On Notice
"To conclude, Admiral Ross, General Martok," Major Kira found herself telling the two men that she both respected, "it is the will of the Bajoran Government that each of the offending Starfleet and Klingon Defense Force personnel be confined to their ships for a duration no shorter than one standard week and no longer than thirty standard days. Offending station personnel will be confined to quarters when not on duty for an equal period of time. Any person found to be violating this confinement will face suspension from Bajoran space for a period of time to be determined by the magistrate should such an offense occur." Nerys did not like at all having to issue this ultimatum. But considering what had happened, she was in full support of the government she was representing.
"Doesn't that seem a bit harsh, Major?" Ross asked with quiet menace, emphasizing her lower rank. Kira didn't blink. Ross was a good man, but if he was going to try to pull out the 'I outrank you in a completely separate government' card, then he had a lot to learn.
Martok took the opposite route. "Regardless of the dishonor of the enemy they blamed, my men attacked an innocent without reason. There is no honor in such a thing, and you can tell your Chamber of Ministers that I will be making a point of this to the Captains of each one of those ships."
"Thank you, General," Kira said sincerely, and then turned to Ross. "And considering the scale of mayhem and destruction that was caused mostly by supposedly enlightened Starfleet officers, I think the punishment is a little light, actually."
Ross scoffed. "Those men and women may have acted like idiots, but that doesn't-"
"Those men and women," Kira said venomously, "started a full scale riot on the Promenade. The violence was so bad that the security office's holding cells were full of victims for their protection from your brave boys and girls, fighting the good fight against an innocent bystander. Violence on the station hasn't been this bad since the Cardassian Occupation! And as for Quark," she hissed, disliking this part of the talk even less, "in case he hasn't shouted it out to you already, he fully intends to exercise his rights as a legal resident of Bajoran space and is consulting the magistrate's office for compensation from both Starfleet and the KDF for damages done to his property, as well as injuries to his staff and to himself."
Martok scoffed. "The Ferengi has been pestering me about such things whenever any of my troops decide to so much as celebrate after a victory. But after inspecting the damage personally, I will give your magistrate as much cooperation as possible."
"Starfleet will of course abide by Bajoran law," Ross said politically. "But I won't pretend that I like the restrictions your government is imposing on its allies."
Kira groaned under her breath. "Admiral, if you like, I can give you a very detailed account of what happened. I viewed the security recordings many times, trying to find what stared all of this, and I'm going to tell you now, as best I can, what Bajor's allies are capable of when they find someone they hate worse than the Dominion."
"My dear, you look absolutely lovely," Elim Garak told his latest customer. "But with measurements like yours, such is inevitable with almost any outfit."
Seven of Nine examined the outfit she was wearing at the recommendation of the Cardassian tailor. Not nearly as constricting as the suits that the Doctor had designed for her on Voyager, the simple outfit consisting of a black shirt, a light blue jacket, dark blue pants, and black work boots was comfortable and practical. "Aesthetics are irrelevant," she told the man, "but the clothing is adequate."
"Not the ringing praise I was hoping for, but one takes what one can get," the well-mannered tailor said gently. He picked up a Cardassian PADD. "If you could simply apply your thumbprint here, then the transaction will be completed."
Seven put her right thumb to the device, grateful for Quark's business partnership. It was only days old, but he had already paid her for information that he believed would help his business endeavors.
Garak took the PADD back, examined it, and smiled again. "Thank you, my dear, and I do hope you will consider my humble establishment for any future garments you may wish to buy or mend."
"I will, Mr. Garak." Without another word, Seven turned on her heel and exited the tailor's shop. The Promenade of Deep Space Nine was an experience both like and unlike the Borg Collective. There was the comfort of being far from alone, but there was also the disharmony of so many voices each speaking what they would without unity. Voyager had been a ship of conformity, and the individual voices were more tolerable.
It had been a week since Seven had last regenerated, and Voyager was no longer accessible. She was attempting to construct a portable regeneration device, and Quark had been more than happy to aid her in acquiring the necessary components in exchange for information.
Quark's establishment was much like the rest of the space station: full of voices that were each separate and distinct. It was often chaotic by Borg standards, but the multitude of species that came and went were a relief after being surrounded on Voyager by human after human who wanted nothing more than to make her into one of them.
Striding into the bar and casino, Seven of Nine felt her confidence rise as she resolved to resist being assimilated into humanity. But even if she did not want to be human, she was likely to live the rest of her life as an individual. The thought was frightening.
With the bar on her right, she noticed four people laughing and talking together at a table to her left. There was the Trill Lt. Commander who had been commanding the Defiant when Voyager had first arrived in the Alpha Quadrant, a human male with dark hair wearing a blue collar indicative of a science or medical officer, and two beings she recognized from past experience. She saw Chief Petty Officer Miles O'Brien and Lt. Commander Worf, both of the USS Enterprise.
Seven still retained memories she had once shared with Locutus of Borg, and wished that Captain Picard was here right now. He was the only other person she knew of who had made a transition from assimilation to individuality.
The blonde tentatively approached the table and clasped her hands behind her back. "Chief O'Brien, Commander Worf," she said bluntly as a sort of greeting, "Where is Captain Picard?"
The Trill woman, Lt. Commander Dax, arched a slender eyebrow. "Hello to you, too," she said with bemusement.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I haven't seen Captain Picard in years," Chief O'Brien said. "And how did you know who I was?"
Dax sighed. "Boys, let me introduce you to Seven of Nine. You seem to already know Chief O'Brien and Worf, and this is Dr. Julian Bashir."
"A pleasure," the Doctor said, raising his glass politely. "That is a curious name, Miss Nine," he said. "Is it related to your cybernetics?"
"It is," Worf growled, standing up to stare down at Seven. This was not as effective as it would have been on most humans, given Seven's prominent height. "This thing has no name. It is a Borg," he snarled.
Seven merely arched her metal eyebrow. "Partially correct. I am Borg, but I am an individual."
"You sound like a bloody drone," O'Brien said. "Is that why you're looking for the Captain? Were you hoping to have a Borg-to-Borg chat? Don't bother. Captain Picard is as human as I am. You, lady, are not."
"Chief! Be nice!" Dax chided him. "And Worf, really! I would think you two of all people would understand that all Borg are victims." She looked back to Seven. "I'm sorry. Worf may be the love of my life, but he can also be a bit of an idiot sometimes."
"Jadzia," the Klingon began.
"Well, you are," she said unabashedly.
"I am causing a disturbance," Seven noted, suddenly aware of a sudden interest in the raised voices at this particular table. "I will leave now," she said as she turned to do just that.
The bar was not Seven's favorite place in the establishment, but it seemed better than this particular table. Even if it meant putting up with Morn's endless prattling, she would endure.
"Ah, welcome back, Seven!" Quark called from the bar. "The usual?"
Seven arched her brow. "Usual?" she inquired.
Quark rolled his eyes. "Right. Say what you will about the Federation, at least hew-mons do occasionally recognize good humor. Life as a drone must have been awfully boring," he said as he cleaned a glass.
The seat on Seven's immediate right was typically occupied by Morn, who never seemed to judge anyone. Given his plethora of colorful stories, that was understandable. The seat on her left was seldom taken by the same person twice. A Bolian woman in a Starfleet uniform was there as Quark made his comment.
"Drone?" the Bolian said curiously as she turned to look at Seven. A look from her face to her left hand and back caused the blue-skinned alien's eyes to widen. "Oh no! You're a Borg!" she shouted.
"Everyone has a past, Liara," Quark sagely told the Bolian. "Does Seven look like she's about to assimilate anyone?"
This did nothing to quell the woman's fear, and Liara was soon standing up from her stool. "You killed my husband!" she shouted. "And you took my son and made him into-" The woman got no further, as she began to tear up.
"Hey, hey!" a Bajoran man, also in a Starfleet uniform said, wrapping an arm around the Bolian's shoulders. "What's wrong? I haven't seen you like this since-"
"Look at her, Terel!" she shouted. "Borg!"
"What?" the man named Terel said, obviously confused.
Seven decided to help the man understand. "Your companion appears to blame me for the death of her husband and the assimilation of her son," she said with clinical detachment.
"You're not helping things, Seven," Quark said. "You should probably leave, actually. I don't want this to get any worse."
Seven thought about the reactions of Worf and O'Brien, and she realized that most Starfleet officers were not like the crew of Voyager. Either that, or else her former shipmates had been too afraid of Captain Janeway to openly oppose her. Lt. Torres, at least, had not shied away from showing her true feelings.
"Very well. I will comply," Seven said, turning to leave the bar.
She was grabbed on the shoulder by the man, Terel. "You're not going anywhere, Borg!" he snarled. "Not until you feel what every one of your victims has felt."
Seven felt the wind knocked out of her gut as a fist made contact with her abdomen. Coughing up air, Seven doubled over, unable to help herself.
"And thus, the mighty Borg began to fall," Liara taunted. Her foot met Seven's jaw, sending the ex-drone flying onto her back.
"That's enough!" Commander Dax shouted from somewhere that Seven couldn't see. "Stand down, both of you!"
"Why should they?" Chief O'Brien said. "The woman is-"
"She's a woman," Dr. Bashir said. "Not a drone."
"Drone?" a harsh male voice said. "Are there Borg here?" a Klingon bellowed.
"She is there on the ground," Worf said.
"Honorless p'takh!" The shout was pronounced by a kick to Seven's side.
Very soon, a crowd had formed around Seven's prone form, and murmurs of 'Borg' and 'drone' were being communicated throughout the bar and beyond to the Promenade outside. Seven thought she heard Quark call for security.
No fists could make it to Seven, but plenty of feet were colliding with all parts of her body, and people were tossing their drinks, glasses and all, onto her with as much force as they could muster. A Klingon d'k tahg found its way into her left arm. Seven cried out in pain, which only seemed to egg the crowd on more.
"Stop this!" Dax attempted to shout over the crowd. "Leave her alone, you idiots!"
"What's going on here?" Constable Odo said over the din.
"Odo! In there," Dax shouted. Seven heard a strange sound, and she found the mob around her parted by two gelatinous amber tendrils attached to the Constable. "Come with me!" he called to Seven.
It was hard to move after being so beaten and bloodied, but Seven moved toward the man as the shouts of 'Borg' were joined by those of 'Founder' and 'Changeling.'
Only when Seven reached Odo did she see that the anger had spread throughout the entire Promenade. Objects rained down upon her from the upper balconies as Odo led her to the security office.
The doors opened to admit them, but some of the mob followed inside. A squad of deputies in Bajoran uniforms kept them at bay long enough for the doors to close, but that only served to drive the crowd to attempt to break down the doors.
Seven found herself being led into a holding cell and laid back onto a bench inside. A Cardassian transporter shimmered nearby, and Dr. Bashir was there holding a medical kit. He rushed to her side as soon as the transporter's confinement beam let him go.
Seven heard the force field activate, keeping her and the station's Doctor protected for the time being.
"It's all right," Bashir said. "I'm a doctor, I'm not going to hurt you. Just try to relax."
"I cannot comply," Seven said, shocked to find that she could not even bring herself to remain calm. "I am severely damaged. Any drone that has suffered this level of damage would be deactivated and disassembled. I have become weak and imperfect," she found herself saying through teary eyes.
"We're all imperfect," the Doctor said reassuringly. "But we have to live with that and keep trying as best we can." He put a hand over her own in a gesture that Seven did not fully understand. "Just hold still as best you can. I'll fix you up and you'll be as good as new in no time at all."
Seven opened her eyes and looked at him strangely. "You will make yourself a target," she said with surprise. "Your friends, O'Brien and Worf, will not like this. You will make enemies. Why are you helping me?"
Bashir's eyes widened as if he'd been struck. "I'm a doctor, not a barbarian! You are my patient, and I have sworn to do no harm. If I don't treat you, then I will be abandoning my oath and everything I believe in. No one deserves to suffer as you are."
As her breath began to steady, Seven looked at the man without comprehension. "I do not know what to say," she said quite genuinely.
The doctor seemed to realize that she was being literal and smiled kindly. "A common sign of gratitude is to say 'thank you' to whoever you feel that gratitude towards. You don't owe me anything, but consider it a lesson in understanding life as an individual. Now, hold still and try to relax."
In too much pain to even nod, Seven complied. "Thank you," she said softly. The words came to her easier than she had expected. Individuality is complex. I do not understand it yet, but I will adapt.
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Thank you to everyone for reading. I hope you enjoy what I have to write. ^_^