Day of Honor - Michael Jan Friedman [50]
For a moment, the alien didn't seem to realize what he was looking at. Then he stopped in the middle of
his sentence and stared at the Borg with increasing intensity.
"What species is that?" he asked Tuvok.
By then, the Vulcan must have known there was no way to defuse the situation. But to his credit, he still tried.
"Her name is Seven of Nine," he replied reluctantly. "She is a human who lived as a Borg."
Suddenly, the alien's expression changed. His face twisted with hatred and loathing. Stopping dead in his tracks, he raised a bony hand and pointed a spindly finger at Seven of Nine.
"Borg!" he grated.
Seven of Nine returned the alien's scrutiny, but she said nothing.
"Do not be alarmed," Tuvok advised his companion. "She is disconnected from the Borg collective. She won't harm you."
But the Caatati seemed to have other problems with the Borg's presence. "Where's my wife?" he demanded raggedly, advancing on Seven of Nine. "Where are my children?" His voice became shrill and tremulous. "What did you do with them after you took them?"
Without warning, the alien lunged at Seven of Nine. By then, he was shrieking like a banshee, filling the corridor with his cries.
"What have you done with my family, you vicious predator? Give them back, do you hear? I want them back!"
Tuvok grabbed the Caatati by the waist and pulled him back. At the same time, Paris stepped protectively in front of Seven of Nine.
He doubted that the Borg was in any real danger. She seemed more than capable of taking care of herself, especially against someone as feeble as the alien. But Seven of Nine was a guest on Voyager, and he wasn't going to allow her to be manhandled by another guest.
"Mr. Paris," said the Vulcan, "please proceed."
Then he ushered the Cataati down the corridor.
"You don't have to tell me twice," Paris muttered.
Taking the Borg's arm, he guided her in the opposite direction and didn't look back. It was a while before the echoes of the alien's venom faded with distance.
The flight controller turned to Seven of Nine. "Sorry about that."
"About what?" she asked.
"Well," said Paris, "the way he reacted to you."
The Borg seemed puzzled. The concern he was showing was obviously beyond her range of understanding.
"He didn't injure me," she pointed out.
He nodded. "Good."
For a moment, they walked in silence, Paris glaneing at Seven of Nine only once or twice. Then she spoke up again.
"There are many on this ship who have similar feelings toward me," she observed, "though I will admit I don't fully understand the reasons for their resentment." She turned to him, as if for affirmation.
He sighed, reluctant to lie to her. "I'm afraid you're right. I guess some people are having a harder time than others adjusting to the idea of a Borg on the ship.
They see you and they think of destruction and assimilation."
Seven of Nine tilted her head slightly. "Hence, the resentment. "That's right." Paris studied her features. "Doeg that bother you? The way they feel, I mean?"
The Borg went silent again for a moment. "No," she said at last. "It doesn't."
He continued to study her. "I just want you to know I'm not one of those people-the ones who resent you. I mean, we all have a past we're not proud of." The flight controller rethought the sentiment. "Well, maybe not all of us, but I certainly do."
Seven of Nine didn't ask what he had done. Still, Paris had the feeling she wanted to know.
"A while back," he said, "I accidentally caused the death of a colleague. Worse, I lied about it. In the end, I disgraced my family and myself. I became a mercenary, a dead-ender without principles-willing to fight for anyone who would pay my bar bills."
He looked into the Borg's eyes. "But none of that matters anymore-not what I did, not what you did. What matters is what we say and do now."
Seven of Nine tilted her head slightly. "I am uncertain of what you're