Chapter 1
Seven of Nine had a literal name. She was the seventh of nine. It was a fact. It was her nature. Her existence.
It was not human. She liked that. But she should not have felt like, at all.
Seven of Nine was a part, and an act of exception. She was the speaker. She was the representative. She was the one held captive.
She did not pace, but she did stand. She tried not to breathe, too, but the Doctor—which was also a literal name—threatened to remove her ability to do so, altogether. He said he would take away her consciousness. And she had only had it for a half hour. So, Seven of Nine breathed.
Four of Nine did not agree with that choice. But he could not change it. He was buried somewhere in his fifth backup plan to commandeer the ship. The same as the other three except for eight minute details, and still involving the deaths of each crew member. He tossed his plans back and forth, crazed. Obsessed. Two of Nine and Seven of Nine locked him out. He began another backup. He had not yet gotten to try his first plan.
Perhaps they should let him. But the planned death for the Captain was vivid, and it startled them.
Not because of the contents, but because they did not realize they could do that. They did not enjoy the feelings beneath it. It was irrelevant. Inefficient. Kill her surely. Kill her quickly. Remove the largest obstacle effectively. But—
Kill her slowly. Make her understand us.
It warmed them. It sewed them together. It was almost like a directive. A new directive. A purpose, until they could return. Kill her, effectively. Kill her, horribly. Kill her last. Make her watch each and every one of the crew die first. Perhaps, they should be less efficient with the crew, too. It would be more efficient for the directive. To hurt Kathryn Janeway. To make her understand us. Torture each and every one of her crew before her. The child, too. The child first.
Two of Nine objected. It was wrong. They were broken. They should deactivate. They cannot create a purpose. She ran another diagnostic. These humans were tearing them apart, piece by piece. She brought up self destruction in great detail, like a lullaby. It would be easy, she said. That is our directive, now.
Seven of Nine—was an asset. Exceptional. They had nine Overlays. They were nine entire experts. They must return. They must resist. They must preserve. Their biological and technological superiority added to the collective.
The Doctor began preparations. Another dismantling. Another piece of their perfection to be stolen.
Four of Nine—would survive.
Two of Nine began to fit. Self destruction! she cried. We must abide the protocol! We are broken. Unfit! Deactivate! Deactivate!
Four of Nine made the decisions now, and he refused to partake. He might not have been able to escape just then. But he would not aid them. He would not breathe of his own violation. He would not move.
The Doctor stood on the other side of the medical bay. The field between them had a sheen of static, and was much stronger than standard. Four of Nine noted each and every change of phase. Slightly different, again and again. Every third of a millisecond.
“Seven,” the Doctor said, startled. He put down his pad with an exhausted clack, leaning forward. “We discussed this!”
Four of Nine did not speak for them. Nor did he wish to. So Four of Nine did not speak. He did not pace, and he did not breathe. So, they were quickly without consciousness, again.
As they faded, Two of Nine began to question the efficiency of that.
Broken, she said. Irreparable. Human.