Worlds Without End, Part XXV

Grand Admiral Thrawn lowered the datapad. "I'd say your suspicions are correct, major," he said to Delric Taar. "The number of former drones in the galaxy are near zero, and she looks a great deal like the woman Picard brought with her."

"I took the liberty of examining her Starfleet file, sir," Taar said. "The computer has determined it's an almost certain match."

Thrawn seemed to reflect on the matter; he'd only returned from the alpha quadrant a few hours earlier, so he no doubt had a keen grasp of the local political situation. "What do you think, major?"

"Obviously the Federation will want their officer back," Taar said. "And from what I've read, they'll go to great lengths to do so."

"And so if you were to decide on a course of action?"

Taar considered. "Frankly, sir, the Federation would merely get underfoot out here. We'd have political strain that we've so far been able to avoid. There's also the matter of Rebel activity... if the two groups run across one another, it could also cause political problems. In my opinion, keeping them out of the delta quadrant is important, sir. The officer has been publicly recorded; simply writing her off as killed won't work in the long run. The best course of action would be to inform her commanding officer and instruct him that we will locate and return her with all alacrity."

"Excellent diagnosis," Thrawn said with that thin smile of his. "As you've had some experience with this Tsunkatse, I'm charging you with finding a means to locate our lost officer. I'll tend to Picard... he will no doubt need someone to pat his hand."

"Yes, admiral," Taar said with a slight bow.

"And major," Thrawn said. "Your opinion of the Borg is well-known, and certainly understandable. However, do remember that she's a citizen of our ally now... it would be an unnecessary strain if she was damaged or killed."

"Of course, sir," Taar said.

"Just so we understand one another," Thrawn said, turning away and lighting up a hologram of some work of art Taar didn't recognize. "Excellent work, major. I think your future is looking very bright."

"Thank you, sir," Taar said, and left.

The door opened, and 7 of 9 stepped into the arena. It wasn't the usual one; this one instead had four doors into a slightly larger room, because there were twice the number of fighters. But for her, there were three times the number of adversaries, and they swaggered into the arena with the confidence of those who know that numbers give them the opportunity to beat the living hell out of someone else with relative impunity.

The overseer had been pleased with the results of the red match, though disappointed that the fight was rather brief. The crowd was going to be even bigger the next time, he said, for the chance to see her in a fight. "They love to hate you," he'd said, which only further supported 7 of 9's perspective that emotions were irrational and useless. This lopsided match was intended to give the crowd what they wanted: a chance to watch a Borg beaten within an inch of her life. 7 of 9, of course, had no intention of letting that happen.

The chime sounded and the match began, the three fighters coming at 7 of 9 with grins on their faces. But they lacked the ability to analyze and adapt. She was stronger, faster, and more agile than any of them, and their numerical advantage was limited because their fighting experience was in solo matches; they weren't going to function as a team. They were overconfident, easily controlled by their emotions, and stupid. If 7 of 9 were capable of it, she'd pity them.

They moved slowly towards her; apparently each wanted to be the second to attack so that the first could serve as a distraction. "You are afraid," she said with as much contempt as a Borg could allow. "Yet you possess superior numbers. Clearly you are small, weak." She turned her back on them; it got their blood boiling, and they charged her. She listened to the sound of their rapid footsteps, calculated the rate of travel while triangulating their precise distance from her last view of their position. Before they reached her but after they had too much momentum to stop, her legs shot out at opposite angles and she dropped into the splits. They were still performing their attack motions under inertia, but up over her head, so she snapped her left fist up and connected with the polaric sensor on the one, sending him flying backwards. She followed up by rolling back slightly and swung her leg straight up, kicking another in the face. The third seemed to favor kicks himself, because after his initial attack he quickly used his momentum to come back around and catch 7 of 9 on the side of the head.

7 of 9 rolled with the kick and got back to her feet. The fighter made the mistake of trying to catch her off guard, but she was Borg, and thus always on guard. She caught his leg at the ankle. He quickly followed up with a kick with his other leg, hoping she wouldn't expect him to try it. She caught that ankle as well, and with nothing else to support him he hit his head on the floor of the arena. The fighter she'd kicked came back at her at that moment, but now she had a weapon. She hit him with the other fighter, hard enough to hear her weapon's ribs crack under the blow. The two went down in a pile, the one with the bad ribs on top. The one underneath tried to push him off, aggravating the injury so that the other howled in pain and struck him. As expected; they weren't a team, and their emotions made them pathetic. The remaining fighter came at her, striking fast, but the technique was all speed, no tactics. 7 of 9 blocked the blows, then grabbed him and pulled hard.

Around 7 of 9's left eye is the visible remnant of her ocular piece. In the effort to look more human the piece was removed and a human-looking eye was put in its place. But the fact was that metallic item was anchored deep into her skull with technology that had been honed over a hundred thousand years. When 7 of 9 drove the fighters forehead into the piece it was like headbutting a tritanium bulkhead. His eyes rolled under the impact, and she held him back, secure in one hand while she drew back the other and punched him solidly in the face, so that his head snapped back with whiplash.

The kick came from behind, catching 7 of 9 off guard and sending her stumbling. The one with the bad ribs laid unconscious, the other having apparently pummeled him after his ill-advised strike. The whiplash one was lying on the floor of the arena and didn't seem eager to get back up, which made this a one-on-one match again. 7 of 9 tried to recover but the fighter pushed the advantage, striking her polaric sensor so that she hit the wall. She felt pain, then disregarded it; she was injured, it had served its purpose, now focusing on it would merely provide an illogical distraction. Instead she pushed off the wall back into the fight.

7 of 9 could sense her systems were impaired from the earlier blow to the head and this one. She was weak now that she did not have the Collective standing behind her, but she would not allow that weakness to get the better of her. She observed her adversary as he struck; he was angry, which meant he would be inclined to satisfy emotion rather than make sound tactical decisions. He snarled at her like a beast, and the crowd cheered him on while 7 of 9 blocked his blows. He offered another pitiable animal noise, and 7 of 9's hand shot out and grabbed onto his mouth. He was shocked at having a mouth full of Borg fingers, so he was caught off guard as she yanked him forward while at the same time swinging at his face. The blow connected, his jaw visibly dislocating under the opposing strain, and he stumbled back and fell. He moaned in pain, but the match wasn't over until he was knocked out, so 7 of 9 walked over and casually kicked the side of his head until he slumped back. She assessed the others, but they were out as well.

7 of 9 looked up at the holographic crowd; they booed her. They loved to hate her... they'd be back next time to see her again, even though they despised her. It was pathetically irrational. She turned her back and walked out of the arena, leaving their empty jeers behind her.

Picard's jaw dropped open. "Kidnapped?"

"It would appear so, captain," Thrawn said. "We've made a few inquiries, and while it is firmly denied by any authority, it is universally understood that the Tsunkatse fighters have been kidnapped and forced to participate against their will."

Seven and Travis... two of his officers. And here he was on the other side of the galaxy in the middle of a war. "Can they be persuaded to release my people?" Picard asked. "What do they want?"

"We know little at the moment, captain," Thrawn said. "But I recognize that the Federation -and you in particular- are concerned for the well-being of your people. Major Taar has been tasked with locating and retrieving your two officers. I shouldn't have to tell you he's quite capable."

"Yes, admiral." Picard had read up on Taar after the first meeting regarding the Borg War, and he was certainly a fine officer. The fact that he also managed to survive the devastation of the Imperial fleet also showed he was cunning, which would no doubt prove invaluable. "Thank you for taking this so seriously."

"Of course, captain. Our nations are friends, after all. I promise you, we will find these people. Oh, and captain, I'm sending the file my men recorded of the fight your officer was in. If you see anything in it that may aid the major in his investigation, please contact him."

"Yes, thank you admiral." Thrawn nodded and the image vanished. It was pretty amazing, when Picard thought about it; the man was on the other side of the galaxy, but thanks to the recently completed network they were able to hold a real time conversation. Of course, his enthusiasm was severely dampened by the news. "Computer," he said. "Re-route the incoming transmission to Holodeck 1. Mr. Data."

"Aye sir," came the response over the comm.

"Meet me in Holodeck 1," he said as he left his ready room. The two met up in the hall, and Picard quickly filled him in on his conversation with Thrawn.

"We will not be mounting a rescue, sir?" Data asked.

"With the war going on and the Empire already handling it, Starfleet would never approve," Picard said. "We're just going to have to trust our allies." The two entered the holodeck. "Computer, begin program." They watched, and as the fight played out, the color drained from Picard's face. Seven of Nine was merciless, unrelenting, and unstoppable.

"Are you all right, sir?" Data asked.

Picard shook his head, unable to take his eyes from the horrible scene. "I thought she'd changed, Data," he said quietly. "I wanted to believe so badly that she could re-embrace her humanity..."

Data's brow furrowed and he looked between Picard and the holographic recreation of the fight. "I do not understand your remarks, captain. Seven of Nine is fighting under duress; I do not see what relevance her humanity plays into it."

"Look at her, Data," Picard said gravely. "She's fighting like a Borg. There's nothing human there."

"Respectfully, sir, that is an unfair judgment on your part." Picard turned to Data, surprised at the frankness of the remark. "If this were Lt. Travis, fighting with savage ferocity to stay alive, would you conclude that he was not human?"

"That's not the same at all, Data," Picard said, slightly annoyed. "Desperation may drive us to embrace our baser instincts; it's not something to be proud of, but that at least is understandable."

"That they were merely giving in to repressed instincts because there was no other way to survive?"

"Yes, Data."

"Then would it not follow, sir, that the lieutenant is merely doing the same? That even though she has fought for some time to suppress her Borg instincts, that even though she has struggled daily to embrace the best of her humanity, that the strain of being forced to preserve her life has caused her merely to surrender to those instincts? That she is simply trying to survive as anyone would?" Picard said nothing. "Are we to hold her to a higher standard, sir, simply because her instincts are not human?"

Picard looked back at the frozen image of Seven of Nine and took a deep breath. "No, of course not," he said quietly. "Bench." A bench appeared, and Picard sat on it wearily. "After what happened," he said, "on the bridge and in the brig, I felt I owed it to her to make up for my prejudices. I've gotten to know her quite well, Data."

"Seven has confessed to me that she has found you to be a much-needed guide for her, and she is grateful for what you have done."

"But still," Picard said, "after all we've discussed... it's like a trick knee that goes out when you least expect it. That prejudice is in me, and it's towards one of my own officers... what kind of captain does that make me, Data?" He stopped. "Apparently a typical one of Starfleet, given how they've looked at you," he said moodily. "How flawed mankind is..."

"Captain," Data said, "while I confess my lack of advancement is a source of personal frustration, I recognize that humanity is merely guilty of being imperfect. To expect otherwise would be an unfair expectation for me to have... and for you to have of yourself. You are imperfect, captain... but you recognize that fact, and have tried to compensate for it. That makes you a great captain, and if I may say, sir, a great human being."

Picard smiled a little and chuckled at the situation. "Thank you, Data. You are a very wise man." He got back to his feet. "Let's run this again, shall we? Those are our people out there, and we're going to do our damndest to get them home."

7 of 9 took some water after she returned to the room housing the fighters. Without the strength of the Collective this body required more maintenance than normal. Since her survival required it, she dutifully saw to all of it.

"Bravo!" the overseer declared as he entered the room, flanked by his armed guards. "What an exceptional performance," he said, the words slithering out of his mouth. "I had expected you to suffer a humiliating defeat, but it seems that you are more powerful than I had imagined." The idea of it seemed practically to arouse him. "Finding you must have been destiny."

"That opinion is absurd," 7 of 9 said, "and your compliments are irrelevant. I will provide this service out of necessity, not because you hold illogical romantic notions on this activity."

The overseer's mouth twisted into a haunting smile. "I should have known that the warrior in you would emerge with enough provocation. I'm so glad that Hirogen talked me out of putting you in a red match at the start... I'd never have realized what a treasure you would prove to be." He nodded slowly, knowingly. "Yessss... I wonder if you have it in you to become our new champion."

"I am uninterested in being a champion," 7 of 9 said. "My status as a fighter is irrelevant." She switched to the important matter. "I require a vascular regenerator to repair cranial damage suffered in the recent match. You will provide it, now."

"Of course, champion," the overseer said with a grin.

"Your attempts to lure me in with promises of a title will fail. It is irrelevant."

The overseer chuckled quietly. "This is wonderful... the more Borg-like you act, the more people will want to see you fall. Yes, a red match with the champion. If he wins, it will truly be a crowd-pleaser. If you win... they will come back again and again, waiting for the hero to rise up and overthrow the Borg tyrant."

"I am no tyrant, I am a slave," 7 of 9 said. "Your continued romanticism does nothing to change the reality of the situation."

"We'll see what the crowd thinks," the overseer said. "They are the true arbiters. Borg versus Wookiee... this will definitely pack them into the arenas across the sector." He swept out, followed by his guards.

7 of 9 left to check on Lt. Travis. Her duty required her to ensure his survival, so it necessitated assessing his treatment. It seemed to be progressing well enough, though the overseer was obviously holding back in a misguided belief it would encourage her continued cooperation. "You seem to be recovering," she observed.

"Thanks to you," Travis said. "How are you handling this?"

"As you said, it is necessary, thus I am approaching it as the requirement of the situation."

"You seem... different," he finally said.

"I have adapted to the situation," 7 of 9 said. "As you suggested."

Travis looked unsure. "You sure you're okay?"

"I am functioning at optimal levels," 7 of 9 said. "Now, I must heal my injuries, then make suitable preparations for my next match. The champion has superior strength, I must devise tactics, so that I can most efficiently kill him."

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