Day of Honor - Michael Jan Friedman [16]
Seven of Nine tifted her head slightly. "And what is its purpose?"
Bandiers leaned closer to Harry. "You're barking up the wrong tree," he said. "Borg don't play cards. They assimilate them."
The ensign frowned at him. "That wasn't called for."
Bandiers didn't apologize. He just went back to shuffling the cards.
Harry turned to Seven of Nine again. "The purpose of poker-or any game-is to provide enjoyment. To take one's mind off one's work."
The Borg regarded him. "I have no work, Mr. Kim.
And I do not believe I am capable of enjoyment."
"You see?" said Bandiers. "I told you you were wasting your time."
But the ensign wasn't ready to throw in the towel just yet. "You might be capable of enjoyment," he told Seven of Nine. "How do you know for sure until you've tried?"
"I know," said the Borg. And with that, she turned to the Doctor. "I believe you were going to show me the food preparation facilities."
The Doctor nodded. "Yes. Of course. Right this way," he said, gesturing to the cooking area.
Without waiting for him, Seven of Nine crossed the mess hall. In her wake, the Doctor turned back to Harry and shrugged. He seemed to be saying, "Even my manners are less reprehensible."
It was true, too. Compared to Seven of Nine, the Doctor had the social skills of a Federation ambassador.
Bandiers began doling out the cards. "The name of
the game is seven-card stud. Nothing's wild." He glanced at Harry. "Except some people's imaginations. I mean ... a Borg rubbing elbows with real, live people? What's next? Tea with the Breen?"
Harry glared at him. "Shut up, Bandiers."
He glanced at Seven of Nine as she scrutinized Neelix's cooking equipment. She showed more interest in the pots and pans than she had in Kim or his fellow poker players.
"Just shut up," he added, for good measure.
As the Doctor escorted Seven of Nine out of the mess hall, he asked her if she had any questions. He expected that, if she did, they would concern the acquisition and digestion of foodstuffs.
For once, he was wrong.
"Ensign Kim mentioned work," she said.
The Doctor looked at her. "Yes, I believe he did."
"What work does he do?" the Borg asked.
The Doctor shrugged. "Mostly, he mans the ops
station on the bridge. On occasion, however, he'll
help out with some project. Why?"
"As members of the collective," said Seven of Nine, "we all had specific functions. After we performed them, there was a sense of accomplishment."
"I see," the Doctor responded. "And you would like to feel that sense of accomplishment again?"
The Borg blinked. "I would, yes."
"Well," said the Doctor, "I don't see why that couldn't be arranged. I mean, there always seems to be lots to do on the ship, and too few people to do it. I'm sure another set of hands would be quite welcome."
Seven of Nine turned to him. "Where would I work?"
"I don't know," the Doctor responded. "Where would you like to work?"
She didn't answer. However, the Doctor could tell she was giving the matter considerable thought.
"I'll tell you what," he said, realizing this was starting to fall outside the bounds of his expertise. "Why don't I take you to Commander Chakotay?"
"Why him?" the Borg asked.
"As first officer, he takes care of the duty assignments on the ship. You can discuss with him what type of thing you're looking for, and then he can tell you what's available."
Seven of Nine thought about it. Finally, she nodded. "Yes," she said. "That would be a good idea."
AS THE DOOR AHEAD OF HIM IRISED OPEN WITH A CREAKY complaint, Temmis Rahmin came out onto the bridge of his people's ship. The place was stark and dreary, the only light coming from the monitors that hung above a dozen consoles along the periphery.
Still, it was functional. He was grateful for that, at least.
Nodding to the technicians standing at the consoles, Rahmin assumed his customary position in the center of the bridge. In the process, he did his best to ignore the hunger gnawing at his insides like a cruel, infinitely patient predator. After all, his comrades were just