The Logical Solution
By Laura Schiller
Based on Star Trek: Voyager
Copyright: Paramount
"Commander," said Seven, raising her ocular implant as high as it could go. "You appear to be in pon farr."
"Did Paris tell you?" Tuvok growled, visibly flushed even through his dark complexion.
"He told me nothing. You are secreting pheromones unique to your condition. I can smell them."
If the Doctor thought Harry Kim's smell was strong, she thought, he was fortunate not to be in control of her body right now. In fact, she did not want the hologram, with his blatant curiosity about organic body functions, anywhere near Tuvok in his condition.
"Keep your voice down!" he snarled, darting glances around the empty corridor. "It is highly inappropriate to discuss this in a public place!"
What was inappropriate, she thought, was his suffering. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead; the blue robe he wore was streaked with it. He looked entirely out of place standing in front of Voyager's holodeck doors, struggling to key in a certain program with shaky hands. Seven, who had always admired him for his Vulcan dignity, felt her throat go tight with pity and alarm at the sight of him like this. If he belonged to any other species, she would have put her arm around him and led him down to Sickbay. She could only imagine how ineffective that would be.
There had to be something she could do for the man who had been her anchor to life and sanity so often: at the wreck of the Raven, inside her own overcrowded mind under the influence of a Borg vinculum, among the Tsunkatse fighters … there had to be a solution.
"I can assist you," she said, nudging him aside to take over the holodeck's access panel.
If there had been any doubt that he was losing control, she would have found it in his outraged tone of voice.
"You will do no such thing, Seven of Nine!"
"I am the only person on Voyager with the physical strength to equal yours," she argued, keeping her back to him as she typed. "Except perhaps Lieutenant Torres, and she is unlikely to comply. It is the logical solution."
"It's out of the question!"
He gripped her shoulder hard, spun her around, and slammed her against the wall in order to meet her eyes with a bloodshot, unsteady glare. Instinctive fear made her tense and alert; sensing this, he let go, and something of the Tuvok she knew flickered back into his eyes.
"You don't know what you're asking," he said, in a softer voice. "You are so young, Seven … the mating bond, the commitment, the – the violence, you could not possibly … "
"I am not offering to mate with you, Commander," she said.
"Then what - "
"I declare kal-i-fee."
She backed into the holodeck doors, allowed them to zip open behind her, and glanced around to make sure she had ativated the correct program. It was one of Commander Chakotay's boxing programs, a training hall with a padded floor, a mirrored wall and a supply of towels and water bottles. She stepped out of her high-heeled shoes, kicked them into a far corner, and spared a brief moment of regret that there was no time to change out of her constricting biosuit.
"I have been training weekly since we escaped the Tsunkatse arena," she challenged. "Have you?"
Tuvok shook his head over and over again, not in denial, but in furious protest, even as he followed her into the room.
"I … won't … fight … you," he managed to say. "Do not … risk your life … for mine."
"You will die unless someone does," Seven retorted. Hearing the harshness of her own voice, she softened it deliberately, letting all her concern for her friend flow into the words.
"Tuvok. You must let me help you." Remembering the doctor's lessons, she added: "Please."
He made no move towards her.
Would she have to attack him? The last thing she wanted to do was hurt him, and in his condition, if she attacked, she might overpower him long before he purged the pon farr. What she had to do was somehow provoke him into attacking her, then let him tire himself out while avoiding as much injury to herself as possible. But how was she to do that?
He looked at her with agonized brown eyes, just as if he could hear her thoughts. "I could … kill you," he croaked, half pleading, half enraged. "Don't you understand, you … you meddlesome drone? I. Could. Kill. You!"
At any other time, his protectiveness might have been moving. Now, it made her want to punch him, just to get past the infuriating stubbornness that would not allow him to save his own life.
Her own anger, however, gave her an idea. The Doctor was not the only one who could put on a performance if necessary, as he had done in order to get close enough to sedate Ranik. She knew her own skills at deception were near to nonexistent, but right now, Tuvok was hardly fit to notice.
He had called her a drone. Very well; a drone was what she would become.
"I am Borg," she declared haughtily. "Do you honestly believe that an aging Vulcan in your feeble condition could injure me?"
Tuvok glowered at her, but stayed where he was.
"Look at yourself." She gestured to the mirrors on the wall. "You are pathetic, weak in body as well as in mind. I could defeat you easily. Computer, seal holodeck doors."
Tuvok whirled around toward the closed doors and hurled himself against them, pounding with his fists, too far gone to think of simply overriding Seven's command.
She struggled to come up with further insults, which part of her found ironic, since on this ship, she was forever causing offence without even trying. It was not necessary, however, since trapping Tuvok inside the holodeck turned out to be the proverbial last straw. What did I get myself into? was her last coherent thought as he charged toward her.
She had thought this would be easy. She had underestimated, not only the strength, but the sheer single-minded stubbornness that came with the plak tow. His strikes knocked the breath out of her, and when she struck him, he barely seemed to feel it. Her only assets were her Borg-enhanced speed and her intelligence, which she used to protect herself as much as possible, predict his attacks, and try to turn his massive strength against him so that he crashed into walls, shelves, or the well-padded floor instead of into her. It exhausted her, while his seven years' worth of pent-up energy seemed to be endless.
As the fight continued, adrenaline began to edge her own thoughts red with anger. She no longer saw Lieutenant Commander Tuvok, the friend and mentor whose life she was trying to save. All she saw was someone trying to invade her hard-won personal space. She saw Ranik, pinning her down for a wet, hungry kiss; the Barclay hologram, about to knock her unconscious and dissect her for her nanoprobes; Covin smirking as he tied her to his operating table; the Borg Queen running a black-gloved hand along her cheek. She'd had enough. This body was hers and hers alone, and no one was coming near it against her will!
She found herself smirking at the mirrors with a feral sort of pride as she nerve-pinched her opponent into submission. Only then, as he collapsed bonelessly to the ground, did she remember who they both were and what they had been doing.
"Seven to Sickbay," she said breathlessly. "Medical emergency in Holodeck Two."
=/\=
The Doctor, predictably, was appalled. Even the way he snapped open his tricorder spoke volumes about the level of his indignation.
"When I said you should be more in touch with your body, Seven, this is not what I was talking about!"
"It is my body, Doctor. My choice."
He sighed with resignation, as well as a hint of remorse. "It certainly is."
She squinted through her blackened human eye at Tuvok, who was lying motionless on the biobed next to hers. He looked so peaceful now, without the lines of rage and pain distorting his face. If not for the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth, he could have been sleeping in his own bed. In spite of her eye, a broken wrist, several Borg implants thrown out of alignment and a varied collection of bruises, she felt oddly proud of what she had done.
The Doctor, scanning him, suddenly raised both eyebrows almost to where his hairline should have been. When he looked up at her, his irritation was tinted with respect.
"Well," he said grudgingly. "I suppose your solution was more effective than what Mr. Paris came up with. Honestly! I leave Sickbay for one week … "
"The Commander. Will he recover?" she asked, recalling him to the important matter at hand.
"The neurochemical imbalance in his brain is already correcting itself," said the Doctor. "As for the concussion, the bruises, the missing teeth and that very efficient nerve pinch, it's nothing a first-year medic couldn't handle."
She let out an involuntary sigh of relief.
"What you did was reckless, foolish, and irresponsible," he told her quietly, running his osteo-regenerator over her broken wrist. "But it was also very noble. If I weren't so exasperated with you right now, I'd be proud."
Seven knew him well enough by now to read between the lines of what he said, focusing on the gentleness of his hand holding her wrist. He was proud, she could feel it, and that made it easy for her to forgive the liberties he had taken with her body on the Lokirrim ship. She had felt powerless then, but she did not feel that way anymore. Her body could be more than a weakness; it was a tool, a weapon, which she could use to protect herself and save the life of someone important to her.
The pain, she decided, was worth it.
"Seven … "
A low, lisping voice from the other biobed made her turn around. Tuvok had turned his head in her direction. The look on his face reminded her of Icheb, waking up for the first time after the operation that transferred his cortical node to her.
"Seven … forgive me … "
She blinked back her tears, then gave up, since her eye hurt too much.
"Apologies are irrelevant," she assured him. "We both did what was necessary for your survival."
He nodded. "In that case … thank you."
"I am glad to see you safe, Com - … Tuvok."
He began to reach across the distance between the beds, reconsidered, and held up his hand to her instead in a brief, unsteady ta'al.
She returned the gesture with her cybernetic hand.