Authors note. It has been a long time in coming. But I hope you will forgive me, it has been a hard story to write and life has got in the way


Nodes for Two

A desperate mission to obtain technology to save the life of Seven of Nine goes seriously wrong

Voyager and the characters aboard her (except the Colonel and additional characters) in this story are copyright of Paramount. No resemblance is intended to any person alive or dead.

The story line and the Colonel are my own.

Constructive criticism and comments are welcome on e-mail story@rgower.plus.com

If like me you like to know why things occur like they do, I would heartily recommend you start at chapter 1-01 Castaway.

This story is rated PG13

©R Gower 2002


From the direction of the Mess there came the sounds of a female voice arching lyrically to match the haunting tune that was being rendered upon a piano. Then a rich male voice joined with the female to form a perfectly counterpoised duet, both voices joining, to spin together before splitting apart, one lifting the other falling. It prompted Captain Janeway to diverge from her habitual nocturnal wander around the ship, to head directly for her final coffee. Seven of Nine, for she was sure it was her, had an excellent singing voice, when she chose to use it and the price of a truncated stroll around Voyager was a minor payment. The ship would be there in the morning. Seven of Nine in a musical mood would not.

It was with some surprise, therefore, that she found the issuers of the melodious duet were not Seven of Nine and her spouse, as she had expected, but Seven of Seven and Thirteen of Twenty-Eight, two of the six Borg refugees that Voyager had rescued six weeks earlier.

Her surprise must have registered upon her face, for the two ex-Borg stopped and looked uncomfortable.

We apologise, Captain Janeway, Thirteen of Twenty-Eight pronounced, lifting his massive body from the piano stool, mistaking her surprise for disapproval. We were unaware we were breaking the regulations aboard your vessel.

There's no rules broken, the Captain grinned. I was just a little surprised. It is usually the Colonel and Seven of Nine who sing like that! Please finish?

We are still unsure of the words, Seven of Seven excused. We do not have total recall of our previous lives.

It will come back in time, the Captain encouraged. I don't think Seven remembers all of her early life, although most of it is on record. What do you recall so far?

She strolled towards the replicator to summon a coffee, then took a seat, indicating to the other two to join her. An informal discussion in the informal Mess Hall might put them more at ease, the Colonel had already told her that these two in particular were uncomfortable aboard Voyager.

We know we are from a planetary system known as Trafoil, Thirteen of Twenty-Eight volunteered, declining the invitation to be seated. Seven of Nine has identified two planets from Astrometrics. She believes the sixth to be an agricultural planet, with limited industrial capacity and a high gravity.

Then why did the Borg pick on you? Captain Janeway enquired with surprise. They don't normally go for anybody without a technological advantage.

There were a number of our race aboard the Borg ship. We were used for heavy assembly work, Thirteen of Twenty-Eight explained.

That was reasonable, Captain Janeway conceded. Even without Borg enhancements, Thirteen of Twenty-Eight was definitely strong. At 2.1 Metres tall, 2.2 around the chest and carried upon two legs that would not disgrace an elephant, he looked like 250Kg of sheer muscle. She had the sneaking suspicion that this was one person even the Colonel would think twice about taking on physically.

Seven of Seven was very different. She shared the same tulip shaped ears, sat low at the side of her head, the same upturned nose and short brown curly hair, but where Thirteen of Twenty-Eight was massive, Seven of Seven was petite and scarcely 1.6 Metres tall.

What was your function? The Captain asked Seven of Seven. You don't look as though you could be from the same planet?

I did not have a function, Seven of Seven admitted. I was only brought out of maturation because of the system failures.

How about the others?

One of Three, Doctor Hansen, was a Secondary Adjunct Seven of Seven admitted. She has recalled most. She has your records to help her. Fourteen of Twenty-Eight, was a technical repair adjunct. She remembers a little of her race. But we do not know about the others. I think Twelve of Twenty was a systems drone. I wish to remember my name before I return, she giggled suddenly. Colonel Samuels refers to me as Seven Squared. He says it stops him from getting confused with Seven of Nine. Yet I have never heard him refer to her as anything other than Mrs Nine. Why does she still use her designation instead of her name?

I don't know, the Captain admitted. Originally I think it might have been because she was afraid to become too human. Though now she is as human as anybody aboard this ship. More so than some in fact. Still, I'm sure we can help you recover more of your memory before we get you home. She rose, stifling a yawn behind a closed fist. If you need any help then I am always available. In the mean time. Please, try and make yourselves at home. I'd like to hear more of your music, when you remember enough of it? Now I must get some rest before I'm needed on the Bridge again. She grinned encouragingly at them and left them to their devices.


The Doctor permitted himself a sigh of satisfaction at the results from his tri-corder. Nine of Fourteen, a slim reptilian that could almost pass as humanoid, if it were not for the scaly skin, was the last of his Borg patients and had been the most difficult to recover. But finally, and with much assistance from Fourteen of Twenty-Eight, they had succeeded in removing 85% of all the enhancements that made up Borg physiology.

He had the right, he decided, to be pleased with himself. The procedures he had developed for Seven of Nine in removing Borg technology had now reached a plateau that could only be surpassed by the invention of a method of replacing brain cells themselves. It meant that four of his six new Borg patients now showed little external sign of what they once were. Though they would always need to regenerate the less visible components.

"I would never have thought of reconfiguring those nerve endings to control automatic processes," he complimented his new assistant.

"I was of the belief dis-assimilation of a drone was impossible," Fourteen of Twenty-Eight returned the compliment. "The reconfiguring of nerves is a comparatively minor enhancement to your own procedures."

"Perhaps we can persuade Seven of Nine to undergo the procedure?" the Doctor suggested. "It might make her less reliant upon regeneration?"

"They are unlikely to work," Fourteen of Twenty-Eight opined. "The modifications you made during dis-assimilation will make them more difficult. Also the neural nodes used during her assimilation were of a different type to the ones used for the others. We, the Borg, had a different purpose for her assimilation."

"In that case perhaps we can discuss some means of returning your wings to you?" The Doctor suggested. "Lieutenant B'Elanna Paris has some suggestions that might help."

Fourteen of Twenty-Eight was one of the exceptions to the others. Not so much because there were external features of Borg assimilation, that had been reduced to a single monical around her right eye and the scars from her removed Borg assimilation nodules, but because of physical disfigurement. She looked as if she had a hunched back under the gown she was wearing. What it hid were a powerful rack of muscle between her shoulder blades and two short stumps of limbs. 'The Borg have little use for physical flight,' she had dismissed when he had quizzed her.

There was a trace of a smile from Fourteen of Twenty-Eight. "It will not be necessary," she said sweetly. "My assimilation was more than forty of your Earth years ago. There is no trace left of my race now. I would be unable to develop the necessary muscles for the task again."

Well perhaps you can think about it? The Doctor suggested. In the mean time it is time for your regeneration. Perhaps you'll allow me to escort you to the Cargo Bay? He offered an arm to the ex-Borg in a gallant gesture.

Fourteen of Twenty-Eight regarded the gesture curiously. I have observed that Lieutenant-Colonel Samuels frequently makes a similar gesture to Seven of Nine, but no others, she commented. Is there a significance in the act of offering and acceptance?

I would like to escort you, so you do not get lost. It is considered, in some quarters, to be polite, the Doctor said quickly, in truth he was becoming quite attached to Fourteen of Twenty-Eight.

That will be unnecessary. I will not get lost, Fourteen of Twenty-Eight pronounced. My observations had led me to believe there was a personal aspect.

In the end she accepted the Doctors company to the Cargo Bay, if not the arm. There she took her place beside the fifth of the Borg castaways, unit Twelve of Twenty.

Satisfied she had entered her regenerative trance, the Doctor checked the final drone with his tri-corder.

Of the six, he was the one that they knew least about. Even the Borg were uncertain as to when he had actually joined them. For race, he could have belonged to any one of six humanoid races that Voyager had encountered, yet he had differed in slight ways. Nor had he accepted the offer of assistance to remember who and what he was and as yet had refused offers to have his implants removed.

Satisfied with the readings, the Doctor shut off his device and took a final glance around the Cargo Bay before dimming the lights and leaving the sleeping to rest.


The final member of the sextet of ex-Borg refugees, Doctor Erin Hansen, had taken up residence in Science Lab 2 on deck 7. From there she spent her time between attempting to catch up with her missing life, whilst ostensibly reviewing Voyagers own discoveries during its wander through the Delta Quadrant.

Both were daunting tasks.

For the later, the data Voyager had recovered on its voyage would keep Starfleet scientists engaged for tens of years. Even the Fourteen terra-quads of data she and her husband, Magnus, had gleaned on the Borg during their six month pursuit would have taken Starfleet five years of effort to assimilate and correlate. Voyager had collected fifteen times the volume of data. Because of the activities of her daughter and Voyager, much of what had been gathered thirty years previously would be rendered obsolete. It would be pointless to delve into theoretical discussions if one could simply ask the source for an answer.

As large a task as making sense of Voyagers scientific delving's were, they paled into insignificance compared with the former, that of relearning her own past. Whilst the others of her group would remember as much as they needed, slowly and over time, her own life was left bare by records whether she wanted to remember or not. She and Magnus had been good scientists. They recorded everything, that they did, said and thought.

It meant that she was now watching a recording.

It was a recording from of a party aboard the Raven.

A birthday party.

The guest of honour was a little girl in red dress, her golden hair tumbled around her shoulders and kept in place by a scarlet plastic band. She was laughing freely, as two adults, the only other attendees, encouraged her to take a deep breath and blow out the candle on the cake. Then they had broken into a refrain of 'Happy Birthday', accompanied by more giggles. She knew who all three characters were, the tape told her; He was Doctor Magnus Hansen, she was Doctor Erin Hansen, his wife, and the girl was Annaka, their daughter. She did not feel as though it was part of her life..

Until the memory struck.

It had been Annaka's sixth birthday and she had badgered them persistently for the party, until they had given in, despite the need to correlate the previous weeks data. They had also given her a birthday present; A tri-corder. It had been an old model, but functional, and Annaka had spent that and the following day examining everything she met with it, to the amusement and irritation of her parents.

Erin Hansen snapped off the view screen and glared at it. There ought to have been pleasure in the recollection. She knew that too. Instead there was anger and bitterness. Thirty years had been wasted with nothing to show for it. Not even, it seemed, a daughter. Seven of Nine having made no effort to see her and had disavowed her name.

She turned the screen on again and started to flick through more records, though they had little to do with her own life. Instead they were focused upon that of Seven of Nine.


I think Seven should at least make an effort to see her mother, Neelix commented to the Colonel at breakfast. I'm sure she would appreciate it. It might even persuade her to spend some time with the crew? She seems to disapprove of people entering the lab.

The Colonel stopped mid-spoon to look up at the Talaxian with tired eyes, as he hovered by his table. You are probably right, Mr Neelix, he sighed. But I'm not going to make her. She has her reasons for not trying too hard and the good Doctor has been less than helpful.

I keep wondering how I'd feel if my parents suddenly appeared after all these years, he continued quietly. Apart from the fact I wouldn't believe them, I think I would be scared stiff. He grinned wryly. Same as I am now, to be honest. I don't think she entirely approves of the thug her daughter got entangled with. She only glares at you, if you enter at less than her command.

Now, I think sweet tea and honey sweetened porridge, the Colonel changed the subject quickly as Seven of Nine entered the Mess and staggered towards the table. No lumps, mind!

I do not desire breakfast, Seven of Nine said to Neelix as he turned for the servery. Tea will suffice.

My stomach is suffering discomfort, she explained to her spouse's quizzical look as she sat at the table. Sleeping naturally has led to extended and violent activity from the foetus.

'Kicking like a mule', would have been the Colonel's description of the babies activities during the night. He had felt it as they lay together, his hand trying to support the growing mound of her stomach. He had felt the pain as well, through the neural link still embedded in the base of his skull. Her own Borg transmitter broadcasting in distress at the more extreme events, only her physical exhaustion preventing her waking. It worried him and had led to a disturbed night. There was still another three months to go. Some serious damage was going to be done sooner or later and the Doctor had all but forbidden the extended regeneration needed to repair the damage that he felt must be occurring.

Well you did want to experience every facet of pregnancy, he offered, adding a touch of flippancy to hide his concerns.

It has been experienced. I wish it to stop. It is interfering with my duties, Seven of Nine declared stonily.

The Colonel grinned weakly. So do I. Now. Are you certain you can stand a shift in Astrometrics?

Seven of Nine announced firmly, standing up.

She staggered as she did so causing the Colonel to spring from his own chair and catch her.

I wish I was so sure, he whispered gently.

It is necessary, Seven of Nine affirmed, a little less firmly. Her head was spinning. You may escort me, she offered her arm.

The offer came as a welcome relief to the Colonel. He still felt deep guilt for the fate of his first wife and unborn child. That and a somewhat fatalistic view of his own life, meant he desperately wanted to take close and personal care of his pregnant wife. If challenged, he would admit that the level of care he wanted to offer would prove 'Over the Top'. Seven of Nine's 'Rules' as to the level of care he was permitted to offer hurt, but they were what she wanted and he suffered them, bending them when he could. This had been the first time she had asked for help in months.

Thus he watched her with some concern as she staggered stiffly around the control panels of Astrometrics, activating the large view screen with an astronomical chart.

You may assist me, Seven of Nine accepted, noticing that he was still hovering near the door. It is necessary to plot a course to the Trafoil system. The region in between contains a large number of hazardous phenomena. They must be avoided.

I can't poke those buttons. I wouldn't have a clue what I was doing! The Colonel protested.

That was true, Seven of Nine accepted. Sometimes it irked that he had never visibly managed to get to grips with ships systems. Then there were other times when he would prove he understood more than he let on, the effects, if not the science. He had once used the expression 'Too clever by half', and in an attempt to understand the strange phrase and others he periodically used she had investigated its meaning. Seven had decided that he took the curse literally. But she was still feeling queazier than she was prepared to admit, she wanted the company of her protector.

I will display the route upon the screen. You will check for errors, she instructed. These controls will pan and turn the display, she demonstrated a number of small controls on the central control panel. The route must maintain a minimum of five million kilometres from events. That at least he would be able to gauge, she decided, by guesswork if nothing else.

What's the white dot? The Colonel asked after some fifteen minutes of carefully twisting the view screen around to examine each point Seven of Nine put upon the display.

White dot? Define?

That one. In the middle of the grey cloud. He painted at a speck upon the screen.

An asteroid, Seven of Nine dismissed. She had missed the body in question.

He shook his head. This little display thingy says what is there normally, he pointed out. And if I remember right, a planetary body cannot exist in a plasmonic nebula. It said so in my little book of big words.

A planetry body cannot form in one, Seven of Nine corrected.

Knowing full well his interest had been piqued, she dutifully redirected her sensor suite to examine the small dot. It is a Borg sphere. The Anti-matter systems have been drained of power, as would be expected, minimal life support. Indications of heavy structural damage.

Could it be our guests old ship? The Colonel asked curiously.

That is possible. It is unlikely there is still life aboard, or anything of benefit to Voyager, Seven of Nine added quickly, in case the Colonel had sudden visions of asking the Captain for permission to go to the stricken vessels rescue. Whilst he may not be phased by memories of Borg vessels, her own did. She had no desire to board one again.

I suppose not, he admitted then grinned. I'm sorry. I interrupted your flow. Where were we?

They returned to the task, for it to be broken again a few minutes later.

Annaka Hansen, report to Science Lab Two!

They both blanched at the order. And for a moment it looked to the Colonel as if Seven of Nine was going to ignore the summons, until it repeated. Annaka Hansen, report to Science Lab Two. Immediately!

She could have done that rather better, the Colonel opined sourly. Your mother's ways do little to endear themselves.

I was also considered rude, when I was released from the Collective, Seven of Nine admitted charitably. I do not wish to see her.

Maybe you were. But you did not have a role model as an example to follow and nobody had been 'de-Borged' before. Still, perhaps it is not too late to remind her there is one. May I be permitted to come with you?

You believe I should go? Seven of Nine questioned uncertainly. She had only seen her mother twice since her rescue. Neither occasion had had an agreeable outcome. Now she avoided meetings. Even to the point of putting off her regeneration until after Doctor Hansen had left the Cargo Bay.

If only to get your name straight, for once and for all, the Colonel suggested. You can't keep reversing course every time you hear her coming down the corridor. This is your home as much as hers. More so, you've been here longer.

I will go, she accepted. Your company will not be necessary. It will cause an argument.


Many of the records are erroneously made. A number bear the signature of your mate and contain little scientific fact. Perhaps you may assist me in finding their value? Erin Hansen observed to Seven of Nine as she entered the lab.

He is not a scientist and knows little scientific practice, Seven of Nine excused, taking an at ease stance, hands behind her back. She wondered if her mother was trying to be pleasant, or meant some slight at her husbands abilities. Captain Janeway has encouraged him to add to Voyagers records in such way as he is able. They are factual descriptions and opinions.

Opinions are not accurate, Doctor Hansen retorted. Nor are the descriptions. This report refers to a seaweed infestation of the ship. He repeatedly refers to the weed as 'Bladderwrack'. There is no such species.

It is a species of weed that grew in saline water bodies on Earth, correctly termed Fucus Vesiculosus, Seven of Nine argued. It was a common infestation on Earth during the period he lived there. He has described it accurately within the limits of his knowledge. There are additional records regarding the weed created by myself and a number of other crew members that bare an accurate scientific and explicit description. His solution worked.

His solution to the problem and observations were destructive and lacked scientific basis. Therefore they are inefficient, of little benefit and should be deleted?

Doctor Hansen hid her surprise at the simple acceptance. It had been her opinion that Seven of Nine had been totally under the influence of her mate and there would have more objection.

There are other reports based entirely upon his subjective opinion, she said, bringing up a new entry on the display. This is upon the Borg. He describes them as an irritation; Technologically advanced but tactically inflexible and ineffective. He has described an race he knows nothing about. His statement is flawed. They are a danger to all races!

Seven of Nine stiffened in irritation, Doctor Hansen seemed intent upon a course of criticism targeted at her pupil and mate. That is also a subjective opinion, formed over the period you have been aboard Voyager, she observed. The statement is out of context, Seven of Nine continued stepping forward to examine the entry. The source of his knowledge on Borg organisation is adequate. I am Borg. I have observed both Captain Janeway and Colonel Samuels when they are faced with a Borg threat. They have proven to be both more adaptable and capable. Therefore the statement has validity. If you are prepared to face the threat and not surrender to them, as you did, the Borg may be thwarted and defeated. The purpose of these comments?

We did not surrender. We tried to escape, Doctor Hansen snarled viciously. Your opinions have been clouded by Colonel Samuels and Captain Janeway. The comments are dangerous. He is dangerous. To the ship and its crew. He has even threatened crew members. That is why you are unprepared to take your human name, because you are afraid of his reactions?

It was too much. My designation is Seven of Nine Samuels, Seven of Nine's voice rose in her own anger as she turned to face the woman, less than a metre away. I chose to keep my Borg designation in preference to my original name. I was part of the Collective for the greater part of my life. I will always bear the scars of having been so. There is no benefit in hiding behind a name that was of no benefit when I possessed it! Colonel Samuels has made my Borg experience acceptable..

You are a human. An individual. My daughter! Doctor Hansen screamed, interrupting. You are not a drone of Lieutenant-Colonel Samuels. The designation 'Seven of Nine', is not appropriate!

My designation is.. My name is Seven of Nine Samuels. My chosen mate is.. I am.. Seven of Nine trailed off in confusion, her face flushing in her fury, her fists clenched. Then her face lost all colour as she blanching white, then she crumpled in a heap on the floor.

For a few moments Doctor Hansen regarded the unconscious form at her feet, as she calmly attempted to analyse Seven of Nine's obvious righteous anger. All she had attempted to do was point out errors in the formation of some of Voyager's records. Yet Seven of Nine had taken her comments as an attack on the primitive.

Despite spending nearly twelve hours reading Seven of Nine's records, she could not find a logical reason for her daughter's attachment to the green clad human. Certainly not one to warrant such a protective and confrontational attitude.

Tentatively Doctor Hansen prodded Seven of Nine with her foot. Only when she realised that the blonde was not going to move immediately did Doctor Hansen stoop to examine her. She had been caught by prospective drones attempting to play possum before.

Finally she reached for her communicator. One to beam to Sick Bay, she ordered calmly.


Captain Janeway raced down the corridor. The summons from the Doctor had contained more than a trace of panic and she understood why as soon as he named Seven of Nine. In her own panic she had launched herself at the Turbo Lift, then chaffed at its sloth for the fifteen seconds it took to reach deck 5.

She arrived at the Sickbay door at the same time as the reason for her alarm.

She'll be okay, Colonel! The Captain tried to placate him. As a reassurance it seemed as empty as the face that turned to her was of colour.

Think I'll wait until I've beaten some answers out of the Doctor, Ma'am. Now will you open the door, or shall I? He inclined his head at the door which so far, although they were in front of it, had not opened.

Perhaps the Doctor was worried about you? Computer open the door. Security Clearance Janeway Alpha Zero-One!

The door slid open and she stepped through.

He had no reason to be, unless he wants to start silly playing tricks like that, the Colonel hissed under his breath as he followed her in.

Both of them made a beeline for Seven of Nine, ignoring the three other people in the room. She lay still and deathly white upon the bio-bed. Catching Seven's hand in hers the Captain was horrified at how cold it was. In alarm she looked up at the Doctor.

It's her Cortical Node, the Doctor said simply. It's failing.

Well repair it! The Colonel snapped from the other side of the bed.

I can't, the Doctor whispered pitifully, the jubilation of the day before shattered. It controls all of her biological systems. There are other complications! He looked sideways at Fourteen of Twenty-Eight.

The Cortical Node is unique to each drone. It is developed by the drones Nanoprobes during assimilation from a basic unit or seed and will normally operate for the drones life-span. As such it is not reproducible, Fourteen of Twenty-Eight explained. In addition the unit inside Seven of Nine has been modified beyond our understanding and has been controlling the development of the infant. This has placed a loading beyond the units normal design capability. With the damage sustained during her encounter with the Destrons, the unit has been overloaded beyond its ability to self-regenerate.

Which means? Captain Janeway asked.

It must be replaced within 46 hours or Seven of Nine will have degenerated too far for the remains of her probes to configure it. She will cease to exist.

What about the baby? The Captains voice now a whisper.

The baby's development has been accelerated by Seven's Cortical Node, the Doctor put in. When Seven regenerated the speed of development was increased by a factor of three. It is why I told Seven to reduce her regeneration times, to allow her body to keep up. It is almost fully developed. If it were only its natural aspects we could save it...

It does not yet posses a Cortical Node to control the implants that have been built, Fourteen of Twenty-Eight rescued the Doctor. On a Borg vessel the Cortical Node Seed would be injected before the infant is placed in a regeneration chamber. It would remain dormant until it was activated by its release and final programming. We are unsure how this would be achieved in the case of Seven of Nine. There has never been a pregnant drone. Perhaps it was intended that she would produce a cortical node seed upon the infants birth.

So we need two cortical nodes?

The Doctor nodded. Yes. But we must replace Seven's or we can't configure the second.

And how many do we have?

The only units aboard Voyager are those present in the drones. They can be adapted, Fourteen of Twenty-Eight announced. You wish to designate which drones to terminate?

Captain Janeway gaped at Fourteen of Twenty-Eight, struck dumb in horror at the suggestion.

The unit Seven of Nine is of prime importance to your vessel. We are not. It is logical to save those of greatest benefit, Fourteen of Twenty-Eight observed calmly.

Finally the Captain found her voice. We don't do things that way, she whispered huskily. We find another way. Get B'Elanna to go over the cortical node. Even if she can't repair it, she might find a way to stabilise it and give us time.

She straightened unsteadily to her full height, took a pitying glance at the Colonel, crouched as he was beside Seven of Nine, silently gripping one hand firmly and gently stroking her head with his other and headed unsteadily for the door.


Unable to face the questioning glances from the bridge crew she terminated the lift at deck three and headed for her private quarters. There she collapsed on the sofa as the shock finally hit her.

Seven of Nine was her daughter!

Not her biological daughter, true. But she had watched, supported, guided and worried about her over the previous five years in a way that only a mother could.

The pleasure of learning that Seven had learnt that she could have her own opinions. The annoyance of finding that they often differed from her own. The anger at the arguments. Teaching her to socialise with others, even take interest in things other than duty. The joy to find Seven was investigating relationships. The disappointment to discover she had stopped, because it was irrelevant. The relief, when Seven suddenly found somebody who she wanted to share her life with and the jealousy when she realised that Seven would no longer look to her first for guidance. The pride when the attachment became official. The all pervading glow that seemed to shroud Seven when she learnt she could become more than a mate, but a mother as well.

An accelerated growing up, yes. One with a very uniquely gifted and ungainly child. But all of the boosts and heartbreaks of parenthood had been the sole prerogative of Kathryn Janeway. Now was the ultimate pain. Seven was dying. Not because of some physical enemy action; at least that would leave somebody to strike at, even if it served no beneficial purpose. Nor because of some strange illness, a common risk for those who explored space, yet was as often as not cured. But because of a breakdown in systems that were unique to her and bore no hope of repair or replacement.

Kathryn Janeway's self pity was interrupted by the door chime and the entry of Chakotay.

We've heard, he said gently. I thought you might like some company? He sat on the edge of the sofa, his hand taking hers and gripping it firmly.

She demanded between sniffs.

Because after the Colonel, you are the most attached to Seven, he said simply. The Colonel is able to show it because he is not in command. You don't think you can because you are.

B'Elanna is looking at the node? The Captain asked, trying to pull herself together.

It did not work. Chakotay knew her too well. Stop trying to control yourself, Kathryn, he chided. Let it go. You'll start to think properly afterwards.

Unwillingly, she did. Pulling herself into a sitting position, she broke into gut wrenching sobs, burying her face into his shoulder, arms around him, gripping tightly.

Silently Chakotay held her, gently rocking her in her anguish.

Ten minutes, or so, later Captain Janeway had recovered enough to regain some semblance of control. Staff meeting in twenty minutes, she said softly, wiping her reddened eyes. I want to know what possible solutions there are.

What do we do with the Colonel? Chakotay asked cautiously.

If you can persuade him to leave Seven, he comes to, she said. And Doctor Hansen, she added as an after thought.


I have sedated Seven, the Doctor reported dutifully fifteen minutes later in the impromptu staff meeting. But her condition is critical. Almost all of her natural processes that were controlled by the Cortical Node are now controlled by the computer. It may give us a little more time.

How much time? The Captain demanded.

The Doctor shrugged helplessly. I don't know. Without the Node to prompt and control the production of Nanoprobes, it will depend upon how long her existing ones will work for. I can't put her in the alcove because of the baby.

We are testing a number of probes from Colonel Samuels, they are a close pattern match and require little adaptation, Fourteen of Twenty-Eight observed. He has insufficient to have a prolonged effect. Nor does he have the facilities to maintain a steady supply.

Can we modify some from the other drones? Tom suggested hopefully.

They may help stabilise the situation, Fourteen of Twenty-Eight admitted. But in her weakened condition, they must be modified to exactly match Seven of Nine's or assimilation will occur. It will require more time than is currently available. The Cortical Node must be replaced.

So. Where do we get one? The Captain asked.

How about from a Borg ship? The Colonel suggested. Mrs Nine and I found one earlier on.

They turned to face where he sat. It had taken Chakotay all of the time the Captain had allowed to gently coax the Colonel to leave Seven of Nine. Now he sat, white faced and grim, trying to take in what was being said.

Why was it not reported? Tuvok asked, carefully modulating tone and inflection. All could sense the tension that was building within the soldier and were terrified of how it was going to be released.

It was in some sort of nebula and very dead, the Colonel protested. Can't remember what the nebula was called, only that we couldn't approach it and it contained more syllables than was good for it.

Harry, Tuvok, find it. Take the Colonel with you, if it will help. the Captain snapped. Then get us on course.

If there is a way to save Seven. We will find it, she commented quietly to Doctor Hansen as the meeting broke up. She was finding the Doctor difficult to understand. She had seemed less than enthusiastic over attending the meeting, had contributed nothing during it. Instead she had spent it staring at the Colonel.

Your intention is noted, Captain Janeway.

That was it. She had not expect wild praises to be sung. But the Captain had expected something more than a calm dismissal, even after half a life time as a Borg. She began, then gave up. It was too much when matched to her own feelings.


Seven was right, Kim said in Astrometrics, offering the bad news. There is no way we can get to that ship. The plasma in the nebula would neutralise our anti-matter before we got to it.

The senior staff had once again gathered together, only this time in Astrometrics and they were observing the plasmonic nebula on the large astrometrics display as it span to show them the area around the stricken Borg ship.

It is possible to create a protonic resonance matrix, Tuvok suggested. It would reduce the neutralisation of anti-matter containment. It would however be a total shield. We would not be able to use transporters, or impulse engines for propulsion.

There was silence for a while as they took the scene in.

Chakotay suddenly broke out. Take it back. Is that a dent in the nebula? How close does it get to the ship?

Dutifully Kim reversed the display to show the indent that Chakotay had observed.

I could coast the flyer that far? Tom Paris offered. It would only take a few hours.

But you wouldn't get back, B'Elanna scolded.

If I coasted the shuttle in, I could get the bits, then Voyager can do the same trick and pick us up? Tom suggested.

We wouldn't know when to come and collect. All communications will be out, Kim protested.

How about, if I blew the Borg ship up when we were ready to be picked up? The Colonel suggested. You should see that!

If we decide we can do it, you will not be on the shuttle, Colonel, the Captain stated plainly, making her decision. The team will have to be small, know what they are looking for and the operation planned to the second. Tom, work with Fourteen of Twenty-Eight. Find out how long we need aboard the Borg ship. Tuvok, Harry, find a way to protect us in the Nebula. I want contingencies for maintaining emergency power and resuming full power when we are out the other side.

Are you sure about this, Kathryn? Chakotay queried as the others trooped out to set about their duties as designated. We could be risking more than Seven of Nine's life. It is not just because of your feelings for Seven?

I would do it for any member of this ship! She protested, then paused for a moment. I don't know, she admitted more thoughtfully. You can help examine the plans. Unless there is a good chance of success we don't go!

She turned for the door to find the way blocked by the Colonel.

Request you reconsider my presence on the Away Team, Ma'am? He asked formally. I may not know what I'm looking for, as such. But they may need the grunt. We don't know what they are going to meet.

The Captain restated bluntly. You are too close. Your place is here. Looking after Seven!

Please, Ma'am! I can't do anything for Mrs Nine here. And she is my responsibility. You are going to risk your crew to help her. That is where I belong. I'll take the risks for them.

There was a note of desperate pleading in the voice that made the Captain waver. I'll wait to see the plans, she said.


Seven hours later Captain Janeway looked up from the plans that had been presented to her. Broadly, Tom would set off in the Delta Flyer and a small boarding party to coast upto the target ship, now positively identified as a Borg sphere. When completed they would drop the modified shields for three minutes to allow the impulse engines time to get them upto a speed to coast out again before the last of the power drained away. In the meantime Voyager was to drop anti-matter containers on the opposite side of the anomaly, then sprint to a position to collect the Flyer when it had finished, or go after it if there was a problem. Voyager's greater emergency power reserves, in theory, at least, giving her all the time she needed to coast through. When she emerged, she could refuel, if they had lost warp capability.

The simplicity of the plan hid a minefield of problems.

Timing would be everything. There would be no communication possible, so if the Flyer got into difficulties, it would be on its own. Even if there were communications it was doubtful that Voyager would be able offer assistance in time. Once inside the nebula Voyager's ability to manoeuvre would be severely limited, she would be able to change direction slightly with thrusters, but not stop, or speed up, or she would not get out.

It was, she decided, just possible. If the mastermind of the operation was determined enough. You aren't going to have much time, she observed to Tom Paris, attempting to test his resolve. Tuvok gives you a maximum duration with Emergency Power of Fourteen hours, before the shields are too weak to protect you. It will take six to coast to the Borg ship, and at least that to get back. If we have to come after you we may not be able to stop to help. It means you have less than an hour?

Fourteen of Twenty-Eight says she can find the parts in twenty minutes, Tom Paris countered firmly. Thirteen of Twenty-Eight and Twelve of Twenty have volunteered to come as well. Between them they should know their way around.

The Captain glanced at Chakotay for confirmation. He nodded an approval.

Do you want the Colonel? She asked carefully. He has asked, begged, to go. But you haven't listed him?

I thought he would want to be with Seven?

The Captain shook her head and smiled ruefully. He thinks he will be of more benefit to her helping you.

Tom Paris considered this for a brief moment. I don't think so, he said slowly. Thirteen can shift anything that is in the way and we are not expecting any other trouble.

I'll lock him in the Brig until you've gone. The plan is approved. You go as soon as the modifications to the Flyer have been completed.

She rose and left the Ready Room, calling for a security detail to meet her outside Sick Bay.


The Captain found the Colonel, as expected, kneeling beside Seven of Nine's bed, talking quietly to her, whilst holding her right hand firmly in both of his.

Unusually, he did not seem to hear her enter. Normally he would spring to attention and salute whenever she entered the room. A formality that she had had to become accustomed to; Under his rules, as the Captain of a ship, she was the superior officer, yet it would still bring a smile to her face, especially when it was maintained ashore when he had clearly taken control.

For him not to, was a certain sign of how badly he was affected. She stopped for a moment and listened to what he was saying.

'You rest my love,' he was whispering. 'Don't worry. Cap'n Kate has it all under control. We'll get it fixed. Then you will have our baby and it'll be a bonnie thing. As beautiful and as intelligent as it's mother. I won't know which to love most!'

There was a mumble from the bed, she could not catch what was being said, though the reply was clear enough.

'It is still there and it is fine. Just resting. Like you should be.' He leant forward and kissed her on the forehead.

The Captain coughed politely and the Colonel sprang to his feet like a scolded cat. Sorry, Ma'am. I did not hear you enter, Ma'am! He gasped, going red in the face and saluting.

It was the Captains turn to blush. I didn't mean to interrupt a private moment, she stammered. I didn't know Seven was awake. But we are going. Tom will be launching in a couple of hours. I thought you would like to know.

I'll get my kit, the Colonel growled his approval.

You aren't going.

The Flyer will be taking a full compliment. If you try to argue, Colonel, I will have security put you in the Brig. I said I would consider your request when I had seen the plans. Tom will have everything he needs. This is one mission you will have to sit out.

There was silence as he took the news in.

Very well, Ma'am, he said finally. May I be permitted to attend my church before being jugged?

The Captain nodded and turned to Seven of Nine.

I promise to keep him safe for you, she whispered, squeezing Seven's hand.

That is an error, Seven of Nine whispered weakly. He is scared and requires a task.

The baby. I am unable to feel it! It is not moving! Seven demanded after a few minutes silence, a note of panic forming in the voice. It will survive?

There was real fear in those powder blue eyes, the Captain could see it. Yes. The baby will survive, she promised. And so will you. I promise.

That is acceptable, Seven sighed. I wish to see it. She slipped back into sleep.


Tom Paris concentrated upon the controls of the Delta Flyer. To reach the Borg ship in the correct time, he had to enter the nebula at exactly warp 0.55. Too fast and they would arrive quicker, but would expend too much precious energy from the thrusters. Too slow and the time available to find the parts they needed might prove too short. Yet the velocities were in the order where the decimals did not count in the normal course of events. It was, in short, as fine a juggling act as docking 700,000 tonne spaceships to a space station.

He allowed himself a sigh of relief as the small shuttle breached the boundary of the Nebula just as the gauges clicked through 0.55 and the Impulse Engine died as the modified shields came up. So far so good.

This must be what it was like when men first went into space, he commented brightly to his three Borg team. We use what we have, then when it's gone there is nothing left but wait.

There are parallels, Fourteen of Twenty-Eight conceded. You should rest for the next six hours. It will aid the conservation of power.

Yes, Ma'am! He responded cheekily. I have a deck of cards. Anybody up for a game of poker?

That will not be necessary.

A game of I-Spy then? It will help the time pass?

The flight has been timed to take five hours fifty-three minutes, it is undesirable to arrive faster, or for it to take longer. A primitive observational game will not adjust the rate at which time passes, Twelve of Twenty said bluntly.

You're worse than Tuvok. Always taking the literal. Tom muttered, surprised that Twelve of Twenty had volunteered to speak, let alone an opinion. It ranked with his volunteering to join the expedition as a cause of wonder. Perhaps he was starting to 'find his feet'.

Tom hoped this was the case. He was the only non-Borg aboard the flyer, unless...

He rose from his seat and searched, whilst the Borg looked on in bemusement.

You have lost something, Lieutenant Paris? Fourteen of Twenty-Eight asked after Tom inspected inside a panel beside her.

He grinned weakly. I haven't 'lost' anything. I was looking to see if we had 'gained' something, he admitted. The Colonel wanted to come.

Captain Janeway instructed him that he was not required, Fourteen of Twenty-Eight observed. She had a security team available, should he object.

That wouldn't stop him, Tom said confidently settling back in his chair, wondering if he had missed somewhere in the small ship that could hide a human of the Colonel's stature. Especially as Seven's life depends upon it.

He would disobey an order?

He wouldn't see it like that. But. Yes! He's done it before. Then convinced the Captain he hadn't.

Perhaps you should explain? Fourteen of Twenty-Eight suggested. I have noticed he defers to Captain Janeway's wishes, even when he has assumed command. It may assist you to ignore the wait?

It was all the prompting Tom Paris needed. He commenced a long discussion of Voyager's travels.


Tom Paris was feeling pleased with himself. The Delta Flyer had arrived in the vicinity of the Borg Sphere almost exactly on time and the target had been spotted almost immediately a little over 100Km away to their left by Thirteen of Twenty-Eight. It had been one of the things that could have gone seriously wrong. Whilst the short range sensors would pick up the dead ships presence, the signals tended to be bounced in all directions, making accurate location almost impossible.

The vessel is not ours, Fourteen of Twenty-Eight announced. There is a manual docking port on the lower half of the sphere. You should attempt to dock there.

Okay. How about life support, or any signs of life? Tom asked working the controls, both to slow the Flyer and bring it on course.

There is no life. Life support is below minimal requirements, Fourteen of Twenty-Eight stated neutrally. A Borg can operate for a short period without life support, she continued quietly looking at Twelve of Twenty. Of the Borg survivors, only he was still an operational Borg. It may be possible to flood the vessel with air from the reserve tanks and chemical resusicators.

I will require six minutes to ascertain if additional life support can be activated.


Twelve of Twenty was as good as his word. Six minutes after the Flyer clanged forcefully against the docking port his gaunt frame appeared at the airlock.

I have been able to activate some life support systems, he announced. They are adequate for the purpose, but insufficient for prolonged exposure. You will require some minutes to acclimatise. There are no lights.

We haven't got the time, Tom observed, mindful of the ticking clock. Twenty three minutes of their precious hour had already passed them by. We'll take breathers.

He donned his then stood aside to allow Fourteen of Twenty-Eight to leave.

We will need to climb two decks, she said, leading the way. The main assimilation chambers are on the central circumference.

They followed in single file, with Twelve of Twenty at the rear. There had obviously been some carnage aboard this ship, Tom surmised, as he played his torch over the silent alcoves wondering where their ex-inhabitants were.

He stopped wondering when he fell over a decomposing body. He picked himself up, then realised his hand was in something wet and sticky.

Idly he checked his hand, for a moment he almost panicked, thinking it was covered in blood, before finding it was a warm jelly like substance. He shook his hand in disgust, then wiped it firmly on his jacket as it started to itch. What is this stuff? He asked as the torch caught more of it dripping from the walls.

Fourteen of Twenty-Eight admitted. We should continue, quickly.

As they continued, Tom Paris became aware of thin whistle. It had no discernible direction, but came from everywhere. With the increasing incidence of the strange red goo sliding down the walls and splashing underfoot, he became uneasy and reached for his phasor. How much further? He asked. I don't like this place.

Fourteen of Twenty-Eight did not answer. Instead her pace increased, until she rounded a corner into a small vestibule. What we are seeking will be in one of these containers, she announced, starting to pull the lids from a pile of containers. Thirteen of Twenty-Eight, you will observe from the doorway. Twelve of Twenty will assist in the search.

Where is Twelve? Tom demanded, nursing the hand that had been covered with gel. It was still itching whilst the ex-drone had disappeared and the whistle had become louder, forcing him to raise his voice.

There is insufficient time to search. We require a black containment unit 200mm square, 100mm thick. Assist me, Fourteen of Twenty-Eight demanded, starting to pull unidentifiable blocks from the containers.

This it? Tom shouted, waving a container like the one Fourteen of Twenty-Eight had described. He was now forced to shout, the whistle had become so loud it was pulsating, making his head spin.

Affirmative! We should leave. Immediately! Fourteen of Twenty-Eight screamed back, staggering for the door.

Tom knew there was something wrong, that Fourteen of Twenty-Eight knew more than she was telling, but his mind simply refused to respond. He staggered after her as she fled blindly down the corridor.

He did see a large drip of gel form on the ceiling ahead, and tried to scream a warning, just as he tried to lift his phasor. Neither worked and he watched in remote horror as it dropped in front of Fourteen of Twenty-Eight in a big heap, wrapping itself around her legs, tripping her. He also saw a red mound, like a huge sea swell, rolling up and over the fallen drone. Finally he managed to bring the phasor up and fired.

The mound disappeared, rolling back the way it had come.

The whistle also stopped, as if cut off, leaving Tom Paris staggering like a drunk, dizzy from the release into near total silence whilst his own head still rang.

Just as suddenly as the noise returned. This time the volume was trebled in intensity. Desperately Tom Paris tried to damp it by grabbing his head with both hands, twisting it this way and that, screaming in his pain, until he staggered into the wall and collapsed.

He did not notice Thirteen of Twenty-Eight picking both him and Fourteen of Twenty-Eight up and throwing them over his shoulders. He certainly did not feel being thrown through the door of the Flyer by the man mountain before he also collapsed, blood oozing from his ears.


Unlike Fourteen of Twenty-Eight, Twelve of Twenty knew exactly what the whistle and the red gel belonged too. It was the bio-kinetic digestive slime from a Phalm; A Neurogenic lifeform; a single celled organism of unique and potentially incomprehensible destructive power. Especially designed by his race, the Brannags, for the purpose of destroying crews, their ships and eventually any other vessel they came into contact with.

As a new secret weapon the Phalm had to be tested. The Borg with their unique inter-linking and collective knowledge formed an excellent first test. Could their fabled adaptability be able to develop a means of combating the Phalm, or would the Phalm destroy their vessel before they realised its nature.

Twelve of Twenty was a Phalmer, a controller of Phalms, one of six chosen to be carefully adapted with modified Borg implants and smuggled aboard Borg ships to test this new weapon.

His own mission had been a failure. There had not been time for the spore to germinate before the Borg ship he had been inserted upon was struck by the Ion storm that had destroyed it.

It had been why he had refused to have the Borg implants removed. Partly because their original insertion had hurt, but also because the modifications that prevented him being assimilated into the Borg Collective, would almost certainly have been identified by Fourteen of Twenty-Eight, if not by the holographic doctor aboard Voyager, the secret had to be kept.

The consequences of a Phalm, or any of the attendant equipment, being found would be catastrophic. There were far more powerful races than the Brannags and the Phalm took time to operate. It was very much a covert weapon of terror.

It was not, therefore, concern for Seven of Nine's continued existence that had led him to volunteer for the mission. But the fear of discovery if the sphere had proved to be the one he had been placed upon.

It had been with a mixture of disappointment and relief that the sphere had not been his own. His subsequent continuation as a volunteer had merely been an attempt to continue his cover. Finding the tell tale red gel and semi-digested remains of a dead Borg had put him back on alert. The central nucleus would have to be recovered and the ship destroyed. Possibly with the other members of the away team, should they realise what was happening.

Slipping away from the hurrying party had been easy. He had simply stopped hurrying. Now he activated one of those modified devices embedded inside his Borg neural link and looked for the signals that would guide him in the direction of the nucleus.

He very soon realised there was a problem, when not one but four nuclei showed on his sensor. It was either developing more quickly than it ought, or the radiation was affecting the sensor and it was receiving spurious signals. He hoped it was the later as he set out for the nearest.

Collecting a single nucleus was straight forward, another of the modified Borg implants emitted a low resonance EMF pulse that would protect him from attack by the gel. Second generation Phalms, were a little more difficult to trap, as without the nucleus to control it, the first would eventually cease to respond to the pulse. But with third and subsequent generations there was an increasing risk that the programming that responded to the pulse would become corrupted. Trapping a nucleus was, from there on, a dangerous affair.

He found the first less than 200 metres from where he had left the rest of the away team. It was sat in the centre of a convergence of six companionways. In the torch light it looked like a black peanut, nearly a hand width across. He guessed it was within an hour or two of dividing.

Forcing it into a containment pouch was a matter of seconds. He would have to consider a method of concealing the pouch from the others later.

The careful removal of all traces of the gel, before it started to burn, took another three minutes, as he continued to follow the signals.

He was also having to track the passing of time. The others would be in the central assimilation chamber by now. Even though this was not her ship, it would not take Fourteen of Twenty-Eight more than five or six minutes to find a cassette of cortical nodes.

The second nucleus was found less than two minutes later and also pushed into a pouch. It left Twelve of Twenty near the power core of the sphere. The next nucleus was at least two decks above. There was not going to be time to reach it before the away team returned to the Delta Flyer. The gel was also starting to stick to his boots a sure sign that his protection was failing. It was time to leave. But not before the remaining evidence and the remote chance of the Phalm extending their reach further had been obliterated.

He approached the dead power core and removed the inlet manifold from what had been the anti-matter injector. From his belt, he withdrew a small phial the length and diameter of a finger and cracked the top before pushing it inside and refitting the manifold. No matter how drained the system was of anti-matter, there was always a trace of radiation left, or so it was claimed. The fluid in the phial, another genetically designed amoeba, known as a Geisha, would begin to divide using that residual radiation from the power chamber as a catalyst, absorbing and reproducing the radiation until it reached a mass that it formed a power source of its own. It would take a few hours, but the resultant explosion would destroy everything within tens of thousands of kilometres of the sphere.

He set off back the way he had come. Hurrying now, anxious that he should return to the shuttle before the others.

Twelve of Twenty sensed more than heard the sudden change in the whistling noise that Tom Paris had found so debilitating. He had a fair idea what it meant as well. The Phalm had been stimulated. Not hurt, it was too simple an organism to feel pain, or emotions like revenge and anger, unfortunately those terms would explain its response. He started to run.

As Twelve of Twenty turned into the final companionway leading to the docking bay, he caught a movement in the corner of his eye. In alarm he looked back. Speeding down the corridor was a wave of red ooze. With no where to duck out of its way and no time to reach the marginal safety of the Delta Flyer, all he could do was watch as the wave caught him, sucking him under its bulk.

For a few seconds everything went dark, then he was free but covered with slime, as the wave continued its wild charge down the corridor. He had a moment to wipe the ooze from his eyes then witnessed the wave smash into the door of the Delta Flyer's airlock.

It struck with enough force to dislodge the shuttle from its tentative grip with the Borg sphere and the remains of the air whooshed out, taking Twelve of Twenty with it.

He did not go far. He had been almost knee deep in the sticky slime and it stretched into a long streamer, until he was brought to stop some 100 metres from the sphere.


Tom Paris awoke with a scream. His face and hands felt as if they were on fire. Through half closed eyes he could see his hands were red raw where the gel had started to dissolve the skin. Grabbing the medi-kit was a mistake. It made him scream in agony again as the cold plastic bit into raw nerves. He had to steel himself to use the medi-spray. The metal device was going to be far worse to handle than the plastic box. But the pain from the pain relieving spray made him swoon.

It was a full ten minutes before he had recovered enough to take interest in his surrounds again.

The two ex-Borgs, Fourteen and Thirteen of Twenty-Eight, lay on the floor beside him, where they had fallen. Both showing the same searing burns as he had; possibly even worse in the case of Fourteen. But there was still no sign of Twelve of Twenty.

He would have to find his own way back, Tom decided uncharitably, kneeling up to examine the remains of his small crew.

It quickly became evident that Fourteen of Twenty-Eight was going to need far more treatment than the Delta Flyer's small medical kit could supply. The burning had penetrated the sub-dermal layer. Tom did the only thing he could, he sedated her, heavily.

Thirteen was better off. The burns were more superficial than they looked. He was not going to be able to repair the ear drums shattered by the incredible noise. His own ears were still ringing from that as well.

He did what he could, then looked towards the door, wondering if he should at least look for Twelve of Twenty. If he had been caught by the gel then he was going to be in a far worse state than they were, if he was still alive.

It was only when he tried to open the door and it had remained stubbornly shut that he realised that the Flyer was no longer attached to the Borg sphere. Sinking into his chair he considered the position.

The Flyer was over an hour late in leaving. At best the power reserves would last another four hours. There was no way that the impulse drive would be able to provide the power required to get them out of the Nebula before power failed. It was doubtful if Voyager would be able to arrive in time either, unless they had already set out to rescue them.

Strangely he felt no panic or alarm at the realisation. Just disappointment and anger that he had failed in a mission he had started to help somebody.

Captain Janeway would often throw the whole resources of her ship at the problem of rescuing a member of her crew, Tom had seen it. The Colonel frequently showed the same single-mindedness, risking everything, especially his life, to achieve the same. But the reasons had always passed him by. It was not because he did not care. Just that the level of what he was prepared to give was lower than others. He mattered to him. Marriage to B'Elanna, had started to change his attitudes, now he had to take the feelings of others into account. But this was still a new sensation to Tom Paris, the erstwhile flighty, insincere and feckless Starship pilot. He was feeling the failure. It was personal and it was making him angry and more determined. There had to be a way out of their predicament.

Perhaps, he wondered, if he dropped the modified shields, he could use continuous impulse power, at least until the power gave out, instead of a short burst to get them underway. They would then be restricted to the survival suits for a few hours. He was not an engineer, the science of propulsion was another subject he flunked at the Academy, along with power conservation, much to the chagrin of his father. The extra speed provided by the continuous use of impulse would barely add 15% to their speed and use 80% more of the precious power than the carefully calculated burn. To him the idea had potential, if not the probability of success.

What is it the Colonel says? He muttered. Whatever you do make a decision and act. If you don't, you'll die anyhow. Well it looks as if he is right. Again.

It was then that he noticed the red strand that still attached the Delta Flyer to the sphere. It seemed a small problem, the strand was thin, barely 100mm in diameter. He guessed, it would snap when stretched far enough.

Tracing the thin umbilical back to the sphere, Tom sighted Twelve of Twenty, still tethered to the sphere. Surprisingly he was still moving.

At least he could do something about that, Tom decided grimly engaging thrusters.

Slowly he edged the Flyer back towards the stricken Borg and activated the airlock.


I'm surprised you didn't make sure you happened to aboard the Flyer when it left, Colonel? Captain Janeway suggested nervously to Colonel Samuels as he gazed out of the window on the forward promenade.

She repeated as the Colonel continued to stare, as if mesmerised by the syncopative concert of swirling multi-coloured clouds of the Nebula as they slipped past.

He turned and gazed blankly at her, the salute equally as loose. I'm sorry, Ma'am. I did hear you. It's just I wasn't sure how to respond, he apologised unhappily. Would it help if I admitted I tried and was caught by Commander Chakotay? He made it very clear I was not wanted and had me escorted here by three security teams. He said Voyager has had dangerous missions before and has come through.

That is true, the Captain agreed, joining him at the window. But they've seemed less dangerous recently. You know the Flyer is late?

So I believe, Ma'am.

And the only vessel we can see in this soup, she gestured broadly at the display, is the Borg ship?

The Flyer is a small craft, the Colonel pointed out.

If it was free, we would see it! The Captain protested vehemently. We've redesigned, reworked and calibrated the sensors. There is nothing in there but the Sphere.

So you think the Flyer is still close to the Borg ship and Mr Paris is in trouble? The Colonel suggested shrewdly. You want my help to go and have a look? Perhaps using the Valoria? Not very sensible is it, Lieutenant? I distinctly recall being told by one of the engineers that the Valoria's shields could not be modified to work in this 'Soup'. Her power systems wouldn't last long enough to get out.

But the type 2's shields will work, the Captain suggested mildly. I had B'Elanna modify them in case we needed it. I will need a crew I can trust?

The Colonel seemed to consider this for a moment. I can think of better crewmen to take, Ma'am, he opined slowly. I'm sorry Ma'am, but I will not help you to kill yourself, he dismissed the idea before turning for the door.

He was caught and spun by the furious Captain. Don't you see I can't risk the ship for them. Not even for Seven! It was my mistake agreeing in the first place. I have to take the shuttle in to collect the crew of the flyer and I will go alone if I have to. But I will need help. Help from some one who does ignore the rules, she pleaded. B'Elanna has loaded reserve power packs. Even if they are only half charged by the time I get to the Flyer, they will still give us time to get out.

Silently he prised her fingers from his sleeve and continued to march for the door.

The Captain sprang after him with a scream, infuriated by his silence intent on bringing him to answer her charges. If she could have trusted anybody aboard the ship to help her in her need it was the Colonel. Except he was ready for her attack. He span, catching her on the side of the head with a ham sized fist that sent her sprawling. Before she could recover he was kneeling on her back.

I will do anything to keep the ship and my small band of friends safe, he hissed. I count you as one of them. That is why you aren't going! Just make sure I am allowed out! I'll be ready in forty minutes.

And if it's a technical problem, she gasped.

I'll take an axe, he promised.


The door to the Science Lab swished open to reveal the towering frame of Lieutenant-Colonel Samuels. Doctor Hansen had expected him, sooner or later and she steeled herself for what was to come, gripping the phasor she had purloined and hidden under the console. He was not an intelligent creature and would resort to violence.

You can put the weapon down, Doctor. You aren't nearly good enough with it, the Colonel barked with certainty and stepping toward her. If I had come for revenge you would be dead long before you could aim it. I'm not even going to ask what you did to her and I'm going to leave the why until later as well.

The purpose of your visit? Doctor Hansen demanded, somewhat surprised and bringing the phasor up to point directly at the Colonel.

He ignored the phasor and her, as he consulted a PADD and strolled around the console towards her. She guessed he was doing it for show and followed him, keeping the phasor levelled.

It says here, that you knew a little about plasma fields and engines. When you were at the Academy and before you tried being a biologist, he commented. His hand came out and gripped the phasor, twisting it out of her hand. A tip, Ma'am. If you are going to wave a gun at people. Use it before they come close enough to take it away. Personally I take an exception to having weapons pointed at me. Now as I was saying..

I have basic knowledge of propulsion systems, Doctor Hansen admitted. I am an exo-biologist.

Good enough. I don't have that much. Now, I would like a little help? The Colonel admitted.

The nature of this assistance? The Doctor demanded, she could feel a trap being woven around her, but was unsure of how to extradite herself.

I need a pilot who knows what is happening, has nothing to lose, everything to gain and it won't upset anybody.

You are intending to attempt to rescue the crew of the Delta Flyer! Doctor Hansen expostulated. The ship has pilots capable of that task!

Yes. But it is dangerous enough for the Captain to be gnawing her comm badge. If I shanghied a half competent driver, somebody would complain, the Colonel observed. You, on the other hand, won't be missed until its too late and don't have to follow the regulations quite so close. And as the reason I need a pilot is at least in part your fault.

The damage that caused Annaka to collapse occurred prior to our meeting, Doctor Hansen complained. She would suffer a similar failure.

Aye. Perhaps she would, the Colonel agreed mildly. Perhaps it's the reason I haven't bundled you out of an airlock with me. But she is also your daughter. That makes you family and gives us duties and responsibilities. I thought you might like to help make amends.

If I refuse?

Regrettably, you don't have a choice and we will probably both die. In one sudden movement he gripped her arm, twisted it and pushed it firmly up behind her back. If you come voluntarily, we can both think about survival? He whispered.


Captain Janeway was both angry and worried, Chakotay knew it. Her jaw was jutting and she kept subconsciously feeling for the intercom badge on her breast. She was coming to a decision that he was not going to like.

The sensor scans they could make into the Nebula suggested that the Flyer had not left the Borg sphere and by the mission plan it was overdue to have done so by more than an hour. It was getting to the point where it would not escape with its crew alive.

The shuttle has left the hanger, Captain. Two occupants. Colonel Samuels and Doctor Hansen. Ensign Kim announced breaking the strained silence.

The Chakotay demanded hopefully.

The Captain broke with the nervous twiddling. Belay that! She countered

Kim shook his head. I couldn't if I wanted to, he admitted. They went to warp as they left. They are entering the Nebula!

At Warp! They'll blow up! On screen! Chakotay hissed.

They dropped from warp as they entered, Kim commented obeying the command, though there was little to see apart from a swirl of multicoloured cloud where the shuttle had entered. They should be with the Borg ship in a few hours.

He returned the main screen to the sensor tactical display to display the new dot of the shuttle heading for the sphere.

They are progressing under full impulse power, Tuvok observed calmly. Their power reserves will be depleted in four hours if the condition is maintained.


You should disengage impulse and engage shields, Doctor Hansen recommended. Our power reserves will be depleted before we reach the Delta Flyer otherwise.

It will not make more than twelve minutes difference in our arrival time, she added.

Very good, Ma'am, he acknowledged with limited grace.

He sat and studied the controls in silence for several minutes before speaking again.

You know, I used to hate kids with parents, he commented quietly. They always had somebody that encouraged them to be something more, then looked after them and wipe away the tears if they failed. All I ever got was a beating for being late. I know you don't approve of me, Ma'am. That is fair enough, you might be right. But why are you trying to take it out on her? Why can't you just accept that she has made a choice and be there for her when she realises the size of her mistake, like all those mothers I used to hate?

I have observed errors in her approach and attitude, they require correction, the Doctor excused.

Like who she is? He challenged. She decided upon Seven of Nine, because she didn't want to remember who she was before. It was painful, pointless and lonely.

We loved Annaka. We cared for her!

But not at the expense of the days interest? He snapped.

There was an uncomfortable silence.

You have plans to ensure our survival? Doctor Hansen asked, desperate to change the subject.

Nope. We wait and find out what is wrong. Then we do what I am infamous for, he grinned evilly at the worried and questioning frown. We react illogically!


Things were definitely going badly, Tom Paris accepted.

In a desperate bid to conserve power he had terminated all of his small ship's instruments and reduced life support to a minimum more than an hour ago. Now he sat in the dark, despondent and shivering, a thermal blanket around him, hoping that Voyager was on its way and would be arrive before the last of the power cells gave out. Wondering what else he could have tried.

The red strand that clung to the hull with the tenacious grip of a Neelix treacle tart, possessed the tensile strength of Tri-cobalt Titanium and the elasticity of rubber. He had spent a full fifteen minutes with the small craft at full impulse trying to snap it. The act, apart from reducing emergency power to dangerously low levels, had had no noticeable effect.

The strand had also proven resistive to phasor fire. He had spent thirty minutes in a suit trying to burn through with one. It sparked, burnt and became a deeper colour. But that was it.

Worse still the strand that held the Flyer to the Borg ship was thickening and starting to extend its grip.

Fourteen of Twenty-Eight had woken briefly an hour ago, but had been in such pain he had had no choice other than sedate her again. Rather than face the terrifying agony again Tom had also sedated Thirteen. Both he and they would have to face it next time, there was no more sedative and he could not afford the power to replicate additional supplies.

Twelve of Twenty was still unconscious. Fortunately that was due to exceeding the limits of Borg abilities to withstand vacuum, rather than the physical burns from contact with the red ooze. The limited damage had puzzled Tom when he had wrapped the Borg in a heated blanket. The ex-Borg must have been engulfed in the gel, yet apart from some redness, there was no sign of the horrific burns showed by the others. He ignored the discrepancy in favour of the preferable hope that he would wake soon.

His was startled from his deep revere by a figure fleetingly appearing at the window. He blinked in surprise, grappling for the environmental controls, certain he had begun to hallucinate in the weak atmosphere. Something banged hard at the door, before the figure, complete in space suit reappeared at the window, gesticulating wildly.

Still in a daze at the sudden action, Tom cycled the airlock and saw two figures entering, each bearing a heavy case.

The taller of the two figures tore his helmet off and grinned at him. You the gent that ordered a pizza? There's an extra charge for out of town deliveries and the guarantees off. Now help Doctor Hansen get these power cell thingies installed and find me a decent mug of tea. Jump to it, Lieutenant. We haven't got all day! Chop, Chop!

Faced with the sudden and relentless wall of humour and command, Tom dived to comply, wrestling with the canisters holding the power cells, whilst the Colonel bent to examine the casualties.

Doctor. Can you get this lump activated? The Colonel demanded, kneeling beside Twelve of Twenty. He's not hurt, so he might as well help.

Finally he sat back in a chair and grasped the mug Tom offered in compliance to the last of his commands. Now Lieutenant. Tell me about this red string that you've tied yourself up in, what you've done about it and what you would like us to do?

I don't know what it is! Tom blustered. It was all over the sphere and whistled until we couldn't think, then it attacked. I think Fourteen knows what it is.

It is a Phalm. A protozoa that feeds on flesh, Twelve of Twenty commented quietly from where he lay towards the back of the cabin. It will destroy this ship to get proteins.

Jolly good, Mister Twenty, the Colonel accepted. As you know about it, what do we do to persuade it to let go?

When it reaches this size it cannot be killed. We should abandon the vessel.

This is your tub and crew, Lieutenant, The Colonel ignored the protestation and turned on Tom. Do you wish to abandon ship. Can we move the other two?

If we can get them into a lifepod, perhaps we could tow it across? Tom suggested. But I wouldn't like to put a suit on Thirteen. I don't think they stretch that far!

Then see what you can do, the Colonel agreed. Doctor I suspect you would like a sample of the red stuff. So while we're waiting we'll collect some?

Before Doctor Hansen could make a reply he had bundled her into the rear cabin.

I do not wish a sample! She hissed furiously. Without the nucleus the material is of no scientific interest!

You'll just have to improvise, the Colonel smiled. That is what we do best. But there is something wrong. You don't know what it is, but Twelve of Twenty seems to know lots. Strange for a systems technician to know more than a biologist. Especially if he has been a Borg for some years. You didn't reactivate him either did you?

It was not necessary. He was in the terminal stages of reactivation, the Doctor affirmed.

I'm sure there is a perfectly valid reason. So if you've got your jam jar, we'll see what we can put in it? The Colonel accepted.


It took over an hour to ferry everything required from the Flyer to the shuttle. The task of fitting Thirteen of Twenty-Eight into an emergency life pod and manhandling the device into the shuttle taking most of it, leaving them all exhausted. They allowed themselves a few minutes to rest before setting off. All the time Twelve of Twenty kept looking up at the sphere and making surreptitious glances at the shuttles sensor readouts. The build up of power from the Geisha was starting to register, even on the crippled sensors, it was only a matter of time before it became uncontrolled.

Leave something behind, Mister Twenty? The Colonel enquired politely, noticing the ex-Borgs glances. I don't think we are in any condition to look if you have. His own eyes followed the gaze of Twelve of Twenty's in time to see the cube suddenly bathe itself in green light as normal power was resumed for a few seconds, then go dark in a sea of sparks as it fused.

Lieutenant! Drive! He called in alarm, diving forward and slapping shield controls. Get us out of here!

Before Tom Paris could respond the sphere exploded. At first there was no plume of conflagration, simply debris thrown violently. Then a red glow appeared in what had been the core of the ship. It grew and brightened to a searing white.

By this time Tom had engaged full impulse and had spun the shuttle away.

The shockwave caught them, sending the small craft and its occupants tumbling.

We're losing power! Tom called, alone of the occupants he had managed to maintain his seat and was desperately attempting to control direction.

Keep going! The Colonel growled, heaving himself upright using the bulkhead he had been thrown against.

Doctor Hansen squeezed herself behind the sensor suite panel and caught her breath. The explosion has formed a chain reaction within the nebula. The effect will catch the shuttle in six seconds!

If there is anything in the warp tanks. Now is a good time, Lieutenant!

But we'll blow up! Tom protested.

Gonna blow anyhow. Do it!


The shuttle has left the Borg sphere, moving at high speed, Tuvok commented calmly.

Captain Janeway sighed in relief. Apart from a short break to visit Seven of Nine, to break the news her husband had set off to rescue the Delta Flyer, she had been sat in her command chair, lost in preoccupation since the shuttle had entered the nebula. I guess it was easier than he expected. He will be disappointed, she muttered, then noticed what was in her hand. But not for me. I think I am going to have to replicate a tougher uniform, she added softly to Chakotay holding out her hand to reveal her communicator, complete with a tuft of material from her jacket. I must have been playing with it since the shuttle went in?

Perhaps something in canvas, like the Colonel's flak jacket? Chakotay offered with a grin. I think after him it is the most indestructible thing on the ship!

Tuvok's next comment was more urgent. I am detecting a major power build up in the nebula itself. Centred on the Borg sphere. It is forming a protonic event. Level 12 shockwave is preceeding. It has engulfed the shuttle, the shuttle has gone. Impact Voyager 60 seconds.

For a ten seconds the Captain sat stunned as a fleck of lightening flashed across the screen, then burst into action. Shields up. All hands brace for impact. Pull us back, warp 2. We'll weather it when it hits. Then I want the shuttle!

The shuttle's gone, Kathryn! Chakotay whispered. We can't stand a level 12 shock without serious damage!

She turned a grim face to him. No it hasn't! She said. Not until I say it has!

The shockwave struck them thirty tense seconds later, sending ship, crew and equipment flying.

Warp is down. Impulse is down, Winston at the helm called, glancing back.

Without the benefit of a console to wedge against, the Captain had been thrown from her chair and had slid forcefully into the counterstep. She now lay, looking ashen, Chakotay kneeling beside her.

Don't move, Chakotay ordered thickly. Bridge to Sick Bay. Medical Emergency!

I have 19 Emergencies! the Doctor complained, and there are more coming in!

I'll be okay, she whispered struggling to rise. Give me a few minutes and find the shuttle!

Gently Chakotay helped her to her feet then caught her as she slumped, finally carrying her into the Ready Room and laid her on the couch. Why are you so intent on finding the shuttle? He asked.

I told him I wasn't going to risk the ship to rescue the others. He refused to go with me! She smiled ruefully. He thought it was too big a risk.

So he went instead. Taking Doctor Hansen, Chakotay finished for her. Talk of red rag to a bull. We'll find it, he promised heading for the door.

The task of finding the remains of the shuttle was easier than could have been expected. The first thing that was noticed as Tuvok brought the damaged sensor array online again was that the nebula had vanished, destroyed in its own inferno and condensed to a single small and black planet. The second was Tom Paris's voice asking to be picked up.

Chakotay took the good news back to the Captain who had managed to sit up, but still looked pale from shock. Did they get the nodes? She demanded getting unsteadily to her feet.

Chakotay nodded, then cautioned, Fourteen and Thirteen were both badly hurt. The Doctor will need to treat them first.


It took another hour to recover the wreck of the shuttle. Wreck was the right name, Chakotay decided. The nacelles had been jettisoned and much of the shuttles outer cladding ripped off, including the door which was covered by a flickering force field.

What happened? Chakotay demanded.

Tom Paris, tired and dishevelled looked around. We jettisoned the core and containment units just when they went critical. The panelling was ripped off in the explosion.

Well, Ma'am. Am I still an unthinking thug? The Colonel asked of Doctor Hansen, offering a hand to her as she stepped from the door.

You place yourself and others in danger, she observed coldly, ignoring the offered support. I have not yet calculated if such risks are acceptable.

He accepted the comment with a wan grin. I'm sure I'll hear the results. If you'll excuse me? He saluted and headed for the shuttle bay door at high speed.


The Doctor examined the phial on the bench in sickbay intently. Under Fourteen of Twenty-Eight's instruction, he deposited one of the rescued node seeds into the phial along with several thousand of Seven of Nine's nanoprobes, some six hours previously. Satisfied the item that had been generated was about ready. He took it to Fourteen of Twenty-Eight for further advice.

Fourteen of Twenty-Eights burns had been too critical to cure in the time available, but her assistance was critical for the operation of saving Seven of Nine to suceed. Though in ways the Doctor was finding difficult to understand, it was irritating to need to take each step under the supervision of another.

The regeneration is complete! He announced firmly. Neutrenal transfer is operating to within 3% of the original.

Satisfactory. The unit should be inserted as we previously discussed, Fourteen of Twenty-Eight hissed, still in some pain. The patient must not be activated for at least six hours, whilst final programming is completed. The child may then be delivered. I will need to regenerate before that. You may sedate me.

That task done the Doctor returned to Seven of Nine. Carefully extracting the cranial housing and splitting to fit the new node. The whole operation took less than thirty minutes and he stood back to watch nervously. Finding that he had suddenly developed the human habit of crossing his fingers for luck, he purposefully uncrossed them and deactivated, time was less troublesome that way.


There was much nervous waiting. The Captain spent much of the time listlessly wandering the ship's corridors, unable to settle as she waited for the Doctor to finish on Seven of Nine. She wondered how the Colonel was coping. She knew he had been chased from Sick Bay, when the Doctor had started. From there he had seemingly vanished.

Equipped for a purpose she looked for him. Finally finding him in the forward observation room, absently gazing out the window again.

Would you like some company? She offered quietly. I'm learning to listen?

He turned and offered a weak smile. I know that line. Mrs Nine has used it on me, he commented, then sighed deeply. I was wondering about technology, Ma'am. All my life I've either used it or fought it, often both at the same time. I've never considered it really essential to my happiness.

She looked at him quizzically. She had not expected a philosophical debate. We would be lost without it, she opined.

Sat here, in a metal box, millions of miles above the ground. Yes! But it is not there to make you happy or content. Just to keep you alive, Ma'am. You don't think about it!

The Doctor and Miss Fourteen of Twenty-Eight told me that this Cortical Node thing controls everything that makes Mrs Nine what she is. Her memories, thoughts, her very soul everything is controlled by a metal maggot barely an inch square, the Colonel continued. What happens when it is replaced? Will she remember what she had, was, or even us?

I think you are worrying too much, the Captain encouraged hopefully. She had heard the remark as well. I think Seven would remember you even if she forgot everything else. Besides there is the baby?

I don't care about the baby! The Colonel exploded in sudden fury.

She took a step back in alarm. You don't mean that!

The Colonel nodded, taking control of himself. It is selfish I know. But don't you see? Mrs Nine is my here and now! He explained desperately. Ultimately she is why I am here and not on Earth shouting at squady's, or more probably feeding ducks on the Serpentine. A spare and useless part in a sardine tin God knows how many miles away from where I belonged! The baby isn't part of my life. When it is born. Yes, I'll care for it. That will be my duty. Honour will make me as good a parent as I can be. But it won't be the same without my wife. I wouldn't know how to persuade her to love me again, because I failed in what I promised! The one time she really needed me and all I did was stand and watch!

It won't be that bad! the Captain protested angrily. She will remember! And it's not just you that will have to start from scratch! I will too and she has even less reason to start!

It was the Colonel's turn to take a step back as she continued. I'm scared too! Seven has been more than a challenge. Trying to guide her in finding her 'humanity', then finding that you did more for her quicker and more naturally than I could ever do. She means as much to me as she would if she were a daughter!

My apologies, Ma'am, the Colonel murmered looking down at his wringing hands. I should have guessed and controlled myself better. Perhaps we can face the problem together? The Doctor should be ready about now?

He offered an arm, which she accepted.


The Doctor looked tense when they arrived. He had found it impossible to remain deactivated and had repeatedly reappeared to check progress. Tersely he explained what should happen. Again he found he was crossing his fingers. Again he deliberately uncrossed them. Not before the act had been spotted by an eagle-eyed Colonel.

You've done what you can, Doctor, he soothed. Let's give it a whirl?

Seven of Nine awoke with a start as the hypo-spray was injected. Her head rocking as she glanced around in wide eyed alarm, until finally coming to rest on the first human in site, a tall green clad male who was holding her hand firmly in both of his.

My designation and status? She demanded, trying to pull her hand away.

Status is poorly. Designation is Seven of Nine. Welcome back sweetheart, the Colonel duly supplied, holding on.

It left Seven of Nine confused. Designation 'Seven of Nine. Welcome back sweetheart' does not compute. Define.

He closed his eyes and counted to ten under his breath before trying again. Your name is Seven of Nine.

She seemed less than happy. Your designation and authority?

Lieutenant-Colonel Alan Samuels. Authority, husband? He offered, finally letting the hand slip from his grasp as she stopped struggling to remove it.

Unacceptable. Borg do not have husbands, she said with finality. Then noticed the movement of the baby. The growth?

It is our child, the Colonel whispered. Please remember. We wanted one!

Borg are incapable of giving birth. It should be removed and terminated, she demanded angrily.

Not on your life. It's what you wanted up until two days ago, he urged. The Doctor is going to remove it shortly. But it is our baby.

I have been pregnant? She said slowly. She seemed less certain as the news started to sink in. You are the biological partner?

The baby kicked violently and Seven of Nine spasmed in pain as a contraction hit her.

It must be removed. Please!

Doctor. I think it's your turn, the Colonel called, bringing the Doctor in from outside the bay. Mrs Nine wants the baby out and her body is agreeing.

I'll be here, he whispered encouragingly as the sensor shroud wrapped her midrift.

Reluctantly the Colonel withdrew and waited until the distressed Doctor returned a few minutes later. She won't look at it! He complained. Unless she injects her with a node and her probes the baby will die!

Can I do it? The Colonel offered.

It has got to be Seven, the Doctor insisted. Yours will attempt to assimilate the child.

Come on then. She's really going to hate me for this, the Colonel sighed. Bring the babe.

It is not mine! Seven of Nine screamed in fury as the Colonel gripped and twisted her left hand to bring her assimilation tubules in line with the infants neck.

Only if the Doctors done a swap, the Colonel grunted as he struggled to find the activation trigger. If he has I'll kill him. Now there!

The tubes slid out and struck their target for two whole seconds before Seven of Nine could regain control and retract them. The baby screamed in protest.

The Colonel asked.

Done. I'll just get her wrapped properly.

For a few minutes the Colonel and Seven of Nine were left on their own.

It had to be done, he whispered, stroking her hair softly. Perhaps you will forgive me, one day?

She turned her head away from him and lay in silence until the Captain entered bearing the small bundle. I can see the family resemblence, she offered happily. Right down to the implant. Pity its on the wrong eye. She offered the small bundle to the Colonel to take.

Her mothers eye's and a blonde as well, he sighed offering it to Seven. Our daughter?

Borg do not have children! She snapped.

Silently the Colonel stood and walked towards the door, the baby still in his arms.

His place was taken by the Captain. You are not a Borg, she hissed urgently. You are unique. I've lost two shuttles to get you back in one piece. At least you can be a little grateful. Until you have had a chance to remember, you will remain in Sick Bay. Perhaps your records will help.? She stood and hurried after the Colonel, leaving Seven of Nine alone.