mother had brought her out here (she could not believe she had not recalled that) to smell the fresh harvest. It had been so long ago, and Seven had literally been a different person back then, yet the recollections came hammering back to her with such force that they nearly knocked her off her feet. As it was, she was barely able to keep standing, and she leaned against the grav car in order to steady herself.
And Seven was a child once more, and she was looking up at her mother, who had the most magnificent smile in the world. Erin Hansen beamed at her child. In Seven’s memory, Erin was a gigantic woman, although intellectually she understood that was not truly the case. Nevertheless that was how she remembered her: a woman of boundless energy and patience, well suited to her father, who was the epitome of strength and invincibility. They would always be there for Seven, of that there was no question. And on that particular day, brought back by the smell of wheat, her mother laughed and said, “Someday, Anni, all this will be yours.”
She was being facetious, of course, but young Annika hadn’t understood that at the time. “Oooooo,” Annika had said, rather taken with the thought that someday all she could see would be hers. Instantly she started contemplating the things she could do with a vast field of wheat once it was permanently in her possession. An impressive number of possibilities crossed her mind, and the smell of the wheat simply added to it, making the field seem rife with opportunity.
Her mother was long gone, as was her father, but the wheat field was still here. She had no idea how many crops had been harvested in this place. The principles of crop rotation more or less guaranteed that wheat hadn’t been growing there for an unbroken string of years. But it was here, now, and so was she, and she was overwhelmed with a sadness and longing for a time that could never, ever be again.
That was when the tears that she had not remotely expected began to flow. They streaked down her face, trickles at first, but then copiously. She wanted to cut off her nose so she didn’t have to smell the wheat anymore, but it was too late. The memory was far too strong. It was entrenched now, and nothing short of finding a shovel and staving in the side of her skull would put an end to it. As each moment passed, the head-staving option seemed increasingly appealing.
“Damn them,” she whispered, and she wasn’t sure if she was referring to her parents or the Borg or both. She tried to wipe away the tears with the back of her hand, but there seemed to be plenty more where those came from. “Damn them,” she said again.
“You shouldn’t curse.”
Seven jumped slightly and let out a startled gasp. Once upon a time, such a reaction would have been unthinkable. Nothing surprised her; she would simply stare at the new piece of data, whatever it might be, and then mentally catalogue it and go on about her business. Jumping, crying out—these were all extremely human reactions and thus unusual for her.
When she turned, her hands automatically went into a defensive position, as if she were concerned that whoever had just spoken was about to attack her. She remained like that, her hands frozen in a sideways chopping manner.
A child was looking up at her. It was a small, blond-haired girl with a quizzical expression and an utter lack of anything threatening about her. She didn’t seem to be aware of the fact that Seven was in a defensive posture, probably because it never occurred to her that anyone could—under any circumstance—feel the least bit intimidated by her. “That’s what my mother says, anyway. That you shouldn’t curse.”
For a moment she saw herself through the child’s eyes, seeing the girl’s bewilderment at Seven’s unusual pose. Hesitantly the girl held up her own hand in something approximating an attempted handshake, clearly thinking that was Seven’s intent. Seven had to force herself to relax and slowly she lowered her own right hand and shook the girl’s tentatively. It felt gentle and loose in her own grasp; the child had not yet learned the technique of solidly and firmly gripping someone’s hand. “I’m Seven. Your mother is very wise.”
“Thank you,” said the child politely. “And that’s a very unusual name.”
A simple “Yes, it is” seemed the