REFUGEE CAMP VOYAGER

 

Prologue

 

The silence of the desert plain was undisturbed by bird, insect, or any other form of animal life.  A hot, dry wind blew steadily from the south over an unbroken expanse of deep red sand dunes.  The smooth, curving lines seemed to go on forever, except for a square protrusion where the drifting sand had almost completely buried the wreck of a Borg scout ship.  Within the scant shelter it provided, Three of Six reconfigured her cybernetic hand to make a last microscopic adjustment to the communications module she was repairing.

 

The other drones who had been her companions had all died in the crash, and a severe spinal injury had left her without feeling in her legs.  The condition of her body had little importance, however, except when it detracted from the efficient performance of her duties.  From the bodies of the other drones, she had proceeded to extract the relays and servomotors that would restore a full range of motion to her lifeless legs and allow her to complete her necessary tasks.

 

The communications module that provided the spacecraft's link to the Borg Collective had sustained heavy damage in the wreck, leaving Three of Six disturbingly trapped in the isolation of her own thoughts.  Anxiety was an emotion she didn't often experience, but it now threatened to overwhelm her as she worked to make repairs, to restore the link, to once again submerge her inadequate individual self into the protective certainty of the collective mind.

 

Exhaustion overcame her eventually, and she slept sprawled on the floor, her regeneration alcove destroyed beyond repair.  Lacking the normal computerized control of the regenerative process, her sleep was troubled by nightmares: the vivid images of a world in flames, her children torn from her arms by the alien invaders . . .

 

Awakening suddenly, her one natural eye wide with terror, she resumed her work on the communications module but found it impossible to maintain her concentration.  She knew that she must repair the module quickly, for she had very little water.  Any further delay would surely cause her death.  The images are irrelevant.  Distraction will be fatal.  But she could not keep them out of her mind, the flames flickering at the edge of her vision, the anguished voices whispering to her in the silence, directing her away from the communications repairs.  Her long-conquered world spoke clearly to her now, its demands insistent, beyond all reason or choice.

 

A background process running continuously in her brain kept count of the time remaining until any Borg vessel, even at maximum speed, would still be too far distant to prevent her death from thirst.  She felt no dismay when the counter ran to zero.  As she completed her preparations, the images of her lost children smiled at her.  The voices of her people were stilled now, at peace again, as they had been so long ago.

 

She realized vaguely that she had been known by a name then, instead of a designation, but the memory was fragmented beyond repair.  She had performed several diagnostic scans of her cortical processor and had found no significant errors.  The fault evidently must be located in the organic part of her brain.

 

It did not matter now, she thought, her mind beginning to drift again.  Perhaps her loss of memory was a kindness, a spirit-gift from the Crow Goddess who devoured the dying and restored them to the endless circle of renewal.  On her fallen homeworld, old women had once performed ceremonies in the temple, by the faint light of the third moon.  She remembered the wrinkled faces, watching expectantly.

 

That memory began to fade like the others, leaving only an image of the gleaming white curve of a bone knife lifted for the sacrifice.  The symbol was appropriate, Three of Six thought grimly.  Her death could not now be prevented.  Further delay would be pointless.  She reached for the cable that would restore power to the communications module she had so painstakingly repaired.

 

When she made the connection, she would immediately be linked once again to the Borg Collective.  Its central system would proceed to scan all of the embedded processors in her body and to initialize the standard functions with which all drones were programmed.  In the same moment, it would also upload and initiate the automatic run of several executable programs that it hadn't expected to find.  The results of those operations would be even more unexpected.

 

For the first time in countless years, her pale lips slowly curved into a smile.  Three of Six, whose true name had long been forgotten, had one final message for the Borg Collective:

 

Assimilate this.

 

*****

 

Chapter One

 

"For she's a jolly good fellow, which nobody can deny!"

 

Captain Kathryn Janeway blew out the candles on her birthday cake.  Another year had passed in the Delta Quadrant.  Another year closer to home.  Around her in the mess hall, the officers and crewmen of her Voyager family applauded.

 

"I propose a toast."  Harry Kim, ever the earnest young ensign, raised his glass.  "To the captain, who has preserved us through the perils and horrors of our journey, and who inspires us all to rise above our fears and reach to greater heights."

 

The crew cheered again.

 

"And I propose a roast."  First Officer Chakotay's usually composed face had a wicked smile on it.  "To our wonderful captain, the height of perilous preserved horrors, as Harry so eloquently put it . . ."

 

"I did not," Kim sputtered, as Chakotay proceeded to skewer several of the captain's better known foibles with gleeful accuracy, leaving most of his listeners completely overcome with helpless laughter.

 

"But we love her anyway," Chakotay concluded, standing beside Janeway's chair and bending down to plant an affectionate kiss on her cheek.

 

Everyone cheered even more enthusiastically.

 

Seven of Nine observed her crewmates with a look of curiosity, as if she regarded this event as an opportunity to collect more data for an ongoing study of human cultural rituals.  Close enough to the truth, after she'd spent most of her life as a drone in the Borg Collective.  Seven joined into the spirit of the celebration all the same, lifting her glass of sparkling cider.  With her left hand, its artificial structure still plainly visible, she passed a blunt knife across the table to Janeway.

 

"I recommend that we discontinue cooking the captain and allow her to cut the cake."

 

"Hear, hear."  Naomi Wildman, sitting at the next table with her mother, enthusiastically seconded that sentiment.

 

Neelix beamed proudly as Janeway cut neat slices from his creation, a huge yellow cake topped with an image of Voyager in butter cream icing.  Janeway removed the candles, which had been placed carefully around the edges of the ship, and put them on a small plate.

 

In front of her, a Latin band struck up a lively tune.  The band consisted of two human crewmen, a Bajoran woman, and somewhat surprisingly, a Vulcan keeping perfect rhythm on the maracas.  Evidently, young Vorik had decided to broaden his cultural knowledge base.

 

Janeway's universal translator automatically converted the lyrics, which were the usual lament about lost love, into perfect English.  She'd never gotten around to learning much Spanish, and it didn't look as if she'd ever do it now.  Having access to instant translations anywhere in the cosmos gave Starfleeters a definite tendency toward laziness when it came to learning other languages.  Intellectual flab, you might say.

 

There were always exceptions, of course, and she could think of a few.  Jean-Luc Picard spoke five languages fluently, including Klingon, and several other languages at least passably.  But for the most part, no one took the time for language study these days, because such skills had become almost useless to anyone who didn't work in the development of translation matrices.

 

Mark, her former fiancé, had learned to speak fluent Spanish as a child when his family had spent three years in Buenos Aires.  He spoke of the city by its nickname of B.A., giving the initials their Spanish pronunciation, bay-ah.  She'd visited the Argentine metropolis once with him, when she'd had shore leave on Earth.  That seemed almost a lifetime ago.

 

Latin music had also been playing in the little restaurant where Mark had taken her to dinner, celebrating her new command of Voyager.  Mark had given her a tiny, brightly wrapped box and told her to guess what was inside it.  She'd guessed a necklace, a pin, a bracelet, and finally she'd gotten so infuriated with his smug grin that she'd just ripped open the box and found the ring . . .

 

All that was past history.  He had moved on with his life now, had made the decision to put aside all thought of what they could have had together.  She couldn't blame him for that.  Not after all these years alone.

 

Just as well that her universal translator changed everything into English.  An original te quiero would probably have left her crying into the crumbs of this very excellent birthday cake.  Which would not have been the best start to the party.

 

Chakotay, always sensitive to her moods, approached her chair and made an elaborate bow.  "May I have this dance?"

 

She found herself smiling once again as she rose to her feet, thinking, Cheer up, Kathryn.  Think of what a lucky woman you are.  You've got the best ship and crew in all of Starfleet.

 

Even if Starfleet was on the other side of the galaxy.

 

*****

 

Naomi placed the Queen of Diamonds atop the starship that was beginning to take shape nicely on the table.  Twelve decks of cards so far.  She stood beside the table for a moment, admiring her handiwork.

 

"It's time for bed."  Her mother's voice intruded.  "Your cards will still be there in the morning."

 

"I am regenerating in an upright position," Naomi announced.  "The Borg do it all the time, so it must be efficient."

 

"Perhaps for the Borg.  You, however, need to go to bed."  Her mother came up behind her, took her by the hand, and led her away from the table.  "And being a drone is certainly nothing to be envied."

 

Naomi had to admit that her bed was cozy, as her mother covered her up and gave her a bedtime kiss.  All the same, she thought there must be advantages to being a Borg, too.  Children in the Collective never had to do any schoolwork.  They just assimilated their lessons in their sleep.  That had to be the life.

 

*****

 

Janeway sat comfortably in the captain's chair like a mother hen on her nest.  All was well with Voyager this morning.  She'd gone over the status reports thoroughly, as usual, and the only matter for immediate concern was a shortage of dilithium.  If Voyager didn't find a source of supply soon, the need to conserve power would force Janeway to cut replicator rations and restrict use of the holodecks.

 

Food supplies were running a bit low, too, but not enough to cause Janeway much worry.  Neelix could work wonders with roots, berries, and various weird vegetation that defied classification.  All this foraging on uncharted planets had certainly improved the crew's appreciation of culinary surprises.

 

She turned to face her operations officer.  "How's the search going, Harry?  Any signs of dilithium deposits in the nearby systems?"

 

"Nothing yet, Captain.  No planets with edible vegetation, either, unless you would want to . . ."

 

Kim, suddenly intent on the displays in front of him, fell silent.

"What is it?"

 

"There's a small ship approaching our position, Captain.  It's Borg.  Four life signs.  And, Captain . . . they've just sent us a hail.  On the standard Starfleet hailing frequency."

 

Kim looked puzzled at this, which was understandable.  The Borg didn't bother with little niceties like hailing.  When the Borg took the trouble to communicate with other species at all, which was seldom, it was usually to inform the inhabitants of some luckless planet that they were about to be assimilated.

 

"Onscreen."

 

The main viewer displayed the image of a female Borg, the pattern of her facial features strangely familiar, even when seen through their surrounding biomechanical implants.  Human, Janeway thought, I'll swear.

 

"I am Captain Kathryn Janeway of the Federation starship Voyager.  Can we assist you?"

 

The Borg female answered in English, the unmistakable soft drawl of the American South overlaid with the crisp intonation of Starfleet.

 

"Ensign Julia Bonner, Captain, with three members of my unimatrix, requesting permission to come aboard Voyager."

 

*****

 

Chapter Two

 

The Borg pilot – it was hard to think of her as Ensign Bonner – brought her small craft into Voyager's shuttle bay and set it down smoothly.  When the craft's door slid open, Janeway, Tuvok and Chakotay stepped forward.  A security detail followed closely behind, although Janeway didn't anticipate a need for their services.  The Borg didn't normally attack by subterfuge; and if they did, she'd be surprised if the security detail proved to be of any use at all.  That was one argument not worth having with Tuvok, however.  As the chief security officer, Tuvok possessed a vast knowledge of Starfleet regulations and could almost never be persuaded to bend them.

 

Julia Bonner walked steadily across the deck toward Janeway, her three companions following.  She was about Janeway's own height, with one dark brown eye.  The other had been replaced with Borg visual circuitry.

 

"A Federation ship.  Not a common sight in the Delta Quadrant."  She smiled broadly, the expression shockingly incongruous on the half-mechanical face.  "Glad to meet you all.  You may wish to call us dissidents, Captain, or defectors, although there isn't a precise term for someone who leaves the Collective.  To define what we are would first require the recognition that we had a choice.  That, of course, would be unthinkable.  The Collective would prefer to believe that we are malfunctioning."

 

Borg defectors did exist, Janeway knew.  A small group had visited Voyager not long ago.  They had been extensively scarred, both physically and mentally, by their experiences in the Collective.  They had preferred a quick death as individuals to bleak survival as drones.

 

But Julia Bonner seemed entirely cheerful and untroubled, which didn't make sense at all, Janeway thought while Chakotay and Tuvok introduced themselves.  Of course, anyone would be glad to have escaped from the Collective, but still, her behavior was so completely at odds with anything that might be expected from a Borg . . .

 

"Lumacretia," squeaked one of the visitors in an incredibly high treble, extending a thin, pale hand toward Janeway.  The voice held a questioning note, as if she were not altogether certain that she had remembered her name correctly.

 

Janeway clasped the slender fingers, their warmth surprising.  The robotic physical appearance and unemotional demeanor of the Borg created the distinct impression that they would be cold to the touch.  In fact, Borg body temperature averaged several degrees above species normal, probably as an adaptation to the extreme stress on the immune system.

 

"Linnas Kari Bayanmana," the next Borg introduced himself, without offering a handshake.  He was quite tall, over two meters, and his deep voice had a pleasant resonance.  A vivid green eye looked almost feline.

 

"Welcome to Voyager, Mr. Bayanmana."

 

"It's Linnas.  In my culture, we used only our first names, except in introductions and on certain formal occasions.  We received our soul-names in our coming-of-age ceremonies, to honor the spiritual qualities that the wise man saw in us.  My soul-name meant a far-seeing climber of great mountains, in the ancient tongue."

 

Janeway noted the use of the past tense.  At the time he'd been assimilated, the Borg Collective had probably done a very thorough job of removing all traces of humanoid life from the face of this poor fellow's planet.

 

Julia Bonner turned to her remaining companion.  "His designation, in part, is Four of Eight.  He can't speak, Captain.  He was constructed by the Borg from assimilated genetic material and has never communicated outside the Collective."

 

"Resulting in atrophy of the vocal center of the brain.  I see."  Janeway gave a polite nod to the silent Borg, who did not return the gesture.  "It's a fairly common condition among isolated telepathic races.  Pleased to meet you, Mr. Four.  Now, if we've finished the introductions and none of you has immediate needs, I'd like to proceed to a briefing room where we can talk further."

 

As Janeway led the group along the corridor, she sifted through the contradictions.  The Collective evidently wasn't controlling these Borg.  She was well aware that drones in the Collective didn't carry on such spontaneous, individual conversations.  In fact, the four visitors weren't behaving like Borg at all, but they still had all of their artificial body parts, apparently unchanged.  Which made absolutely no sense whatsoever.

 

The four Borg all remained standing as they entered the briefing room.  Janeway knew it was probably not meant as a deliberate attempt to intimidate; Borg ships didn't have chairs.  All the same, she found it somewhat disconcerting to sit at the table looking up at them.

 

Chakotay brought glasses of ice water from the replicator and set them on the briefing room table.  Julia Bonner calmly picked up her glass with some kind of rotating gripper attached to her mechanical left arm.  The sight disturbed Janeway, but she reminded herself that she'd seen a lot worse than that, and she made a conscious effort not to react in any way to it.  Although chances were, these Borg wouldn't consider an individual's emotional responses to be of any importance at all.

 

"Your first question will be whether we've been pursued, isn't that right?  Well, the answer is no.  The Collective has other concerns at the moment."  Julia's voice cascaded into loud, sarcastic laughter.

 

Tuvok raised an eyebrow.  "Explain."

 

"Many drones have left the Collective.  Some now seek to destroy it.  The central communications network was sabotaged eight days ago and remained off line for two hours, twenty-six minutes, thirty-eight seconds.  This created an opportunity for resistance . . . "

 

Janeway held up a hand to stop the rush of words; she'd never have imagined a Borg could talk so fast.  "Are you telling us there's a full-scale civil war in the Borg Collective?" she demanded.

 

"The term is imprecise," Linnas put in.  "The Borg do not wish to kill one another.  The Collective's goal is to reassimilate those who have chosen to leave.  The defectors have a variety of objectives.  Some want to destroy the Collective's communications system entirely, forcing all Borg to live as individuals.  Others simply desire to return to their planets of origin, remove their cybernetic implants, and rejoin their native races.  Other factions are attempting to modify various protocols in order to restructure the Collective."

 

Sounds like it's either a war, Janeway thought, or very near anarchy.  Cyber-warfare, Borg style.  About time, in her opinion.  Of course, her immediate concern was to ensure the safety of the ship.

 

"Mr. Linnas, do you know of any spacecraft of either the Collective or the resistance now located in the immediate vicinity of Voyager, or on a course likely to cross ours?"

 

"Searching location and navigation files for all adjacent sectors," Linnas responded agreeably.  "Distance of nearest Collective vessel, 21.8 light years.  Its course will not intersect Voyager's.  As for spacecraft controlled by the resistance, their location information is no longer in the system."

 

Janeway frowned.  "I thought the four of you weren't, either.  Explain how you can access Borg Collective data if, as you said, you're no longer part of the Collective.  Ensign Bonner, you'd better give me a very good explanation."

 

"My earlier statement to you was substantially true, Captain.  The Collective no longer controls our actions."

 

"But your neural links are intact."  Janeway flatly stated the obvious.

 

"Correct."

 

"And you can retrieve data from the Collective."  The implications of that were very interesting.  "Does that mean, for example, that you could provide Voyager with the complete specifications for the Borg transwarp drive?"

 

Julia Bonner replied abruptly, "File size, 243.8 terabytes.  Estimated time to download, three minutes, 12.2 seconds.  Specify desired path."

 

The immediate response took Janeway somewhat by surprise.  "Transwarp files go under Engineering, Propulsion Systems, Transwarp; there's already a subdirectory called Borg Transwarp Drive, but I'll want to create a new subdirectory under it, called Borg Transwarp Specifications . . . "

 

"Directory structure modified.  Initiating file transfer."

 

Almost immediately, Kim's voice came over Janeway's combadge.  "Captain, there's been a security violation, we're receiving data files through an unauthorized subspace transmission."

 

"I believe I authorized it, Mr. Kim."  Better be careful what I wish for, Janeway thought.  "Computer, confirm status of subdirectory Borg Transwarp Specifications."

 

The computer informed Janeway that a file transfer was currently in progress to the designated location.

 

Tuvok's usually impassive face was beginning to look as if he had swallowed a lemon.  "Does the entire Borg Collective now have unrestricted access to Voyager's systems?"

 

"No.  The Collective has no access to Voyager's systems or to our own."

 

Still trying to make sense of that, Janeway turned her head, looking farther down the table.  "Ms. Lumacretia, you've been very quiet.  Do you have anything to add to the discussion?"

 

"We are Borg.  We are one," the fluting voice replied serenely.  "It does not matter which of us speaks."

 

That sounded like classic Borg.  No, Janeway thought, not really.  The tone's all wrong.  A drone in the Collective would have spoken with arrogance, with contempt for the lowly individual who had been foolish enough to ask such an irrelevant question.  Lumacretia sounded like a happy little bird, chirping cheerfully, without a care in the world.  A nest of cybernetic cuckoos aboard Voyager . . .

 

Tuvok asked the logical next question.  "What have you done to block the Collective's access?"

 

"We have installed a new security module in our communications circuitry, a lockout chip.  It allows us to maintain personal control over our bodies.  The saboteur transmitted the specifications systemwide an instant before the central communications network failed."  Julia Bonner turned her head, reaching for an access panel on the back of her neck.  "You may examine the module if you wish."

 

Janeway didn't particularly relish the thought of closely observing the alien innards of a mutilated Starfleet officer.  She'd seen more than enough of what the Borg could do to a living body.  "Not at the moment, but you'll be thoroughly examined by our ship's doctor later."

 

"So you're all free of the Collective's control," Chakotay observed, looking from one refugee to another, "but at the same time, you're able to communicate with it and with each other.  Did your saboteur give you any further instructions as to your next course of action?"

 

"None at all, Commander.  With the specifications for the lockout chip, there was only the message that our destiny was now in our own hands."  Julia Bonner smiled strangely as she looked down at the mechanical attachments at the end of her artificial left arm.  "So to speak."

 

Chakotay went on to ask her, "Is this chip also responsible for restoring your original individual personalities?"

 

"Indirectly.  The module is incompatible with our regeneration circuitry.  We have been experiencing inappropriate manifestations of individuality, in addition to other system malfunctions."

 

"I thought the Borg were unable to sleep at all without the use of a regeneration alcove."  Janeway had once discussed the subject with Seven of Nine and had been left with the distinct impression that any Borg so deprived would suffer a quick and excruciating death.

 

"The experience is unpleasant," Julia acknowledged, "but it is not immediately fatal."

 

"Then I assume you'll want our assistance with the removal of your implants.  You're fortunate in that we have a skilled surgeon aboard Voyager who has performed this procedure before."

 

Julia's face was expressionless as she responded, her voice as flat and hostile as any drone's.

 

"You assume incorrectly, Captain Janeway.  We are Borg."

 

Kim spoke again from the bridge.

 

"Captain, another group of Borg just hailed us.  Five of them this time, none human.  They're requesting political asylum."

 

*****

 

Chapter Three

 

"Seven, you're going to have to move out of cargo bay two.  We need the space for the refugees."

 

"As you wish, Captain."  Seven of Nine pressed her full lips together into the familiar stubborn expression that meant she would comply against her better judgment.  Seven had argued at length against allowing Borg refugees to remain aboard Voyager, on the basis that the ship would be endangered.  Her logic couldn't be faulted; but if the alternative were to allow the Borg Collective to recapture a human, Janeway was willing to take a few risks.  Seven, of all people, ought to understand that.

 

"The Wildmans have invited you to share their quarters," Janeway continued.  "Naomi is really looking forward to it.  She hopes that you can tell her some good bedtime stories."

 

"I am not familiar with bedtime stories."

 

Janeway smiled.  "Then you'd better take a look at some of the fairy tales in the library files.  It wouldn't do to disappoint Naomi."

 

"She can be very demanding at times," Seven agreed.

 

*****

 

Julia Bonner, in her sleep, heard the distant sound of her own voice screaming.  The pillow and mattress yielded beneath the heavy solidity of her body, a peculiar and sinister sensation, as if she would sink into the depths of the cot and never be found again.  Harsh images, long repressed, began to flash before her.  She could feel the brutal grip of a man's hands bruising her soft human girl's wrists as she was crushed by his weight, and the pain . . .

 

Abruptly she woke, the alien pillow wet with tears she hadn't known she was still capable of crying.  She felt the familiar, calming reassurance of Borg minds touching hers.  We are with you now.  We will always be with you.  We are one.  She could sense the presence of seventy-four minds in the local collective matrix.  More refugees had come aboard Voyager while she was sleeping.

 

She left the cargo bay and strode along the corridor, with no particular destination, drawing emotional strength from the hard cybernetic construction of her body.  No humans would dare touch her now.  A young crewman passed her, averting his eyes and trying without much success not to appear nervous.  That's right, weak foolish human, be afraid, she thought with satisfaction.  We are Borg.  Nothing in the universe can stand before us.

 

*****

 

Janeway walked into sickbay, a few minutes after noon, finding the Doctor alone for the moment within its gleaming confines.  He had been performing physical examinations of all the Borg refugees, who now numbered one hundred and twelve, for the past twenty-six hours.  One of the advantages of having a hologram for the chief medical officer was that he didn't require any rest breaks.

 

"So tell me about our sleep-deprived guests," Janeway began, without preamble.

 

"They are developing profound biochemical imbalances, Captain.  The inability to regenerate causes a buildup of toxic substances, chiefly in the brain.  For now, most of the symptoms can be controlled with medication, although they will continue to suffer unpleasant sleep disturbances and flashbacks to their previous lives."

 

"Nightmares, you mean?"

 

"Primarily, although some are also experiencing waking hallucinations.  One young fellow told me that he remembered a farming accident on his home planet in which he was crushed by heavy machinery, and he wanted to know if I had brought him aboard Voyager to give him prosthetic implants.  He seemed very confused when I explained that he was a Borg.  I was able to restore most of his mental functioning, but he could develop further delusions at any time, as could the others."

 

Janeway reflected for a moment on the potential consequences of having large numbers of mentally disturbed Borg wandering through the ship.  "How dangerous would you say they are, Doctor?"

 

"None of them has shown any indication of violent behavior so far.  That could change as their condition deteriorates, which will occur rapidly.  My estimate, which Seven of Nine confirms, is that they will all be dead within two weeks if they do not remove their lockout chips and regenerate normally."

 

"And removal of the chip isn't an option because it would allow the Collective to reassimilate them easily."  Janeway paced the deck in front of the Doctor's console, wondering just what it was that she was missing.  "I've had no success whatsoever trying to persuade them to have all of their implants removed.  Although they have left the Collective, they keep insisting that they're still Borg.  It doesn't make sense, and I haven't been able to get a reasonable explanation out of them.  Do you think they came aboard Voyager with the intention of dying here?"

 

"Perhaps they have chosen to await the outcome of the rebellion before making a decision," the Doctor suggested.  "They may expect the Collective to be overthrown."

 

"In just two weeks, with many of the rebels suffering from hallucinations?  Not likely.  This uprising is definitely going to run out of time.  If I had to make a guess, the Collective has already recaptured most of those who defected."

 

"I concur, Captain, but as I have already said, our guests are not thinking very rationally at the present time."  The Doctor entered another query into the console and frowned at the results.

 

"Have you brought up the subject of removing their implants?"

 

"I explained that removal of the implants is one of their options.  Alternatively, they can return to the Collective."  The Doctor glanced up at Janeway again, his attention still focused in part on the computer display.  "Or they can die."

 

Certainly no one could ever fault the Doctor for not being entirely honest with his patients.  Of course, Janeway realized that the Borg refugees must have understood the full consequences when they chose to leave the Collective.  She drummed the fingers of her right hand against the back of the console, feeling certain that she had overlooked something, but what?

 

The Doctor gave her an irritated look, and Janeway let her hand fall back to her side.

 

"Let me guess," Janeway declared, with more than a hint of frustration creeping into her voice.  "When you discussed their options, every single one of the Borg chose 'none of the above,' and gave you no explanation."

 

"Substantially correct, Captain, although it is somewhat inaccurate to refer to a Borg as single."

 

"A figure of speech."  Still focused on the refugees' inexplicable behavior, Janeway wasn't in a mood to listen to semantic nitpicking.  "Tell me this.  Do you think it would be possible for you to adjust the refugees' lockout chips in such a way as to allow normal regeneration with the chip still fully functioning?"

 

He regarded her with a look of vexation.

 

"I'm a doctor, not a Borg network engineer."

 

*****

 

By the third day after the refugees' arrival, Tuvok had quintupled the automatic security sweeps of the ship's key systems, finding no unauthorized access whatsoever.  Either the behavior of the Borg while aboard Voyager had truly been exemplary, or they were extremely good at hiding their tracks.

 

After thorough consideration, Tuvok had rejected the possibility that the Collective had instructed the refugees to infiltrate the ship.  That was far too unlikely.  Had the Collective desired to capture Voyager, it could easily have done so before now, by more direct and efficient means.

 

He was left with a choice of two logical alternatives.  Either the refugees planned to use Voyager as a base for rebel operations, or they had come aboard the ship intending suicide.  Tuvok favored the latter theory, mainly because Voyager's technological inferiority would render it of little use in any clash with the Collective's forces.  If the rebels had wanted to commandeer a ship for use in battle, surely they would have taken over a Borg vessel instead.

 

Any drone who became useless to the Collective was expected to self-destruct, and the shame of having been assimilated would undoubtedly be sufficient in itself to drive many species to suicide.  Many of his own people, Tuvok realized, would share that particular view.

 

From time to time, he had overheard humans remarking on the subject of Vulcan and Borg compatibility, to the effect that they should get along famously because neither had any emotions.  That superficial observation missed the point entirely.  Vulcans chose to control their emotions by means of discipline and meditation, seeking a greater morality derived from the rigorous application of logic.  The Borg, by contrast, suppressed emotional responses through artificial means that seemed designed to strip every vestige of moral reasoning from them.  Assimilation into the Collective more closely approximated a descent into ultimate evil than any other fate of which Tuvok could conceive.  He had no difficulty understanding how a former drone could succumb to the seductive irrationality of suicide.

 

All the same, the refugees' motive for coming aboard Voyager concerned him far less than the actual result.  Maintaining security with hundreds of Borg on the ship was, for all practical purposes, impossible.  He could monitor their behavior easily enough, but if the refugees ever did attempt to seize the ship, Voyager's crew was going to be notably short on response options.

 

And there was one other point.  The Borg could interface easily with the ship's computer.  When the first group of refugees had come aboard, they had given an impressive demonstration of their ability to control Voyager's systems with only a thought.

 

Tuvok restated this observation in his usual Vulcan logical manner, first the premise and then the inevitable conclusion.  If they can control the ship's systems with a thought, then what can be expected to happen to the ship when their thoughts become completely deranged?

 

*****

 

Cargo bay one bustled with activity as crewmen maneuvered tall containers off to the side, while others staggered in from the corridor, loaded down with huge stacks of cots and bedding.

 

"I guess if we run out of room for cots, they can sleep standing up.  That's what they're used to, isn't it?"

 

"How many of them are on board now?"

 

Cots clattered against the deck.  "Two hundred and eighty."

 

"Has the captain gone completely out of her mind?"

 

Another voice spoke, a harsh, mutinous whisper.  "I think the captain has already been assimilated.  The senior officers have all been shaking hands with these so-called refugees, and Borg nanoprobes can go through your pores just like that."  The sound of snapping fingers echoed through the cargo bay.

 

"That's enough of the conspiracy theory, gentlemen."  Neelix was in charge of arranging the refugees' accommodations, and he had no intention of tolerating any disrespect toward the captain.  He wasn't surprised that the crew felt uneasy; in fact, the sight of all those Borg walking around on Voyager definitely made him nervous.  That was entirely beside the point, though.  The captain was in charge of the ship, and she'd done an outstanding job of keeping them all alive so far.  If Captain Janeway were to command him to jump into a pit filled with poisonous snakes, Neelix would do it with complete trust.

 

Although a snake pit might actually be somewhat safer than two hundred and eighty Borg . . .

 

*****

 

Standing at her computer console in Astrometrics, Seven of Nine considered strategic options.

 

Her duty shift had ended five hours ago, but she had seen no purpose to leaving her station.  Not when the entire ship was overrun with Borg invaders.  Seven had no doubt that they still served the Collective.  She could see it in the pride behind their eyes, the arrogance of their movements, and the contempt with which they regarded her.  Especially the tall drone, the one who called himself Linnas, although Seven was certain that he still thought of himself by his Borg designation.  How could Captain Janeway be so blind?

 

She shook her head in frustration.  The captain simply couldn't understand that from the moment the first group of Borg had come aboard, Voyager's crew no longer controlled the ship.

 

The Borg did.

 

Analysis of the captain's decision with reference to Voyager's historical data indicated that Captain Janeway was not under the control of the Borg.  Allowing them to come aboard was just more of the captain's usual foolhardiness.  Being human, she made illogical decisions with predictable frequency.  This was not the first time the captain had decided to ignore Seven's superior knowledge and reasoning power, although it could well prove to be the last.  On a previous occasion, the captain had led Voyager to the brink of destruction with her foolish insistence on protecting an injured intruder of the despicable Species 8472.

 

Seven had found it necessary to act alone, against orders, to save the ship.  She would do so again if the circumstances required.

 

Her mind rapidly sorted through the possibilities, eventually accessing the memory of a method of resistance she'd once encountered as a drone, during the assimilation of a highly advanced species.  There was a particular sequence of subspace frequencies on which properly timed bursts of energy would overload Borg neural links, rendering all drones within range unconscious for a period of approximately six minutes, twenty seconds.

 

That would be more than sufficient time to flood the entire ship with anesthezine gas, which would leave everyone unconscious for quite some time.  Then she would personally make sure that all Borg on board were disconnected from the Collective and sent on their way.

 

Her fingers flew over the console, keying in the program, setting it to activate on her voice command.

 

She heard the door open behind her.

 

Harry Kim spoke.  "Seven, there's a new arrival who wants to see you."

 

"Perhaps another member of the crew can speak with that person instead."  She did not intend this as a suggestion.

 

"I don't think so."

 

Kim was not usually this annoying, although he sometimes came close.  Seven turned around, intending to explain a few things to him.

 

A female Borg was standing just inside the doorway.  There was a strange familiarity to the shape of her face, the one eye that regarded Seven with unexpected affection, the lips that trembled as they opened to speak her name.

 

"Annika."

 

The Borg who had been her mother approached Seven and reached to embrace her, the warmth of the once-human body contrasting with the cold metal of its cybernetic implants.  Seven recoiled instinctively from the touch, all of her senses screaming at her to flee from this risen specter.

 

You died long ago, Seven of Nine thought.  I watched you die.

 

*****

 

Chapter Four

 

When Daro Gareth entered his quarters, he felt as if he were intruding upon the spirits of his murdered people.

 

He had torn down the small devotional altar on the far wall as soon as Voyager's crew had learned of the total destruction of the Maquis freedom fighters.  There was nothing left for him to worship.  Surely the prophets must have been destroyed as well, their celestial temple overthrown.  Or perhaps they had chosen to abandon his cause; it did not much matter which.

 

In place of the meaningless altar, he had covered the wall with a thick montage of images.  Portraits of the dead.  In the center, his entire family: parents, grandparents, sisters, a brother, all lost to the brutal conditions of the labor camps.  His first lover, Joral Dolante, dark hair and warm brown eyes, an elaborate earring resting against a clean-shaven cheek.  He had also been dead for many years; the Cardassians, a particularly homophobic race, had tortured him to death by means too gruesome to contemplate.

 

The remainder of the wall was given over to Maquis comrades fallen in battle.  Their pictures seemed too tightly massed to be counted, although he knew the exact number: two thousand, two hundred, seventy-three.

 

He did not ordinarily spend much time in his quarters.  Sometimes if he were alone too long, he could almost hear the voices of his dead, reproaching him for the distance he had traveled from them.  He could do nothing to avenge their deaths.

 

*****

 

Chakotay made his way through the crowd in the mess hall and got a bowl of some unidentifiable stew.  He figured Neelix must be running low on just about everything, with so many to feed.  At last count, there were four hundred ninety-eight Borg refugees aboard.

 

Starfleet personnel were sitting at most of the tables.  There were also several dozen Borg in the mess hall, but they seemed to prefer to eat standing up.  As a conspicuous exception to that rule, Julia Bonner sat alone at a table in a corner.  Carrying his tray, Chakotay walked in that general direction.

 

"You're welcome to sit here, Commander.  The Borg are not wild beasts.  We do not bite."  Julia smiled mockingly as she dipped her fork into her stew bowl.

 

Chakotay took a seat across from her.  "This stew isn't one of Neelix's best efforts, I'm afraid.  The food here is usually better than this."

 

"Then you probably don't want to know what drones eat.  If you could even describe that function as eating."

 

"You must be glad to be back on a Federation ship."

 

"The Borg don't normally experience gladness.  We reconfigure the limbic system to suppress such inefficient emotional distractions."  She continued devouring the stew, with obvious enjoyment.  "But as you've probably noticed, several functions of this body haven't been operating at peak efficiency recently.  The stew is delicious."

 

Chakotay wondered whether she felt ashamed of enjoying her meal.  Probably not, he decided.  Shame was another emotion the Borg considered useless.  It was more likely that she had calmly marked down her current experience on a malfunction report for eventual repair.  Presumably her odd sense of humor was also a reflection of some flaw in her programming.

 

The idea disturbed him profoundly.  He couldn't even imagine what it must be like for a human being to be trapped in a bleak existence where the slightest expression of individuality or emotion would generate an error code.

 

"Have you thought any more about returning to Earth with us?"  Chakotay spoke on impulse.  "I'd like to see you stay on Voyager.  We could use another officer."

 

She set down her fork and gazed intently into Chakotay's eyes with a peculiar, thoughtful expression, as if she were trying to see into his mind.  Her dark eye and long, broad features reminded him, bizarrely, of a painting he'd once seen of a costumed Mayan priestess about to perform a sacrifice.

 

Then she raised her hand to his forehead, her fingers warm and intimate, precisely tracing the lines of his tattoo.  "This marking has cultural significance for you."

 

"Yes," Chakotay acknowledged.

 

"Would you be persuaded to allow its removal, Commander, if you were told that the Borg Collective could use another drone?"

 

"Of course not."

 

She responded with a nod, as if she had expected nothing else.  "Then why do you assume that any drone would be fortunate to be deprived of all semblance of Borg identity?  Do you see no value at all in the current configuration of this body?"

 

Chakotay looked at her proud figure, with cybernetic attachments on virtually every square centimeter, and still saw a woman.

 

"It's not the same.  This tattoo honors my ancestors and was freely chosen.  You were captured, altered without your consent, and forced to serve the Collective."

 

She seemed to be untroubled by his observation.  "That is the way of the Borg."

 

"They didn't give you a choice," Chakotay went on.

 

"Irrelevant."  She regarded him coolly as she stood up to leave.  "Did you choose your birth, Commander?"

 

Chakotay sat watching her walk away, the stew mostly uneaten on his tray.

 

A Borg, he thought.  God, what a waste of a human soul.

 

*****

 

Janeway strode into Engineering, finding her chief engineer standing at a console with a slight frown on her face.

 

"Anything useful in the transwarp data?"

 

Torres shook her head.  "Not at present, Captain.  Oh, it's interesting in an abstract way, but before we can do anything practical, we'll need more transwarp coils like that one we got from the Borg a while ago.  Transwarp coils can't be replicated, as you know, and we don't have the raw materials to fabricate them.  Now, if we could convince our new pals to tell us where they've been doing their mining, that would be a lot more useful."

 

"Raid a Borg mining facility in the middle of a civil war?  I don't think so.  We'll just have to keep trying to find the mineral deposits we need, or perhaps someone we can trade with."

 

Acknowledging this with a brief nod, Torres changed the subject.  "Captain, if you don't mind my saying so, we have to do something about these refugees.  I understand that you don't want to leave any humans in the Delta Quadrant, but the last time I looked at them, only two of the refugees were human.  By my calculations, that leaves four hundred ninety-six Borg who need to be ditched at the next convenient planet.  Or sooner."

 

Janeway had heard similar sentiments from others in the crew recently, but she had no intention of allowing herself to be swayed.  "B'Elanna, I wouldn't abandon a dog to the Borg Collective."

 

"It's your call, Captain, and I'm willing to die bravely when the Collective decides to come and reassimilate its lost drones."  Torres sighed.  "But when my ancestors welcome me to Sto-Vo-Kor, I think they'll have a hard time understanding that I died trying to defend a shipload of lunatic Borg."

 

*****

 

In the Wildmans' quarters, Seven of Nine finished reciting Goldilocks and moved on to The Three Little Pigs.  Something in the cadence of the words stirred memories long forgotten, and she realized that she was familiar with bedtime stories after all, and that her mother had read this very tale to her.

 

"But the wolf could not blow down the house built of composite ceramic structural components, and the pigs lived happily ever after."

 

Tucked snugly into her covers, Naomi remarked, "If I'd been one of the pigs, I would have trapped the wolf and altered his genetic code to turn him into a herbivore."

 

"An effective solution," Seven of Nine approved.

 

"Seven, did you see the model ship I built?  It's on the table behind you.  I used twenty-eight decks of cards."

 

Although she had noticed it earlier, Seven had paid little attention to the ship built of cards because it obviously served no useful purpose.  She turned around now, taking a closer look at it.

 

"The ship is inaccurately proportioned."  Her hands moved swiftly to rearrange the cards into a closer approximation of Voyager's shape.  "You will now find the dimensions to be ninety-eight point seven percent correct."

 

"But I liked it the way . . ." Naomi broke off her sentence, turned over with a sigh, and put the pillow on top of her head.  A muffled voice came forth.  "Never mind."

 

Seven realized she had erred.  Humans were so protective of their flawed creations, for reasons she couldn't fathom.  As a drone, she had accepted necessary correction without protest, knowing it to be the natural order of the universe.  How else could one become perfect?

 

"Good night, Naomi," she said stiffly, thinking as she left the room that perhaps it would be helpful to do more reading on the subject of human pride.

 

*****

 

Late in ship's night, silhouetted against the eternal night of space, a Borg stood at a viewport as if gazing out upon the stars.  Janeway recognized him by his unusual height: Linnas, the mountain climber.

 

She was about to pass by him, but his pose seemed to express such a human yearning that she stopped, feeling drawn to speak.

 

"Thinking about your home?"

 

"Actually, I was trying to access a protected communications pathway in the Collective, with a conspicuous lack of success."

 

That didn't come as much of a surprise to Janeway; one couldn't expect to find sentiment in a Borg, after all, but she found herself wishing it had been otherwise.  "Don't let me distract you from it, then."

 

"You are not intruding.  This attempt has been futile."  Linnas left the window, turning to look directly at Janeway.  "I don't often think about my planet of origin.  It was a grimy little Industrial Age garbage dump with a racial caste system.  I belonged to the inferior race and was an anarchist and a union organizer, all of which meant that I could expect to be dragged away by police and beaten senseless at predictable intervals.  My friends and I dreamed of a civilization with a completely rational distribution of resources, where poverty, race, and social class did not exist, where all were equal.

 

"Then one day our perfect society came down from the sky and assimilated us.  At first, I thought I had become a god.  You have to understand, my species was so primitive that it didn't even have computers.  To become part of a collective mind, a transcendent intellect possessing the ability to touch almost the entire galaxy with a thought – words don't begin to suffice to describe the wonder of it.  There's a precise and terrible beauty to the Borg Collective."  His voice deepened, became more intimate.  "You could share it with us, Kathryn."

 

Thanks, Janeway thought, but I'll take a pass on being assimilated tonight, if you don't mind . . .

 

One thing was sure, Linnas did have emotions.  Disturbing ones.  She didn't know what to make of it.  Borg drones who obeyed commands with unthinking loyalty were one thing, but she couldn't imagine how anyone could be convinced that the Collective had made him a god.  She supposed that the Delta Quadrant must have its fair share of lunatics, too.

 

It occurred to her that Linnas was here on Voyager, after all, so perhaps he was starting to come to his senses.

 

"I take it the wonder is beginning to wear off," Janeway remarked over her shoulder as she turned to leave.

 

"Not at all.  I would die for the Collective without a moment's hesitation.  So would every other Borg aboard Voyager."  He noted Janeway's expression as he fell into step beside her, with a bizarre, unfathomable smile.  "Did you really think we wanted nothing more than to escape?"

 

She felt a sudden, chilling certainty that she had made a fatal mistake in allowing his group to come aboard.  "If you're not seeking to escape from the Collective, then what are you doing here?"

 

"There are some things we can gain from you in our attempt to improve the Collective.  Among other objectives, we are attempting to develop a protocol of noninterference in the natural evolutionary paths of other species.  It is roughly equivalent to your Federation's policy."

 

Janeway stared at him, incredulous.

 

"You mean there's a chance the Borg could adopt the Prime Directive?"

 

"We have no need to attack lesser species.  They should consider themselves fortunate when they are offered the opportunity to become part of the Collective.  The use of force is wasteful and unnecessary.  Our current protocols for assimilation are inefficient."

 

Inefficient, Janeway thought bitterly, remembering the horrible floating graveyard at Wolf 359.  Inefficient.  Is that all he can say?

 

"Let me get this straight," she demanded, as they entered the turbolift.  "You think the Collective is so wonderful that one of your cubes should just show up in orbit around a planet, and half the population should immediately start clamoring for the privilege of assimilation?"

 

"Precisely."

 

Crazy isn't even the word.  He's lost his mind entirely, lost his marbles, lost all the screws holding his circuit boards in place, who the hell knows what he's got rattling around in his head . . .

 

She didn't feel at all comfortable being alone in the turbolift with him.  When the doors opened, she stepped out in a hurry.  Linnas was still following her.

 

"When I rule the Collective, we will begin to treat lesser species as a renewable resource," Linnas continued.  "That will allow us to harvest future generations of drones with improved culture and technology."

 

Now Janeway was entirely disgusted.  "Doesn't sound like any Prime Directive that I ever heard of."  She was about to say more but decided that it would be a total waste of time and breath.  Fortunately, they had arrived at the corridor that led to the officers' quarters.

 

One advantage of having a conversation with a Borg was that you didn't have to concern yourself with being polite.  That was about the only advantage Janeway could think of at the moment.

 

"I am returning to my quarters.  This conversation is over."  She walked away with a brisk stride, deliberately not looking behind her until she reached her door.  Linnas still stood at the junction of the hallways.

 

Janeway entered her quarters, feeling a definite satisfaction as the door closed behind her.  The one place on the ship, other than the bridge itself, where she could be sure of not finding any Borg.  She'd tried to keep them out of Engineering, too, but they kept wandering in with unsolicited suggestions on how to improve the ship's efficiency.  B'Elanna was almost ready to commit murder.

 

And it's all entirely your fault, Kathryn, she informed her tired-looking reflection in the mirror.  The chronometer on the wall across the room read oh-two-twenty-eight.  She hadn't been getting enough sleep.  So what else was new.  You're far too altruistic for your own good.

 

Janeway briefly imagined the expression of her father, not to mention all the other admirals, upon learning that she'd allowed the U.S.S. Voyager to be turned into a Borg refugee camp.  It didn't bear thinking about.

 

She undressed, still feeling quite irritated by her conversation with Linnas, and began to pull a nightgown over her head.

 

Then she heard the door open.

 

Can't be, she thought.  Every door leading into private quarters was protected by secure access codes.  A person couldn't just walk in . . .

 

She yanked the nightgown into place and turned around to find Linnas standing just outside her bedroom.  With a faint hiss, the door from the corridor closed behind him.

 

Damned Borg never heard of privacy.  He probably wanted to tell her something more about his crazy scheme to reprogram the Collective.  Not that she wanted to hear any more about it.

 

Janeway found herself wondering whether any of her officers had seen him, and whether by morning a story would have spread all over the ship that the captain had acquired a Borg lover.

 

"In my culture," she told him, exasperated, "it's considered very inappropriate for a man to enter a woman's quarters without invitation."

 

"No offense was meant, beautiful Kathryn."  Linnas came closer, raising his one natural hand to her face and touching her cheek.  The other arm, entirely cybernetic, hung stiffly at his side as he spoke again.

 

"Will you . . . invite me?"

 

The touch of his hand was disturbingly pleasant.  Her initial reaction of disbelief gave way to a rush of excitement that arose entirely without her conscious will.  Linnas kissed the top of her head and stroked her hair possessively.  His warm fingers traced a path down her spine, sending fiery tendrils of delight along her nerves.  Her heart was beating in a strange rhythm, and every intake of breath caressed her lungs like a song.  Making love had never felt like this . . .

 

Then she realized what was happening and broke away from him, taking several quick steps backward.

 

"What are you doing to my body?"

 

One bright green eye and one red visual sensor blinked calmly at her.  "Kathryn, I can scan your bioelectrical frequencies and transmit matching pulses to enhance your sensations.  I thought you would find that a pleasant experience."

 

"You violated me," Janeway spat out, still breathing hard, her hands clenched.  She could almost see the accusation sink like a stone into the boundless depths of his Borg incomprehension.  There was no such thing as individuality in the Collective, after all: nothing to violate.

 

Show him the door, he'll understand that, she thought.  She stalked to the doorway – which opened normally, thank heavens – and gestured imperiously through it.

 

"Get out."

 

*****

 

Chapter Five

 

Janeway entered the bridge and stepped down to the command deck, a hot cup of replicated coffee in her hand.  She hadn't felt like eating breakfast this morning.

 

Tuvok spoke to her from his tactical station.  "Good morning, Captain."

 

She didn't feel like making small talk, either; not that anyone had ever accused Vulcans of chatter.  "Tuvok, the security report, please.  I want to know if there have been any incidents between refugees and crewmembers."

 

"Lieutenant Torres assaulted a Borg in the breakfast line.  She took offense to a comment on the subject of why Klingons tend to make suboptimal drones.  She is now at her post in Engineering, after briefly receiving treatment in sickbay for bruised knuckles.  The Borg was unhurt and did not retaliate.  He requested that she not be placed in the brig.  They consider isolation to be an extremely barbaric form of torture."

 

Janeway made a mental note to have a talk with B'Elanna about that absurd display of bravado.  Klingons' defense of their honor sometimes reminded her of kids squabbling in the schoolyard.

 

"What I mean is," she clarified her question, "have there been any reports of our people being attacked by Borg?"

 

"None, Captain.  Our visitors have been model guests – to the best of my knowledge, that is."  Tuvok had known her long enough so that she couldn't keep much from him.

 

"If one of them chose not to be a model guest," Janeway asked, taking a scalding sip of her coffee, "what course of action would you recommend?"

 

"They significantly outnumber us," Tuvok observed, "and each of them possesses the ability to alter the ship's systems with mental commands, deciphering our encryption codes almost instantly.  Their personal shields render our hand phasers almost completely useless.  In essence, Captain, security is nonexistent."

 

*****

 

Astrometrics.  Star charts glowing brightly against the dim outlines of the bulkheads, detailing the vastness of space.  Precise, logical, infinite.  Perhaps some day, every star would have its designation, every mote of dust its known and ordered place in the perfect pattern of the universe.

 

For now, one mother and one daughter of human genetic origin, Species 5618, stood companionably at their consoles, mapping the star systems, nebulae and other natural phenomena that lay in Voyager's path.

 

"When you were a little girl, you always wanted to help chart the path of our explorations.  You were so proud of having your own console on the Raven, with a tall stool where you could sit and easily reach the control panel.  Life seemed so wonderful and exciting; there was always something new to learn."

 

The distinct pattern of her mother's voice was still recognizable after all these years, its very familiarity leaving Seven of Nine with strange and painful emotions in turmoil within her chest.  She found herself thinking that maybe, now, she might finally come to understand the peculiar set of human metaphors that described catastrophic mechanical failure of the heart.

 

"Had you been less eager to explore the Borg Collective, we might have had the opportunity to continue enjoying our lives."  Seven could barely speak through the tightness in her throat.

 

"Such bitterness.  It serves no useful function.  You must learn to let it go."  Her mother's calm tone carried with it a fatalistic acceptance, and the face, under all of its cybernetic attachments, was serene.  "It is pointless to wish things other than they are."

 

"Perhaps that is part of being human."  Seven kept her eyes focused on the console in front of her as she scanned the chemical composition of a cloud of interstellar gases.  Sixty-two percent hydrogen . . .

 

"You will never be human.  The most your foolish quest can accomplish is to optimize the human emulation program you have chosen to install in your hard-wired Borg brain.  Such an outcome would be merely an inefficient waste of your potential for perfection."

 

The words felt like an assault on her very soul, although Seven knew no malice was intended.  She forced her clenched fingers to loosen, to return to the console, to complete the task at hand.

 

"I am an individual."

 

One point eight percent argon . . .

 

"'No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.  If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were.  Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.'"

 

The inhuman mother/Borg figure, cold metal attachments interspersed with the harsh glow of red lights inset along smooth panels, went on to add in a pleasant tone, "John Donne.  Seventeenth-century Earth."

 

"He did not have the Borg Collective in mind."

 

"An irrelevant detail.  This observation is a universal constant.  There are no true individuals."

 

Seven of Nine looked down at herself, at the clothing that precisely fit the contours of her body, at the hands that hovered competently over the computer console.  "I am no longer Borg."

 

"The Borg are many things.  You can be one of us again."  Her mother calmly extended a hand toward her, a hand that looked human enough, with its five natural fingers.

 

Seven knew that the hand contained a reservoir of programmable Borg nanoprobes within the concealed assimilation tubules.  She regarded her mother's arm as if it were a poisonous snake.

 

"I will not."

 

The alien hand withdrew, returning to the console.  One mother and one daughter of human genetic origin continued their task of mapping the stars.  The vast space between the worlds expanded for eternity before them, silent, imperfect, unbridgeable.

 

*****

 

Tom Paris piloted Voyager toward the trading station that spun slowly on its axis, lights illuminating the outlines of its long spokes.  About time they'd found a place to buy supplies.  Neelix had literally been scraping the bottom of the barrel, trying to keep so many fed.

 

Kim sent a ha