Disclaimer: Star Trek: Voyager and all related characters are owned by Paramount Studios. No copyright infringement is intended.
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Time takes it all, whether you want it to or not. Time takes it all, time bears it away, and in the end there is only darkness. Sometimes we find others in that darkness, and sometimes we lose them there again. (The Green Mile)
*
Lying beneath the stars, with her daughter's tiny fist pressed fitfully to her heart, Annika Hansen often yearned for the cold absolution that the Borg collective had once offered.
Drawing fingers from the cool, moist soil, the former drone tangled them briefly in the silken baby down that rested against her free arm, sighing slightly and shifting her gaze downward to take in the owner. "Stella." She murmured lightly, carefully observing the small, elfin little girl. Skin flushed with the fresh planetary air and rest, the child reflected deceptive health and peace, ashen curls clinging hotly to her neck and the naturally woven scarlet dress she wore. For the moment cobalt eyes were shut tightly, and the mother swiftly amended her plans to waken the child, instead gently standing and nestling the precious bundle against her chest.
The stone ridden pathway that led to their modest bungalow cut into bare feet, but the woman forged on, with no regret. Few things in her life had proven as pleasurable as the afternoon spent running unhampered across the shore with her daughter, and she had long learned, in the most painful of ways, that such pleasures were swiftly gone, and to be savored.
"Rest well." She murmured into the girl's tangled hair, gently depositing her onto the comfortable settee located just inside the doorway. Pulling a painstakingly knitted blanket up to block the light breeze coming off the sea, Annika stepped back, observing her work and sighing faintly before moving into the room that served as office for both adult occupants of the home.
"Computer, display all communication." She ordered firmly, and a daunting list of text-based and holo messages spooled across the terminal screen before her. Most were not atypical, even twelve point two years beyond Voyager's return from the Delta Quadrant; she was of interest in scientific and entertainment circles. Most were deleted with grim humor; a few captured her heartfelt attention. The first file was marked from Lieutenant Commander Kim, stationed in the Beta Quadrant; likely weeks delayed in arrival, and therefore low in urgency. The second was from Icheb, captain of the civilian scientific vessel Caprice, requesting her assistance with an apparently unsolvable and therefore personally disturbing Borg encryption. A holovid from Naomi Wildman followed, spiritedly sharing her acceptance letter from the Vulcan Science Academy and Ambassador Tuvok's offer to board her.
The fourth and live communiqué drew her attention immediately, and she fell, more than sat, into the chair nearby, watching and listening with a certain quiet hope, and certain quiet dread.
"Annika." Strained as their relationship was, the man at the other end of the transmission remained one of the few people that had courtesy enough to use the human designation, but then, she supposed that he was familiar enough with unwanted identities. Staring, she observed the lines around his eyes, etched more deeply of late, speaking of equal tiredness and grief. The holo was framed not by his office, but the disordered surroundings of the home he kept on Kessick IV. "My son-in-law wanted you to know that he and Miral should be back this evening."
"You could have informed me days ago. I would have prepared a more suitable meal. Stella and I do not require as much sustenance as a human male and maturing Klingonese child." She attempted cool tones, but anger crept through. "And despite what you may believe, these matters do concern me. You do not have to respect our cohabitation. Is it too much to ask that you respect my efforts to create whatever happiness I can for them, in the shadow of what once was?"
The small, worn man dipped his head faintly, smile brief and stabbing. "More than I've learned to give, I suppose, but not too much on any humane scale. " Hesitation laced the tired voice. "I don't want to see him hurt again, Annika, there's a limit to what any man can take and come out whole. Oh, I know you'd never harm Paris intentionally, but I don't want to see you hurt. Guilt is a wonderful source of selfless sacrifice and motivation, but it also drains the best from a person, leads them into nightmares of fate."
"I was Borg." Squaring her palms on the smooth table surface, she stared directly at the terminal. "Borg drones are not intended to feel guilt."
"Borg drones aren't intended to survive separation from their collective, either." He pointed out softly. "Yet there you sit, Annika."
"Questioning my present situation is pointless." She countered, stiffening as the child stirred briefly before settling back down in the other room, resenting his ability to bring forth her defenses. "I need Tom Paris. I believe that he needs me. B'Elanna Torres and Chakotay are…they must be irrelevant. They are lost to us." The final words punctured the still air with finality. "And if it takes eternity, Tom and I will adapt to their absence. We will move on together."
The words never fitted gracefully within her mind, never fell so from her mouth. Tom and I. Even spoken fondly, the terminology seemed desolate and crying, shrouded in emptiness. Eternity was such vast territory, and she and Voyager's former pilot were both so inept at handling such situations. Such commitments.
John Torres shook his head, disrupting her thoughts. "Your time on Voyager should have taught you better, drone. Eternity is a word for fools and cowards. It either kills you early or you drown in it. It killed your husband and my B'Elanna..." His voice caught, dropped, tightened. "You have no Borg technology to escape it, now, do you? It will either kill you or drown you. Or perhaps both are the same. I don't know anymore, if I ever did. I'm just an old, inflexible fool."
Annika could not disagree. Standing as the signal blackened to leave her alone again, she stared out the nearby window, taking in the falling dusk.
Nine years had passed since the deaths which John Torres seemed unable to forget, a few days more or less lost in the time cycle of this strange alien paradise that was proving anything but. If I were still Borg, she thought tightly, I could easily maneuver the space/time continuum and retrieve my losses, our losses.
If you were still Borg...
It was Chakotay's warm tones that drifted in from memory, stabbing westward to the heart.
If you were still Borg...I'd be lost.
"You are." She whispered, eyes closing. "And I cannot retrieve you." Standing swiftly, she ordered the lights in the suffocating office down, striding out to the threshold between living area and corridor, taking in the soft, even breaths and shadowed outline of her daughter. "And if I could retrieve you, I would not have this." Releasing a small sigh, she crossed her arms and glanced at the illuminated chronometer on the nearby mantel. It was late; Paris would have arranged a meal in transit for he and Miral. Nothing was expected of her. Lifting a hand to rub at the soreness in her neck, the former drone stepped further into the main living area, watching her daughter with uncertainty. Stella rarely slept so peacefully.
It frightened her. Stepping towards the sofa, she bent awkwardly to kneel low, using shaky fingers to brush sweaty strands of hair from the small, dainty features, resting her head against the small chest, soaking in the small heartbeat.
So small it was, and eternity so vast.
Standing and shaking her head to ward off the threatening panic, she spoke softly. "Computer, restrict all access to nonresidents of this home."
As soon as the agreeing chirp sounded, Annika dimmed the lights manually and passed the master bedroom, instead seeking the uncomfortable but efficient alcove she had was more accustomed to. In it, at least, darkness was warm.
TBC