Distant Shores - Marco Palmieri [77]
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The rough shouts of a gang of soldiers awakened Seven of Nine in the middle of the night.
Holding herself perfectly still, she listened from her hiding place in the ground, the secret crawlspace beneath the shack that had become her refuge.
Boots stomped on the floorboards over her head. Menacing voices laughed cruelly.
Seven’s heart pounded as she heard the voice of her protector, Zolaluz, who was up there among the soldiers. Calmly, Zolaluz denied knowing the whereabouts of any fugitives and pleaded with the men to pass without harming her.
In response, one of them struck her.
Tensing, Seven glared up at the floorboards and prepared to abandon her hiding place. Withholding help from someone in need went against her grain… though, in fact, she would be of limited help against armed soldiers because she had broken her right leg in the shuttle crash that had deposited her on the surface of Saladana. She had lost all weapons in the explosion that followed the crash… an explosion that she had escaped only with the help of Zolaluz. Seven still wore her combadge, but Voyager was far away and had not responded to her calls for assistance.
Captain Janeway was not answering Seven’s calls, either. She, too, had been aboard a crashed vessel, and her fate was uncertain.
Seven was alone, injured, and unarmed. She believed that her duty was to preserve herself long enough to locate and rescue Janeway. Nevertheless, as the soldiers continued to hurt Zolaluz, Seven gathered her strength to heave up the trapdoor and fight.
A soldier laughed, and Seven heard another blow connect. It sounded like a hard slap across the face, and Zolaluz cried out this time.
Seven heard the impact of a body dropping to the floor, and Zolaluz’s voice was now just inches overhead.
“No, please,” she said softly. “I promise, I will come to you if I hear or see anything.”
From the cold, packed dirt of the crawlspace, Seven listened intently, gauging the number and positions of the men and calculating the best angle of attack. She felt the rush of adrenaline, mixed with the tingling of Borg nanoprobes swirling like snowflakes in her bloodstream.
As if she could see Seven poised for action below, Zolaluz directed her voice downward. “Please, show restraint,” she said. “There is no need for violence.”
Realizing that Zolaluz was right, Seven reluctantly held herself back. She knew that she was in no shape to put up a fight against five armed soldiers.
If Seven died, Zolaluz would surely follow, and Captain Janeway’s life would be forfeit. All because of one heroic gesture. All because of Seven’s refusal to recognize her limitations.
Zolaluz knew about limitations. She knew all about life with one leg.
Seven of Nine kept a secret heart in a place no one could see.
On the surface, she seemed as cool as any Borg, as rigid and efficient and machinelike as the drone she had been for most of her life. Seemingly fazed by nothing, she radiated strength and poise and iron will.
But deep, deep inside, her secret heart beat softly. It was the one part of her that no one, not even the Borg, had been able to touch… and yet, in many ways, it was stranger to her than any Borg implant had ever been.
Even when she had been ripped from her parents’ arms, it had not stopped beating. Even when she had been cut open and drilled into, her screams drowned out by the whirring of machinery and the voices in her head.
Even when she had stalked, expressionless,