The
Mermaid ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I know her like I know my own mind. Better, perhaps. She thinks I am a child. The others think I am a monster. All of them are wrong. This new collective aboard Voyager… they are inefficient and impractical, and yet they thrive. Perhaps their incessant discussion, contemplation, revision, exploration… perhaps these things bring an innate order, much like the unending motion of atoms in what appears to be a solid object. She requires motion. Even on the bridge she is animated, rising from the Captain’s chair effortlessly and purposefully, with discipline and with clear intent. She moves like this through her duties and through her life. She is arrogant, she craves control and order. She believes that she knows what the best course of action is for any given situation. She solicits the opinion of others, but only in order to fully explain her decision afterwards. She is the Captain. Her confidence and the strength of her character endow her training and experience with the certainty of command. Her passion for life is only eclipsed by her passion for Voyager, and that pales in comparison with her passion for Starfleet, for its high ideals and hopes. She is my Captain. I never conceived that it was possible to experience so many emotions for one individual. So many conflicting feelings seize me when I am in her presence; irritation and admiration, tenderness and violent anger, desire and despair. She is my Captain. She cannot always be my friend. And whatever occurs, wherever we journey, she will never be more than that. I should accept this. The desire for an equal and intimate relationship is unproductive. My efforts to deepen our current friendship will fail. I am aware of this, every day I am made aware of this. Why do I resist? Why do I choose to seek her out, to comfort and support her despite the irrelevance of my actions? I knew the Doctor was concerned about her recent behavior, I knew that by mentioning her interest in sailing the Vashrim Legate would endeavor to produce an appropriate and sufficient vessel for her if she chose to transport to the planet for shore leave. I knew she would allow me to assist her, and that the chances of gaining her approval to accompany her were significantly increased if I decided to appear differently than I would on Voyager. Ensign Kim’s pupils had dilated and Lieutenant Torres had been violent toward Ensign Paris’s open-mouthed reaction when they observed the changes in my appearance. I did not realize that her appearance would change as well. It was not her garments, it was her demeanor that I had not accounted for. She was subdued, her blue-grey eyes were empty of the intensity that I had grown accustomed to observing. She was preoccupied by her thoughts throughout the voyage, and she would speak absently about her family and their recreational activities. I engaged her in conversation about our common interest in Astronomy, and we even discussed Earth landmarks. She inquired about my desire to view the replica of the mermaid from an ancient Earth myth. I did not want to tell her the truth. Yet, I did not know why I wanted to hide it from her. There is so much about this new self that I cannot understand, I had so much control in the Collective. There were no surprises and no internal conflict. My existence was simple, uncomplicated… efficient. Humanity is complex, but if the Captain is to be believed, the complications make life richer. I have yet to verify this. Individuality only seems to come with pain. When I was engaged in “baby-sitting” Naomi Wildman, she requested a bedtime story and chose the myth of “The Little Mermaid” because she theorized that I would enjoy it. “She’s just like us, Seven.” Naomi proclaimed innocently. “Indeed?” I had replied as she clambered up into my lap. I had been told that young humans often did this and did not object to her behavior. Naomi Wildman had seemed gratified and placed her arms around my neck. I accessed the information on the PADD she handed me, reading the myth aloud. “See, the little mermaid didn’t know anything about Earth, but she was still willing to go there.” Naomi Wildman explained. “Because of love.” I corrected. “Well, we’re going to Earth because of love too.” Naomi replied. “I love my mommy and I want her to be happy. Even though I don’t think I would be too happy on Earth.” “Why have you reached that conclusion?” I asked. “Because you and Neelix and the Captain wouldn’t be with me anymore.” Naomi explained softly. “You would go away.” “You would not be alone. Your mother, and your father, would be there.” “Yes.” Naomi replied. She did not seem adequately comforted. “I would always be your friend.” I said. Naomi Wildman smiled and tightened her arms around me. “But you would be alone. I don’t like being alone. I don’t want you to be alone.” I had not wanted to tell her that I was always alone, and that our location would not alter that. Perhaps it is what humans refer to as poetic justice, to have been the cause of so much suffering and in the final analysis, to be alone, part of nothing, part of no one. I have no home. No people. I have no future, no destiny, any more than a bubble or a whirlpool in a current has a destiny. I am like foam on the sea, like the foam that the mermaid in the myth became… “Mermaids have no immortal soul and can never have one, unless they can obtain the love of a human being. Their chance of obtaining eternal life depends upon others.” There is nothing eternal for me. What is Borg in me seeks perfection. What is human in me seeks something else, something that I cannot identify. But on that vessel, on that alien sea, in that moment I felt as if I had obtained it, that I had grasped what I could not verbalize, that I understood what my humanity, my individuality, had been seeking secretly, despite myself. My next course of action is uncertain, to love her in silence is no longer acceptable, to inform her of my feelings would be futile. But not irrelevant. Why am I compelled to make all my feelings known to her, and only to her, each and every time? Why am I seated in this holodeck, engaged in an activity that I am obviously ill-equipped to pursue? I had thought that art was irrelevant, that music was irrelevant. But they are activities that allow me to alleviate the pressure of my emotions, to express the pain of individuality. I close my eyes and images assault me. The wooden vessel bobbing on the blue-grey sea, her face against my lips, her expression when we returned to Voyager… she had walked to the turbolift and glanced back at me. We had gazed at each other, awkwardly, like strangers. Part of me longed to say something, any foolish words that would make her stay a moment longer. Another part of me was disdainful of my emotions. And yet another part of me wanted to run. But before I could do anything, she turned and strode into the lift, in control again, and I knew she was no longer thinking of me. She withdrew, as she always did after I overstepped my boundaries. I had not seen her for Velocity and I had not instigated any philosophical discussions though I had much to ask her. She cared for the drones… the former drones that I had violated; she was occupied by seeing to their welfare. It was Naomi Wildman who came to Astrometrics, believing that I needed the company of family, quietly observing me work and then taking me to the mess hall for nutrition I had not required. I wanted to comforted, cared for, but perhaps this child’s attentions were the best I could have expected. Perhaps it was all I could hope for. “Irrelevant.” I said, suddenly surprised to hear my own voice. I checked my internal chronometer, the period allocated for my use of the holodeck would expire in 15 minutes. The painting I had created was not sufficient. It was technically perfect, but the Captain would most likely judge it as flat. It had nothing of the “soul” she often praised Da Vinci’s work for. Why was I pursuing this? It was all futile. I clenched my fist and forced my thoughts to order themselves, to make my mind blank as Commander Tuvok had once explained. I tried to take all the questions, doubts, and fears that were spinning inside me and force them into a container. My mind is full of containers, neatly stacked like those in Cargo Bay 2 so that they do not inconvenience anyone. I concentrate on the painting. Images are simple; they can be organized and duplicated. And when I am finished, the sketchpads and canvases can be stacked neatly in containers. Words are more difficult, especially when they are spoken. They are like my humanity, destructive and unpredictable, powerful and clumsy… insufficient. I longed for this gift to exceed the Captain’s expectations, to be deemed relevant. But I did not know how to make it so. Perhaps, this was all I could do. Perhaps this would have to be enough. Slowly, I picked up a brush and began to write.
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