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Chapter Sixteen



I feel

The link of nature draw me: flesh of flesh,

Bone of my bone thou art, and from thy state

Mine shall never be parted, bliss or woe

--John Milton



"Well, what are you doing standing there telling me about it? Go with her."

Chakotay looked mildly affronted from where he leaned halfway into the doorway. Besides that, he looked more than mildly stunned, like he'd just woken up. It amused her to no end, even if she didn't show it. Chakotay's eyes were very expressive, even when he probably didn't want them to be.

"If it isn't one of you telling me what to do, it's both," he grumbled.

She coughed. Her throat burned painfully for a moment. "Go. I'll stay here and think of a name for the female twin."

He made a rueful face at her. "You made it sound so . . . distant. Female twin? Won't you give in a little bit and call her a girl?"

"That is inaccurate. She hasn't even been born. And I am not distant, thank you."

He snorted. "Ah, the vanity that is Seven of Nine."

She almost made a noise of her own, until she coughed again. It felt like something heavy was resting on her chest. Her throat felt raw, like it had when she'd caught a strain of streptococcus. "I am not vain," she objected.

"Oh? Then what are you?"

She paused, considering him with a consciously raised eyebrow. "Conscientious about language."

He nodded as if in complete comprehension, grinning wickedly. "Yep. Vain about how you sound to people."

She looked at her husband with hooded eyes. "Go, before they are born. You can tell me about it later. I am not going anywhere, and from the absence of sound in the hall, the Captain has gone while you hung in my doorway flirting."

Chakotay stood a little straighter, turning and looking with astonishment at the corridor behind him. "Damn. She did."

"Tempus fugit," she stated sagely.

"What?"

"Latin. Time is fleeting. Go."

"How do you know Latin?"

"Must you ask?"

"All right! Don't make faces at me! I'm going."

And he was gone, and she wondered if she'd really done right telling him to go. She flitted between bouts of hating crowds and hating to be alone. Right now, she was sure if she should enjoy her solitude or feel isolated by it. She settled on not thinking about it.

Seven of Nine was not good with names -not in that she couldn't remember them, in fact she remembered every name she'd ever heard- but she had no idea about how to go about naming a person, let alone her own daughter. She'd given up her own, and was now called by a number. It suited her well enough, but she could not go designating children. One and two. Twins A and B on the scans before they could readily be differentiated from each other.

One was named Acoya. She liked that because she couldn't put another face to the name. It was unique in her mind, and that was something good. What about the female -the girl? All the names Seven knew belonged to other people. And the Captain wanted her to name the infant. What was that, some sort of vague contrition over the fact that she was dying and would have little else to do with the babies except for stories and a gene pool?

Seven felt an unwelcome lump in her inflamed throat. She would not cry. Today was a good day. Her children were being born. Hers. She'd never been able to put a claim on anything so permanent. Even her marriage, albeit that it was happy, did not compare somehow. Was it always like this for people, or were eighteen years of sharing everything and owning nothing contributing somehow?

She was glad the Borg had gone back to the Delta Quadrant. She hoped they'd gone all the way back to Planet 0001 and would never leave it again. They had left their indelible mark on her, and she hated them for it so much that the depth of the feeling surprised her.

Once, she had wanted to go back. That was unimaginable.

Of course, once, Chakotay had been ready and willing to space her through an airlock if she'd given him an excuse . . . and lose no sleep over it. He hadn't balked about the fifteen others. Neither did she, for that matter.

Names. Designations. Seven had to think of something unique. She didn't have the imagination for names. She could imagine her way through endless reams of scientific theory, through many scenarios, even through fictional stories . . . but names were beyond her. Seven hadn't said it, but that was part of the reason she kept her language so literal. She didn't have the creativity for colloquialisms.

Name. How could she name another person? It seemed like an intrusion on her daughter's individuality somehow, and that bothered her for obvious reasons. She could not go classifying her own child, yet they expected her to? It was very complicated.

She coughed violently, an unbidden groan rising from her lips. It hurt so much.

***



She was going to break his hand, he was sure. She wasn't even too far into labour yet, but the painkillers had not yet taken effect and the fevered, wild look in her eyes was somewhat frightening. She looked like she wanted to commit some constructive murder. Probably on the part of the thin anaesthetist, whose ministrations had as yet done nothing to help her.

He'd foolishly offered her his hand, hoping to soothe her. Well, it was as much to reassure himself as it was to calm her. He'd never been so frightened in his life, and that was saying a lot.

"Ooooooooh! Why did I talk myself into this?" she demanded hoarsely, never releasing her crushing grip on his fingers.

Chakotay shook his head, at a complete loss. "I have no idea."

"Well you should!" Kathryn growled, letting her head fall back onto the pillow as the contraction subsided. "Damn. Wasn't there anything in those hyposprays you put in my spine?" she grated, rolling her eyes toward the Starfleet anaesthetist who was careful packing up his drugs into a small kit.

She was in fine command form, glaring fit to kill and with enough Starfleet pomposity in her voice to rival any admiral, even if she did sound a little desperate. What detracted from it was that she was lying almost prostrate as the obstetrician at the end of the bed scanned away, and that her hair was unkempt, sticking to her and that her face was flushed. Despite that he found her beautiful. What was truly alarming was the fact that her previously round abdomen was somehow being compressed into an oblong shape. It looked highly uncomfortable, and he knew it was beyond any man to comprehend what she was truly hollering about.

"Where's my EMH?" she asked through clenched teeth.

The tall obstetrician who had merely identified herself as Doctor Crawford made a noncommital gesture, looking with interest from her tricorder to the area which was in such question for the moment. He cringed inwardly at the thought, and was glad he was standing by Kathryn's side instead of . . . It all looked painful enough already. Why had she talked herself into it?

"He must be occupied," the Ob replied without interest. "I'm sure he has been called."

"Make sure! Owwww! Oh, damn." She grimaced painfully. "Those drugs are just not coming around." She edged up onto her elbows, fixing the imperturbable doctor with the evil eye. "I don't know about you, but I'm about ready to get on with this."

"Not yet," Dr. Crawford said calmly. "You aren't fully dilated."

"You try saying that from this end of the bed!"

"I have. I have five children. Be calm, Captain Janeway, you are progressing nicely."

Surprisingly, that shut Kathryn up, at least for the moment. Apparently five was somewhat of an overwhelming number at this point in time. She lay back with a groan, still crushing Chakotay's hand. There was such strength in those small hands! He had to wonder at it, even though he was sure he had fractures.

"Hell with nicely," she grumbled, settling back into the pillows that propped her up. She ran her free hand across her sweat-beaded forehead. "Ugh. I'm such a complainer. I've been though worse."

He was dubious. "Really?" Maybe worse things in terms of danger or fright, but of pain? The thought of it made him cringe, alternately glad that men were not biologically responsible for childbirth and sorry that women were.

Childbirth. The birth of his children. Theirs.

It was pure wonder, but his hand was killing him. He winced.

She looked at him, and then at their clasped hands. "Am I hurting you?" she asked, looking genuinely sorry. "Here I'll -Ohhhh, owwwww!" She had been about to let go, but now clenched his fingers even tighter. The bones of his hand ground together. Involuntarily, he moaned with her.

"Don't push!" Dr. Crawford commanded. "You're not ready yet."

"I . . . feel . . . ready . . . dammit!"

Chakotay ground his teeth and groaned. He didn't think he could take it, and it wasn't even him doing the work. The anticipation was going to kill him. Suddenly, Kathryn's grip relaxed.

"Oh, wow, there's the drugs. Ooof. Took long enough."

He gently removed his hand for hers, moving the digits painfully. It felt like he'd slammed it in a door -about five times. When had she gotten so strong? Desperation, he surmised. "Happy for you," he said, wincing. "But I'm beginning to wonder if you're the one who needs them."

"You poltroon," she sniffed imperiously. "I always knew you weren't as tough as you let on."

"I never counted on you having my children," he said a bit sourly, shaking the injured hand slightly.

"Oh, so that's objectionable?" she demanded tartly.

"No, but I wasn't counting crushed hands as part of it."

"Your devotion is overwhelming," she muttered sourly, wincing as another contraction rippled through her. This time, she didn't react so violently. Those painkillers must have been working quite well.

"So's your grip," he replied.

Dr. Crawford was sterilizing her hands. "All right. Break it up, time to go now."

"Oh so now it's time," Kathryn grunted, rising up slightly. She grimaced eloquently as the doctor lifted her legs into what seemed to him to be almost stirrups. There was a sheet draped across her thighs, which he was glad for.

Kathryn exhaled through her teeth as Dr. Crawford pulled up a stool. "Stop poking me. Ah! Especially there! I'm not that numb. Isn't there a better way to do this? It's the twenty-fourth century, for God's sake. Where's the Doctor?"

Dr. Crawford didn't look up. "I am a perfectly capable obstetrician."

"I'm sure you are. I wasn't saying you weren't, but I -Oh!" She reached for Chakotay's hand again, though this time she didn't crush it. Kathryn ground her teeth. Her expression was so tense that he wondered briefly if something was wrong.

"Good. Push, Captain," the Ob commanded, taking control of things.

***



The Doctor didn't know where to go first, the maternity ward or what passed for intensive care. He opted on completing Seven's checkup first, since the Captain could do fine without him. He had a strange inkling that she was probably berating everyone in the room, judging by the frequent pages to his comm badge. He smiled grimly. Kathryn Janeway was a terrible patient and she was probably abusing the Ob staff without giving any impunity. The thought was not objectionable to him. The doctors in that ward were terribly pretentious -and it took a lot of snobbery to make him notice it through his own- and they could use a little cutting down.

He keyed in the proper code for the door, and immediately heard the most hideous noise.

***



She couldn't breathe. Seven tried to gasp air into her lungs as the pressure in her chest suddenly constricted like a vice. She was conscious of the noise she was making, and knew it for what it was, agonal breathing -the prelude to what she had known would happen.

No, not now. Not now! I can't . . .

There was someone in the room, hitting a large control on the panel on the wall above the bed and calling in a loud voice for assistance. The Doctor! The pain tightened. She hated it, she wished for unconsciousness, but the very nature of her cortical array would not allow it. Seven was conscious of everything. The array would allow sleep, fevered coma, coma due to head trauma . . . but it would not allow her to give in to pain.

"Seven! Seven, can you hear me!"

Yes!, she tried to gasp, but all that came out was a terrible nonsense syllable that she was ashamed to have uttered. Yes, Chakotay had been right. She was vain about how she sounded. She looked at the doctor's face with alert eyes, hoping to answer him that way. He seemed to understand.

It felt like someone or something was kicking her in the chest, an awful, jolting pain. They were shocking her heart. Her heart? What did that matter? She couldn't breathe. She wanted to be unconscious, but the Borg part of her brain would not let her.

"Seven! Stay with us come on!"

I am, can't you see? I am awake.

She lifted a hand, and the Doctor immediately grasped it, even as he rattled of orders to the others who had entered the room. The poor Doctor. He shouldn't have to see this, it would only hurt him. She perceived that the hologram could be hurt, and not only on the basis of programming. Why hadn't she noticed that before?

"Seven, your heart is failing. Your cardiopulmonary mechanisms have shut down, and the reinforcements have collapsed. Your heart can't support you on its own. Do you understand?"

She gasped something, and the Doctor leaned closer to hear.

"Tempus . . . fugit," she rasped, her eyes wide and totally aware.

And the Doctor understood her.



To be continued

***