Unworthy - Kirsten Beyer [60]
A large depository of harvested crops was moving through a processing machine. At each of a dozen stations, a collective—identical to the first group they had encountered—worked silently, methodically, and harmoniously.
“Did you say that the Borg assimilated four of these species?” Cambridge asked Seven quietly.
“I did not,” Seven replied evenly. “The Neyser, Greech, Dulaph, and Irsk were discovered and categorized by the Borg but were considered unworthy of assimilation.”
Shaking her head, Patel said tersely, “It’s hard to imagine more industrious folks. If you ask me, it was the Collective’s loss.”
B’Elanna found Chakotay in the mess hall, chatting amiably with a petite ensign with short, spiked blue hair. Tom had told her about the pilot, but the woman’s name escaped B’Elanna at the moment. She quickly replicated a bowl of plomeek soup and crossed the busy room to join them.
“It was actually able to survive while attached to the hull?” the woman asked. Chakotay looked up to see B’Elanna and with obvious relief said, “It was. Ensign Gwyn, have you met B’Elanna Torres?”
She turned sharply, studying B’Elanna intently in a way that seemed offensive until Gwyn’s face relaxed and she smiled. “You’re Commander Paris’s wife, aren’t you?”
“I am,” B’Elanna replied cordially.
Gwyn shot a hungry glance back at Chakotay, then rose, taking her half-eaten salad with her. “Thanks for lunch, Chakotay,” she said enthusiastically. “I’d love to hear more about the Hirogen and Species 8472 and anything else you can tell me about the Delta quadrant whenever you have a chance.”
“I look forward to it, Ensign,” Chakotay said congenially, but B’Elanna could tell he was anxious to end the conversation.
“B’Elanna,” Gwyn finished with a curt nod as she left, recycling what remained of her lunch.
B’Elanna studied her perky, bouncy walk and took the seat opposite Chakotay. With a wicked smile she asked, “What was that all about?”
Chakotay shrugged. “I don’t know. I stopped by to grab a plate of steamed vegetables and an apple and before I knew it she was …”
“… flirting shamelessly with you?” B’Elanna finished for him.
Chakotay’s tattooed brow wrinkled. After a moment he said, “I guess.”
“Chakotay!” B’Elanna said in mock indignation.
“Stand down Red Alert,” he chided her. “She’s half my age and I don’t think I was ever that young.”
“You were,” B’Elanna teased. “I remember.” Then, batting her eyes in pronounced mockery, she said, “Oh, Chakotay, tell me more about the Hirogen.”
He chuckled good-naturedly, shaking his head. “Those are problems I hope I never have again.”
“And don’t you forget it,” B’Elanna insisted. “I’ll be keeping an eye on her, just the same.”
“Not on my account.”
“No, but for the sake of every other man on this ship.”
Concern flashed briefly in Chakotay’s eyes. “Are you and Tom off to a rocky start?”
“Oh, no,” B’Elanna assured him. “Tom, I’m not worried about. She’s another story. She actually reminds me a little of …”
“Seska,” they finished in unison.
Chakotay nodded. “I caught that vibe, too.”
“It’s interesting,” B’Elanna said, sipping a spoonful of her soup. “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”
“True.”
“Speaking of which …” B’Elanna slid a padd across the table to Chakotay.
“What’s this?”
“Read it.”
Chakotay finally said, “These are deflector control protocols.”
“Yes, they are,” B’Elanna replied tensely.
“So, why am I looking at them?”
“Because they shouldn’t be there.”
“I’m sorry, B’Elanna, I’m not following.”
“During Voyager’s re-fit—when we returned from the Delta quadrant—all our protocols should have been downloaded and added to the permanent logs, then removed from the active control systems.”
“Right.”
“Did you restore any of those protocols?”
“Why would I?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Did you need to emit a Dekyon beam, or project any nonexistent starships into space, or maybe open any rifts into fluidic space?”
“No,” Chakotay said, clearly growing more puzzled by her questions.
“Of course you didn’t,” B’Elanna assured