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Seven of Nine has done a great deal of adapting over her years on Voyager . Some things have been easier to adjust to than others.
Tom Paris’ proclivity for ancient Earth cultural mores is not one of them.
But Seven has come to the conclusion that she needs to take the opportunities provided to her onboard when it comes to opportunities to extend the educational horizons of the children in her care. And given limited data related to Brunali, Norcadian and Wysanti cultural customs – courtesy of the Borg’s elimination of data deemed irrelevant – Seven has decided that engaging with the cultural heritage of the majority of Voyager ’s crew, and herself, for that matter, is an appropriate alternative.
It’s just another kind of adapting.
This is why today, they are in the holodeck at an event that Lieutenant Paris has described as a ‘sock hop’.
***
When Mezoti had enquired as to what relationship the dance had to socks, he did not have an answer for her. She’d decided to put her own spin on it, and in the two weeks leading up to the big event she’d spent every free moment knitting socks: matching pairs for the five of them: Mezoti, Azan, Rebi, Icheb and Seven. They’re a shade of teal-blue not dissimilar from the science uniform, which Icheb had helped her pick out.
The boys had been delighted. Seven had drawn on her expanding understanding of graciousness and thanked her, running a thumb over the slightly knobbly material. ‘You have produced these in an impressively compressed timeframe.’
‘Thank you, Seven.’ She’d tugged on her hand and led her over to the replicator, showing her the dress designs she’d picked out. ‘We can match our whole outfits, if you’d like.’
Seven had paused, and nodded. ‘All right.’
Mezoti had beamed.
***
Seven walks into the holodeck flanked by the twins on one side and Mezoti and Icheb on the other. The crew have become used to seeing this odd family unit moving around the ship together. Mezoti had taken it upon herself to dress and style everyone for the occasion, following consultation with Paris. The boys are in white shirts and dark pants with their hair slicked back in ways that Mezoti agonised over for a long, long time. Arm-in-arm with Seven, Mezoti’s white circle skirt – speckled with teal polka dots – brushes against her guardian’s matching one, both fluffed up by several layers of petticoats. They both wear their hair loose and curled, with carefully placed headbands. Seven is glad that she organised a replacement in astrometrics for the day. Party preparations were much more laborious than she had ever imagined.
That said, Mezoti’s effort seems to have paid off. The host himself compliments their outfits, and Mezoti basks in the glory of the captain echoing the sentiment.
‘You should convince Seven to let her hair down more often,’ Captain Janeway says with a wink, before moving away to the next group of guests.
Seven leans down to Mezoti. ‘It is an idiom. She does not mean that you should literally encourage me to wear my hair down, merely that I would perhaps benefit from… setting aside formalities and conventions.’ Seven straightens back up, as if to shake of the very idea.
‘I think maybe she does mean it literally,’ Mezoti insists. ‘Your hair is so pretty, Seven.’
Seven touches her hair in an unusually self-conscious gesture. ‘It will suffice. Come. We should find you a suitable dancing companion.’ She looks around. Rebi and Azan seem to be happy talking to Lieutenant Paris – probably about automobiles – and Icheb is making a valiant attempt at dancing with Crewman Tal. ‘Ensign Kim, perhaps.’
Mezoti lights up. ‘Harry? Do you think he will?’
‘I’m confident he will be happy to assist.’
When they spot Ensign Kim, he is leaning on a pillar and tapping his toes along to the music. ‘Oh, hi there, Seven. Hey, Mezoti.’
‘Ensign Kim.’ Seven clears her throat, recalling the captain’s words. ‘ Harry . Mezoti has something she would like to ask you.’
He looks interested. ‘Well, sure.’
Mezoti bites her lip, looking down, then forces herself to look him in the eyes. ‘Ensign Kim, you play a musical instrument, is that correct?
‘Yes, the clarinet.’ He looks a little puzzled. ‘Is that your question.’
‘No. Well, yes. But I have another one. Two,’ she amends. If Ensign Kim had looked up at that moment, he would have seen the tiny shadow of a smile on Seven’s lips. ‘You have a good sense of rhythm and beat due to your hobby?’
‘I guess I do?’
‘Good. Would you like to dance with me?’
He grins. ‘I’d love to.’
Seven sits back and watches them. Watches the twins. Watches Icheb. She doesn’t have the best grasp on what a normal childhood looks like, but she’s fairly sure, from conversations with parents – like Commander Tuvok and Ensign Wildman – and those who aren’t parents but whose wisdom she trusts – like Captain Janeway and the Doctor – that joy and a little silliness are important factors. She is happy to engage the services of others to provide those elements where she finds herself lacking.
The music is picking up pace, and Mezoti must have noticed some other pairs doing spins on the dancefloor because Seven hears her call ‘Twirl me!’ And Seven watches her twirl around and around and around and then she disappears from view. Everything seems to go silent, even as the music keeps on playing. She knows something is wrong, even before Harry yells ‘ Seven , hurry ’ and she does. She moves so quickly, dropping to her knees beside Mezoti where she lies on the ground, her skirts puffing out around her.
‘Mezoti, can you hear me?’ Seven leans close, trying to gauge precisely what has happened. Her heart is racing, nanoprobes no match for the incredibly Human adrenaline spike she is experiencing. ‘Mezoti.’
Mezoti’s eyes open. ‘I fell,’ she mumbles. ‘I felt dizzy and I fell.’
There is a ring of people around them – respectfully not crowding them, but it’s still too much for Mezoti, Seven thinks. Or perhaps it’s just too much for her. She slips her arms underneath Mezoti and her billowing dress and initiates a site-to-site transport to sickbay for the two of them.
‘Seven! Mezoti! What a lovely surprise. Here to escort me to the dance?’
Seven shakes her head, placing Mezoti carefully down on a biobed. ‘Doctor, Mezoti collapsed. She said she was dizzy. I’m worried there’s something wrong with her cortical node.’ It must be. Mezoti’s implants are rejecting. Her Borg nature is destroying her free, organic potential. The childhood that Seven is trying to learn how to provide her is over. Seven isn’t sure that she can recall how to breathe.
The hologram snaps into action. ‘Let’s have a look.’ He retrieves a medical tricorder and begins running it over her. ‘What was she doing when she collapsed?’
‘Dancing.’
‘Well, I suppose that would be an appropriate thing to be doing at a dance.’ He looks at the readout on the tricorder. ‘All her implants seem to be in perfect working order. I’ll run an organic tissue scan.’
‘I need answers, Doctor,’ Seven says, wringing her hands. It’s not a gesture she’s accustomed to making. But Mezoti is so very still, even if she is conscious. She was so full of life moments ago, and now she is more subdued than Seven can remember seeing her since her deassimilation. She finds it… disconcerting.
There’s a slight smile on the Doctor’s face. Seven is unsure if that means good news or merely the satisfaction of an answer discovered. ‘Well?’
‘I’m happy to say that it’s nothing to do with her implants whatsoever. It’s a minor condition that affects many Norcadian adolescents when they get over excited – not dissimilar in symptoms from the Human affliction vertigo.’
‘Vertigo,’ Seven repeats.
‘Yes. A hypospray and perhaps a little lie-down to get her bearings and Miss Mezoti will be good as new.’
‘She’s fine,’ Seven says, disbelieving. ‘Are you certain, Doctor?’
‘Absolutely. She’s a tough cookie. All that dancing must have just been a little more than her nervous system could take.’
He presses the hypospray against Mezoti’s neck, and the tension she held seems to fall away and her eyelids flutter.
‘And how about you, Seven?’
‘I am unharmed.’
‘Are you sure? Some mothers need to be treated for anxiety when their children are ill. It’s very stressful.’
‘I am not a mother.’
‘No?’ He looks down at where Seven has moved to stroke Mezoti’s hair back from her face where it has escaped from the headband. ‘Well, so be it.’