Seven of Nine - Christie Golden [43]
And now, as if a gate had been flung open, other memories filled her mind's eye. The sculptor and elder Druana, facing down Seven of Nine with a calmness and integrity that was humbling. Seven had triumphed, of course. The Borg always did. The recollection from first Druana's perspective and then her own memory made Seven feel vaguely ill. Unaware of her movement, she put a hand on her stomach.
She had overseen the final stage of Aman's assimilation. A mad had unexpectedly awaken during the medical procedures. She, Seven, had felt nothing as she amputated Aman's arm. It was nothing to her, a Borg drone. It was part of the process, that was all, and if anything it was helping the pitiful, feathered creature named Aman attain the perfection the Borg Collective could offer Except, thanks to the memories of these people whose lives she had destroyed, Seven now realized what a violation she had been a part of. The destruction of the individual. She had heard and, to borrow a human phrase, rolled her eyes at Captain Janeway's ranting about how humans and other sentient beings would rather be dead than assimilated. Now, she realized that the captain was right.
She remembered what it was like to be a kitten chasing a bird in the warm sun, a woman in love with her betrothed, an elder with a gift for beauty, and a thousand thousand other lives that she, Seven of Nine, had emotionlessly destroyed in a heartbeat. "What have I done?" she whispered. Her stomach churned and there was an ache in the center of her chest. She had experienced remorse for the first time over Kovan's suicide, but it was nothing compared to the shaky, sick feeling that overwhelmed her now.
A shadow fell across her. For a moment, Seven couldn't move. Finally, she forced herself to look UP.
Standing over her was B'Elanna Torres, someone who had made no secret of her dislike for the former Borg.
The two had clashed often enough and probably would in the future, but at this moment, Seven realized that the expression on the half-Klingon's face was concern.
"Are you all right?"
Slowly, Seven shook her head. "No," she whispered. "And I never will be again."
HARRY COULDN'T THINK OF HING TO SAY AS HE walked beside Seven. All the sympathetic phrases, "It'll be all right," "I know what you're going through," seemed forced and stilted if not downright lies. He didn't know if she was going to be all right, and he certainly had no comprehension of what she was going through.
She should be in sickbay, but the Doctor had his hands full and had said so in no uncertain terms when Harry had escorted Seven there. And he was right-it was standing room only in sickbay after that last battle with the Ku.
The doctor had prescribed regeneration and then a hearty meal, so here they were, heading back to her alcove in Cargo Bay Two. And Harry couldn't think of anything to say to ease her pain.
"She is no longer present," said Seven.
He glanced at her. "What? Who?"
"Annika Hansen." Seven lifted her gaze from the corridor floor and looked him in the eye for a second before again glancing down. "She was here for a time.
She was all I was. But she has faded again."
Kim shrugged, totally at a loss. "Well... if you got your memories back from your time as Seven of Nine, of course you'd be more than just Annika Hansen."
"You do not understand." Her voice was sharp and there was a hint of something in it that Harry didn't recognize. "People liked her. They do not like me."
Oh, now he did know what to say. "Seven, that's not true and you know it. We all like you. You're part of the team."
Again the quick glance. The gesture was almost furtive. "I do not believe you, Ensign. I am disliked and feared. Perhaps I have earned a measure of respect because of my contributions. Perhaps not. I am Borg and no one can forget that. Not even I, not even for a full day."
"You were Borg,"