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Authors: Diane Carey
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to worry. They could pretend these things weren't factors, but only pretend.
What else? Stop their shipmates from forming relationships and starting their lives until they were back in Federation space?
Voyager
was an island unto herself, a little community living inside a floating fortress.
He was glad he hadn't made the mistake of telling the captain where he was going for lunch.
The cargo bay, oddly, was one of few places aboard a ship where there was lots of space but no people. Alway immaculate, because the faintest filth could clog up a shuttle's systems and cause big trouble on the go, the bay smelled of cleaning fluids and other control elements—and lunch meat?
The lights were dimmed, and a skyport had been opened to show the stars—as if
Voyager'
s crew hadn't seen enough of stars for a couple of lifetimes. In the middle of the bay's launch roundhouse tarmac was Seven of Nine, quaintly crouched as she spread out a checkered blanket.
Seven was a gorgeous woman standing or sitting, no doubt about that, and the one-piece molded suit that creased every crease and followed every curve simply added to her mystique, but squatting on the tarmac and using those long arms and spindlelike fingers to spread something as mundane as a picnic blanket absolutely shattered any hope of propriety. Chakotay paused at the entryway for a few seconds, appreciating nature's talent for sculpture.
After a moment, he forced himself to stride in. If she saw him watching her, she wouldn't understand. Deprived of a normal human childhood and adolescence, Seven had never been at ease with the way men looked at her. Having no barometer of social tenderizing with which to judge things as fleeting as physical presence, she didn't know she was an eagle's cry from average.
“What's all this?” he asked.
Seven glanced up at him, then began unpacking a plastic container full of food. “A picnic. My research indicated it was an appropriate third date.”
“You didn't have to go to this much trouble . . .”
“If this makes you uncomfortable, I could prepare a less elaborate meal.”
“No—don't change a thing. This is
perfection.”
He sat down on the blanket and crossed his legs. The reduced lighting caused glossy bands on Seven's tightly rolled blond hair. Her large eyes were like cactus flowers on a dune, somewhat severe in their mystery, banded by the few remaining Borg implants on her smooth skin.
Perhaps some people would think it odd that Chakotay had crossed the line and attempted the dreaded ‘r’ word with her . . . a relationship. More than a friendship, more than crewmates, a step beyond the wisdom of equality the captain had just been talking about, a bond of affection between two people on
Voyager
was a species unto itself. This was a closed society. Most of the prospects for romance that the crew would ever encounter were already here. Certain crew members' courting others wasn't unheard of—just rarely successful.
If pressed, Chakotay might've been made to admit that he saw something in Seven, despite her flat-toned voice and her mechanical approach to daily life, leftovers from existence as an assimilated Borg drone. She wasn't the only drone who had been liberated from the Collective, but somehow he sensed she had never been fully assimilated. Somehow her human spirit had survived in a chilling environment and she had remained connected, by however thin a thread, to her individuality. He sensed she didn't perceive her own inner strength, that the captured human child had been pervading enough to cling to herself somewhere deep inside her invaded mind, and she had been assimilated for a very long time. Chakotay doubted he could've hung on so long.
Actually, the picnic
was
perfection. She had “researched” exactly what was supposed to be in the typical, traditional, prescribed picnic. There was even soda pop in replicated bottles and meat that had been rolled out into sandwich-sized squares, and some
What else? Stop their shipmates from forming relationships and starting their lives until they were back in Federation space?
Voyager
was an island unto herself, a little community living inside a floating fortress.
He was glad he hadn't made the mistake of telling the captain where he was going for lunch.
The cargo bay, oddly, was one of few places aboard a ship where there was lots of space but no people. Alway immaculate, because the faintest filth could clog up a shuttle's systems and cause big trouble on the go, the bay smelled of cleaning fluids and other control elements—and lunch meat?
The lights were dimmed, and a skyport had been opened to show the stars—as if
Voyager'
s crew hadn't seen enough of stars for a couple of lifetimes. In the middle of the bay's launch roundhouse tarmac was Seven of Nine, quaintly crouched as she spread out a checkered blanket.
Seven was a gorgeous woman standing or sitting, no doubt about that, and the one-piece molded suit that creased every crease and followed every curve simply added to her mystique, but squatting on the tarmac and using those long arms and spindlelike fingers to spread something as mundane as a picnic blanket absolutely shattered any hope of propriety. Chakotay paused at the entryway for a few seconds, appreciating nature's talent for sculpture.
After a moment, he forced himself to stride in. If she saw him watching her, she wouldn't understand. Deprived of a normal human childhood and adolescence, Seven had never been at ease with the way men looked at her. Having no barometer of social tenderizing with which to judge things as fleeting as physical presence, she didn't know she was an eagle's cry from average.
“What's all this?” he asked.
Seven glanced up at him, then began unpacking a plastic container full of food. “A picnic. My research indicated it was an appropriate third date.”
“You didn't have to go to this much trouble . . .”
“If this makes you uncomfortable, I could prepare a less elaborate meal.”
“No—don't change a thing. This is
perfection.”
He sat down on the blanket and crossed his legs. The reduced lighting caused glossy bands on Seven's tightly rolled blond hair. Her large eyes were like cactus flowers on a dune, somewhat severe in their mystery, banded by the few remaining Borg implants on her smooth skin.
Perhaps some people would think it odd that Chakotay had crossed the line and attempted the dreaded ‘r’ word with her . . . a relationship. More than a friendship, more than crewmates, a step beyond the wisdom of equality the captain had just been talking about, a bond of affection between two people on
Voyager
was a species unto itself. This was a closed society. Most of the prospects for romance that the crew would ever encounter were already here. Certain crew members' courting others wasn't unheard of—just rarely successful.
If pressed, Chakotay might've been made to admit that he saw something in Seven, despite her flat-toned voice and her mechanical approach to daily life, leftovers from existence as an assimilated Borg drone. She wasn't the only drone who had been liberated from the Collective, but somehow he sensed she had never been fully assimilated. Somehow her human spirit had survived in a chilling environment and she had remained connected, by however thin a thread, to her individuality. He sensed she didn't perceive her own inner strength, that the captured human child had been pervading enough to cling to herself somewhere deep inside her invaded mind, and she had been assimilated for a very long time. Chakotay doubted he could've hung on so long.
Actually, the picnic
was
perfection. She had “researched” exactly what was supposed to be in the typical, traditional, prescribed picnic. There was even soda pop in replicated bottles and meat that had been rolled out into sandwich-sized squares, and some
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