Beneath them the console murmured a little music of its own.
His lips never touched hers, though he tasted her breath and felt the warmth of her skin. She drew back at the last moment, just an inch. Despite the hesitation, Chakotay felt she wanted more, just as he did.
She reached up and slipped her hand over his, then drew his hand away from her face, though she didn't move back or release her grip or its promise.
“Tonight,” she said. “We will skip ahead.”
VESSEL IDENTIFIED: U.S.S. VOYAGER. COLLECTIVE MEMORY CONFIRMED.
JANEWAY, COMMAND
CHAKOTAY, EXECUTIVE
SEVEN OF NINE, BORG DISENGAGED PRIORITY REESTABLISH.
Analysis accepted.
She enjoyed her body, her muscles. She enjoyed her mind and sense of independent thought. These privileges she kept to herself. She was the only one of her kind. She kept ambition to herself.
Around her the comforting maze of blocky mechanical constructions, shafts, scaffolds, utility cubes, tubes, maturation chambers, alcoves, regeneration units, and the other billions of individual components making up the hive concept, duplicated in every Borg cube everywhere, gave her strength of purpose.
WE WILL PURSUE AND ASSIMILATE. STIMULATE CENTRAL PLEXUS
“No.”
A million voices sounded in her head. Monotone, mechanical, purposeful. She was serene.
“They haven't compromised our security. Let the vessel continue. I'll keep an eye on them.”
COMPLYING. MONITOR U.S.S. VOYAGER PROGRESS, JANEWAY COMMANDING
In her enormous and far-reaching mind, she tasted the body of
Voyager
soaring through space. Electrical impulses. Molded metal and fibrous cables. Complex matrices. She smelled the hull shapes.
This was her exclusive breakfast. She was the lone appreciator. Not a drone, not an assimilant, not a fragment. The isolated and spectacular potentate of a billion-celled body, she was the center of the central plexus, the queen.
The Borg Queen.
CHAPTER 11
T HE BIOBED FELT COLD AND DID NOT BECOME WARM . S EVEN OF Nine fixed her eyes on the ceiling and steadied herself to her purpose. This would be a weekly maintenance check like none other, for after the next few moments her future would be altered.
“You're fine,” the Doctor said, “aside from some minor inflammation around your biradial clamp. Let me know if it starts to bother you.”
He put down his tricorder. The examination was complete. Seven was expected now to stand and leave the sickbay.
She continued lying on the biobed, listening to the blips and bubblings of mechanical analysis deep within the systems of the sickbay consoles and processors. A pleasant noise. She recalled the idea of sound as a mode of entertainment from a deeply seated memory which had no roots, but floated free in her mind.
The Doctor almost went back to his work when he realized she had not altered her position.
“Is there something else?” he asked.
Seven hesitated. This move was unwise. It would weaken her. She should cling to her isolation and strength.
Must she give up her strength in order to grow?
She cleared her throat. “Do you remember three months ago, when my cortical node shut down?”
The Doctor struck an expression. “How could I forget?”
“You . . . you said it might be possible . . . to remove the fail-safe device that was causing the problem . . .”
“Has it been giving you trouble again?” He moved closer to her.
“No. But . . . I've . . . reconsidered your offer to extract it.”
The Doctor paused. His voice grew softer. “I've been hoping you would.”
An uneasy pause broke their conversation as Seven sat up on the biobed and noted that her hands and legs were as cold as the cushion.
“You said it would require several surgeries . . .”
He fought down a smile. “Actually, in anticipation of your change of heart, I've studied the problem in more detail. I now believe I can reconfigure the microcircuitry with a single procedure.” He was eager about his new knowledge, proud of himself in his
His lips never touched hers, though he tasted her breath and felt the warmth of her skin. She drew back at the last moment, just an inch. Despite the hesitation, Chakotay felt she wanted more, just as he did.
She reached up and slipped her hand over his, then drew his hand away from her face, though she didn't move back or release her grip or its promise.
“Tonight,” she said. “We will skip ahead.”
VESSEL IDENTIFIED: U.S.S. VOYAGER. COLLECTIVE MEMORY CONFIRMED.
JANEWAY, COMMAND
CHAKOTAY, EXECUTIVE
SEVEN OF NINE, BORG DISENGAGED PRIORITY REESTABLISH.
Analysis accepted.
She enjoyed her body, her muscles. She enjoyed her mind and sense of independent thought. These privileges she kept to herself. She was the only one of her kind. She kept ambition to herself.
Around her the comforting maze of blocky mechanical constructions, shafts, scaffolds, utility cubes, tubes, maturation chambers, alcoves, regeneration units, and the other billions of individual components making up the hive concept, duplicated in every Borg cube everywhere, gave her strength of purpose.
WE WILL PURSUE AND ASSIMILATE. STIMULATE CENTRAL PLEXUS
“No.”
A million voices sounded in her head. Monotone, mechanical, purposeful. She was serene.
“They haven't compromised our security. Let the vessel continue. I'll keep an eye on them.”
COMPLYING. MONITOR U.S.S. VOYAGER PROGRESS, JANEWAY COMMANDING
In her enormous and far-reaching mind, she tasted the body of
Voyager
soaring through space. Electrical impulses. Molded metal and fibrous cables. Complex matrices. She smelled the hull shapes.
This was her exclusive breakfast. She was the lone appreciator. Not a drone, not an assimilant, not a fragment. The isolated and spectacular potentate of a billion-celled body, she was the center of the central plexus, the queen.
The Borg Queen.
CHAPTER 11
T HE BIOBED FELT COLD AND DID NOT BECOME WARM . S EVEN OF Nine fixed her eyes on the ceiling and steadied herself to her purpose. This would be a weekly maintenance check like none other, for after the next few moments her future would be altered.
“You're fine,” the Doctor said, “aside from some minor inflammation around your biradial clamp. Let me know if it starts to bother you.”
He put down his tricorder. The examination was complete. Seven was expected now to stand and leave the sickbay.
She continued lying on the biobed, listening to the blips and bubblings of mechanical analysis deep within the systems of the sickbay consoles and processors. A pleasant noise. She recalled the idea of sound as a mode of entertainment from a deeply seated memory which had no roots, but floated free in her mind.
The Doctor almost went back to his work when he realized she had not altered her position.
“Is there something else?” he asked.
Seven hesitated. This move was unwise. It would weaken her. She should cling to her isolation and strength.
Must she give up her strength in order to grow?
She cleared her throat. “Do you remember three months ago, when my cortical node shut down?”
The Doctor struck an expression. “How could I forget?”
“You . . . you said it might be possible . . . to remove the fail-safe device that was causing the problem . . .”
“Has it been giving you trouble again?” He moved closer to her.
“No. But . . . I've . . . reconsidered your offer to extract it.”
The Doctor paused. His voice grew softer. “I've been hoping you would.”
An uneasy pause broke their conversation as Seven sat up on the biobed and noted that her hands and legs were as cold as the cushion.
“You said it would require several surgeries . . .”
He fought down a smile. “Actually, in anticipation of your change of heart, I've studied the problem in more detail. I now believe I can reconfigure the microcircuitry with a single procedure.” He was eager about his new knowledge, proud of himself in his
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