Unworthy - Kirsten Beyer [3]
B’Elanna was left with several fried panels, exploded plasma conduits still sparking in protest, and a bitter, tinny odor filling her nostrils. She could have replicated some of what she needed but the replicator was fried. She was forced to confront what had always been her worst nightmare when she had been planning this trip. The repairs were going to take days, and they could only be accomplished at a well-stocked spaceport.
The Home Free would hang dead in space until Tom arrived. But Voyager might be detained, and rations and water were low.
What I need is a friend, B’Elanna thought morosely. The direness of her predicament threatened to overwhelm her, until she remembered that she actually had a friend not that far from her current location.
I wonder if he’s missed me as much as I’ve missed him, B’Elanna mused as she quickly set to work on her communications array.
“Seven? Seven, where are you?”
Chakotay’s heart still pounded from having forced open the door to Seven’s San Francisco town house after she failed to answer his repeated knocks. As he completed a frantic search of the first floor, he tried to imagine what could have gone wrong in the six hours since he’d last seen her.
Much of the previous evening had been devoted to a lengthy visit at the hospice where Seven’s beloved Aunt Irene had been placed. Though Seven had fought against this step, Chakotay had finally managed to help her accept that this was both necessary and in Irene’s best interests. Seven had been Irene’s primary caregiver throughout the past eighteen months as Irumodic syndrome had begun to ravage Irene’s mind. However, Seven was no longer in any condition to continue providing constant care for her aunt. Further, the doctors had assured them that Irene’s suffering would likely end in a matter of days.
When Seven and Chakotay had parted after the visit, she had insisted she was weary enough to sleep, and he had taken her at her word. Still, he found it hard to believe that she had fallen into so deep a sleep that she would not have heard him pounding on her front door. Panic quickened his breath and his pace as he rushed up the stairs to the second level and continued his search, all the while calling out, “Seven? Seven, where are you?”
Chakotay finally found her seated in a darkened corner of her bedroom. Her hands were clasped tightly around her knees, and her deep blue eyes were wide but vacant.
“Seven!” he said in alarm.
She remained perfectly still, though she blinked lazily in what he hoped might be some kind of response.
Chakotay quickly pulled back the nearest curtain to better evaluate her condition. Her pale skin was a shade lighter than usual, and her forehead, cheeks, and hands were clammy to the touch. Her long, strawberry-blonde hair had been piled loosely atop her head, and several unruly strands were plastered to the back of her neck. She wore a pair of dark black pants and a fitted red tank top. The jacket lying rumpled at the foot of her bed would have completed the casual ensemble. Chakotay didn’t begin to relax until he confirmed that her respiration and pulse were slow but strong and steady.
He had feared something like this might happen. Seven had endured so much in the past few months. It would have broken most people long before now. Lifting her gently, he placed Seven in bed and began to survey the room, to see if he could figure out what might have forced her to retreat into her mind.
Seven had begun her life as Annika Hansen, a human girl who had been assimilated by the Borg when she was eight. Years later, she had been assigned by the Borg to interface with