Star Trek: Voyager: Endgame

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 suspiciously papery potato chips.
    “Where did you get all this food? Chell's running the mess hall with an iron hand, if a tongue in cheek. I don't think he'll be as much of a social lubricant as Neelix was.”
    “Neelix spoke with him over the long-range subspace. He likes the idea of playing ‘matchmaker.’ ”
    Chakotay watched her eyes. “You don't know what that means, do you?”
    “Yes,” she said, and left it at that.
    “Have you spoken to Neelix?”
    “We have a standing appointment every third day to play kadis-kot by remote, at least until
Voyager
is out of range.”
    Chakotay tipped his head sadly. “As difficult as that day will be, we all hope it'll come soon. Sometimes I don't think we know what we really want. If it weren't for the captain's ability to cling to one vision and a sense of purpose, I think we would've all scattered long ago, gone off in sixty different directions, searching for some kind of fulfillment . . . or just not survived. Instead we have picnics, games, food . . . and babies for shipmates. Not all bad.”
    She tried to understand, but he could tell most of his idle chat was floating past her without taking a grip. Seven knew only two kinds of life—the Borg Collective, and the starship.
    “You're very pretty in this light,” he mentioned.
    “Thank you,” she said, handing him a plastic plate. “You're very pretty too.”
    “Oh . . . thanks. My mother used to tell me the same thing.”
    “I didn't realize.” Seven finished laying out the food in a very specific pattern of right angles, and sat down beside him, her spine rod-straight.
    “Realize what?” he asked.
    “The similarity I bear with your mother. I shall take it as a compliment. Most people regard their mothers with a positive attitude.”
    “Depends on the mother,” he said, “but I liked mine.” He picked up one of the bottles of pop and hoped there was something inside other than colored water. “You don't really remind me of my mother. You just made me think of her for a second.”
    She looked up. “What's the difference?”
    He slugged the drink. Cold, but no carbonation. Half right. “I don't know . . . you're not like her in very many ways—hardly any, actually. But she was curious about the things around her. You both have curiosity in common. And she was a strong person. You have that too.”
    Seven raised her hand and flexed it.
    Chakotay smiled. “Not that kind of strong.”
    “What other kind is there? Odor?”
    This time he rocked back and laughed. “Y'know, you're a lot funnier than anybody gives you credit for.”
    Perplexed, she watched him laugh. “I did not mean to make a joke.”
    He nodded and leaned back on his elbow. “Seven, that's the best kind. Hand me a sandwich.”
    * * *
    Commander Tuvok sat at the
kal-toh
table in the mess hall, opposite Icheb. He was becoming accustomed to having liberated Borg on the ship, sooner than he had previously calculated. It was Icheb's move.
    The glittering pile of tiny rods on the table, each precariously positioned into a geodesic, testified to nearly an hour of gaming. Though the formation appeared chaotic, it could not be so and still maintain its dimensionality. Putting his complex Vulcan faculties to work on the formation, Tuvok calculated the stress points and engineered a multidimensional replica of the geodesic in his mind, then established every possible future arrangement with added rods.
    Icheb