TITLE: "Memory" Part 1 of 4
AUTHOR: Layla V.
CONTACT: v_layla@hotmail.com
WEBSITE: http://www.geocities.com/chakotayseven
ARCHIVING: Sure. Just let me know where.
FANDOM: Star Trek Voyager
PAIRING: Chakotay/Seven
RATING: PG-13.
CODES: Slightly A/U. Angst. H/c.
SUMMARY: What if the Rumaran virus meant to erase Kellin's
memories from every mind on Voyager wasn't as effective as
we'd thought at first?
DISCLAIMER: All characters owned by Paramount. I am merely
playing with them. No copyright infringement is intended.
NOTES: Major thanks to Sorcha for her invaluable suggestions
and betaing. Also thanks to Kristin for her encouragement
without which I could never have been able to finish this.
:)
========^*^========^*^=========
This Story won *First Place* in the Bowl First Kiss contest!
http://www.geocities.com/the_fresh_bowl/contest.html
========^*^========^*^=========
They say memory is the purveyor of reason.
It is the vessel that holds our sanity within its arrayed
sequenced divisions. We creatures of habit are creatures
gifted with memory and endowed with a thinking mind---one
that retains knowledge of the past we've experienced, hoping
to keep it safe and secure within its secret folds.
But my reason is lost. There's a fissure in my thoughts, a
yawning gap that threatens to envelop me into its needless,
incomprehensible vacuity.
What happened to me? I ask the face reflecting back at me
from the near-transparent sheen of my office's viewport. The
face frowns, the dark brows furrowing in deep thought, and I
hear a long sound escape from the back of my throat---a
staggering sigh, lined with weary desolation.
What's wrong with me? I squeeze my eyes shut a moment and
then open them once more, sighing again. Oh gods, I don't
know. I wouldn't have known anything but the emptiness
inside that crosses the threshold of mind and memory and
slinks down to the depths of my soul---leaving me
restless---if it hadn't been for the letter.
Four pages of replicated even-lined writing paper. A strange
handwritten account of events otherwise unrecorded addressed
to me. Addressed *by* me.
I don't know what made me look for the clean pair of uniform
boots in the last drawer of my bedroom's wardrobe. After all
a pair of boots can't really fit in a drawer, can they?
But there I was, running late for the Rumbari reception
which was to be held planet-side in a little under forty
minutes, dressed in my Starfleet issue dress shirt and
pants, when I realized my clean boots were nowhere to be
found. In a manner of minutes my room looked like a cyclone
had hit it---let it be officially noted down that a person
as meticulous as I've become in my years on Voyager surely
knows how to devastate any semblance of neatness in life
when the time calls for it. It usually occurs during these
rare panic-stricken search raids for little lost personal
items. And sure enough, despite the upheaval I caused, I
couldn't find the damn boots no matter where I looked.
And it was while I was rummaging through the lower
cabinets---hunting for the said boots to no avail---that I
pulled open the last drawer of the closet and saw the stack
of papers lying there.
The steel covered stout writing pen sat on top of the stack
in quiet declaration, the first few words staring up at me
in their bold uncial letter writing in a sort of peerless
challenge.
/READ THIS,/ The heading said. /AND TRUST YOUR HEART./
I remember frowning at the words at first as if they were no
more than an unwanted distraction, for which I really had no
time of course. But then, as always, curiosity got the
better of me. I picked up the stack of papers and began to
read.
And forgot all about the boots.
I remember still sitting in front of the wardrobe in the
same half crouch, still reading the account, virtually lost
to the universe, when Kathryn commed me twenty-five minutes
later. She was asking why I wasn't in transporter room two
with her, getting ready to beam down to the surface with the
Voyager entourage. If it hadn't been for that call, I
probably would've missed the reception.
I don't remember much of the Rumbari gathering either. All I
know is that I had to wear the same old boots I had worn
during the alpha shift that day after all. And that we
secured the trade agreement with our gracious hosts. With or
without my help.
Most likely without, though, since my mind was too
distracted to be of much help to Kathryn and Tuvok during
the trade talks.
My thoughts confused. My reason lost.
The computer beeps a warning and shaken out of my thoughts,
I turn to the chronometer. It's gone past the usual
lunchtime now and would be safer for me to go have lunch
peacefully since the alpha crowd must've gone back on shift
by this time. I realize I've wasted another morning session
on idle, pointless brooding---ignoring the steadily growing
stack of padds that has been lying on my desk since leaving
Rumbari space a week ago; brooding that will get me nowhere,
of course.
After all there's no official, concrete way to verify my
handwritten memoirs, is there?
I slowly make my way to the messhall, answering the
respectful greetings of the few crewmembers I meet on the
way. Neelix is clearing up the place and there are only a
few people left in the messhall now, but I know he has kept
lunch for me and others like me who are here for a late
lunch.
I am not a recluse by nature. I don't really mind crowds and
my job as the XO means interacting with my people on a
daily, sometimes hourly, basis is part of the deal. But the
events of the last few days have left me unsettled; the need
to be left alone and undisturbed consistently pressing down
on me with a quiet resolution.
"Commander," Neelix beams happily as he sees me. "You must
try the Spicy Silkari Brown Rice I've prepared today. The
accompanying Fujakan Potato Sauce makes it a most delightful
combination."
"Thank you, Neelix, I'd love that." I smile back at him,
dreading the worst. Spicy and Neelix can often be a deadly
combination. But his enthusiasm is contagious and I find
myself warming up to his chatter as he ladles spoonfuls of
the green potato sauce on top of the rice. The smell is
surprisingly quite favorable, and I tell him so.
"Trust me Commander," He leans in close, almost
conspiratorially. "It's been a hit with the vegetarians on
board. Commander Tuvok even took three servings and everyone
knows he never takes more than two. The original recipe for
the sauce called for carrots, but I now know how much you
dislike them."
I contemplate the tray in my hand, not sure if the Tuvok
reference scores any favorable points for Neelix's latest
culinary creation. And then it hits me like déjà vu'.
Carrots. Not many people know I hate carrots. Of course
Neelix is one of the few who have finally figured it out,
which is a good thing since he is the cook. But, who else?
My thoughts whirl inside my head. Did I tell someone about
the carrots? Who did I tell?
Did I tell *her*?
I come out of my musing as Neelix waves his hand in front of
me. "Commander, are you all right?" His voice sounds a
little panicked, and I wonder how long I'd been standing
there---lost in my thoughts.
I blink and stare at the Talaxian for a second, noting his
eyes have widened with concern. Then I take a deep breath
and shrug. "Sure, Neelix. I am fine."
I take my tray to a corner table and settle down. I know
Neelix is still looking at me, standing at his counter, so I
make a display of scooping up a generous spoonful of rice
and sauce and take it inside my mouth. As I chew I realize
the flavor really isn't half-bad and the genuine smile of
thanks I send the Talaxian's way apparently satisfies him
and he smiles gratefully before going back to work.
But the tasteful food isn't enough to keep my mind focused
on it for too long. My thoughts soon return to the object of
my discontent. The letter.
Her name was Kellin. She was Rumaran, a beautiful woman as
per my written notes, belonging to a world that didn't
appreciate anyone leaving the bounds of their closed
society. According to the accounts, she was a 'Tracer', a
bounty hunter given the job of tracking down people who
attempted to leave their world. She had come to Voyager
looking for a runaway hiding here and my letter says...
I pause and stare down at my plate. My letter says she and
I... fell in *love*. With each other. Not once, but twice. I
shake my head and frown at the rice. It supposedly had
something to do with the biological characteristics of
Rumarans, which ensured that the memories of her people
couldn't be held in the minds of other races. They can only
be remembered for a few hours...and then the memories fade
away.
I sense a sudden rush of maddening hilarity bubbling up
inside me, a somewhat familiar feeling that I've felt every
time I went over this part of the account over the past one
week, and if the whole situation weren't so damn pathetic I
would've certainly burst out laughing. I stop myself in
time, though, and the only residue of my restrained madness
is a further gritting of my teeth as I let the fork held in
my hand slip from my fingers. The utensil clatters noisily
on the replicated china and I close my eyes again.
Gods, I don't want to make some absurd XO-gone-insane scene
in public. This has to stop. I am the First Officer here.
Can't have the second-in-commands chasing ghost lovers in
the remnants of their brain's tampered memory pathways, now,
can we? But spirits, my heart...
I sigh, my eyes still closed, and rub my weary face with the
heals of my hands. If it's all really so unreal, if it's all
nothing but a foregone maniacal absurdity, then why the hell
does my heart feel so empty inside? There's no record of her
being here, the computer virus mentioned in my account
explains that, yes, but then why do I feel like I've lost
something important, something real, something that was
truly beautiful to me?
Was this why I'd been feeling so subdued in the last few
weeks? Could my heart have known I'd lost someone I'd loved
even if my mind couldn't acknowledge it?
Gods, why *did* I leave myself this account? What was I
thinking when I wrote this? Wouldn't it have been infinitely
better if I'd stayed quiet, if I'd let this get lost along
with everything else that was supposedly lost after she
left? Spirits, I don't even remember what she looked like.
All of a sudden I get the feeling of being watched.
Startled, my eyes fly open and I quickly, furtively, scan
the room for whoever has caught the whiff of my restrained
madness. My eyes lock with the clear blues of my
interloper's. It's Seven. I inwardly groan as I realize my
madness isn't that restrained after all, as I return her
curious, direct gaze with as much efficacy as I can.
I really don't think I have the patience to answer any of
her inquisitive queries. What has she noticed anyway? How
long has she been watching me? I feel a slight flush heat
the skin of my face as I contemplate breaking the eye
contact and looking away from her...
When she breaks it herself. And something quite exotic,
something I'd never seen on her face before, an alien blend
of uncharacteristic abashment intermingled with
characteristic Borg indignation perhaps, crosses her
features and she looks down at her own meal.
I blink at the strange display. Seven of Nine embarrassed?
My brows furrow. Of what? Have I stepped into an alternate
universe? What did that look on her face mean?
I look down at the now cold rice and realize my appetite is
lost. I have to get the hell out of here, my heart and brain
tell me in unison. I stand up, pick up my half-eaten meal
and take the tray to the recycler. I ignore Neelix's
outraged protests as I empty the plate into the apparatus,
set the serving dishes on the counter, and walk out of the
messhall.
For a moment, I feel myself shiver as the heat of her gaze
lingers on my back. And then the messhall doors close behind
me.
========^*^========^*^=========
The star-chart on the Astrometrics screen shifts under my
new commands and we see a fresh trajectory replace the old
display.
"The three planet system you see on the top left corner is
the closest on our current course." I say. "We'll have to
divert the route for four light-years in order to reach it."
"How long would it take on our current speed?" Captain
Janeway asks.
I quickly compute the distance. "Approximately eighty-four
hours."
"And according to your data, they're all uninhabited?" She
looks at me closely.
"The Borg didn't find any civilizations or technology worthy
of assimilation in this entire region." I turn to her.
"According to my data, only lower life forms and vegetation
prevail in that system."
"All the more reason for us to go exploring." She gives a
rueful smile. "Neelix has been eager to restock his food
stores, and B'Elanna would love to look up any mineral
deposits that might be useful."
She pats me encouragingly on my shoulder as she turns to
leave. "Keep running scans and let me know if something new
comes up."
"Yes, Captain." I nod as I turn to face the screen again, my
fingers moving on the console in front of me.
I hear the doors open as she steps through the doorsill and
then for some reason, she pauses at the threshold. I turn my
head to look back at her.
"I'll ask Commander Chakotay to prepare a schedule for away
team rotations." Her eyes are on the star-chart on the
screen, not me, her quick mind undoubtedly working ahead of
schedule as usual, already planning and allocating tasks in
her head. "If the scans show favorable results, we'll need
everyone working around the clock to alleviate the supplies
shortage." Then she looks at me, smiles again, and walks
out. The doors close behind her.
I stare at the closed doors for a moment, my thoughts in a
complicated quandary, and then turn back to my console.
As I program the system to run continuous scans of the
region along the trajectory we've decided to follow, my
thoughts return to the perplexing situation of Voyager's
First Officer. My mind runs the scene observed earlier in
the messhall over and over again but still comes up short
when the need for a possible solution is acknowledged.
The Commander is disturbed, that much is certain from my
recent observations of his otherwise inconspicuous behavior.
The display in the messhall today indicates an obvious
increase in the factors that have been contributing to his
distraction---factors which would perhaps be unknown to the
others onboard. Which brings me to the uncertainty of how
his other crewmates will interpret his anxiety-filled
behavior in the absence of any known reasons. I am also
uncertain as to what measures I can take to assist the
Commander in relieving the stress he's under.
After all, the circumstances affecting him are not
completely unknown to me.
I wouldn't have found out anything at all if Borg Alcove
Beta, the Alcove I always use for my regeneration cycles in
the cargo bay, hadn't malfunctioned. When Lieutenant Torres
ran a diagnostic on it, it turned out that the primary
relays in the microcircuit sub-processor had gotten fused
and the Alcove would be inoperative until they were
replaced.
While the Lieutenant was certain she could get the problem
resolved, she had as much inclination to spend her off-duty
hours fixing my Alcove as I had to endure her scathing
impatience. I allowed her to get Alcove Gamma operational,
which hadn't been used during the past one year, for my use
that night and was immensely relieved when she left---her
reluctance to spend too much off-duty time in my presence is
another peculiarity I undoubtedly share with her.
As I stepped into the new Alcove, the programming in the
Alcove itself as well as my own Borg physiology reset itself
to match the new environment---as is the case every time a
drone is reassigned to a new vessel or division. No data or
information is wiped out in the process, only all the Borg
implants and systems within my physiology are resynchronized
so that they can match the new setting and the regeneration
cycle can commence.
The beginning of each cycle is vague, filled with familiar
faces and images that help center a Drone's thoughts and
memories---much like what human individuals would call the
'dream state'. The onset of this state in a Drone's case,
though, is instantaneous---unlike humans who would take some
time before they will fall asleep. Even though my link to
the Collective has been severed for almost a year, my
regeneration cycles bring me closer to my Borg half more
than anything else I've ever experienced as an individual.
This time, however, my thoughts were filled with faces
unknown to me. Unacquainted, alien, and yet still somehow
strangely, inexplicably, familiar.
A smiling humanoid female. Her ears slanting upwards to a
pointed peak, her hair light and her eyes a shade darker
than mine. An individual I'd never met before. Or perhaps an
individual I *thought* I'd never met before.
A face animated in conversation---*his* face, a strangely
familiar flush coloring the darker hue of his skin further.
The sound of laughter, theirs---the two of them sharing a
carefree meal in a corner of the messhall, oblivious to
their surroundings.
Another female, a human this time, her hair the same light
brush of burning embers silkily framing her face, her large
eyes expressing compassion---her face a familiar one, her
words the same I'd heard thousands of times before in my
dreams and in my nightmares: "Hear our voices. Open your
mind to our thoughts. Feel the connection. Don't be afraid.
Our strength is your strength." His memories.
An old man leading me into a path inside a jungle, or
perhaps leading *him*. A flash of lightening, or perhaps a
discharge of powerful weapons fire, scorching the earth, the
life, the old man in front of me---or perhaps in front of
him---to glowing cinders. All life burnt to ashes in one
vicious strike. The sounds of screams rising and
reverberating inside my skull---his skull---and the jolt of
pain freezing me---him---stealing my breath---his---making
me fall to my knees, tears running down my face. His face.
His pain.
His face again. This time alone at a corner of an
Observation lounge, perhaps somewhere on Deck Five. Deep in
thought, not noticing my arrival, his eyes dull with loss
and hurt---his face quietly expressive in the solitude of
his own company and in the absence of protocols that
constantly reaffirm his own loneliness. *My* loneliness.
And then the sudden onslaught of silence---followed by a
skin-tingling, throat-constricting plunging of utter
darkness.
When I came out of my regeneration cycle that night, I found
myself drenched in a light sheen of perspiration. The images
were confusing but then again some of them were familiar
too. It was obvious that the memories I had retained from my
brief link to Commander Chakotay a year ago had been
prevalent in this cycle, but what was I to make of the other
unfamiliar faces?
Who was the first female I saw in my mind? Was she a
remnant, a figment of some individual's memory---maybe
someone who had been assimilated by me in the past? Why did
I see Commander Chakotay in those memories then? Was my
flawed human brain fusing separate images and unmatchable
memories together? Was this what Lieutenant Paris would call
a haphazardly drawn 'jigsaw puzzle' that wouldn't make sense
no matter how hard we tried to piece it together?
As I checked, I realized a long time had passed since I'd
initiated my cycle. I had completed much of my needed quota
of regeneration, even if it had left me mentally
unsettled---a human weakness no doubt---and now I had no
desire to go back to it.
And that was exactly what I did.
I stayed away from the Alcove, even after Lieutenant Torres
fixed the problem in Alcove Beta the next day. A week passed
without regeneration because, to elucidate myself, I was a
little uncertain how it would effect me again. The Doctor
soon intervened with complaints of falling electrolyte
levels, though, and I had no choice but to return to
regeneration.
However, this time I kept my fears at bay, and my
determination to find some answers foremost in my mind.
By the time my second regeneration cycle had ended, I had
most of the puzzle resolved.
The answer lay within my Designator Interface Circuit. It is
a small circuit located on the exterior of Drones and
contains information on our numerical designation as well as
information we have accumulated since being last connected
with the Collective. Its one of the implants that the Doctor
was unable to remove from my exoskeleton because attempting
to do so would've resulted in the activation of a
self-destruct program that would've vaporized me.
This circuit, being an external unit, stays disengaged
during my normal regeneration cycles. Its function is to
record a sequenced form of the data that already exists in
my Neuro-Processor. The main and incidentally only implant
that interacts with the Alcove during regeneration is the
Interlink Node. But it seems that using the new Alcove,
which resulted in the resetting of all my Borg systems,
reintegrated that data---and thus the memories contained
within---into my Neuro-Processor once again.
Now that the Rumaran virus no longer exists within Voyager's
computer, there is no concern for this data, and these
memories, of being erased from my system again.
The one uncertainty that does confound me is the question of
which individual on Voyager I should relay this revived
information to. Or perhaps whether I should inform anyone at
all.
That brings me back to the subject of Commander Chakotay. I
am unsure what, if anything, he does remember from the
events of our contact with Kellin and her people. There
isn't any record in the ship's database. I have even
discreetly run algorithms against his own personal
files---the ones I could access, that is---as well, and have
found no clues that he has any information recorded in his
stored data files regarding the incidents. Unless, of
course, he has employed some crude method of storing
information that proved to be somewhat efficient for him.
Although I am not sure the stressful state he's in right now
is indicative of any actual efficiency in relevance to the
method he may have used.
His replicator usage shows his nutritional consumption
levels have dropped in the past one-week or so, and how well
he's taking his meals in the messhall became quite evident
today. The increasing lines around his eyes can also only be
explained by the fact that he's not getting the physical
rest, which the vigorous level of activity that comes with
his position as the First Officer entails.
That leaves me unsettled for some inscrutable reason.
For someone to come and disrupt the equilibrium of a
person's life so close by---my own life---and then leave
thinking they've left no traces behind. When in fact the
opposite may be the truth---not just in my case, but *his*
too. It's so inexcusably... inefficient.
No wonder the Borg never assimilated any Rumarans, despite
their superior stealth and weapons technology. I can't
imagine what the consequences of a Collective slowly losing
its memory, in case one of them was liberated, would have
been like. Even if it was only until their collective Borg
Alcoves reset themselves.
Which, like the unending circle this plight has become,
brings me back to Commander Chakotay again. Ascertaining
from the reaction I got from him this afternoon, it doesn't
appear he is anymore comfortable in my presence than
Lieutenant Torres is. Which would make sense since the two
of them are close friends---her being one of the few people
he socializes with on the ship other than the Captain.
Only, Lieutenant Torres doesn't seem to be aware of the
stress her friend is under. Nor is the Captain apparently
aware of the anxiety Voyager's First Officer seems to be
going through at the moment.
I am uncertain as to what steps I should undertake.
The Borg part of me---the part closest to my thoughts and
mind and the decision-making centers of my cerebrum during
my nightly regeneration cycles---tells me to simply let it
be. That time will heal his wounds and he'll get over these
needless inefficient emotional entanglements.
And yet the human part of me---the part that brings all
those familiar images and individual memories alive when I
close my eyes during the same regeneration cycles---feels my
chest constricting with a strange, mysterious feeling.
The feeling of my human heart---aching in pain. For him.
========^*^========^*^=========
Continued in Memory 2 of4
AUTHOR: Layla V.
CONTACT: v_layla@hotmail.com
WEBSITE: http://www.geocities.com/chakotayseven
ARCHIVING: Sure. Just let me know where.
FANDOM: Star Trek Voyager
PAIRING: Chakotay/Seven
RATING: PG-13.
CODES: Slightly A/U. Angst. H/c.
SUMMARY: What if the Rumaran virus meant to erase Kellin's
memories from every mind on Voyager wasn't as effective as
we'd thought at first?
DISCLAIMER: All characters owned by Paramount. I am merely
playing with them. No copyright infringement is intended.
NOTES: Major thanks to Sorcha for her invaluable suggestions
and betaing. Also thanks to Kristin for her encouragement
without which I could never have been able to finish this.
:)
========^*^========^*^=========
This Story won *First Place* in the Bowl First Kiss contest!
http://www.geocities.com/the_fresh_bowl/contest.html
========^*^========^*^=========
They say memory is the purveyor of reason.
It is the vessel that holds our sanity within its arrayed
sequenced divisions. We creatures of habit are creatures
gifted with memory and endowed with a thinking mind---one
that retains knowledge of the past we've experienced, hoping
to keep it safe and secure within its secret folds.
But my reason is lost. There's a fissure in my thoughts, a
yawning gap that threatens to envelop me into its needless,
incomprehensible vacuity.
What happened to me? I ask the face reflecting back at me
from the near-transparent sheen of my office's viewport. The
face frowns, the dark brows furrowing in deep thought, and I
hear a long sound escape from the back of my throat---a
staggering sigh, lined with weary desolation.
What's wrong with me? I squeeze my eyes shut a moment and
then open them once more, sighing again. Oh gods, I don't
know. I wouldn't have known anything but the emptiness
inside that crosses the threshold of mind and memory and
slinks down to the depths of my soul---leaving me
restless---if it hadn't been for the letter.
Four pages of replicated even-lined writing paper. A strange
handwritten account of events otherwise unrecorded addressed
to me. Addressed *by* me.
I don't know what made me look for the clean pair of uniform
boots in the last drawer of my bedroom's wardrobe. After all
a pair of boots can't really fit in a drawer, can they?
But there I was, running late for the Rumbari reception
which was to be held planet-side in a little under forty
minutes, dressed in my Starfleet issue dress shirt and
pants, when I realized my clean boots were nowhere to be
found. In a manner of minutes my room looked like a cyclone
had hit it---let it be officially noted down that a person
as meticulous as I've become in my years on Voyager surely
knows how to devastate any semblance of neatness in life
when the time calls for it. It usually occurs during these
rare panic-stricken search raids for little lost personal
items. And sure enough, despite the upheaval I caused, I
couldn't find the damn boots no matter where I looked.
And it was while I was rummaging through the lower
cabinets---hunting for the said boots to no avail---that I
pulled open the last drawer of the closet and saw the stack
of papers lying there.
The steel covered stout writing pen sat on top of the stack
in quiet declaration, the first few words staring up at me
in their bold uncial letter writing in a sort of peerless
challenge.
/READ THIS,/ The heading said. /AND TRUST YOUR HEART./
I remember frowning at the words at first as if they were no
more than an unwanted distraction, for which I really had no
time of course. But then, as always, curiosity got the
better of me. I picked up the stack of papers and began to
read.
And forgot all about the boots.
I remember still sitting in front of the wardrobe in the
same half crouch, still reading the account, virtually lost
to the universe, when Kathryn commed me twenty-five minutes
later. She was asking why I wasn't in transporter room two
with her, getting ready to beam down to the surface with the
Voyager entourage. If it hadn't been for that call, I
probably would've missed the reception.
I don't remember much of the Rumbari gathering either. All I
know is that I had to wear the same old boots I had worn
during the alpha shift that day after all. And that we
secured the trade agreement with our gracious hosts. With or
without my help.
Most likely without, though, since my mind was too
distracted to be of much help to Kathryn and Tuvok during
the trade talks.
My thoughts confused. My reason lost.
The computer beeps a warning and shaken out of my thoughts,
I turn to the chronometer. It's gone past the usual
lunchtime now and would be safer for me to go have lunch
peacefully since the alpha crowd must've gone back on shift
by this time. I realize I've wasted another morning session
on idle, pointless brooding---ignoring the steadily growing
stack of padds that has been lying on my desk since leaving
Rumbari space a week ago; brooding that will get me nowhere,
of course.
After all there's no official, concrete way to verify my
handwritten memoirs, is there?
I slowly make my way to the messhall, answering the
respectful greetings of the few crewmembers I meet on the
way. Neelix is clearing up the place and there are only a
few people left in the messhall now, but I know he has kept
lunch for me and others like me who are here for a late
lunch.
I am not a recluse by nature. I don't really mind crowds and
my job as the XO means interacting with my people on a
daily, sometimes hourly, basis is part of the deal. But the
events of the last few days have left me unsettled; the need
to be left alone and undisturbed consistently pressing down
on me with a quiet resolution.
"Commander," Neelix beams happily as he sees me. "You must
try the Spicy Silkari Brown Rice I've prepared today. The
accompanying Fujakan Potato Sauce makes it a most delightful
combination."
"Thank you, Neelix, I'd love that." I smile back at him,
dreading the worst. Spicy and Neelix can often be a deadly
combination. But his enthusiasm is contagious and I find
myself warming up to his chatter as he ladles spoonfuls of
the green potato sauce on top of the rice. The smell is
surprisingly quite favorable, and I tell him so.
"Trust me Commander," He leans in close, almost
conspiratorially. "It's been a hit with the vegetarians on
board. Commander Tuvok even took three servings and everyone
knows he never takes more than two. The original recipe for
the sauce called for carrots, but I now know how much you
dislike them."
I contemplate the tray in my hand, not sure if the Tuvok
reference scores any favorable points for Neelix's latest
culinary creation. And then it hits me like déjà vu'.
Carrots. Not many people know I hate carrots. Of course
Neelix is one of the few who have finally figured it out,
which is a good thing since he is the cook. But, who else?
My thoughts whirl inside my head. Did I tell someone about
the carrots? Who did I tell?
Did I tell *her*?
I come out of my musing as Neelix waves his hand in front of
me. "Commander, are you all right?" His voice sounds a
little panicked, and I wonder how long I'd been standing
there---lost in my thoughts.
I blink and stare at the Talaxian for a second, noting his
eyes have widened with concern. Then I take a deep breath
and shrug. "Sure, Neelix. I am fine."
I take my tray to a corner table and settle down. I know
Neelix is still looking at me, standing at his counter, so I
make a display of scooping up a generous spoonful of rice
and sauce and take it inside my mouth. As I chew I realize
the flavor really isn't half-bad and the genuine smile of
thanks I send the Talaxian's way apparently satisfies him
and he smiles gratefully before going back to work.
But the tasteful food isn't enough to keep my mind focused
on it for too long. My thoughts soon return to the object of
my discontent. The letter.
Her name was Kellin. She was Rumaran, a beautiful woman as
per my written notes, belonging to a world that didn't
appreciate anyone leaving the bounds of their closed
society. According to the accounts, she was a 'Tracer', a
bounty hunter given the job of tracking down people who
attempted to leave their world. She had come to Voyager
looking for a runaway hiding here and my letter says...
I pause and stare down at my plate. My letter says she and
I... fell in *love*. With each other. Not once, but twice. I
shake my head and frown at the rice. It supposedly had
something to do with the biological characteristics of
Rumarans, which ensured that the memories of her people
couldn't be held in the minds of other races. They can only
be remembered for a few hours...and then the memories fade
away.
I sense a sudden rush of maddening hilarity bubbling up
inside me, a somewhat familiar feeling that I've felt every
time I went over this part of the account over the past one
week, and if the whole situation weren't so damn pathetic I
would've certainly burst out laughing. I stop myself in
time, though, and the only residue of my restrained madness
is a further gritting of my teeth as I let the fork held in
my hand slip from my fingers. The utensil clatters noisily
on the replicated china and I close my eyes again.
Gods, I don't want to make some absurd XO-gone-insane scene
in public. This has to stop. I am the First Officer here.
Can't have the second-in-commands chasing ghost lovers in
the remnants of their brain's tampered memory pathways, now,
can we? But spirits, my heart...
I sigh, my eyes still closed, and rub my weary face with the
heals of my hands. If it's all really so unreal, if it's all
nothing but a foregone maniacal absurdity, then why the hell
does my heart feel so empty inside? There's no record of her
being here, the computer virus mentioned in my account
explains that, yes, but then why do I feel like I've lost
something important, something real, something that was
truly beautiful to me?
Was this why I'd been feeling so subdued in the last few
weeks? Could my heart have known I'd lost someone I'd loved
even if my mind couldn't acknowledge it?
Gods, why *did* I leave myself this account? What was I
thinking when I wrote this? Wouldn't it have been infinitely
better if I'd stayed quiet, if I'd let this get lost along
with everything else that was supposedly lost after she
left? Spirits, I don't even remember what she looked like.
All of a sudden I get the feeling of being watched.
Startled, my eyes fly open and I quickly, furtively, scan
the room for whoever has caught the whiff of my restrained
madness. My eyes lock with the clear blues of my
interloper's. It's Seven. I inwardly groan as I realize my
madness isn't that restrained after all, as I return her
curious, direct gaze with as much efficacy as I can.
I really don't think I have the patience to answer any of
her inquisitive queries. What has she noticed anyway? How
long has she been watching me? I feel a slight flush heat
the skin of my face as I contemplate breaking the eye
contact and looking away from her...
When she breaks it herself. And something quite exotic,
something I'd never seen on her face before, an alien blend
of uncharacteristic abashment intermingled with
characteristic Borg indignation perhaps, crosses her
features and she looks down at her own meal.
I blink at the strange display. Seven of Nine embarrassed?
My brows furrow. Of what? Have I stepped into an alternate
universe? What did that look on her face mean?
I look down at the now cold rice and realize my appetite is
lost. I have to get the hell out of here, my heart and brain
tell me in unison. I stand up, pick up my half-eaten meal
and take the tray to the recycler. I ignore Neelix's
outraged protests as I empty the plate into the apparatus,
set the serving dishes on the counter, and walk out of the
messhall.
For a moment, I feel myself shiver as the heat of her gaze
lingers on my back. And then the messhall doors close behind
me.
========^*^========^*^=========
The star-chart on the Astrometrics screen shifts under my
new commands and we see a fresh trajectory replace the old
display.
"The three planet system you see on the top left corner is
the closest on our current course." I say. "We'll have to
divert the route for four light-years in order to reach it."
"How long would it take on our current speed?" Captain
Janeway asks.
I quickly compute the distance. "Approximately eighty-four
hours."
"And according to your data, they're all uninhabited?" She
looks at me closely.
"The Borg didn't find any civilizations or technology worthy
of assimilation in this entire region." I turn to her.
"According to my data, only lower life forms and vegetation
prevail in that system."
"All the more reason for us to go exploring." She gives a
rueful smile. "Neelix has been eager to restock his food
stores, and B'Elanna would love to look up any mineral
deposits that might be useful."
She pats me encouragingly on my shoulder as she turns to
leave. "Keep running scans and let me know if something new
comes up."
"Yes, Captain." I nod as I turn to face the screen again, my
fingers moving on the console in front of me.
I hear the doors open as she steps through the doorsill and
then for some reason, she pauses at the threshold. I turn my
head to look back at her.
"I'll ask Commander Chakotay to prepare a schedule for away
team rotations." Her eyes are on the star-chart on the
screen, not me, her quick mind undoubtedly working ahead of
schedule as usual, already planning and allocating tasks in
her head. "If the scans show favorable results, we'll need
everyone working around the clock to alleviate the supplies
shortage." Then she looks at me, smiles again, and walks
out. The doors close behind her.
I stare at the closed doors for a moment, my thoughts in a
complicated quandary, and then turn back to my console.
As I program the system to run continuous scans of the
region along the trajectory we've decided to follow, my
thoughts return to the perplexing situation of Voyager's
First Officer. My mind runs the scene observed earlier in
the messhall over and over again but still comes up short
when the need for a possible solution is acknowledged.
The Commander is disturbed, that much is certain from my
recent observations of his otherwise inconspicuous behavior.
The display in the messhall today indicates an obvious
increase in the factors that have been contributing to his
distraction---factors which would perhaps be unknown to the
others onboard. Which brings me to the uncertainty of how
his other crewmates will interpret his anxiety-filled
behavior in the absence of any known reasons. I am also
uncertain as to what measures I can take to assist the
Commander in relieving the stress he's under.
After all, the circumstances affecting him are not
completely unknown to me.
I wouldn't have found out anything at all if Borg Alcove
Beta, the Alcove I always use for my regeneration cycles in
the cargo bay, hadn't malfunctioned. When Lieutenant Torres
ran a diagnostic on it, it turned out that the primary
relays in the microcircuit sub-processor had gotten fused
and the Alcove would be inoperative until they were
replaced.
While the Lieutenant was certain she could get the problem
resolved, she had as much inclination to spend her off-duty
hours fixing my Alcove as I had to endure her scathing
impatience. I allowed her to get Alcove Gamma operational,
which hadn't been used during the past one year, for my use
that night and was immensely relieved when she left---her
reluctance to spend too much off-duty time in my presence is
another peculiarity I undoubtedly share with her.
As I stepped into the new Alcove, the programming in the
Alcove itself as well as my own Borg physiology reset itself
to match the new environment---as is the case every time a
drone is reassigned to a new vessel or division. No data or
information is wiped out in the process, only all the Borg
implants and systems within my physiology are resynchronized
so that they can match the new setting and the regeneration
cycle can commence.
The beginning of each cycle is vague, filled with familiar
faces and images that help center a Drone's thoughts and
memories---much like what human individuals would call the
'dream state'. The onset of this state in a Drone's case,
though, is instantaneous---unlike humans who would take some
time before they will fall asleep. Even though my link to
the Collective has been severed for almost a year, my
regeneration cycles bring me closer to my Borg half more
than anything else I've ever experienced as an individual.
This time, however, my thoughts were filled with faces
unknown to me. Unacquainted, alien, and yet still somehow
strangely, inexplicably, familiar.
A smiling humanoid female. Her ears slanting upwards to a
pointed peak, her hair light and her eyes a shade darker
than mine. An individual I'd never met before. Or perhaps an
individual I *thought* I'd never met before.
A face animated in conversation---*his* face, a strangely
familiar flush coloring the darker hue of his skin further.
The sound of laughter, theirs---the two of them sharing a
carefree meal in a corner of the messhall, oblivious to
their surroundings.
Another female, a human this time, her hair the same light
brush of burning embers silkily framing her face, her large
eyes expressing compassion---her face a familiar one, her
words the same I'd heard thousands of times before in my
dreams and in my nightmares: "Hear our voices. Open your
mind to our thoughts. Feel the connection. Don't be afraid.
Our strength is your strength." His memories.
An old man leading me into a path inside a jungle, or
perhaps leading *him*. A flash of lightening, or perhaps a
discharge of powerful weapons fire, scorching the earth, the
life, the old man in front of me---or perhaps in front of
him---to glowing cinders. All life burnt to ashes in one
vicious strike. The sounds of screams rising and
reverberating inside my skull---his skull---and the jolt of
pain freezing me---him---stealing my breath---his---making
me fall to my knees, tears running down my face. His face.
His pain.
His face again. This time alone at a corner of an
Observation lounge, perhaps somewhere on Deck Five. Deep in
thought, not noticing my arrival, his eyes dull with loss
and hurt---his face quietly expressive in the solitude of
his own company and in the absence of protocols that
constantly reaffirm his own loneliness. *My* loneliness.
And then the sudden onslaught of silence---followed by a
skin-tingling, throat-constricting plunging of utter
darkness.
When I came out of my regeneration cycle that night, I found
myself drenched in a light sheen of perspiration. The images
were confusing but then again some of them were familiar
too. It was obvious that the memories I had retained from my
brief link to Commander Chakotay a year ago had been
prevalent in this cycle, but what was I to make of the other
unfamiliar faces?
Who was the first female I saw in my mind? Was she a
remnant, a figment of some individual's memory---maybe
someone who had been assimilated by me in the past? Why did
I see Commander Chakotay in those memories then? Was my
flawed human brain fusing separate images and unmatchable
memories together? Was this what Lieutenant Paris would call
a haphazardly drawn 'jigsaw puzzle' that wouldn't make sense
no matter how hard we tried to piece it together?
As I checked, I realized a long time had passed since I'd
initiated my cycle. I had completed much of my needed quota
of regeneration, even if it had left me mentally
unsettled---a human weakness no doubt---and now I had no
desire to go back to it.
And that was exactly what I did.
I stayed away from the Alcove, even after Lieutenant Torres
fixed the problem in Alcove Beta the next day. A week passed
without regeneration because, to elucidate myself, I was a
little uncertain how it would effect me again. The Doctor
soon intervened with complaints of falling electrolyte
levels, though, and I had no choice but to return to
regeneration.
However, this time I kept my fears at bay, and my
determination to find some answers foremost in my mind.
By the time my second regeneration cycle had ended, I had
most of the puzzle resolved.
The answer lay within my Designator Interface Circuit. It is
a small circuit located on the exterior of Drones and
contains information on our numerical designation as well as
information we have accumulated since being last connected
with the Collective. Its one of the implants that the Doctor
was unable to remove from my exoskeleton because attempting
to do so would've resulted in the activation of a
self-destruct program that would've vaporized me.
This circuit, being an external unit, stays disengaged
during my normal regeneration cycles. Its function is to
record a sequenced form of the data that already exists in
my Neuro-Processor. The main and incidentally only implant
that interacts with the Alcove during regeneration is the
Interlink Node. But it seems that using the new Alcove,
which resulted in the resetting of all my Borg systems,
reintegrated that data---and thus the memories contained
within---into my Neuro-Processor once again.
Now that the Rumaran virus no longer exists within Voyager's
computer, there is no concern for this data, and these
memories, of being erased from my system again.
The one uncertainty that does confound me is the question of
which individual on Voyager I should relay this revived
information to. Or perhaps whether I should inform anyone at
all.
That brings me back to the subject of Commander Chakotay. I
am unsure what, if anything, he does remember from the
events of our contact with Kellin and her people. There
isn't any record in the ship's database. I have even
discreetly run algorithms against his own personal
files---the ones I could access, that is---as well, and have
found no clues that he has any information recorded in his
stored data files regarding the incidents. Unless, of
course, he has employed some crude method of storing
information that proved to be somewhat efficient for him.
Although I am not sure the stressful state he's in right now
is indicative of any actual efficiency in relevance to the
method he may have used.
His replicator usage shows his nutritional consumption
levels have dropped in the past one-week or so, and how well
he's taking his meals in the messhall became quite evident
today. The increasing lines around his eyes can also only be
explained by the fact that he's not getting the physical
rest, which the vigorous level of activity that comes with
his position as the First Officer entails.
That leaves me unsettled for some inscrutable reason.
For someone to come and disrupt the equilibrium of a
person's life so close by---my own life---and then leave
thinking they've left no traces behind. When in fact the
opposite may be the truth---not just in my case, but *his*
too. It's so inexcusably... inefficient.
No wonder the Borg never assimilated any Rumarans, despite
their superior stealth and weapons technology. I can't
imagine what the consequences of a Collective slowly losing
its memory, in case one of them was liberated, would have
been like. Even if it was only until their collective Borg
Alcoves reset themselves.
Which, like the unending circle this plight has become,
brings me back to Commander Chakotay again. Ascertaining
from the reaction I got from him this afternoon, it doesn't
appear he is anymore comfortable in my presence than
Lieutenant Torres is. Which would make sense since the two
of them are close friends---her being one of the few people
he socializes with on the ship other than the Captain.
Only, Lieutenant Torres doesn't seem to be aware of the
stress her friend is under. Nor is the Captain apparently
aware of the anxiety Voyager's First Officer seems to be
going through at the moment.
I am uncertain as to what steps I should undertake.
The Borg part of me---the part closest to my thoughts and
mind and the decision-making centers of my cerebrum during
my nightly regeneration cycles---tells me to simply let it
be. That time will heal his wounds and he'll get over these
needless inefficient emotional entanglements.
And yet the human part of me---the part that brings all
those familiar images and individual memories alive when I
close my eyes during the same regeneration cycles---feels my
chest constricting with a strange, mysterious feeling.
The feeling of my human heart---aching in pain. For him.
========^*^========^*^=========
Continued in Memory 2 of4