Star Trek: Voyager
"Voyages of the Soul"
Episode I: The Lone Soul
By
Disclaimer: Paramount Pictures owns the characters, backstory, etc. I'm just playing with them for a while. No profit is being made here.
Content Disclaimer: This story contains spoilers for as many episodes as I can remember, but most definitely for the episode "Drone". It also contains references to consenting adults indulging in loving relationships. Some of those adults are of the same sex, and if that offends you, please find another story to read.
The reflection that stared back at her, Seven of Nine, gave no clue as to the turmoil the former Borg was experiencing. There was no hint of the four days of restless regeneration periods around the ice blue eyes, only the remains of an optical implant curving over the ridge of her left eye. Her silver-blond hair was in its habitual coif, pinned up in a functional, sterile bun, not a single strand out of place. Yet Seven keenly felt the razor's edge of anxiety as she practiced her "meet and greet" smile in front of the small mirror the Doctor had replicated for her.
She watched the tiny starburst implant on her right cheek flex and move with her smile and felt another shudder of -- nausea, she deduced -- ripple through her abdomen. Seven swallowed hard, forcing herself not to think about that -- vomiting was not a human action that she cared to experience, ever. She closed her eyes, allowing the steady hum of Voyager's warp engines to relax her, as much as she could be relaxed on this day.
A chime sounded. Her shift was about to begin. Time to leave the ordered confines of cargo bay two and head for astrometrics. Seven laid the mirror carefully in a drawer in her workstation, brushed an invisible speck of dust off of her brown mesh uniform and schooled her features to an impassive mask.
On her way to her duty station, Seven passed several of Voyager's crew, each person greeting her in his or her own way, forcing Seven to crack open her thin shell to respond, but eventually, she made it to the relative safety of the astrometrics lab.
The day passed as any day on board a starship would, and Seven once again found herself at loose ends between assignments. Data from a probe sent into an anomaly had yet to return, and she had already picked her mind clean of any information regarding the next one hundred light years worth of space. With nothing else on her mind, the Borg found herself once again brooding over the problem which had prevented her from resting.
One month prior, the Doctor, a holographic emergency medical program, had suggested that she needed a "hobby" to help her rediscover her "humanity". When she had been unable to provide what the EMH considered a "suitable" suggestion, he had taken it upon himself to assign her one.
"Singing. Your hobby shall be singing." He had pronounced, quite gleefully.
"I fail to see the reasoning behind that choice." Seven had responded coldly.
"Why Seven, it's perfect! According to your own report regarding the Hirogen take-over of Voyager, you've already had some experience as a chanteuse. I don't see why you shouldn't go ahead and expand on that experience."
"Why do I even have to have a "hobby" at all? Hobbies are inefficient, and a waste of time."
The Doctor had frowned at her then and crossed his arms. "Seven, really, hasn't your research into the human condition revealed the nature of 'hobbies' to you?"
Seven dissembled. "It is not something I have studied at great length, no."
"Tsk. Tsk. Well, I could go into a lengthy explanation of the benefits of having extracurricular activities to occupy one's self, but I think I shall go the easy way. Captain Janeway has decreed a ship-wide Talent Fest to take place in one month's time, and she has insisted that every member of the senior staff participate, which means, Seven, that having a hobby is an order."
If the Borg had known a proper curse, she'd have spoken it. "I see. I will … comply."
So she had spent the last month using most of her holodeck privileges for voice lessons from some of best singers that Starfleet's vast database had to offer. They had all said she was good -- technically. Every single instructor from Janis Joplin to Billie Holiday told her the same thing. Her voice was beautiful, but she lacked the emotional punch required to affect people with her music. One of the instructors, the choir director of the Mormon Tabernacle, even went so far as to claim that she must lack the barest hint of a soul to not embrace the beauty of the piece he had chosen for her to sing.
Once she'd discovered what a "soul" was, that particular bit of criticism had struck the young woman deeply, penetrating the coldly scientific armor that she had wrapped around her heart and confirming her deepest fear. I shall never be human. I shall always be Borg. Which was unacceptable, because if she were not able to attain full humanity, then her Captain, Kathryn Janeway, would be profoundly disappointed in her, and failing the captain was not an option. I will comply with Captain Janeway's wishes. Resistance to my humanity is futile. I will do this.
A beep from the console returned her attention to the probe's data stream. Telemetry coming in suggested that the anomaly might be more intriguing than previously thought.
"Astrometrics to the bridge."
"Go ahead, Seven." Captain Janeway's throaty voice answered.
"The telemetry from the probe has returned. I believe you shall find it interesting."
"Indeed."
***
The astrophysics lab was in an uproar. A proto-nebula was forming practically off the ship's hull, and they were going to have the chance to study it. The away team chosen to record the data was one that everyone agreed was the best: Tom Paris to helm the runabout and B'Elanna Torres to maintain the shuttle's systems. Seven of Nine would document the incoming data while the Doctor was to monitor the crew's reaction to the radiation being given off by the nebula's formation.
The captain's Talent Fest would be cancelled, accept for that evening's performers, the senior staff, including one very nervous Borg. Seven had anticipated, no, hoped that the probe's telemetry would prove to be so distracting that the captain would forgo her idea, granting Seven the reprieve she desperately wanted. But it was not to be. At exactly 2000 hours, Seven of Nine, former Tertiary Adjunct to Unimatrix Zero-One would take the stage in a holographic theater and sing for the crew of Voyager.
The Doctor had chosen the song, telling her that it was one that both the captain and the crew would enjoy, and one that was imminently suited for her voice. She accepted his choice solemnly, spending what free moments she had practicing it.
But she knew that she still lacked the vocal quality of "soul". She knew that once her song was finished, Captain Janeway would look at her and she would see nothing but disappointment in her blue-grey eyes.
***
The designated hour drew nearer. Seven, nervous and fretful, though outwardly as calm and cool as a glacial lake, sat primly on a couch in what the Doctor had called her "dressing room". The EMH had taken one look at what she was wearing -- a plum colored mesh bodysuit -- and tsk'ed.
"Seven, that outfit simply will not do. Sit here, I shall bring you something more appropriate for your performance." And off he'd went, wringing his hands and muttering something about "Borgs and fashion sense!"
He returned ten minutes later, a garment bag draped over his arm. He hung the bag on the back of the door and unzipped it to reveal its contents. It was a dress of floor length maroon silk festooned with a bodice of beaded patterns, and it was glorious. Seven had never seen something so -- glamorous.
"This is to be my attire?" she queried, stuck somewhere between her Borg rationality and Human awe.
"Indeed. I didn't replicate it for myself." Then she noticed that the hologram was now clothed in an elegant tuxedo.
"You have decided upon a new wardrobe." Seven noted.
"I could hardly be expected to perform in my Medical Officer's uniform, now could I?"
"You are going to perform something as well?" Seven asked, intrigued. The Doctor was counted among the senior staff, but she had assumed that he would present one of his holo-lectures on micro-cellular mytosis.
"Yes, I thought that I would accompany you on the piano, providing you with 'moral support'. It is what 'friends' do, after all." The Doctor beamed at his pronouncement.
"'Moral support'? I … see." Though she clearly did not. But there was no time left to explain, as Harry Kim ducked his head through her door.
"Seven? You're on in ten."
"Thank you, Ensign." Seven's stomach wrapped itself around her backbone and shook with all its Borg enhanced might. She quailed, then, swallowing tightly, she gathered herself together and took the dress off the hanger. The EMH politely turned away while she dressed in the form-fitting sheath. She had no time to luxuriate in the feel of the silk caressing her flesh, but the analytical part of her mind filed the sensation away to be examined at a later time.
"Doctor, I am ready to proceed." The Doctor took Seven's arm, and together, they walked out to the "wing" area of the theater. B'Elanna Torres, the ship's Chief Engineer was already there.
"You look lovely, Seven." She commented. Seven looked the half-Klingon, half-Human up and down. B'Elanna was dressed in a cream colored satin dress that fell in loose waves just passed the woman's knees.
The implant above the Borg's left eye rose. "As do you, Lieutenant." The Doctor smiled brightly. It appeared that his "lessons" were paying off.
"Why thank you." The lieutenant seemed truly impressed by the Borg's compliment.
Captain Janeway's voice drifted in over the speaker. "I now present to you our Emergency Medical Hologram and Seven of Nine." Polite applause ushered the performers onto the stage.
Seven looked out into the small sea of faces, each one familiar, if not well-known. There was some missing -- the ship did still have to maintain itself. But she knew that every available console was simultaneously broadcasting every second of the holodeck's festivities, so that no one was left out.
The Doctor bowed, then seated himself at the holographic grand piano. His fingers brushed the keys, stroking out the opening notes of her song. It was now, or never. Seven grabbed her courage with both hands and stepped up to the 1950's style microphone and sang her first note.
"They asked me how I knew…" From the first strains of the 20th century classic, the crowd knew there was something wrong. Oh, the music was technically perfect, each note clear and precise, each word enunciated perfectly, but it was lacking something ineffable. Most of the crew brushed it off, thinking that they were just imagining it, or overloaded from too much sensory input. But one crewmember did not push the thoughts aside. One crewmember was deeply concerned by the lack of anything resembling emotion in Seven of Nine's song. Captain Kathryn Janeway stood in the wings offstage and shook inside.
To the captain, each note was a razor's cut across her heart, a stab at her hopes that the young woman she had privately begun to think of as Annika Hansen would ever emerge from the robotic Seven of Nine. Tears she could not cry strained at the corners of her eyes, but the captain crushed them down, drawing the mantle of command over her like a shield. Seven's song ended, and the crowd politely clapped. She and the Doctor bowed once, then fled the stage.
It is over. The mantra echoed through the Borg's head as she made her way off of the stage and into the back of the holographic theater. It is finally over, and I have failed. She was profoundly humiliated. She was so upset that she did not see the captain until it was too late. A hand took hers and she looked up.
"Good job, Seven." She said as she shook the young woman's hand. There was warmth in Kathryn Janeway's voice, but it did not reach her eyes. Her eyes held something else -- a deep melancholy that spoke spades beyond what her words did.
"Thank you." Seven managed, then she quickly pulled her hand free of the captain's light grip and vanished.
Seven raced to cargo bay two, to her alcove and the relative safety of dreamless regeneration. She shucked the Doctor's dress and replicated a new uniform, putting it on like some kind of medieval armor. Then she stepped up into her alcove and settled her hands into the grooved rests. Just as the cycle was initiating, she heard B'Elanna's performance begin and knew, without any doubt at all, that she would never be human. She would never have a "soul".
***
B'Elanna sang "Unforgettable" and brought down the house, receiving a standing ovation for a performance that had been, while no where near as technically perfect as Seven's, was so filled with emotion that some of the crew shed tears. The chief engineer had fixed her eyes on Tom Paris, and from the moment the first note had left her mouth, the audience knew that she meant every word. It put a wonderful cap on a night filled with presentations and performances that had wowed, bored and cheered the ship's crew. Captain Janeway took her bows with the rest of the senior staff -- minus Seven -- and enjoyed the fruits of her idea's success.
On the way to her quarters, however, Janeway allowed herself to worry over the Borg's disastrous performance. No one had quite said anything, but she remembered the commentary she had overheard on her way out of the holodeck. The crew was comparing the evening's two "torch" songs and almost unanimously, they had agreed that B'Elanna's was the better of the two. Only Tuvok had felt differently.
"So what did you think of Seven's performance?" the captain had asked her oldest friend.
"I found it to be technically perfect and aesthetically pleasing, Captain. It was logical in its execution and without question well-suited for Seven's vocal range." The Vulcan's answer surprised her.
"I see. You did not notice anything -- odd about it?"
"Not at all, Captain. Did you?"
"No… no. I guess I’m just tired, that's all."
"Then perhaps you should seek your quarters, Captain. Tomorrow is, after all, a busy day."
"Thank you, Tuvok. I believe I shall. Good night."
"Good night, Captain."
Janeway entered her quarters, undressed and readied herself for bed. Well, at least there was one good thing about Seven's performance. She tried not to think it, she really did, but she was really tired, and after all, it was very true. I got to see Seven in something sexy enough to make my toes curl.
***
The wake-up chimes came way too early for Janeway's taste, but she dutifully crawled out of her bed and made her way to the ensuite. While performing her morning ablutions, she considered the best way to approach Seven regarding the previous evening's performance. She had been impressed with the younger woman's singing ability, but what she was really worried about was the lack of emotion that turned the song from a set of lines announced in tune to a heartfelt ballad of love and loss. She was curious as to what had guided the young Borg to choose that piece over something a little less emotionally challenging.
Perhaps I can chat with her after she's returned from studying the proto-nebula. That settled, the captain finished dressing and began her day.
***
The best laid plans… Janeway mused as she sat at her desk in her ready room. The proto-nebula had been more dangerous than they had first thought, causing problems for the runabout. On top of that, a near transporter malfunction caused the Doctor's mobile emitter to become infected with Seven of Nine's nanoprobes. Added together it formed a recipe for a hellish day. Things had only gotten worse when the nanoprobes assimilated the emitter, creating a Borg Maturation Chamber which then sampled Ensign Mulchaey's DNA. The technology had combined with the tissue to produce a 29th century Borg drone.
"Personal log, addendum. It seems silly to remember with fondness the crew's 'suggestions' of the best possible disposal of our 'accidental' drone, but that is exactly how I feel when I recall the multitude of private requests to destroy the fetus. Somehow though, I knew that we could raise it ourselves, and introduce to it the concept of individuality. After all, we succeeded well enough the first time around, why not a second?
"I put Seven in charge of 'educating' the young drone, hoping that her unique experience with humanity could in some small way tip the scales in our favor, and what a job she did! It wasn't long before the drone had assimilated enough knowledge to function as a member of the crew, and it seemed his very novelty kept that same crew from attempting to harm him. I'm not sure who was more proud when One -- yes, he had chosen a name for himself! -- delivered his assessment of himself to me. Seven practically glowed with pride over her charge's performance, and I in turn, congratulated her on a job well done.
"I must say that Seven needs to smile more, her face becomes positively animated by even the smallest of expressions." Janeway smiled and shifted her position in the chair.
"I wasn't even worried when One started asking about the Collective, sure that he'd absorbed enough knowledge of individuality to never want the mindless automation of the hive. But I hadn't reckoned on Borg ingenuity. The transceiver we had thought was inert had been re-created and began sending out a signal. It didn't take long for a passing Sphere to notice it." Janeway shut off the log and rubbed her eyes. They had had such a short amount of time with him…
The Sphere had come, and destroyed any hope of One's becoming a permanent part of their crew. He sacrificed himself to save Voyager and in that act, had defined himself as a true individual. Janeway looked down at the padd containing the doctor's report on how One had prevented both the Doctor and Seven of Nine from rendering him aid and knew that Seven would need to be alone for a while.
"Computer, log Seven of Nine off duty until further notice."
"So logged." The dry, feminine voice of the computer responded.
Oh Annika, are you ready for this much emotion yet? Janeway steepled her fingers and pressed the tips to her lips, resting her elbows on her Ready Room console.
***
The EMH was busily wrapping and preparing One's body for its final voyage into the heart of a nearby sun when Seven of Nine entered the morgue.
"Seven? May I help you with something?" The Doctor was carefully cleaning the blood off of One's scalp.
"No, I do not require your assistance. I wish to prepare One myself. Please leave us alone." The Doctor was startled by the rawness of Seven's voice, and acquiesced without comment. He exited the seldom used offshoot of sickbay and returned to cleaning the medical room.
Seven slowly approached One's body, picked up the damp cloth the Doctor had dropped and gently began dabbing at the dried blood, cleaning away the remnants of her offspring's life. Unbidden a tune filtered up through her grief, and she began to hum its notes.
***
After a while of sitting at her desk, the captain decided that she'd better go and see how Seven was handling One's death. "Computer, locate Seven of Nine."
"Seven of Nine is currently in the morgue." The morgue? What was she… One. Of course. Maybe I should leave her be. Janeway remembered what it had been like when she had lost her father, how alone she had felt, cut off from everyone around her. Then again, maybe not. She got up and exited the ready room.
"Commander, you have the bridge." She said to Chakotay, who nodded.
"Understood, Captain."
***
One's scalp was clean, his body prepared. All that remained was for Seven to move him from the morgue table to the pre-prepared photon torpedo tube. Yet she could not bring herself to do it. She could not bring herself to seal him away, away from her sight and heart just yet. This was grief, she allowed. She had spent an hour following his death researching the subject, trying to discover why she felt like she did.
She had discovered, much to her astonishment, that One could have been considered her "son" and that what she was feeling was akin to what a parent would feel over losing a child.
Yet that description lacked. It could not come close to covering the emotional territory that was exploding inside of her mind and heart.
The seconds ticked away, and she kept humming that same tune, a child's lullaby, she finally realized. Her fingers, quite of their own accord, had taken to stroking One's right cheek, the flesh cold and waxy beneath the calluses of her right hand. This is enough. You have grieved enough and it is time to let it go. Her internal voice informed her. Schooling her features to an emotionless mask, Seven lifted One's body and started to carry it over to the torpedo. The drone's body was heavier than it should have been without the individual spirit that had held it up for such a short time, and Seven collapsed under his weight. Frustration and grief mixed inside of the Borg and before she knew what she'd done, Seven had gathered One's body into her arms and was rocking him back and forth, singing softly.
"Rock-a-bye baby in the treetops, when the wind blows, the cradle will rock…"
***
Captain Janeway had made her way through the ships decks and corridors slowly, wanting to give Seven as much time with One alone as she could. She entered sickbay to find the Doctor just finishing up with cleaning the room. Waving him off with a gesture, she went over to the doorway that led to the morgue. The door slid open, revealing an astounding sight. Seven of Nine, sitting on the floor with the body of One cradled gently in her arms.
"And down will come baby, cradle and all." The soft, ragged strains of an emotion choked voice stopped Janeway in her tracks.
"Seven?" she whispered. The Borg looked up at Janeway's arrival. The bright lights of sickbay illuminated the silvery tracks of moisture that streamed down from Seven's eyes.
"Captain? I… cannot adapt to this… pain, this sorrow." Janeway strode into the room, keeping the Doctor away with a glance. The morgue door slid shut.
"Oh Seven, no one is asking you to." She knelt next to the grief stricken woman. "May I help you lift him up?" she asked gently.
"I… Captain, do you think One had a 'soul'?" Seven suddenly asked. Janeway's face registered her shock.
"Well I … Yes, of course he did Seven. As much of a soul as you do." Clumsily, she patted the younger woman's back.
Seven's face grew cold, and distant. "I see. Thank you. Yes, I require your assistance in placing the drone's carcass in the torpedo." Janeway didn't know what she'd said wrong, but she knew she'd better fix it.
"Seven, is there a problem?" she asked, keeping her voice warm and gentle.
"No, Captain. Not at all." They had managed to lift One's body and place it into the torpedo tube and were just settling his limbs in a more natural position.
"Are you sure?" Janeway pressed. "Because you've gone from grieving to coldly rational in the space of minutes." Seven did not answer. Janeway reached out and laid a hand over Seven's left arm. "Seven, if there is something bothering you, I'd like you to know that I am here, and willing to listen." Again, the Borg did not reply, but neither did she pull away from the captain's grasp. The stood that way for several heartbeats, looking over One's body before a single tear slipped free of Seven's eye and splashed onto the black armor of the drone's chest.
"Se… Annika?" Janeway whispered.
"Yes, Captain?" The younger woman glanced down at the hand gently gripping her arm, the captain's thumb slowly massaging the inner forearm through the fabric of her uniform.
"Tell me… please?" Seven looked up into the captain's blue-grey eyes, and her defenses collapsed.
"I don't… I don't believe that I have a soul, Captain." The younger woman explained, tears flowing freely once again. "And if I do not have a soul, then neither did One, my…"
"Your what, Annika?" Janeway's brain was going at warp speed, trying to imagine where Seven was going and why she was on the journey. When did Seven start being concerned about having a soul? The analytical mask snapped back into place granting the Borg's features a stony appearance.
"According to the ship's databases, since my nanoprobes provided 1/3rd of the material needed to create the drone, and since I am biologically female, then One was my child. My son." The statement was delivered with cold precision, but to Janeway, it was like a kettle of hot oil had been dumped over her.
Oh my god. She thought, horrified. She's right, in a twisted sense. No wonder she's so… distraught.
"I am capable of accepting the fact that I do not have a 'soul', Captain, but I cannot accept that for my … son."
Oh god, and I just told her that One had a soul just like hers. Then Seven's words really sunk in. "Wait a second here, Seven. Who told you that you didn't have a soul?" Seven responded by listing every single one of her voice instructors, then finished off by citing the previous evening's performance as proof of her lack of "soul". When she was finished, Janeway just shook her head sadly.
"Seven, that's just not true. Having a soul does not depend on whether or not one can sing a song emotionally."
"Really?" Seven's voice held a strained note of hope. "How do you know?"
"Because I've known people that couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, yet I knew they had wonderful souls." Seven still didn't look convinced. Janeway sighed. "All right Seven, let me ask you this -- Do you believe that I have a soul."
"Of course you do, Captain." Seven answered without hesitation.
"Thank you." Janeway was truly flattered. Then, she sang a song. Frere Jacques. It was bad. It was more than bad, it was awful. She could actually see Seven flinch each time she started a new round of the Traditional song. She finished up, then said, "Do you still believe that I have a soul?" Seven looked like she'd been poleaxed.
"Yes." She whispered.
"Good. As I said, the emotional level of a song has nothing to do with the status of having a soul."
"I… have a soul?" Seven's voice was small, tremulous.
"Oh yes, Seven. You most certainly do." Janeway smiled warmly at the Borg. It was too much. Seven sobbed once, then collapsed to the floor, carrying Janeway down with her. The captain reacted quickly, pulling the weeping woman into her arms and whispering soothing nonsense while rubbing her back.
Hell of a way to get her into your arms, Katie. Her inner voice whispered. You shut up. She told it.
They must have sat like that for twenty minutes while Seven cried herself out. Finally, she wiped her eyes and face on her sleeve and sniffled a few times.
"Captain?" She queried, when she realized where they were, where she was. This is… more than pleasant. The Borg thought to herself.
"It's all right Seven. You needed it." And we won't go anywhere near just exactly how much I enjoyed giving it to you, will we Katie-my-dear?
"Thank you. But… why? I mean, how did you know that I would require someone to be here?"
"Call it a hunch."
"I see." The Borg stood up and Kathryn's arms screamed at the loss of the warm woman they'd been so exquisitely wrapped around. Janeway hauled herself up as well and smiled sadly as Seven touched One's face one last time, then keyed in the commands to close the torpedo.
"He was a good man, Seven."
Seven nodded gravely. "He was a good soul."
fin
03/19/99