"I can't forgive you for what you did to us, but I do understand why you did it." She had a feeling it was a harsh thing to say, but by this time Marika couldn't honestly claim "harsh" was not her intent to begin with. Besides, the woman she was addressing had been Borg. It was likely she could take a little harshness. Marika turned and exited the mess hall, leaving Seven-of-Nine standing alone.

In the corridor, she walked to a panel and touched it to get her bearings. It was one thing to be back on a Federation vessel, but this was not the Excalibur. She wasn't sure how to get back to her quarters from her present location. As she stood studying the map, the door to the galley opened and Seven stepped out.

"Marika. . .," Seven began with a clear hesitancy that Marika noticed immediately. When do you suppose she learned how to falter like that? Borg do not falter. She was brought back to the present by Seven's question. "Do you require assistance?"

"No, Seven. I have it now." Seven inclined her head slightly in her direction, cocked her implant-brow just the slightest, and continued to her right down the corridor. Marika followed Seven's departure a moment before turning her head and allowing her eyes to close, savoring the quiet. Then she opened her eyes and went left, even though she knew it would be the long way around. She arrived at a turbolift, touched a panel to call it and stepped back. The doors opened almost immediately, revealing a pair of women who looked exactly alike, each with a massive length of black hair that ended well below their waists.

The hair and the sameness unbalanced her. Her eyes darted back and forth between the two identical faces, but it only added to her confusion. She had read through the crew manifest, and although there were a fair number of different species listed, including several Bajorans, she did not remember reading anything about clones. Perhaps there were, and it was only a symptom of her mental decline that prevented her from remembering.

One voice piped up brightly, obviously used to this reaction, or a similar one, unaware there might have been more to it. "Oh! Hello! You must be Marika. I'm Megan," the woman said, pointing then to her left, "and this is my sister, Jenny." Jenny lifted her hand and wiggled her fingers. "We're twins," they said in unison. At that point, the turbolift doors began to close and Megan called out sharply. "Hey! Wait a minute!" Though a rather unorthodox command, the lift complied and the doors slid fully open again, thanks to a little reprogramming wizardry, courtesy Ensign Thomas Paris.

"I guess you'd better get in, or this thing will leave without you. What deck?" Marika stepped into the lift and settled herself to the right of the two women. "Eight, please." The lift began to move smoothly, and Marika ventured a question.

"Twins?"

The woman next to her turned another bright smile on her, but Marika had already forgotten which "twin" this was. "Oh, yeah, twins, identical twins. That's when one egg separates and makes two people. Don't they have twins on Bajor?"

Certainly there must be twins on Bajor, but she could not remember. Not wanting to appear anymore bewildered in front of these strangers, she simply agreed. "Yes. You two are remarkably alike, though. And your hair. . ." She wanted to reach out and touch the thick, dark length that flowed down this woman's back, and stopped herself just short of doing that very thing.

"Megan, I'm Megan." She jabbed her thumb at her sister. "That's Jenny. And this. . .," she gave her head a broad swing, catching her hair as it swung around to the front, "is both the bane and the beauty of our collective existence." Too late she realized her poor choice of words. "Oh my! Oh. . .oh. . .Marika. . ." Megan stuttered to a halt, her hair hanging limp in her hand.

Marika reached up and touched the beret on her head, trailing her fingers down through the short length of hair she knew was not hers. She smiled wistfully, losing herself in a faded memory of thick shining curls, and then quickly brought herself back to what Megan had said. "It's okay, Megan, I know that word can never hurt me again. And please call me Mari. It's what my. . .friends. . .call me." At this, she could no longer resist her urge, stretching her arm out towards Megan. "May I touch your hair?"

Megan, utterly relieved at having her faux pas so easily dismissed, awkwardly held her hair out. "Why sure, uh, Mari." Marika took a handful, marveling at its softness, sifting the hair through her fingers. She wanted to bring the softness to her face, but did not do so. The lift opened onto Deck Eight and Marika looked up.

"My stop." She released Megan's hair. "Thank you." As she stepped out of the lift, Jenny called to her. "Marik. . .Mari, we're having a little get together tonight in our quarters. Would you like to join us? 2000 hours. Deck Nine, Section Six, Room 14A. It won't be a big crowd."

Marika turned to the women and thanked them for the invitation, unaccustomed to such easy camaraderie, but very grateful for it. The lift doors closed.

Marika found her door and entered, going straight to the replicator. Captain Janeway had given her several weeks' worth of rations, to allow her to replicate items she might need. Janeway added that if a few items of a personal nature were also replicated, she would not see it as a bad thing.

Marika first checked the computer's database to see if what she wanted was available. It was. After making a few modifications to the design, she made her request.

A Bajoran earring shimmered onto the replicator's little pad. Carefully, Marika picked it up and held it against her cheek. It was not the beautiful customized piece of jewelry her uncle had made for her, but it was still hers. It was her family's symbol and it had been far too long since she had felt this gentle weight. She fastened the earring in place and stroked her ear tentatively.

Relief washed through her. Her pagh was still there, distant and weak, but just the act of putting the earring on had restored some of its strength. No matter what the Borg had done to her, they had not been able to strip her entirely of her soul. She stood frozen for a moment, and then in a sudden furious motion, reached up and grabbed the beret, pulling both it and the wig off her head. Turning from the replicator, she could see her reflection in the dark window by the sleeping area.

The earring glittered, and the sparkle loosened a knot of jumbled memories: The Excalibur. Her newly-planted garden on Bajor. Her station in Engineering. The arrival of the Borg. Her uniform. Her husband.

"Ross. . ." It was more than she could bear. She sank to her knees and wept.

* * *

Chakotay did not assign Marika specific duty, so in the weeks that followed, Marika kept herself occupied by walking Voyager's corridors and spending time in the observation room that had been turned into a miniature Bajoran temple. She actively avoided both Astrometrics and Cargo Bay Two, realizing even as she was losing mental stability that if she could manage to keep away from these areas, she would not have to come into contact with Seven again before she died.

She was not sure why this had become so important, especially since much of her time in the temple had been taken up by praying for the Borg. She had somehow been able to forgive the Collective for what they had done to millions, but still she could not forgive Seven for what she had done to her. Irrational, illogical, perhaps, but she figured she could get away with it by blaming her situation, and it never occurred to her that this thought might be just as irrational.

As for the rest of Voyager's crew, she was pleasantly surprised by their compassion. They accepted her as she was on a day-to-day basis. No one was kidding anyone about how she would finally end up, but no one avoided her because of it. (Not the way she was avoiding Astrometrics, at least). In fact, she'd had a number of encounters with crewmembers.

* * *

"Here, Mari, try this and tell me whatcha think. I've been working all day on it." Neelix proudly set a plateful of something in front of her. She had been warned a number of times about Neelix's cooking, but as it didn't appear as though the crew were dying of malnutrition, and everyone seemed to have enough replicator rations, she concluded that some of his cooking must have been edible-the plate before her notwithstanding.

She took a cautious sniff and discovered she liked what she smelled-it was just looking at it that caused the trouble. She picked up her fork, dropped it, and picked it up again, this time with her opposite hand, and managed to keep hold of it. If Neelix noticed, he gave no indication. Bravely, she raised a forkful to her lips and. . .smiled when her mouth filled with the taste of hasperat, her favorite. She chewed and swallowed enthusiastically, relishing familiar spiciness.

"Neelix! This is delicious!" She glanced down at her plate again and then back into the grinning whiskered face. "Okay, it doesn't look like hasperat, but it sure tastes like it! Thank you so much!"

Her outburst caused a few heads to turn, but when they saw her stand and throw her arms around the startled little Talaxian, they went back to their meals with new enthusiasm.

* * *

So this was a, what did he call it? A clarinet. It looked a whole lot like a Bajoran. . .it took a minute, but she remembered. . .a Bajoran clavian. She held it gingerly.

Harry smiled warmly. "Go ahead, try it. Take a deep breath, put your lips like this and blow." She did, and the poor instrument shrieked like someone had pinched it, which she figured was exactly what she had done.

"Oh! Harry, I'm sorry! I think I'd rather hear you play it again, anyway." She handed it back to him and went over to sit on the bench beneath the window.

She had heard the music long before she found the source, but followed the sound until she found Harry, playing his heart out in the tiny observation lounge near her quarters. She had entered without him noticing and was able to listen for several minutes before he stopped.

She had not realized her eyes had closed, lost as she was in his music, so she was startled when the music suddenly stopped. She opened her eyes. Harry stood there, lips parted slightly, his face flushed from playing.

"Marika? Are you okay? Can I help you?"

She smiled. "Actually, Harry, I think you already are. Do you mind if I stay and listen for awhile?"

* * *

Seven-of-Nine resisted another annoying desire to check on Willkarah Marika. After being icily dismissed in the mess hall, it was more than obvious Marika wanted nothing more to do with her. Yet Seven could not shake the desire.

In another life-perhaps even earlier in this one-this sort of rejection would not have bothered Seven in the least. Now it was bothering her, indeed. Her precious Borg perfection was being threatened by ugly Human emotions, and she was powerless to stop it. She had been counseled on many occasions by the Doctor (and Chakotay and Janeway and. . .) on the unpredictability of emotions. Unfortunately, their advice never did more than reinforce the very point they were trying to make-that emotions were unpredictable.

Fear is irrelevant. Guilt is irrelevant. Compassion is irrelevant. She snorted. What a. . .joke. Anger and arrogance she had mastered, but these others? She snorted again. Seven-of-Nine was nobody's fool. She knew "ugly Human emotions" would ultimately be both her downfall and her deliverance. The Doctor would no doubt call this a breakthrough. She, however, only called it a necessary evil, and wondered how long it would be before they finally overtook her, in all their ugly and complex glory.

Once again, she thought of Marika and nearly snarled like B'Elanna. She stabbed at her console and stared at the image it produced, determined to banish all but the task at hand from her mind.

* * *

Naomi put her tiny hand on top of Marika's. "You know, I don't feel like playing today, anyway. Wanna meet Flotter?"

Another week had passed, and on this afternoon, Marika was in the Wildman's quarters. The Kot-Is-Kot board had been set up, but Marika was unable to remember any of the opening moves. She was struggling with trying to figure out what to do, when Naomi spoke up.

Janeway had told Marika that Naomi was angling for the yet-to-be-created position of Captain's Bridge Assistant, but Marika thought at this moment she might be better suited as diplomatic attaché, or at least ship's counselor. She welcomed the chance to escape the Kot-Is-Kot.

"Sure. Who's Flotter?" They were off to the holodeck.

* * *

As the third week ended, Marika kept more and more to her quarters. It was getting too hard to negotiate the corridors, because she could no longer trust her short-term memory, and she sometimes had trouble staying on her feet. The first time she forgot, Tom and B'Elanna were in the turbolift with her. She had been thinking about going to the mess for more of Neelix's Delta Quadrant hasperat, but suddenly could not remember how to get there. She turned to the couple next to her, who were holding hands and talking in low tones about their plans for the evening.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, but I'm, I'm. . ." She felt tears beginning to burn behind her eyes and hated herself for this helplessness. But she needed help, and she knew these people would help her, even though she could not remember their names.

They came immediately to either side of her. "Mari? Are you all right? Should we get you to Sickbay?"

She managed a weak smile, relieved when she recalled what she had been doing and could answer coherently. "No, Prophets, no, not yet. I just. . .just couldn't remember how to get to the mess hall, and I was in the mood for more of Neelix's hasperat."

After a few jokes about how she was giving the crew a bad name by eating Neelix's food, the three of them went to the mess hall together and she was able to regain a semblance of control. After that, she did not venture out very often. When she did, it was always short distances, either to the observation lounge by her quarters or to the temple on the next deck down. She ate replicated food almost exclusively, though she allowed Neelix to deliver a meal every now and then. No one bothered her in her quarters, but she knew the Doctor was monitoring her around the clock.

Through all this, in spite of her declining health, she congratulated herself on her successful avoidance of Seven. It hadn't been a perfect success, because she had passed Seven several times in the corridor. Marika hardly counted those, since she simply pretended she had not seen Seven.

She spoke daily with the Doctor, who said he would beam her directly to Sickbay as soon as she felt the time had come. He tried a number of times to get her to talk about her final moments, but each time she refused. The last time he had asked, four days after the incident with Tom and B'Elanna in the turbolift, she nearly bit his holographic head off.

"Doctor, I'll be happy just to die, all right?"

He looked as affronted as it was possible a hologram to look. "Marika! You can't really mean that! We are not heartless souls here on Voyager." His tone softened and he leaned toward the viewscreen. "I know you've been spending a lot of time in the temple, and I thought perhaps there was a ceremony or ritual we could perform for you. That's all."

She sighed. Everything was getting too hard, but she knew there was nothing she could do about it. It was an odd awareness, knowing you were dying, but not really feeling sick or anything. In any case, she could fix what she had just messed up, if nothing else. "Oh, Doctor, you're right. I'm sorry. Let me think about a ceremony, okay?"

* * *

She opened her eyes, asking the computer for the time.

The time is oh five hundred hours.

Another day. She was alive another day. Her name was Marika, surname Willkarah. She was Bajoran. She reached for her ear, comforted by the feel of the jewelry. She threw the covers off and inspected her body, touching all the ragged, unfunctioning Borg hardware. She rose, showered and dressed. Standing in the middle of the living room, her vision blurred and she forgot.

Where was she? She looked around. What she could see was not familiar. She bolted from the room and into the corridor, stopping again, gasping as panic took her breath away, gasping again when it felt as though her lungs would not inflate.

Marika, her name was Marika. She was Bajoran. She began to run, hitting the turbolift doors at the end of the corridor, startled off her feet when they opened at the contact.

The computer brightly warbled. Please state a destination.

In a crumpled heap on the floor of the lift, she couldn't think, couldn't breathe, until a stray thought surfaced. A destination. She knew a destination. "Cargo. . .Bay. . .Two."

* * *

Regeneration cycle complete.

Seven stepped down from the pod, going immediately to the small sink Tom had installed in the far corner of the bay. She had already spoken to Chakotay about obtaining her own quarters, but that would take more time, as they would have to integrate a regeneration alcove into the cabin.

In the meantime, Tom Paris thought it would be "nifty" if she were to have her own toilette facilities in the cargo bay, just to "practice" on. Though she knew she would never be totally free of the regeneration process, she did find it rather "nifty" to have the sink, the mirror, and the tiny vanity, but she'd die before she'd ever admit that to anyone. In any case, every morning she now went through the very human process of brushing her teeth. A unique sensation, to say the least.

She was just rinsing her mouth when the bay doors opened. She turned her head to the sound, but didn't see anyone. It was not uncommon for the doors to do this every once in awhile, given the gel-packs in this section had never been replaced, but as Seven turned her head back to the sink, she heard a sound, a whimper of sorts, coming from what seemed to be an empty corridor. The doors hissed shut.

In undeniable Human fashion, she spit once into the sink and wiped dampness from the corners of her mouth with her hand. Striding purposely across the bay, she spoke as she went. "Computer, open doors and hold." The bay doors opened again, and Seven's eyes met dark pools of terror, as the woman on the floor backed up tightly against the corridor wall.

Seven knew just as well as anyone that Marika's time on board Voyager was coming to a close, but she also knew she had spent about as much time being distracted by thoughts of Marika as Marika had spent avoiding her. Nevertheless, it was apparently falling to her (Chakotay would say the spirits had intervened) to provide some sort of comfort to Willkarah Marika. The irony was not lost on her; she knew the Doctor would be pleased.

Seven dropped to one knee and stretched out her hand. "Marika?" The woman jumped and reared back, eyes wide and unfocused.

"No. Do. . .not touch. . ." Seven pulled her hand back, but remained on the floor.

The dark eyes focused then. "Yes, Marika. I am Bajoran."

Seven could only agree. "Yes." She tapped her commbadge and spoke very softly. "Seven to the Doctor. Medical emergency in Cargo Bay Two." She closed the link before the Doctor could respond. She knew he would check lifesigns in the bay and would know.

Marika's eyes looked past Seven into the dimly-lit bay. She rose unsteadily to her feet and Seven carefully avoided touching her as she followed her up. Marika walked into the bay, her eyes drawn to the soft green glow of the regeneration alcoves. Seven stayed just behind her, ready to catch her if she were to fall, which she looked on the verge of doing.

Marika turned to Seven. "You. . .are Borg."

"No."

"You are Borg. I am Borg. We are Borg. Oh, please, we are Borg." She stretched her arm out and stumbled. Despite Marika's warning, Seven grabbed her and held her steady. To her utter surprise, Marika grasped her hand tightly. "Oh, please, we are Borg." She squeezed Seven's hand, her knees finally giving way. Taking her weight, Seven guided her gently to the floor and remained there with her, even though her body was unaccustomed to anything other than standing or sitting.

Seven knew she was not good at providing comfort, becoming increasingly uneasy with the fact that it was Marika who required the comforting just now. As she held the dying woman, trying to determine her next course of action, a jumble of. . .feelings washed over her, unidentifiable as a whole, yet easily identified individually. Grief. Guilt. Fear. Sorrow. As a ruthless companion to this emotional gumbo came personal memories, ticking past her mind's eye in rapid succession.

With absurd clarity, Seven knew her moment had come. Emotions were not irrelevant, never had been, no matter how many times she had loudly proclaimed it so. All had design and purpose, all demanded their pound of flesh, and-the biggest absurdity of all-all would do so repeatedly for the rest of her life, whether she shouted their irrelevance or not. Into this clarity, she voiced agreement to Marika's plea.

"Yes, we are Borg."

In the quiet that followed, Seven sat on the floor of the bay and began to rock the Bajoran woman who hated her for what she had done to her, unable to think of anything else to do or say.

Suddenly Marika was struggling to get out of her arms. Seven released her and sat back, certain the woman did not want her last touch to be from the woman who had forced her back to the Borg. She wondered what was taking the Doctor so long.

But it wasn't like that. Marika sat up across from Seven and met her eyes with lucidity. "No. We are. . .not Borg." Her voice was weak and her breathing labored, but her countenance was determined. "I am Willkarah Marika. I. . .am a Bajoran Starfleet officer. You. . .are Annika Hansen, a Human aboard Voyager.

"What you did on that planet? I told you I understood why, but. . .I didn't really, until now. You did it because you were frightened, and you turned to the only thing that did not frighten you: the Borg. We were. . .so busy trying to conjure up a way to escape the Borg. . .we never gave one thought to how you might be feeling." She took a ragged breath and continued. "The darkness, the open fire, the food-the very things that were...giving us comfort and helping us to remember-were scaring you to death. None of us stepped forward to help you. If anyone. . .is to blame for what happened, it was the three. . .of us." Marika took a deep, shuddering breath, but her gaze never faltered. Another breath, shallower.

"Prophets forgive me, Seven. I'm. . .so. . .sorry. For. . .everything." Her eyes dropped shut, and Seven thought for a moment she would open them again. Instead, she collapsed, no longer conscious. Seven caught her, registering physical responses to emotional stimuli that she could not control. A surge of adrenaline, increased heart rate, filled sinuses, and a strange ache in her chest. Grief. Guilt. Fear. Sorrow.

* * *

The Doctor arrived in the bay, half afraid of what he might find. However, the sight before him was nothing like what he had been imagining.

Indelibly imprinted upon his holographic matrix would be the image of Seven-of-Nine, folded on the floor in the middle of the bay, quietly weeping over the body of a woman who had told him only days before that she expected him to make sure Seven did not attend the ceremony she had planned.

His opinion of Marika gentled and he knew without knowing that in her last moments, she had been able to forgive the woman she had been so very determined to hate.

"Walk with the Prophets, Willkarah Marika," he whispered, bringing his hand to his right ear in a gesture of respect.

As for Seven, he knew that whatever had transpired here would irrevocably change her and that no amount of silly social lessons would ever be able to teach her what she must have learned tonight.

He approached with care, activating every bit of bedside manner his programming could offer.