone on board. Her manner was as
coolly efficient as always, and Harry found himself strangely envious.
Assimilated by the Borg as a small child, she had been assimilating
worlds when he was in grade school, cruelly separating families and
calmly mutilating victims of the collective while he played Parisses
Squares with his friends. Not exactly a model childhood, but the
millions of deaths she had participated in had left her better able to
cope than anyone else.

Harry would have gone insane. He knew it.

He would have lost his mind in the Delta Flyer, alone with a woman who
was like a sister to him, watching her suffer and bleed and die.
Hearing her record the final distribution of her few worldly goods,
seeing the pain in her eyes. Sitting with her, holding her cold, stiff
fingers in his warm hand for almost four hours after she had died.
Sitting in the darkness, the quiet ... he would have been pulled out
of that crushed vessel stark raving mad.

But Seven hadn't. She had survived with her mind intact, and she
hadn't shed a single tear. Not one tear, not one expression of emotion
of any kind. He wondered sometimes if she even comprehended the idea
of grief. If she didn't, she was lucky.

Harry wasn't so lucky.

He felt it. He felt it, and he knew that he should be dealing with it.
He should have cried, should have let himself hurt, should have found
some way to let it all out and grieve for her. But he couldn't. Not
yet. First, he had to get Tom through this, bring him back from the
grief that was pulling him down like quicksand, just as B'Elanna had
feared it would.

Taking a deep breath, he turned and went back into the shuttlebay to
try again. He had already lost a sister. He wasn't about to lose a
brother, too.

--

BEEP!! BEEP!! BEEP!! "The time is oh-seven thirty." BEEP!! BEEP!! BE-

"Computer, de-activate alarm," Ensign Harry Kim was not one to growl
at anyone or anything under normal circumstances, but this time the
tone of his voice was unmistakable. He growled at the computer, then
slowly drew back the covers, forcing himself out of bed.

His mind was still thick with sleep as he hauled himself upright,
shuffling to the bathroom, stopping only to grab his robe from the
closet. He headed for the sonic shower, but the reflection he passed
in the mirror made him halt and turn back, astonished. Rubbing his
bleary eyes to try and clear his vision, he looked at the image in the
glass.

He looked as though he had been run over by a heard of Deverian
mastodons. His skin seemed sallow, accentuating the dark circles under
his eyes that had been cultivated by lack of sleep. Tom Paris wasn't
the only one losing weight, either, he noticed, as the lines of his
cheekbones were more pronounced than ever before. Full lips were pale,
dark eyes bloodshot, and stress was beginning to inscribe its lines on
the boyish smoothness of his face. Nonetheless, he smiled at the
creature in the mirror, "Welcome to hell, Ensign ... enjoy day number
eight."

With that, he turned away from the mirror and activated the sonic
shower. He had a day to face, a best friend to rescue, and he was due
at Astrometrics at oh-eight hundred. Harry Kim could be dealt with
later.

--

At precisely oh-seven fifty-six, Harry was getting onto the turbolift
to go to Astrometrics. The man in the mirror that morning was nowhere
to be seen, a shower, a cup of strong coffee, and a shave having
banished him to hide behind a nearly picture-perfect young officer.

The doors opened, and Harry smiled to see Captain Janeway standing
there. "Good Morning, ma'am." he stepped inside, the same warm smile
on his face that everyone expected. "Astrometrics."

There was a short pause as the lift began to move, then the Captain
turned and looked up again, her own smile showing unmistakable
concern. "How are you doing?"

He thought about his response for a moment, then called for the lift
to halt. It wouldn't matter if he were a few minutes late. Seven could
surely deal with him talking to the Captain of all people. "I'm fine,
Captain. Frankly, it's Tom I'm worried about." Harry allowed some of
the stress he was feeling to push through his control into his voice
as he ticked off the items on his fingers, "He's not eating, not
sleeping, he won't talk to me, won't talk to anyone, and he spends
every spare moment down in the shuttlebay with that damn Delta Flyer.
He's using it to hide from her death, and to be honest, this whole
thing is starting to scare me."

She nodded gravely, and he could see from her dark blue eyes that she
shared his concerns about the pilot. "I know it's been hard on him.
But I was hoping he was at least talking to you."

Harry shrugged, sighing in resignation, "I've tried everything I can
think of, Captain. Really, I have. I just can't seem to get through."

Janeway looked at him for a long moment, her dark blue eyes looking
deeply into his, a soft, compassionate smile on her face. One hand
reached out, gently touching his cheek, and Harry closed his eyes, not
sure if he could continue to meet her gaze. "I'm sure you have." she
said, "Tom's lucky to have a friend like you."

She withdrew her hand, and he opened his eyes, allowing a small smile.
"Thank you."

Janeway nodded, then turned to face the front of the lift again,
"Computer, resume." They rode the remaining few seconds in silence,
then as the doors opened and Harry went to leave, he heard her voice
calling after him. "Ensign Kim...."

He turned, "Yes?"

Her face bore a warm, maternal expression, the look of gentle reproach
a mother might give a favored child who's suck in on the razor-edge
of their curfew. "Take care of yourself."

"Yes, ma'am." Flashing her a bright smile to assure her that she had
nothing to worry about from him, he continued on towards Astrometrics.
And it wasn't a false assurance, he told himself. After all, despite
the pain he felt over B'Elanna's death, he hadn't reacted nearly as
badly as Tom. He could handle this by himself, and it would be one
less person for the Captain to worry about.

--

Seven of Nine was waiting when he stepped into Astrometrics. "You are
late," she announced coolly.

Something about the observation, though it was made in her usual
dispassionate tone, seemed almost an accusation, and Harry felt
himself bristle. "I was-" he stopped, then took a deep breath, "I was
talking to the Captain, Seven. Sorry."

"That is acceptable." She turned crisply from her station and handed
him a small stack of PADDs. Her appearance was perfect as always, from
each neatly-tucked strand of golden blonde hair pulled into the
efficient twist to the shoes that were seamlessly integrated into her
sleek unitard. It seemed almost unfair. "Gamma shift recorded a small
sub-space flux at precisely oh-four twenty hours and thirteen seconds.
By all probability it is a natural phenomena, however the Captain
wishes us to investigate."

Taking the PADDs, Harry moved to his station. "What have you done so
far?"

"I have stored my efforts for your evaluation." Seven went smoothly to
his console, reaching to activate several screens of sensor data.

Her manipulation of the controls placed them in very close physical
proximity, and Harry found himself studying her. It was not the first
time - his roving eyes and dilating pupils had gotten him into a
rather sticky situation a year previously - but this time it was
different. This time, there was no lust involved, just an almost
clinical air of detachment.

*It's strange,* he mused, *how diverse beauty is.* Seven of Nine was
tall and slender, yet her figure exploded into stunning hourglass
curves that were clearly defined by her body-hugging attire. B'Elanna
had been petite and muscled, her own considerable curves overshadowed
by the sense of simmering power in her tiny frame. Seven's features
were regal and sharply chiseled, her eyes large and the pale blue of
the sky on scorching summer day, yet as cold as an arctic ocean, her
mouth large and full. B'Elanna's features had been exotic and dusky,
with almost pouting lips and high cheekbones accentuated by Klingon
ridges, her eyes smoldering and almost black. Both unquestionably
beautiful women, but as different as night and day.

His eyes wandered again over Seven, wistfully noting the simply
efficient way she moved, not a movement or nanosecond wasted on
frivolities like loss. What he wouldn't give for that detachment,
that-

"Ensign?" Harry was abruptly jerked back to reality by Seven's tone,
clearly indicating that it was not the first time she had asked this
of him. "Please contact Engineering and obtain the warp field variance
for the time index in question."

Feeling himself blush, Harry tapped his commbadge. "Kim to
Engineering."

"Engineering here, what do you need?"

"Could one of your people call up the exact warp field variance at
oh-four twenty this morning?"

"Sure thing. It'll take about five minutes, though. I'll send the
information up to Astrometrics."

"Thanks B'Elanna."

A horrible, awkward silence filled the air, and Harry felt his heart
twist painfully as he realized his error of habit. Seven looked at him
with those ice-blue eyes, and her voice was surprisingly sharp. "That
was not Lieutenant Torres."

"That's all right," Sue Nicoletti's voice was hushed as it came over
the still-open line of Harry's commbadge. "It was just a mistake.
Nicoletti out."

The commbadge chirped quietly to indicate that the line was now
closed, but the matter did not seem finished, at least where Seven was
concerned. She pressed closer, her body held stiffly, almost
confrontationly, her manner intense. "Lieutenant Torres is dead."

Harry took a step back, spreading his hands innocently. "Just a slip
of the tongue, Seven. I forgot. I'm sorry."

"Her designation was unique. Why did you use it in regard to
Lieutenant Nicoletti? Lieutenant Torres is dead ... her existence is
terminated permanently. How is that something that one can 'forget'?"

"Seven?" Harry frowned. This had ceased to be about a simple error of
calling someone by the wrong name. The young Borg was more passionate
than he had ever seen her, her ice-blue eyes now blazing hot, a slight
quaver having invaded her crisp enunciation. She did not seem to hear
him, and abruptly turned away, her hands gripping the edge of the
console so hard that her Borg-enhanced fingers indented the metal.

"She anticipated this possible event. She anticipated that she might
be disregarded after her death. I told her that it would not happen.
That she was a valued member of this collective. An individual who
would be remembered with emotional significance. But I was wrong! Her
designation is being misused, her existence cited as irrelevant,
forgotten!" The transformation from the serene beauty of a few minutes
ago stunned Harry. This was a creature of anguish, a look of almost
child-like, incoherent pain etched on her lovely face as her entire
body trembled beneath the sudden onslaught of emotion.

Forcing himself out of the shock that had paralyzed him, he moved
quickly to her side, feeling the instinct to hold her as he would a
lost and lonely little girl. But she pushed him away with surprising
anger. "You forgot her!" The words were like a dagger to Harry, and
they destroyed the tender shield that had held his own emotions in
place.

"How the hell could I forget her?! Dammit, Seven, I loved her!!"
Abandoning all pretense of an officer's restraint, he let himself sink
to the floor, his back against the bulkhead as he rested his head in
his hands. "Not like Tom," his voice was thick with grief, "Not like a
girlfriend or a lover ... no ... it was never like that. I never
wanted it to be like that. But I loved her anyway ... like a best
friend and a big sister and a little sister all wrapped up on one
woman. And now..."

He was unable to continue, but Seven understood, and she approached to
slide down next to him on the deck. "And now her existence is
terminated, but you had adapted to her life, and it is difficult to
adapt to her absence."

Seven kept her gaze locked on the deck, unable to bring herself to
look at Harry directly, as though she were embarrassed by her previous
anger, or afraid that he would respond in kind. Finally, though, he
spoke, and there was no anger in his voice, only sympathy and shared
grief. "Seven"?

She looked up, and he slid towards her, so that mere centimeters
separated them. He extended his hand, his eyes looking deep into hers.
He remembered the last few moments of the recording they had all
listened to, and he knew his request would be a familiar one to her.

"Will you hold my hand?"

Seven frowned. "You are not dying."

A tiny, sad smile touched his lips, and he shook his head. "No, but I
don't want to be alone."

Slowly, Seven reached out, slipping her fingers through his. The
gentle hand hold lasted only moments, then he found himself with his
arms around her, the aristocratic former Borg sobbing like a child,
tears flowing freely from her one biological eye to dampen the gold
fabric on the shoulder of his uniform. He ran his fingers though her
hair, tears beginning to tease at his own dark eyes, his own breath
beginning to come as raggedly as hers.

They sat there together for almost an hour, simply allowing the hurt,
the loneliness to escape unjudged. The grieving had begun, and it was
as painful as both had feared.

But they were not alone.

--

The End