Day of Honor - Michael Jan Friedman [25]
Seven of Nine blinked. "I can see how that would be so."
Janeway decided to quit beating around the bush. "You told me you wouldn't make any more attempts to contact the Borg ... and, of course, I want to believe that's true."
"I assure you it is," said Seven of Nine.
The captain regarded her. Janeway's instincts told her the Borg was on the level, and her instincts were usually right.
"I've decided not to post a security detail while you're in engineering, Seven of Nine. But you have to realize, there are rules. You'll be expected to follow our protocols."
The Borg nodded. "I will do so."
Janeway believed she would, too. "You'll report directly to Lieutenant Torres and obey any order she gives you."
"I understand," said Seven of Nine.
The captain shifted gears. "One more thing. Your 'designation'-Seven of Nine. It's a little cumbersome. Wouldn't you prefer to be called by your given name, Annika?"
The Borg seemed vaguely troubled by the prospect-as if she felt things were moving a little too fast. "I have been Seven of Nine for as long as I can remember," she responded.
Mindful that too much change could be threatening, Janeway looked for a compromise. "All right. But maybe we could streamline it a little. How would you feel about ... Seven?"
The Borg considered it. "Imprecise," she decided. "But acceptable."
Abruptly, a familiar voice filled the room. "Tuvok to Captain Janeway."
"I'm here," the captain answered.
"Please come to the bridge," the Vulcan requested in his clipped, efficient tone. "A ship is approaching."
Janeway looked at Seven of Nine. The Borg looked back.
Curious, the captain led the way out onto Voyager's small but efficient bridge, where Chakotay was waiting for her. Janeway's eyes were drawn instinctively to the forward viewscreen.
She saw the image of a small alien ship there. Clearly, the vessel had seen better days. Its exterior hull looked worn in spots, and some of the devices that projected from it were slightly bent.
The captain turned to Tuvok, seeking whatever information he could provide. "Report," she said.
"The vessel i$ damaged but still functional," the Vulcan informed her, intent on his readouts. "Energy emissions are so low it probably isn't capable of warp speed. However, sensors show several dozen lifesigns aboard." He paused. "We're being hailed, Captain."
"Open a channel," she told him.
Tuvok complied. A moment later, the face of a wizened, thin, and sickly being appeared on the screen.
The being's skin was a pale green, his eyes a deeper shade of the same color-though they lacked luster. His only other remarkable feature was the hardlooking ridge that ran back from the bridge of his nose through the middle of his scalp.
His ship's interior seemed stark, devoid of any and all amenities. Energy seemed to be in short supply as well, if the lights flickering behind him were any indication.
Janeway lifted her chin. "I'm Captain Kathryn Janeway of the Federation starship Voyager."
The being on the viewscreen nodded. "I am Rahmin. My people are the Caatati." He glanced at his surroundings. "I apologize for our appearance,
and for the condition of our ship. We were assimilated by the Borg over a year ago. We lost ... everything."
Everything, the captain thought. There was a world of pain in the word. It seemed the devastation created by the Borg was everywhere.
Reminded of Seven of Nine, she glanced over her shoulder. The Borg was standing off to the side, where Rahmin couldn't see her. Just as well, Janeway thought, as she turned back to the Caatati.
"How many of you escaped?" she asked.
Rahmin sighed. "A few thousand, on thirty ships. All that's left from a planet of millions."
Chakotay winced. The captain, too, felt a pang of empathy for these people. "I'm sorry," she said earnestly.
Rahmin seemed uncomfortable with the response. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
"Captain," he replied, "I want to assure you of something. My people were once proud and accomplished. Before the Borg came, we had