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Chapter Three

"Security"



The Captain had noted before, or rather warned, that many Starfleet departments would be interested in her knowledge -both that of the Borg and of other Delta Quadrant species. Intelligence, Command, Medical . . . even the Academy at a point had shown at least passing interest. Enduring such a spotlight was not Seven's forte, even if the true pressure was actually on the Captain herself. Seven of Nine would not smile for the imagers, and was thus deemed non-photogenic. Perhaps the Captain would to well to acquire that label for herself.

Everyone's schedule seemed busy, and for some reason no great bulk of the debriefing process ever seemed to be completed. For the moment, she was not included in the general proceeding, because they had not yet reached a point in Voyager's sojourn where she could add much - at least from a crew member's perspective. They last time she had spoken with Chakotay, he had said that they were still discussing the Kazon species, as well as shipboard occurrences at that time.

It seemed to be an inefficient process, to say the least. The root of the opinion bothered her slightly, but some part of her still contended that verbal communication was a poor way to exchange information. However, it was preferable to some other methods that she was acquainted with, if not as expeditious.

She was conscious of the fact that her interaction skills needed refinement. Seven was unaccustomed to dealing with people she did not recognize by sight and name immediately. She had admitted before that the prospect of a planet full of Humans was intimidating, and that had not changed. Many of the people she knew from Voyager were no longer present at the Starfleet compound.

Most of the senior crew - those she was closest to - was still present, but even contact with them was limited. She saw the most of Chakotay, because he sought her out, and of the Doctor, whom she still reported to for check ups every other day. The Captain was hard to find in some cases, but they had spoken yesterday. She had not seen Ensign Kim or Lieutenants Paris and Torres for several days, nor Commander Tuvok for weeks. Naomi Wildman had written a letter, but they had not seen each other since their respective first days on Earth. Icheb, as was promised to him by the Captain, was now enrolled at Starfleet Academy for his first term and was quite busy.

Voyager was a curiosity to many, and she herself seemed no less an anomaly. Seven of Nine was not an expert at reading facial expressions, but she knew the fish-eye when she saw it. Some people barely contained their malice, despite the fact that she looked like no drone that had ever walked the face of any planet. The implants visible on her face and left hand marked her one apart, and she didn't like the feeling.

For the first two weeks on Earth, the Captain, the Doctor and Chakotay had watched very closely for any sign that she was not adapting to life among daily strangers. Even Lieutenant Paris had shown an unwillingness to "feed her to the mob" as he termed it, and Ensign Kim had frequently directed concerned frowns at her. It had bothered her until it had ceased. She found herself missing that security - knowing that there were several people ready to leap into action should she appear to be in trouble. Not that they would be any less ready if she complained about something . . . but she had not seen anyone she knew since earlier that morning, a five-second exchange with Chakotay over where she was going.

Unfortunately, she still had to school herself not to call him Commander under all circumstances, like she always had. He professed disinterest in his designation, telling her to call him whatever felt right, but she knew that his comment was not the total truth. More likely it was a set response . . . a "safe answer" so to speak. In fact, when she called him by his name rather than his title, it seemed almost to bother him. Seven had yet to fathom why, and didn't think it was important enough to ask about.

Yet more inexplicably, the Captain seemed to take exception to odd things. She rarely met Seven's eyes when Chakotay was in the same room with them, and seemed mildly uncomfortable when his formal address was not used. It was part of what gave Seven pause about what to do. It was likely that she was violating some unspoken etiquette that neither of them was willing to correct her on. Along with her basic interaction skills, she lacked social grace . . . even with people she knew, it seemed. Perhaps she would speak with the Doctor about it.

She was supposed to check in with the Doctor this morning for a maintenance check. Now, more than ever, he was worried about her state of repair or lack thereof. Starfleet Command had hemmed a little about allowing her to install any Borg paraphernalia in their buildings, even if that only included a singular alcove in her allotted quarters. Its necessity was heatedly advocated by the Doctor, and its movement and installation from Voyager was allowed. The Doctor described the officers who had questioned the situation as paranoid. Seven investigated the logic of their concerns and found them valid. They did not know her, and her early record on Voyager was less than impressive. Why wouldn't they be apprehensive about Borg technology linked the Starfleet Residence's power and computer systems?

On the Human side of it, she was a little offended by their need to quibble about her necessities. Her sleeping arrangements were her own business, not Starfleet Command's. Yet the exoengineers monitored her use of the apparatus extensively. Paranoia, as the Doctor had said, perhaps ignorance.

Abruptly, Seven paused, coming to a complete halt in the middle of the corridor, and startling a young officer who rounded the corner and nearly bumped into her. She recognized him fleetingly. She recognized many people in the Intelligence headquarters. He was not why she had paused.

For an instant, it had seemed that she was in Cargo Bay Two. That was impossible, but her ocular implant had recorded it, and when she thought about it the image replayed with perfect clarity. A malfunction? Lack of repair indeed. Similar things had happened before, like in the nebula . . . the implant had not differentiated between reality and her hallucinations then. Perhaps a daydream? She dreamed when she regenerated, and the Doctor had warned her that her concentration might begin to slip after long periods of time - a natural reaction to boredom.

She was unsure. It was hard to conclude something when one had little or no basis of comparison. Why the Cargo Bay? Seven was not sure she wanted to experience what people called "nostalgia" - it seemed to be a fruitless brain function, a waste of one's time.

"Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One. That's an awfully long title for just one person. The Borg always were verbose."

She whirled. The voice was familiar, and if she recalled correctly, its presence denoted a need for a certain amount of caution. She schooled her expression even more than it already was, and gazed at the newcomer. "Verbosity is sometimes a by-product of precision. What do you want?" she demanded, mentally preparing herself to call security.

Q rolled his eyes, tenting his fingers absently. He stood about a metre away from her, and gave her a brazen once-over. "I see Kathy impressed her prejudices well. I'm just here to give everyone my regards."

"I do not believe you," Seven stated. "However, if that is your purpose, I suggest you go to the Captain . . . though I do not believe she will be pleased by your presence."

"I'm wounded!" he cried, pressing his hands to his chest dramatically, and then letting them fall. "Besides, Kathy's unconscious right now, and it would be a pain on both our parts to wake her up."

Seven tried not to look surprised, but only succeeded half way. "What?"

"Oh, you heard me," Q said, flipping a hand at her. He wore a Starfleet uniform as per usual, and four pips. "Don't pretend that your memory is less exact than it is. The Borg are good at data-storage, if nothing else."

She was not going to dignify that with a reply. "What did you do to the Captain?"

His expression was devoid of duplicity, for once. "I didn't do anything! Honestly, do you really believe I'd hurt Kathy? I like Kathy, and I don't hurt people I like. Okay, I mess with their heads a little . . . Someone else did that to her, and I'm going to take it up with time right after I am done here. How are you feeling, Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One?"

"It is possible to abbreviate my designation, I suggest you try it. Why are you concerned about my well-being?"

Seven did not enjoy being surprised by people, mortal or otherwise. She didn't have the experience at dealing with Q than some others had. She was very conscious of the fact that this individual was responsible for the first contact of Humans with the Borg, and thus almost directly accountable for her own assimilation. Her parents would not have gone to study the Borg if their existence was unknown, after all. There was a momentary awareness of enmity between them, but for her part she ignored it.

She was consciously attempting to freeze him out, but it did not seem to phase him in the least. It discomfited her to know that he was in fact omniscient, and was probably privy to her every thought if he so directed his attention. Conversely, the entire Q Continuum confounded the Collective, a thing she found she could bear with great fortitude.

"Don't hedge, Seven. You'd sleep very easily if I went and tied every Borg transwarp corridor in the galaxy into one big complex knot and left it like that." He was demonstrating the very aspect she was uncomfortable with. Mind reading made her uncomfortable in a particular way. He continued anyhow. "And I could, but the Borg are not the type to toy with. They just do not have a sense of humour. Very boring. Now, answer my question, please."

"Answer mine," she countered.

"Oho, yes. Kathy got to you, I can tell. Unfortunate. What makes you think I'll tell you?"

Seven approximated a shrug. "I hazard that it would not be the goodness of your heart."

"I don't have a heart, Seven, I don't need one. I've also concluded that you are quite well, and as caustic as only the truly self-assured can be. You'd make a wonderful Q. Your sense of superiority is formidable. So how's Chuckles?" he asked with no attempt to disguise his rancour.

Surprisingly, she took immediate exception to that nickname. "I am sure you already know, so why waste time answering?"

Q lifted an eyebrow in a gesture almost like her own. "That really was a fast one you pulled. I didn't know you had it in you."

"What was?"

"That feat of emotional rug-pulling, of course! Even Picard's pet android has a better sense of delicacy than you do. You have all the tact of a block of proverbial wood. Don't you get what I mean?" He obviously was putting great meaning into it, but whatever it was that he was rambling about escaped her for the present.

"No. I do not."

"Well, you're hopeless. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"Of what did you warn me?" She was not in the mood for his game playing. She wanted to know why he was there. Seven was getting annoyed.

"Oh, never mind, I'm going to check in on Kathy. I'm very angry about what happened you know, so don't blame me. I'm most of the reason you're even here!" He backpedalled slightly, giving evidence that he was in fact leaving. "And by the way, don't tell anyone I was here. I'm in enough trouble already without having the mortals rat me out."

"What are you talking about?" she demanded.

"Enjoy the ball, Cinderella," he called over his shoulder as he walked away. "I think the clock's about to strike twelve, if that means anything to you."

And as abruptly as he had arrived, he disappeared.



To Be Continued . . .

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