Worlds Without End, Part XXIII

Seven's eyes opened and she looked up into an alien face. The alien was smiling... given the last thing she remembered, this was probably not a good smile. "Borg-enhanced physiology," he said with a smile. "Good... very good..."

Seven sat up and saw the two guards with large projectile weapons behind the alien. "Why did you bring me here?" she demanded.

"Aggression, very good," the alien said with approval. "There's a great deal of hatred for the Borg... you will certainly be a crowd-pleaser."

"Why did you bring me here?" Seven asked again with even more menace in her tone.

"To give you a chance to show your prowess to those across the sector," the alien said with a smile. "Welcome to Tsunkatse!"

Night had fallen across Cardassia, making Garak's job much easier. He slipped amongst the shadows towards the hangar where the bounty hunter's ship was docked. He was taking a hell of a risk trying this, but with so many of his supporting personnel killed by the Empire's agents, he didn't have much choice. He could only hope that he'd adequately prepared himself.

Cautiously he pulled out a scanner, strictly passive to avoid giving away his position. No sign of anyone... he slipped it back into his pocket and made his way up to the side of the building, watching.

The stun blast caught him in the back, and Garak pitched forward in the darkness, unconscious before he hit the ground. Bossk came out of his cover, checking for any signs of an ambush, but there were none. As expected the reputation of these alpha quadrant types held up; they were pitifully unprepared. He slipped a pair of binders on the Cardassian; he was worth twice as much alive, since he could have secrets about his organization, or possibly even the Rebels. Bossk didn't care why; their credits still spent the same. He slung Garak over his shoulder and carried him inside the ship, dropping him off in a cell before heading to the cockpit. The sooner he dropped this mark off, the sooner he could get back to civilized space.

The door chimed. "Come," Picard said, still reading over the report from Starfleet Command. It was his second officer, perfectly punctual, he thought. "Mr. Data," he said, looking rather grim. "Please sit down." Data did so; Picard drummed his fingers on the desk. "I just spoke with Starfleet Command regarding your review."

Data nodded slightly. "I infer from your manner that it did not go well, sir."

Picard shook his head. "There is no question that you are capable and ready," he said. "Even the strongest opposition concedes that you would make an exceptional first officer. But right now, in the middle of a war of this magnitude, they-" He cut himself off; it was hard to contain his own anger at this. "They feel that now is not the time to experiment in such a way."

Data nodded, looked down... and then his fist smashed a nearby table. Picard looked at him with horror, almost as much as Data had for himself. Quickly he jerked his head and his eyes flickered; his emotion chip was deactivated. "My apologies, captain," Data said. "I had not anticipated that I would have such an extreme reaction to this news."

"It's..." Picard looked at the remnants of the table. "It's understandable under the circumstances." Data had exceptional self-control; that he could lose it, if only for a moment, only meant he was getting close to his goal of being human.

"'Experiment,'" Data said quietly.

"Data, I'm sorry," Picard said. "This is an injustice, and I promise you, it will be fixed. You will receive the position you have rightfully earned."

"I have waited some time, captain," Data said. "I can wait a little longer."

Picard ran his hand over his head as he thought about what to say, but what was there to say? What words can possibly justify saying "no" to someone who was exceptionally qualified simply because of the nature of what they are? Any words rung hollow. "In the meantime," he said finally, "I suppose we'd better reassign you. At least I can keep my top-notch science officer."

"No," Data said with a shake of his head. "No, I cannot allow that, captain."

Picard's brow wrinkled at the remark. "What do you mean, you cannot allow it?"

"You promoted Lt. of Nine to that post," Data said. "If you were to demote her now, so early in her career and so soon after her appointment, it would reflect negatively upon her record, regardless of the circumstances. I cannot allow that, captain. Seven has confided in me, shown me her trust. She is my friend; what kind of friend would I be to allow my misfortune to harm her own career?"

Picard collapsed back into his chair, looked away, then back at his second officer. "Data, even after all these years you still manage to amaze me. When personally vexing news arrives, your first thought is for others rather than yourself." He shook his head. "You're a very noble individual, Data."

"Thank you, sir," Data said. "With your permission, I will assist the lieutenant in her investigations, though merely as a colleague rather than her superior."

"I'm sure Seven will be grateful for your insights, Data," Picard said. "And if you'd like to discuss the matter, my door's always open to you."

"Thank you, sir." Data got up and left.

Picard looked again at the remains of the table. After all these years, Picard thought, even the most patient of us can reach their limits. He hoped Data wouldn't consider leaving Starfleet after this, though he wouldn't fault him if he did. "And to think," Picard said quietly, "in an age when we need you the most, we'll hardly recognize your existence."

Luke struggled with the controls as the Borg tractor beam pulled him inside. His engines screamed until they died as he struggled helplessly to resist the inevitable. His weapons bounced harmlessly off their shields. There was nothing he could do... nothing he could do... save one thing...

Luke stood inside the cube on a catwalk and looked up at the countless multitudes of drones. "We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile."

Luke stood his ground. "We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile."

One drone detached from the group, and they repeated the message. As he- no, she- got closer, Luke could hear her voice over the others. It was the same message, but it became less robotic. "We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile." And as she approached him, she became less and less like a Borg, until she stood before him, stripped of all of the implants and other horrible things. She had hair red as fire, and green eyes that seemed to drill into him. "Your life as it has been," she said, "is over. From this time forward, you will service... us." And over her shoulder he saw the Emperor, smiling with all the warmth of a Borg himself. But his attention focused on the woman. She smiled and wrapped her arms around him. "Your biological and technological distinctiveness will be added to our own," she said in a breathy voice, her lips inches from his. "Resistance... is futile." She kissed him, and he was powerless in her arms. He was her slave in mind and body.

Luke opened his eyes back on the Rebel base. His body ached; he'd been in a deep meditation that time. Wincing a little, he stood up and headed for the shower to work the knots out.

The Borg again... that was the second time now. Very strange... ever since the run through the wormhole the Rebels hadn't heard a peep from them, yet they seemed to find their way into his Force visions. Still, it was better than the alternative, which usually involved his father. Being kissed by a pretty redhead sure beats fighting in a lightsaber duel with Darth Vader, though this vision didn't seem like a particularly positive one. But it wasn't surrounded by the hopelessness... each time the duel came, there was the feeling of inevitability... the feeling he was about to die.

Maybe it was a mistake to stay cooped up here; maybe he should have gone on that mission with Han and Lando to try and scrounge up some more support for them out here. But he was the senior-most Jedi now, and that meant that he had to find the direction his talents demanded. Simply running out and doing things without rhyme or reason was just busywork. Without a mentor, he needed to find guidance, and his masters had always said that the Force would be there for that. Unfortunately, all he kept seeing was horror and death, and it did little to set his mind at ease.

Luke finished the shower and got dressed. Maybe he'd give Artoo and Threepio a maintenance check; it'd take his mind off things. Then he thought, and he chuckled to himself. Only you, Skywalker, he thought. Only you dream of kissing a beautiful girl, then go spend your time with robots rather than people.

Garak's eyes flickered open, and he looked about his cell. There was the rumble of a deck beneath him, and his hands were still bound. He shook his head and gave a loud, deep sigh. "Pity," he said, "I'd hoped these Imperial bounty hunters wouldn't be so pathetically predictable."

For the second time in two days, Seven awoke after being knocked unconscious. This wasn't good for her; she risked brain damage if it continued, and she valued her mind too highly to tolerate it.

Things had grown completely out of control. The Tsunkatse, she'd learned, was a kind of gladiatorial match, where kidnapped beings were forced to fight for the entertainment of crowds around the area. She'd also learned that Lieutenant Travis was seriously injured by the bomb he was trying to disarm... without medical treatment he would die. The only way he would get it was if Seven agreed to fight in the arena, and there seemed little alternative, though she did try to find one. After the incident with the Equinox, the Doctor had incorporated some of his data files into Seven's long-term memory storage, should he ever need them re-installed or repaired. His basic interactive functions, points of basic medicine, ethical program, linguistics database, were all there in her head, but her efforts to access them all failed to provide her with the medical knowledge to tend to Travis' wounds without the proper equipment. She was left with no choice but to consent to fighting in the arena.

Seven had learned a bit about the sport, although that was using the term loosely. Two beings went into the arena and worked to beat the crap out of one another. In blue matches, like the one she'd just fought, it was merely until one was bested. In red matches, it was a fight to the death. She sat up; her head ached. A Hirogen hunter was sitting nearby. "How could you have lost?" he asked, getting straight to the point. Seven said nothing. "You were stronger, faster, and had better reflexes, and yet your opponent defeated you."

"It is irrelevant," Seven said darkly.

"It won't be in your next match," the Hunter said. "The overseer was quite excited when you were dragged back in here. He's already scheduled you for a red match in a few days." He gave her a few seconds to understand the situation. "Do you want to die?"

"What I want is for Lt. Travis and myself to leave," Seven said. "I find this Tsunkatse to be barbaric."

"Ah, so you lost because your heart wasn't in it."

"I wish to terminate this discussion," Seven said.

"You'll be terminating yourself as well," the Hunter said. Seven said nothing. "And your friend." She looked back at him. "Do you think his medical care will continue after you're dead? That he won't be sent into the arena to die as well?"

Seven took an uneasy breath. "I will do what is necessary when the time comes."

"The time is now," the Hunter said. "You have two important things to learn if you want to win this red match. One is how to use that strength, speed, and agility the Borg have given you effectively in a fight, not this amateur hour filth you tried out there. I have fought in the arena for nineteen years... I can teach you that."

Seven thought it over, but it didn't take long. He was right, what little hand-to-hand combat she'd engaged in had always simply been instinctive... she lacked any formal training. If she was going to win, she'd need to change that. "And the other?"

"That in the arena, you are either hunter, or prey," the Hunter said. "There is no holding back... not unless you want to die. Hunter or prey, Borg, decide."

Seven scoffed. "I will do this distasteful thing, but I will not succumb to some kind of bloodlust."

"Not bloodlust," the Hunter said. "The natural struggle between the strong and the weak. Which would you rather be?" Seven was about to reply when an almost ape-like giant arrived. It growled under its breath, and fighters got out of its way as it passed. "The new champion," the Hunter said to Seven as the hairy creature lumbered past. "He was in a red match as well against the former Pendari Champion. Everyone expected the Wookiee to lose until he tore the Champion's arm off and strangled him with it."

Seven watched the Wookiee depart. She had to admit a certain fear at the prospect of being locked in a fight with it. "Is that who I will be fighting?" she asked.

"No," the Hunter said. "Not yet, anyway. But eventually, if you survive, you'll have to."

Seven looked between the Hunter and the door the Wookiee had passed through, then left to talk to Travis. He was awake, but didn't look well. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

"They gave me something for the pain," he said. "I'll be fine, eventually." He grabbed her hand. "They told me what you're doing," he said. "Thank you. I owe you my life."

Seven wasn't sure how to respond. "You are welcome, lieutenant."

"How are you doing?" he asked.

"I am still experiencing a headache, but it will pass."

"I meant emotionally," Travis said.

Seven hesitated. "I do not like this. I find the prospect of fighting for the entertainment of others disgusting. It is inhuman, which runs counter to my efforts to better embrace my humanity."

"You're doing what you have to," Travis said. "The captain would do the same in your place."

Seven nodded a little. "But I am afraid that in this case, I must go beyond a boundary I have drawn for myself. I do not wish to do it, but I cannot see an alternative."

"Then perhaps there simply isn't one," Travis said.

"It is possible," Seven said. "But that provides no comfort."

"Well, you..." Travis head lulled a little, and his hand lost his grip on hers; she had to hold onto it to stop it from falling. "...you have to live with yourself."

Seven reflected for a time. "While I was on Voyager, Lieutenant Paris provided me with something called a 'mix tape,' to introduce me to the twentieth century. It contained the musical poetry of the Rolling Stones, Nirvana, Roxette, Pat Benatar, Frank Zappa..." She was quiet. "I find myself recognizing a bit of their philosophy. 'You can't always get what you want. But if you try, you might find, you get what you need.'"

Travis smiled a little. "That does sound like good advice," he said, and then fell asleep. Seven looked at him for a time, then put his hand back on his chest and returned to the Hirogen.

"Teach me," she said. "Teach me to be a hunter."

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