Seven of Nine - Christie Golden [24]
Stay on your toes, everyone."
"Sickbay to bridge."
"Bridge here," replied Janeway, rubbing her eyes.
"Can you spare Mr. Paris? I could use some help down here. What happened, anyway?"
"We just engaged in battle with an unknown adversary with an unknown grudge."
The Doctor's voice was grim when he replied.
"Well, there's a battle going on here, too, and I'm afraid Seven isn't winning it."
Sickbay was full of wounded and Paris had equipment placed in his hands the minute he entered. Most of the inj'lln'es were superficial and easily treated. But in the meantime Paris knew his crewmates' wounds hurt like a sonofagun, and he immediately began running the tricorder over the nearest casualty.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Seven lying motionless on the diagnostic bed. Her condition seemed stable, but he could tell by the fact that the Doctor, too, stole a glance over at her from time to time that she was in trouble. She seemed so small, lying on that bed. Her bright eyes were closed and couldn't pierce him with disdain. Her full, red lips were gray and slack, slightly parted; no acerbic comment would come from them any time soon. Even her well-toned and technologically augmented body seemed frail to his eyes.
He'd heard, as all of them had at the morning briefings, that Seven was having hallucinations. Harry had turned pink when he described the last one, and Tom suspected he'd edited something. If it weren't so frightening and clearly harmful, it would be amusing to think of Seven of Nine, late of the Borg Collective, as a playful kitten or a wise old sculptor.
Paris was surprised by how upset he was. Distant, haughty, brilliant, and undeniably a knockout, Seven of Nine wasn't exactly what one would call endearing.
But he had grown fond of her, and seeing her so helpless, so still, was alarming-and painful.
He didn't say anything, nor did the Doctor, as they moved among the injured. They mended broken bones, healed lacerations, offered a smile of encouragement. Well, Paris did, anyway. Finally they were done, but Tom made no move to leave.
"What? Aren't you going to bolt back for the bridge, free at last?"
Tom shook his head. Generally he enjoyed verbally sparring with the Doctor, but his concern was all for the unconscious woman on the diagnostic bed.
How's she doing?."
"Not well at all," said the Doctor, his voice laced with concern.
"She's been unconscious for four hours. There's a great deal of brain activity and she has demonstrated rapid eye movement almost constantly." Now that he was standing by the bed, Tom could see that the Doctor spoke truly. Beneath their closed lids, Seven's eyes were darting about. It was the only movement about her still body-that and the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest that told them she was still breathing.
"What's wrong with her?" Paris asked softly, more to himself than to the Doctor.
"I wish I knew. Too bad we can't see her birds. By my calculations, there are eight of them flapping around invisibly in my sickbay.
Perhaps they could tell us something."
Seven could hear them talking. Their voices were distant, muffled, but she could catch words now and then. They penetrated her hallucinations, this living of other lives, like a gentle fragrance waiting toward her nostrils. But the voices went away again almost immediately. There was no place for them, no time.
One doesn't concentrate on the smell of roses or the softness of their petals when one is about to die.
The skorrak bird had eluded her. Seven felt anger and fiwtration swell inside her and emitted a low growl. Her tail twitched.
"You stalked well, my little sweet Keela, " her mother reassured her.
The words were a comfort but the voice was vague and distracted. Seven glanced back and saw her mother staring up at the sky. She had been distantly aware of the cloud that had fallen over them, but now realized that it was no cloud at all. It