DISCLAIMER: It's Paramount's galaxy. The story is mine.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: While Chakotay is off the ship on an away mission, Seven finds herself a subject of Voyager's rumor mill. C/7, but I have a bit of good-natured fun with other pairings. Set between "Renaissance Man" and "Endgame." First in the Becoming Light series.
"Stardust," music and original lyrics by Hoagy Carmichael, 1927.
Archive with permission.
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INFINITE COMBINATIONS
Stardate 54937.58
According to the description in the replicator file, the dress was of midnight-blue bias-cut velvet with princess seams. It had long, narrow sleeves, a scoop neck, and was designed to fit close to the body, flaring into rich folds just below the curve of her hips. The neck and hem, which fell to mid-calf, were edged in the same color blue satin. Seven examined her reflection in the polished metal side of a cargo container and smoothed the fabric over her abdomen. She struck a pose identical to the image in the file—one foot forward, her hands on her hips. She was not certain that she liked what she saw. Although the garment itself was impressive, the reflected image was disconcerting. Those were her features peering quizzically back at her, yet this woman was unfamiliar.
She had never before worn anything like this—constructed of so much fabric she could feel its weight—and she was uncertain as to how she should move in it. She stepped forward a few paces and turned around. The skirt flared out and the fabric brushed over her thighs, cool and silky—a curious, although pleasant, sensation. She turned again and again, faster, watching her reflection as she spun as if she were watching someone else—the behavior was so unlike her. Yet the dress itself seemed to demand such movement. She stepped out of the spin, the fabric tangled around and between her legs, and she stumbled forward a few steps before regaining her balance. She stood in front of the cargo container and frowned. She required practice.
"Nice dress."
Seven startled at the intrusion and felt her face burn red. She'd been so preoccupied, she hadn't noticed anyone enter the cargo bay. She drew herself to full height. "Naomi Wildman," she snapped, "it is rude to enter someone's quarters without announcing your presence first."
The adolescent looked at her, smirking, seemingly oblivious to Seven's irritation. She'd caught her. She knew something about Seven that no one else did.
"These are my quarters," Seven pointed out, not unreasonably.
"You're right," Naomi conceded. "I'm sorry." Her smile widened to a grin. "It is a nice dress. It looks good on you."
"It would look better if I knew how to wear it," Seven said. "I had not considered that wardrobe could be such a challenge." She took a few steps forward and the fabric once again tangled between her legs. She sighed.
Naomi snorted back a laugh and helped Seven rearrange the skirt. "You have to sashay," she explained.
"Sashay," Seven said.
"Like this," Naomi said, and demonstrated, taking long, leisurely steps and swinging her hips in an exaggerated fashion, then pirouetting on the ball of one foot and returning. She looked at Seven encouragingly. "Now, you try."
Seven looked at the girl skeptically. "Where did you learn this movement?" she asked.
Naomi shrugged. "On the holodeck. Some of the costumes in Captain Proton are pretty hard to get around in." She winked and flashed Seven a knowing grin. "Lieutenant Paris doesn't design for utility, you know."
Seven struggled to keep her face impassive. Ktarians mature quickly, but still she found it increasingly difficult to reconcile the child she had known for three years and the young woman standing in front of her. There was something to be said for the longer human maturation process: inefficient as it might appear at first glance, it offered the adults in the child's life time to adapt. She thought it unfortunate that Naomi had inherited that aspect of her father's physiology, rather than Ensign Wildman's more leisurely human pace. "Does your mother know you're indulging in Mister Paris's holonovels?"
Naomi shrugged and tossed her hair, asserting her independence. "She doesn't monitor my every move," she said airily. She looked at Seven and rolled her eyes. "She has age-appropriate blocks in place."
"A wise precaution," Seven said.
"You're changing the subject." Naomi pointed to a spot across the room. "Sashay," she ordered, and stepped out, leading the way.
Seven took a deep breath and followed, awkwardly mimicking her movements. She felt worse than ridiculous, but it was working—the dress was moving with her, the fabric flowing around her legs. She smiled at Naomi shyly. While she would have figured it out on her own eventually, there was no telling how long that might have taken, and she was on a deadline: she needed to be reasonably proficient for her date with Commander Chakotay, which was in only four days' time.
"Not bad," Naomi said, observing her. "Now just relax and let it come naturally."
Seven wasn't certain that this would ever come "naturally," however she knew that it was important that she try. "Thank you," she said. "I am grateful for the assistance. I will practice later when I am not being observed."
"You might want to seal the door first," Naomi suggested.
"Another wise precaution," Seven agreed, and moved behind an arrangement of cargo containers to change.
"So who's the lucky guy?" Naomi asked.
Seven jerked and her elbow bumped a container. It rattled, but didn't fall. "The guy?" she repeated. Her throat was tight and her voice higher pitched than its normal state.
"Well, that's a date dress, if I ever saw one."
How did she know these things, Seven wondered, what is a "date dress," how to "sashay"? Was there a manual in the database? How to Be a Human Female. She frowned and stepped out of the garment, hung it on a hanger, and ran her fingers down the frivolously luxuriant fabric. She smiled. It was gratifying to know that she had gotten at least one thing right.
"The dress is for the holodeck," she explained, as she stepped into her biosuit. "A nightclub simulation. You know that I have an interest in music. I have been studying jazz." This was all true and Seven hoped that it was enough. She found deception unnatural, but she and the Commander had shared only one date. It seemed too early to be announcing her intentions, especially considering that she was not entirely certain of his.
Naomi didn't respond. Seven adjusted the sleeves of the biosuit and stepped from behind the makeshift closet. Naomi was standing next to Seven's alcove, her weight on one leg, arms folded across her chest, and her brows arched expectantly. Further explanation was clearly required.
"I will be attending a performance," Seven said, "by Rosemary Clooney, a twentieth-century Terran singer. Ensign Kim believes that I will enjoy her work—he says that we have a similar vocal range… and that I can learn from her style."
Naomi's brows remained high. "Alone?" She grinned. "Seems a shame to waste a dress like that on holocharacters."
Seven started to respond, but decided that silence was the best course of action. She moved to the console and tapped the screen, bringing up a file, then picked up a PADD and double-checked its data against that from the main computer. "It is a period-appropriate costume," she said at last. "Nothing more."
But Naomi was persistent. "I bet the Doctor would enjoy that performance," she said.
Seven froze. "The Doctor?" Her face burned and her voice had returned to an uncomfortably strained pitch. She attempted to compose herself, then turned and faced Naomi directly. "Explain," she said.
"Well, it's all over the ship," Naomi said, a little defensively. She saw Seven's quizzical expression. "When he thought he was going to decompile? How he confessed he was in love with you?"
Seven closed her eyes and sighed.
"It's all over the ship," Naomi repeated. She looked at Seven incredulously. "You didn't know?"
"I do not pay attention to gossip," Seven said. "While it is efficiently disseminated, it is too often based on idle speculation and therefore inaccurate."
"But this is accurate," Naomi pointed out.
Seven frowned. "Yes, it is. The Doctor confessed his devotion."
Naomi smiled dreamily. "It's so romantic," she said. "He keeps his feelings to himself all these years…"
"But," Seven continued, interrupting her, "I'm not interested in the Doctor as a romantic partner."
Naomi's face fell. She considered this for a moment, then shook her head. "What a sad twist of fate," she said dramatically. "Instead of love, humiliation."
Seven felt badly for the Doctor. Although she didn't share his feelings, he was her friend and she didn't like thinking of him as an object of derision for the crew. "Who spread this information to the ship?" she demanded.
Naomi looked surprised at Seven's intensity. "He did," she said. "He tells everyone who goes into sickbay how he made such a fool of himself in front of you."
"So he compounds the error by making a fool of himself in front of everyone else." Seven's sympathy evaporated in a nanosecond. "And by extension, he makes a fool of me."
Naomi waved away Seven's discomfort. "Don't take it so seriously," she said. "It'll blow over in a couple of days and they'll be onto something else." She grinned slyly. "I hear Ensign Kim had a date on the holodeck with both of the Delaney sisters. Kinky, huh?"
Seven gaped at the girl. She wasn't certain which astonished her more: the thought of Harry Kim in a romantic liaison with twins or the fact that she was hearing about it from a child. "Do you think it appropriate to speculate on the private lives of the crew in this way?" she asked.
Naomi laughed. "Seven, that's all anyone talks about on this ship." She patted Seven on the arm. "Don't worry about it. You're the topic this week, next week Harry, after that maybe the Captain and Commander Chakotay—it's been awhile since there was anything on them."
Seven froze again and struggled to keep her face impassive, an ultimately futile endeavor. "The Captain and…," she stammered. Had others known about this? Why hadn't she?
Naomi aped Seven's astonishment and laughed. "You didn't know about that?" She shook her head again. "Wow! You're even more out of touch than Tuvok."
"Apparently so," Seven murmured, turning the revelation and its infinite possible permutations over in her mind. Perhaps it was merely idle speculation based upon coincidence and conjecture. On the other hand, perhaps the rumor was accurate and the time she spent with the Commander a simple offer of friendship. Perhaps she had misinterpreted his intentions. How could she know what was true? The obvious answer was to ask him, but that was impossible at the moment, given that he was off the ship on an away mission.
Naomi grinned. "Then you're lucky to have me as your friend," she said. She took the PADD from Seven's hand and set it on the console. "But we're late for lunch and I'm hungry. I'll fill you in on all the juicy details in the mess hall."
Part of Seven's mind told her that this information was irrelevant. She had seen with her own eyes his reaction to her company, she had sensed his increased heart rate in response to her smile. But she had to concede that she was not an unbiased judge. Were her observations tainted by her own desire? She pursed her lips. "Very well," she said and closed the file. More pressing research required her attention. She looked at Naomi and nodded. "You can provide me with your data over lunch."
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Seven frowned as she studied the star chart on the screen in Astrometrics, just as she had every day in the first months after Unimatrix Zero was destroyed. The region of space displayed—approximately forty-seven thousand light years from their present position—was sparsely populated, but still contained millions of star systems. She had worked day and night, and had used every resource at her command to devise a way to find one individual among trillions. But the area she was searching was too large and the distance between them too vast.
I will find you, Axum had said, but even as he spoke she knew he wouldn't. Still the power of naïve hope surprised her, how it fueled her own efforts, driving her to review the data again and again as if the mere repetition would reveal something new, something she'd missed. And late at night while the rest of Alpha Shift slept, she found herself drawn to the mess hall, where she would stand at the window, watch the stars, and concentrate deeply, as if somehow in this manner she could reach him with her mind.
She'd missed nothing and she couldn't contact him, so of course he never answered. And as the months passed, the silence grew less painful and the futility of the project more obvious. She had no way of knowing if he was even still alive. Yet, as she said goodbye, her loneliness did not abate. This was unexpected. Her life had not changed in any substantial way, except that now she knew something—albeit incompletely remembered—was missing.
She looked at the screen again and sighed. She wasn't certain which was more difficult—that futile search or filling this void. She required companionship—of that much she was certain—but human social rituals were complex and confusing, and courtship was proving the most confounding of all. She didn't remember meeting Axum, had no recollection of their courting, so any experience she might have had was irrelevant, and her research had revealed nothing more useful than the Doctor's social lessons: exhibit interest in the other individual, develop compatible activities, relax and "be yourself." This last was the most problematic. In social situations, being herself was more often than not a recipe for disaster.
She frowned at the screen again and closed the file, only then aware of Icheb standing a few paces to her right, a bemused expression on his face, waiting for her attention. Seven bristled, caught off-guard for the second time in as many hours. "Do you require my assistance?" she snapped.
He raised his eyebrows and smirked, with the breezy adolescent superiority that Seven had come to the conclusion was universal across sentient species. He handed her a PADD. "I've completed the recalibration of the aft sensor array," he said, "and increased the accuracy by an additional two percent."
Seven reviewed the data, then looked at the boy. "I am sorry. I shouldn't have addressed you in that fashion. I was preoccupied." She set the PADD on the console. "This is excellent work," she said. "The Captain will be pleased."
He nodded acknowledgement of the compliment, started to turn away, then reconsidered and faced her directly. "Do you require my assistance?" he asked.
Seven looked up at the unexpected offer. "With what?"
"With whatever is preoccupying you."
She started to retort that it was none of his business, but immediately thought better of it. Her irritation would only increase his curiosity—which would lead him to research further. She shifted her weight from foot to foot and focused her gaze on a spot on the platform below the viewscreen. She didn't speak.
"The region of space you were studying is well off Voyager's route," he offered helpfully. "What interest do you find in it?"
She took a deep breath. "I once knew someone there," she said at last, then turned and looked at him directly. Honesty was the best approach. "I was engaging in a sentimental moment—a human custom. It was an effort to distract myself." Her lips curled in a wry smile. "Apparently it was an effective exercise. I was distracted enough to be unaware of your presence."
Her humor missed its target. Icheb narrowed his eyes and studied hers. "So this region of space is not what is preoccupying you."
Seven sighed to herself and returned her attention to the platform. Her tactics were flawed—and she knew that he would not let this go. "No," she conceded. "My preoccupations are closer to home."
Icheb raised an eyebrow and Seven considered the situation. While Naomi had, as promised, regaled her with numerous accounts of romantic encounters between staggering numbers of the crew, her stories were so embellished as to make the individuals unrecognizable, and some were obvious fabrications. She had never known either the Captain or Commander Chakotay to drink to excess, so inebriated public proclamations of love in the middle of a social gathering were highly unlikely, and she knew for a fact that neither had ever serenaded the other during a crew talent show. If she were to be honest—and Seven was almost always completely honest—just the thought of the Captain singing was enough to overload her aural implants. Given her tendency to adolescent flights of fancy, Naomi was not a reliable source.
Icheb, on the other hand, showed promise. He was a likeable young man, friendly with the crew, acutely observant, and more attuned to the nuances of Voyager's complex social interactions than Seven. Yet, unlike Naomi, he had a scientist's dispassionate eye. "Very well," she said, turning to look at him again. "Perhaps you can assist me." She took a deep breath; her chest was tight. "You're aware of the gossip on the ship, are you not?"
He was momentarily surprised, then smiled and nodded understanding. "You're referring to crew speculation regarding your relationship with the Doctor."
It wasn't the only thing to which Seven was referring, but it was the only thing to which she would admit. She blushed deeply. "We do not have a relationship," she said.
"Not now," Icheb said.
"Not ever," Seven said with a sigh. Would she have to explain this to every individual on the ship? "I am not interested in the Doctor as a romantic partner."
Icheb shrugged. "That doesn't matter."
Seven's nostrils flared with a quick intake of air. "Of course it matters. An individual cannot be forced…"
"A lack of mutual interest will not stop crew speculation," he said, interrupting her. "As a matter of fact, for the purposes of the story, it's best that the individuals do not get involved."
Seven frowned. "Explain."
He thought for a moment. "I believe it is because the couple is perceived to live 'happily ever after' and happiness is boring." He noted Seven's persistent frown. "Again, from the perspective of the story's audience, not that of the couple involved," he said. "There is no conflict in happiness, and without conflict, there is no drama. And drama is the heart of a story. Romantic stories end with the commitment."
Seven shook her head. "But what occurs on this ship is mere gossip, not a story. Literature is an art form. Gossip is base speculation."
"Gossip is simply a form of serial storytelling," Icheb said earnestly. "It's almost universal across sentient species. Some cultures elevate it to a commodity—the Ferengi and early twenty-first century humans, for example. And some to an art form."
"Would that be Voyager's crew?" Seven asked archly.
Icheb chuckled. "This crew is inventive. They've provided a massive database for my research."
Seven cringed, remembering her own disastrous early attempts at understanding crew behavior via direct observation. "It is inappropriate to use the crew as research subjects," she scolded, echoing what Captain Janeway had said to her. "Voyager is not a nature preserve."
Icheb's cheeks reddened slightly. "I'm not studying the crew," he said. "Just their stories."
"Their stories?"
He nodded. "I'm studying xenomythology with Commander Chakotay," he explained. "For my research project, I am analyzing the patterns of the stories told on Voyager. They are this community's mythology."
Her charge's ingenuity impressed her—she would never have considered gossip a scientific discipline. "What have you found?" she asked, genuinely interested.
He thought for a moment. "As you are aware, the majority of the stories involve romance, and a broad cross-section of the crew is involved in their dissemination. They are extraordinarily popular," he said. "The stories themselves fall into traditional patterns. 'Opposites attract'—Lieutenants Paris and Torres, for example. 'Former enemies' would be any couple composed of a Starfleet officer and former Maquis."
Or herself and Commander Chakotay, Seven thought wryly. He had attempted to flush her out of an airlock shortly after their first meeting. Surely that would qualify as an inauspicious start.
"Then there is the mentor-student romance," Icheb continued, "the Pygmalion story—named for a play by the twentieth-century Terran playwright George Bernard Shaw. Stories about you and the Doctor fall into this sub-genre."
"Then the crew will not be disappointed when this story ends," Seven said. She noted Icheb's raised eyebrow and raised her own in return. "I've read the play… and the sequel. At the conclusion, Eliza marries Freddy, not Henry Higgins."
"Is there a Freddy in this story?" Icheb asked.
Seven swallowed hard. The conversation was again headed in a dangerous direction. She struggled to keep her face expressionless, refused to meet his eyes, and stammered a negative reply. She wasn't an accomplished liar. Her only advantage was that he would not expect deception from her. Even so, a change of subject was in order. "A great deal of speculation involves Captain Janeway," she said. "Given her position, this seems… inappropriate."
To her relief, he followed her segue. "The Captain is the leader of this community," he said. "The crew looks up to her, and so she inspires stories."
"About her romantic involvements," Seven said drily.
Icheb shrugged. "Starfleet mythos contains abundant precedent. Admiral Kirk's romantic exploits were known far beyond the bounds of Federation space."
Seven forced back a smile. The cadet appeared proud of this facet of one of Starfleet's heroes. "But stories about Admiral Kirk, if exaggerated, are still based on the historic record," she said. "Captain Janeway doesn't have a romantic partner."
"Of whom you're aware," Icheb said, and Seven had to concede that he had a point. "Anyway, there are stories that persist about Admiral Kirk that can't be verified historically—particularly those regarding a relationship with Ambassador Spock."
Seven thought it absurd to consider the Vulcan Spock's involvement in Kirk's sexual exploits in any manner other than his offering pointed commentary on the complications of romantic attachments… and she said so.
"Perhaps it's simply a fantasy extension of the captain-first officer relationship," Icheb admitted. "There are numerous examples—stories about Captain Archer and Commander T'Pol persist, even though there is ample historic evidence that she was involved with another member of Enterprise's crew." He paused. "And on Voyager, stories about Captain Janeway and Commander Chakotay are a sub-genre all to themselves."
Seven felt as if a swarm of insects had taken up residence in her stomach. "Are there many examples of this?" she asked, feigning ignorance.
Icheb chuckled. "Many."
"Does their prevalence indicate a basis in fact?"
"Not necessarily," he said. "It simply indicates that they are—in the opinion of the crew—an engaging couple. It doesn't mean that they are engaging to each other." He blushed lightly and stood a little straighter. "Anyway, I'm only studying the stories themselves, not judging their merits in terms of believability. Commander Chakotay says that it's important to maintain an emotional distance from the subject."
Seven sighed inwardly. It was wise advice—and had the added advantage of protecting the Commander's privacy, in the event the stories were true. However, it rendered Icheb's research irrelevant for her purposes. While he had compiled an impressive amount of raw data, he was as ill-equipped as Naomi to provide her with any judgments concerning its veracity. Perhaps this was proof that it was possible to be too scientific—an idea that Seven did not want to contemplate in any depth. As was too often true since she had come to live among humans, it was obvious that if she wanted an accurate assessment, she would have to investigate and analyze for herself.
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