The library aboard the USS Shenandoah was a pocket of silence in the constant, low thrum of the ship. It smelled of old paper and recycled air, a sanctuary for the anachronistic pleasure of a physical book. Tonight, its only occupant was Seven of Nine, her Borg-enhanced posture ramrod straight as she turned a page with human-slow deliberation. The book was a collection of pre-First Contact Earth poetry, a gift from the Captain to encourage her exploration of individuality.
The door hissed open, and the soft, certain footsteps that entered could only belong to one person. Kathryn Jane carried two steaming mugs, the rich, earthy scent of replicated coffee cutting through the paper-and-metal air.
“I thought I might find you here,” Jane said, her voice a low murmur in the quiet. She set a mug down on the table beside Seven, careful not to disturb the book. “Mind if I join you?”
Seven’s blue eyes, striking in their intensity, lifted from the page. “Captain. I am reviewing the works of Emily Dickinson. Her use of meter is… unconventional, but not without merit.”
Jane smiled, a small, private thing, and settled into the chair opposite Seven. She cradled her own mug, letting the warmth seep into her palms. “Unconventional merit. That’s a good way to put it. She saw the universe in a grain of sand, or in her case, a hummingbird.” She took a sip. “What’s your favourite so far?”
Seven looked back at the page, her brow furrowing slightly, a gesture of concentration she’d retained from her human childhood. “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers,” she recited, her voice a melodic contralto, “That perches in the soul…”
She trailed off, and Jane finished softly, “…And sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all.”
A silence settled between them, not empty, but filled with the resonance of shared understanding. Seven’s gaze remained on the Captain. In the soft, amber light of the library, the sharp lines of command on Jane’s face seemed softer, the auburn of her hair richer. The ever-present tension in her shoulders, the weight of two crews and a decades-long journey home, seemed momentarily eased.
“Do you find it to be accurate?” Seven asked. “This description of hope?”
Jane considered the question, her eyes distant. “I have to. It’s the only thing that got us this far. It’s the only thing that will get us home.” She looked back at Seven, her expression open and honest. “It’s not always a grand, sweeping feeling. Sometimes it’s just a quiet stubbornness. A refusal to let the night win.”
“I understand that,” Seven said. “It is a form of efficiency. To persist despite evidence suggesting failure.”
Jane let out a short, surprised laugh. “Leave it to you to define hope as ‘efficient.’” She shook her head, her smile lingering. “You have a unique way of looking at the world, Seven. I admire that.”
The word ‘admire’ hung in the air between them, heavier than the others. Seven’s enhanced senses catalogued the subtle shift in the Captain’s physiology: the slight dilation of her pupils, the fractional increase in her respiration. She recognised these signs. They were the same ones her own cortical node processed when she was in Jane’s presence. The Captain had a… scent. A clean, complex mix of replicated coffee, the faint ozone of the bridge, and something uniquely, inherently her.
“Captain,” Seven began, her voice dropping even lower, a husky whisper in the silent room. “My analytical subroutines are processing a significant amount of data regarding your presence. It is… distracting.”
Jane’s smile faded, replaced by a look of intense focus. “Distracting how?”
Seven set the book aside, her movements precise. “My heart rate elevates. My neural processors allocate an disproportionate amount of resources to… observing you. The way the light catches your hair. The cadence of your speech. The fact that you remembered I prefer my coffee with a higher aromatic compound than the ship’s standard issue.”
Jane’s breath caught. She hadn’t known Seven had noticed. She hadn’t known Seven could notice such a thing, let alone interpret it. She set her own mug down, her hand not quite steady.
“Seven…” she started, her own voice now a whisper.
“I am aware this is an inefficient use of my capabilities,” Seven continued, her gaze unwavering, a blue so deep it was almost violet in the dim light. “And yet, I find I do not wish to correct it. Is this… hope?”
Jane rose from her chair, moving around the small table as if pulled by an invisible force. She stood before Seven, close enough to feel the faint, warm aura of her body, a stark contrast to the cool efficiency of her Borg implants.
“No,” Jane breathed, looking down at her. “It’s not hope. It’s something much more immediate.”
She reached out, her hand trembling slightly, and brushed a stray blonde hair from Seven’s forehead, her fingers grazing the smooth metal of her cortical implant. Seven flinched, not in pain, but at the unexpected intimacy of the touch. It was a shock of warmth against the cool perfection of the Borg technology.
“May I?” Jane asked, her hand hovering.
Seven’s voice was barely a whisper. “Yes.”
Jane’s fingers traced the line of the implant, following its path from her temple down to her jaw. It was smooth, cool, an intricate piece of machinery that was as much a part of Seven as her own skin. Her touch then moved to Seven’s cheek, the skin there impossibly soft and warm. Seven’s eyes fluttered closed at the contact, a low sound, almost a hum, escaping her throat.
Jane leaned in, her own eyes closing, and pressed her lips to Seven’s. The kiss was tentative at first, a question. Seven’s response was immediate, a desperate kind of hunger that surprised them both. One of her hands, usually so controlled, came up to cup the back of Jane’s neck, her fingers threading through the soft hair there. The kiss deepened, no longer a question, but an answer.
It was a collision of two worlds. The warmth of Jane’s mouth, the taste of coffee, was a revelation to Seven’s Borg-enhanced senses. For Jane, it was the thrill of touching something so fiercely contained, of feeling the incredible power and intelligence thrumming beneath the surface, finally unleashed.
When they finally broke apart, they were both breathless. Jane rested her forehead against Seven’s, their ragged breaths mingling in the small space between them.
“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” Jane confessed, her voice thick with emotion.
“As have I,” Seven admitted. “I was uncertain how to… initiate the process.”
Jane chuckled softly. “Well, you’ve initiated it now.” She pulled back, looking into Seven’s eyes. “Come with me.”
She took Seven’s hand, leading her not to the turbo-lift, but through a small, unmarked door at the back of the library. It led to a short corridor and then to her own quarters. The door slid shut behind them, sealing them in a world of their own.
Jane’s quarters were a reflection of the woman: comfortable, lived-in, a curious mix of Starfleet regulation and personal touches. A half-finished painting sat on an easel in the corner, a starscape she’d been working on for months. A book was open, facedown, on her bedside table.
They stood in the centre of the room, suddenly awkward. The kiss in the library had been a spontaneous combustion, but this was a deliberate step into the unknown.
Jane reached out and gently took Seven’s hands in her own. “Tell me if you want to stop. Any time. This is… new. For both of us.”
“I am not fragile, Captain,” Seven said, a hint of her old defiance in her voice.
“I know you’re not,” Jane said softly. “But this isn’t about fragility. It’s about trust.”
Seven looked at their joined hands, then back at Jane. “I trust you, Kathryn.”
Hearing her first name, spoken in that low, melodic voice, sent a shiver down Jane’s spine. She lifted Seven’s hands and kissed her knuckles, one by one. Seven watched, mesmerised by the simple, profound gesture.
Jane then stepped closer, her hands moving from Seven’s to the collar of her Starfleet-issue overshirt. She slowly began to unfasten it, her eyes never leaving Seven’s. With each clasp undone, she revealed more of the landscape of Seven’s body: the smooth, pale skin of her neck and collarbone, the stark, geometric lines of the Borg implants that traced their way down her sternum and disappeared beneath the fabric. It was a map of survival, of pain and resilience, and Jane looked at it not with revulsion, but with a profound and aching tenderness.
She slid the shirt from Seven’s shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Seven stood before her, clad only in a simple undershirt, the technological and the human inseparably fused. Jane’s own hands then went to the fastening of her uniform, her movements sure and practiced. She shrugged off her jacket, then pulled her command tunic over her head, letting it join Seven’s on the floor.
They stood facing each other, both in their undershirts, the air in the room thick with anticipation. Jane reached for the hem of Seven’s shirt, and Seven lifted her arms, allowing her to pull it off. Now she was bare from the waist up. The sight was breathtaking. The smooth, pale skin of her breasts was a stark contrast to the intricate web of circuitry that covered parts of her torso. A large implant sat just below her left collarbone, with fine filaments trailing from it like silver veins.
Jane reached out, her touch feather-light, tracing one of those filaments from its source down to where it disappeared beneath the waistband of her pants. Seven’s breath hitched, her whole body tensing. The implants were not just decoration; they were sensitive, connected directly to her nervous system.
“Does it hurt?” Jane asked, her voice full of concern.
“No,” Seven gasped. “It is… intense.”
Emboldened, Jane leaned in and pressed her lips to the cool metal of the implant on Seven’s chest. Seven gasped again, her hands coming up to grip Jane’s shoulders. Jane’s kisses travelled from the implant to the warm skin of her breast, her tongue tracing a path that made Seven moan, a low, guttural sound of pure sensation.
Jane guided her backwards towards the bed. They tumbled onto it in a tangle of limbs, a desperate, clumsy urgency taking over. Jane’s hands explored the new territory of Seven’s body, learning the dips and curves, the cool, smooth metal and the yielding, warm flesh. Seven’s own hands, less practiced but equally eager, mapped Jane in return, marvelling at the softness of her skin, the strength in her muscles, the way her breath caught when Seven’s fingers brushed a particularly sensitive spot.
They shed the last of their clothes, and finally, there were no barriers between them. They lay facing each other, skin to skin, the Borg drone and the Starfleet Captain, two souls adrift in the Delta Quadrant, finding an anchor in each other.
Their lovemaking was a slow, deliberate exploration. Jane was the patient guide, whispering encouragement, reading Seven’s every gasp and shiver. Seven was the eager student, her enhanced senses cataloguing every touch, every taste, every scent, creating a perfect memory of this moment. When Jane’s fingers finally found the centre of Seven’s pleasure, the Borg’s control shattered. Her back arched, a cry that was pure, unadulterated human ecstasy tore from her throat, and she clung to Jane as wave after wave of sensation crashed over her.
Later, they lay intertwined in the aftermath, the soft hum of the warp core a lullaby in the walls. Seven’s head rested on Jane’s chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of her heart. Jane’s fingers absently stroked Seven’s hair, tracing the line of her implant.
“Your heart rate is elevated,” Seven murmured, a hint of her old self creeping into her sated voice.
Jane laughed, a soft, contented sound. “You do that to me.”
Seven lifted her head, looking at Jane with those intense blue eyes. “This… connection. It is more efficient than I anticipated.”
Jane smiled, pulling her close for a gentle kiss. “Efficient. There’s that word again.” She looked at the beautiful, complex woman in her arms, a woman who was learning to be human one experience at a time. “For the record, Seven, I don’t think ‘hope’ or ‘love’ have anything to do with efficiency.”
Seven considered this, her gaze soft. “Then perhaps they are the things that make the inefficiency worthwhile.”
In the silent quarters, with the stars streaking past the viewport, Kathryn Jane had to agree.
