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Summary: Takes place after the events of "Infinite Regress". When B'Elanna
Torres has a disturbing nightmare about Seven of Nine, she decides to play a
cruel trick on the former drone. But things don't work out the way she
planned.

Warning: This story contains violence, coarse language and sex between two
women.

Disclaimer: No profit is intended in the writing of this story. Star Trek:
Voyager and its characters are the property of Paramount and Viacom.

Thanks to Michelle (for clearing up a matter of the heart), Dragonchild (for
a translation into Klingon), and Meagan (for her work as beta reader).

Feedback should be sent to [email protected] Archiving and downloading is
welcome as long as you credit the author.

"Love does not exist for a Klingon, only different forms of combat." - M'nea

"From 'Women Warriors at the River of Blood," by Rthar, daughter of Noven.
4th Federation Standard edition (SD 2348) translated by Ada Ling, with
additional annotations by Curzon Dax. A Beijing Unicentral Database Project.

Star Trek - Voyager: Klingon Dreams (F/F)
by Odon

Her back struck the bed hard, making it shake.

"Ouch," said the form lying next to her. A tousle of brown hair poked out
from beneath the sheets.

B'Elanna ignored him. Staring at the ceiling, she let the tension of the
sixteen-hour shift ebb out of her, fatigue seeping from taut muscles into the
mattress beneath. That vinculum had been a real bastard to get a handle on.
Every time she thought it had been shut down it would regenerate and come
back at her. But she'd won in the end. Resistance was fucking futile as far
as B'Elanna Torres was concerned.

"So," came a casual voice. "When are you and Seven getting married?"

"Don't start Tom," B'Elanna muttered, her tone warning of impending bloodshed
and broken bones.

"All that mutual antagonism and snarling at each other. I should have known
it was just flirting."

B'Elanna grit her teeth, determined not to be goaded. Her cheek still tingled
from the dermal regenerator. 'That Borg petaQ!'

"I mean, I remember when you bit me on the Sikari planet. Look what that led
to."

B'Elanna whipped the pillow out from beneath her and hit the smug bastard,
hard. Yelping, Tom Paris leaped out of bed. Her pillow bounced off his head,
rapidly followed by his own pillow, the sheets, bedside objects, and anything
else B'Elanna could get her hands on. Tom dived for cover behind the couch.

"And you can stay there!"

"Isn't this Klingon foreplay?" asked the voice from behind the couch.

B'Elanna gave a disgusted snort, turned on her side, and went to sleep.

* * *

She was in Engineering but something was different, tense.

The Borg faced her across the room. She looked like Seven but the words were
alien, guttural, thick with sexual hunger. "Do-raq mee-roch!"

B'Elanna raised her hands into an attack posture; fingers ready to grasp or
claw. She could smell the Borg's excitement, the heady scent of pheromones
and sweat. Even from five meters away, B'Elanna knew Seven was wet.

"QaneHQo'," she snarled back. "QamuS!" The Klingon words came easily, like
they always did in dreams.

"jIH dok," said Seven, those ice-crystal eyes stripping away B'Elanna's
uniform, her underclothes, cutting straight to the soul, leaving her naked
and exposed to them all. The sheer arrogance of what Seven was proposing
infuriated her, a dark rage boiling up from beneath. "I am not mating with
you, Borg!"

"Resistance is futile," Seven replied, her voice cold once more, like the
emotionless drone she was. She stood at the top of a vertical Jeffries tube,
looking down at them, PADD in hand. Like an entomologist studying insects,
she watched her and Tom as they made love. B'Elanna gripped the bars of the
ladder as Tom took her from behind, roaring in fury. Chased her out onto the
bridge, blood oozing from the bite mark on her cheek.

Chakotay was there with B'Elanna's mother, going over the sensor logs. "I am
not going to bond with her!" she shouted at them. "I do not have to make her
my be'nal! Traditional Klingon crap!"

Captain Janeway sat in her chair, the detested Borg at her side. She looked
at Seven with eyes full of love. A gentle hand stroked that perfect cheek.
B'Elanna felt her gut clench at their intimacy; she gripped her bat'telh
tighter.

Seven raised an exoskeleton-covered hand, mimicking the Captain's gesture.
Metal-tipped fingers brushed those auburn strands, red like lava fire. Twin
assimilation tubules punched into Janeway's neck.

B'Elanna watched in horror as black lines advanced rapidly across the
Captain's face. Janeway's head turned toward her. "Seven of Nine is a member
of this crew. You will learn to work together. That is an order." Her voice
was cold, emotionless. She was Borg now.

In rage B'Elanna swung her bat'telh at Seven. The sword jarred in her hands
as it struck its target, the blow slicing the drone clean in two. The two
halves instantly rejoined, conduits snaking over the body like bloodworms.
She hacked at the Borg in frustration but the abomination continued to adapt,
sprouting implants like a biomechanical Hydra.

"I want this thing out of my engine room!" B'Elanna screamed. The others
stared at her dumbfounded. What was wrong with the stupid idiots! Couldn't
they see how dangerous she was?

"You have neglected to remove the autonomous regeneration sequencers," Seven
intoned.

B'Elanna swung the blade at her head, those too perfect features splitting
apart to reveal what lay beneath, what B'Elanna had always known was there,
the infinite ranked alcoves of the Collective.

* * *

B'Elanna woke up shivering, trying to clutch non-existent bedsheets to her
chest. The mattress underneath her was damp with sweat.

Even though the lights were off she could just make out Tom on the couch,
sheets wrapped around him. She could hear the slow, relaxed rhythm of his
breathing.

"Computer, state location of Seven of Nine," B'Elanna rasped. Her throat was
dry.

"Seven of Nine is in Cargo Bay Two."

B'Elanna slipped off the bed, moving quietly so as not to wake her
boyfriend. She located the cabinet by touch. A tap on the front made the
drawer hiss open.

B'Elanna didn't have much left from her time with the Maquis, just the
clothes she'd been wearing when they'd beamed over to Voyager. But the knife
had been in her boot at the time. The handle was made of priceless Jemonite
stone, its shining blade marked by tooth-like serrations. Beautiful yet
deadly, like Seven of Nine. Not a Klingon weapon but Cardassian; she'd taken
it off the body of a dead Gul.

Taking the knife in her hand, B'Elanna walked out the door.

* * *

It was cold in the corridor. She didn't like the cold.

B'Elanna's bare feet padded softly on the deck as she walked toward the
turbolift, her crimson nightgown brushing wraith-like against her legs. Both
arms were folded tightly across her chest to hold in the heat, the knife
hidden under her left armpit, blade to the rear. She could return to her
quarters and get something warmer, but she didn't want to risk waking Tom.
She did not want to answer his questions.

Voyager was on night shift and things were quiet. She saw only one crewman,
giving an abstracted nod in reply to his greeting.

In the turbolift B'Elanna closed her eyes, remembering the dream.

* * *

"Lieutenant Torres?"

B'Elanna started awake, swearing as her head struck the open Mees panel.
There was someone else in the Jeffries tube, a familiar yet unwelcome scent.
She could see faint highlights above her eye where light was reflecting off
the ocular implant.

"What is it, Seven?" B'Elanna asked, her voice harsh.

"Captain Janeway said you required my assistance recalibrating the EPS
manifolds. Are you all right, Lieutenant?"

The Chief Engineer rubbed her scalp, frowning in annoyance. She must have
fallen asleep. First the struggle with the vinculum, then hours spent
patching up the damage from the alien attack. There'd be even more to do
tomorrow, once they'd brought the ODN relays back on line. "I . . . I'm
fine. Bad dreams that's all." She slid to one side, tensing instinctively as
the former drone clambered past her. There was a moment of awkward body
contact when Seven's arm brushed against the front of her uniform. A crackle
of static electricity passed between them, making her flinch. With the
memory of the Borg's assault still fresh in B'Elanna's mind, this was too
close for comfort.

Seven removed the manifold cover, her movements precise as always. Nothing
wasted. B'Elanna studied her carefully. If the traumatic events of the past
few days had changed the Borg in any way she couldn't tell.

"Do you have dreams, Seven?"

"Yes." Twin tubules erupted from Seven's left hand and interfaced with the
manifold's subprocessor.

B'Elanna closed and locked the Mees panel. "What of?"

"That is irrelevant."

B'Elanna snorted, turning to climb through the exit hatch.

"When we were crossing the radioactive nebula, the Doctor and I had to run
the ship by ourselves."

The comment came out of nowhere and B'Elanna stopped in surprise. "I
remember."

"You could not, you were in stasis at the time. I began to have . . .
disturbing dreams."

B'Elanna could hear the faint hum of energy conduits, a murmur of
unintelligible conversation in Engineering. Seven continued to work without
looking at her.

"I dreamt that I had been abandoned in the middle of a cold wasteland. There
was snow, ice, tundra - but no birds or animals or other individuals, no-one.
For as far as I could see I was completely alone. I realised then that I
would always be alone."

B'Elanna didn't know what to say. She'd never heard the arrogant ex-drone
talk about her feelings to anyone, least of all to her. Acting instinctively,
B'Elanna reached out and slid her arms around the young woman's shoulders.

"Lieutenant Torres, I cannot work with you restraining me in that fashion!"
Seven snapped, irritation clear in her voice.

"I was just . . . well sorry!" She let go abruptly, giving Seven a slight
shove in the process. The Klingon turned and clambered out of the hatch,
growling under her breath. 'Cold wasteland! Probably her own heart!'

* * *

Cargo Bay Two.

B'Elanna hesitated outside the doors, looking both ways before entering.

It was dark inside; the lights were kept on half-power to conserve energy.
B'Elanna could see the curves and lines of cargo containers, stacked
equipment, biological specimens shining faintly in their carboplex domes. To
the right a green light flickered, alien amongst the blacks and grays.

"Seven?" B'Elanna whispered. If the Borg were awake she'd have to make some
excuse for being here . . .

B'Elanna could feel her heart thumping in her chest, broadcasting her
presence to anyone listening.

"Is anyone there?" Louder this time.

'No-one here but us drones.'

"Computer, lock cargo bay doors. Authorisation Torres Gamma-Nine."

Seven of Nine was regenerating in her alcove. B'Elanna approached her
cautiously, moving from one patch of darkness to another as if stalking an
animal. Without realising it she'd crouched low, nostrils flaring as they
drew in air, scenting for danger. The knife was in her right hand now, thumb
on the crossguard, the cargo bay lights raising dim points off the serrated
edge. A brief pause at the foot of the alcove. The Borg was like a statue, a
beautiful goddess imprisoned in a technological cage. The marriage of
feminine perfection and Borg cybernetics looked obscene to the hybrid
engineer.

B'Elanna stepped up onto the alcove base so that her face was level with
Seven's. She leaned close, their noses touching, staring at those closed eyes
for any sign that the Borg was aware of her presence. The lids flickered
slightly in REM sleep.

She placed her blade against the Borg's swan-like neck.

* * *

Seska had just about shoved her knife up B'Elanna's nose.

"So you're another ex-Starfleet." The words were spat out through a sneer.
"Well that's just what we need. All you lot know is how to make the
subroutines run on time."

"I got kicked out of the Academy," B'Elanna had shot back, trying to mask
the tremble in her voice. The Bajoran's eyes were dark, cold as the blade
against her cheek.

"Oh, so you can't make the subroutines run on time." Nobody had laughed; few
were even paying much attention. The newcomer could either handle herself or
she couldn't. The Maquis wasn't a nursery and it certainly wasn't the
Federation. You either coped or left or someone phasered you in the back
before you could get everyone else killed.

"Well listen to me, you half-breed bitch. Starfleet people are worse than
fucking useless. You think you need starships and replicators and endless
bloody protocols to fight a war. Well we Bajoran's are the only ones cut out
for this kind of warfare; we've been fighting the spoonheads for over fifty
years. And you know something, turtlehead--"

B'Elanna didn't wait to find out what Seska thought she knew. She drove her
fist into the Bajoran's face and further corrugated her nose. It had taken
five men to haul the two of them off each other.

B'Elanna was a qualified engineer but there were no ships for her to work
on, despite what she'd been told by the Maquis recruiters. So for the first
few weeks she carried a phaser rifle instead. When there were phasers
there were times when all she had was a length of pipe. Armed or not they
spent the whole time training. For twelve hours a day, seven days a week all
they did was contact drills, ambush drills, electronic and biochemical
warfare, field medicine, living off the land. As Seska had pointed out there
were no holodecks, it was all real slogging through swamp water up to her
chin with a backpack full of burnt-out power rods, the Bajoran Special
Intelligence Section instructors firing disrupters over her head and the InI
bugs crawling all over her face and getting into her ears and mouth and
nostrils. Then when she was so weary she had to hold her eyes open with her
fingers, having to absorb a lecture on Non-Compatible Systems Conversion
involving the installation of Cardassian Ground Fire-Support Systems in
Federation Class Two shuttles, or diagnose and repair a malfunctioning power
regenerator or sensor matrix. Once B'Elanna had spent four hours trying to
pinpoint the fault in a Breen plasma-dump chamber before she realised that
there was nothing wrong with it - the instructors had simply reconfigured
her tricorder.

But for the first time no-one cared if she lost her temper, or didn't fit
in. For the first time the Klingon hybrid felt at home. B'Elanna could work
out her aggression on the long marches and constant drills, lose herself
mentally in the engineering problems presented by adapting civilian
transports of half a dozen origins to interstellar guerrilla warfare. And
when she flattened somebody no-one hauled her up before a tribunal and told
her to seek 'counseling'.

If two people had a serious dispute Chakotay would set up a fighting ring
with them all taking bets on the winner. B'Elanna ended up in there on more
than one occasion, usually with one of the BSIS instructors; former Kohn-Ma
terrorists who didn't like Starfleet any more than Seska did. They tended to
avoid Chakotay though, when they found out how well he could throw a punch.

"She'll do," Chakotay had said, after B'Elanna was hauled out of the ring
with all the fingers on her right hand broken and blood streaming out of her
nose. "If she learns to keep her temper."

Seska had looked down at her unconscious opponent and said only, "We'll see."

A week later they were planet hopping by interskiff to some M-class rock
called Novena IV, though B'Elanna didn't find out the name until long
afterwards. Just two hours after beamdown she was lying in the undergrowth
waiting to kill someone for the first time in her life. It was supposed to
be a defining moment for a Klingon.

She was scared to death.

Their target was a Cardassian articulated troop carrier, fully shielded,
patrolling the main transit corridor between Terlak Gena and its thermal
transfer station. The vehicle was supposed to travel a different route each
time but they'd gotten careless, fording across a shallow part of the river
in order to get back to base twenty minutes earlier. The Maquis were hiding
in the tanglegrowth over a hundred metres away, thermal signatures masked by
the t'ini vines radiating the day's heat from their sap. Earlier B'Elanna
had helped bury a massive charge of explosives in the river bed; a 'land
mine' Chakotay called it. A remnant of Earth's violent past. It seemed stupid
to B'Elanna; there was no means of activating the bomb if the vehicle didn't
run over the exact spot at which they'd placed the pressure detonator.
Chakotay had pointed out that there was no electronic signature for the
Cardassians to pick up either.

Ten hours, waiting. She hadn't got any proper sleep in weeks, but every time
B'Elanna started to nod off Seska would slap her on the back of the head.
Even so the explosion had taken B'Elanna by surprise. She'd been staring at
the river but her mind was elsewhere, a waking dream about warm fires and
banana pancakes, then the blast jerked her awake and Chakotay was shouting
GO GO GO DAMMIT! and they were up and running, pounding and stumbling across
a hundred metres of rocks and prickly vine. Even with her Klingon physiology
it felt to B'Elanna as if her heart was going to pound itself out of her
chest. Though twice her age Chakotay was racing ahead of her, and then she
could feel the hot burning t'ini sap under her feet, smoke and steam in the
air 'no-one could have survived that!' she was thinking but the sound of
disrupter fire was all around her and she hit the deck, crawling along on
her hands and knees like she'd been taught but Seska was standing over her
kicking her in the ass GET UP AND KILL THEM YOU STUPID BITCH! and they were
moving forward in short rushes one covering the other, thermic grenade fire
sweeping over Mendal and burning the flesh away his scream echoing in her
head to be played back in endless nightmares and the whine of the phaser in
her hand that B'Elanna didn't even remember firing; flashes of light from
the support cannon showing the others in jerky strobe movements, a naked
Cardassian conscript running with his mouth open in senseless howling and
the plasma burning on his skin, rolling in the river to quench the pain but
she knew it would burn underwater right down to the bone, Starfleet
regulations on the correct handling of hazardous materials running through
her head: 'Why the hell am I thinking about this NOW?'

B'Elanna didn't even see the Cardassian noncom; she tripped over him instead.

He'd been playing dead in the prickly vines but he was up in an instant, a
combat veteran, the knife in his hand to kill her quickly and silently
without the others noticing. B'Elanna blocked the first blow with her rifle
but he went underneath it and stabbed for the stomach, the point deflecting
off a power pack on her belt. All the unarmed combat training had gone
straight out of her head and she'd struck out blindly, trying to smash his
head in but he just pushed the barrel aside and was on top of her, crushing
her under his weight and the blade against her throat and all B'Elanna could
think was that she'd been in action for less than five minutes and really
fucked up and now she was dead - some Klingon warrior she was. Then the
Cardassian opened his mouth and vomited blood all over her face.

As she pushed the body off her, B'Elanna realised that everything had gone
quiet except for the crackle of burning t'ini and the sound of clapping. It
was Seska, striking the back of her hand against her palm in the Bajoran
manner.

"You're supposed to kill him not have sex with him, but I suppose it's all
the same to you Klingons."

"Fuck you," B'Elanna had replied, and promptly retched into the river,
spewing until she thought both her stomachs would turn inside out.

It wouldn't be the first time Seska would save her life. Only Seska, who'd
later become her best friend, had turned out to be a Cardassian agent.

She knew better than to trust anyone now.

* * *

B'Elanna traced the knife across Seven's throat, watching goosebumps rise on
the pale skin. She leaned close, sniffing the blonde hair, lips brushing
against the star-shaped implant. "So you want to mate with me, do you
Seven?" Her fingers slid across the suprasternal notch, hooking into the
neck of the biosuit and pulling it down. "You wanted to fuck me in front of
the whole engineering shift!" B'Elanna slipped the tip of the thin blade
inside Seven's collar, and began to slice downwards.

"You are so beautiful," B'Elanna whispered, as her knife split apart the
blue dermaplastic. "I bet the captain thinks about making love to you all
the time. She's always spending time with you, touching you, smiling at you.
Her pet Borg. The Captain's Woman you like that don't you, you stuck up
petaQ!"

B'Elanna had to move very slowly to avoid cutting Seven. The biofabric kept
sticking to the skin and had to be pulled away as she worked. Slowly B'Elanna
carved open the front of the Borg's uniform, revealing in short, intimate
stages the soft unblemished flesh of her cleavage. Placing the knife between
her teeth B'Elanna used both hands to ease the biosuit down over the breasts.
They came loose with a soft pop, twin succulent fruits of perfection, the
nipples stiffening in the cold air. B'Elanna couldn't resist flicking her
tongue over them, licking each dun-coloured nipple until they'd extended to
their full length.

She continued her task, her questing blade exposing slanting metal ribs that
melted into the flesh of the Borg's abdomen. B'Elanna scratched one with the
knife, but it made no visible mark. Hands trembling now as she reached the
crotch. What would Janeway say if she caught her at this moment, playing
games with her property? Indulging in forbidden pleasures - Captain's Eyes
Only.

"I've seen you watching us, Seven. Me and Tom." It was difficult now; the
dermaplastic was pulled tight between the Borg's thighs. B'Elanna had to
move with excruciating care, slicing an inch at a time. "Do you touch
yourself as you listen to us loving each other?" Another tiny cut, this time
she pulled it away with her teeth, her nose tantalisingly close to the
puckered lips of the Borg's sex. The painstaking slowness at which she had
to work was driving B'Elanna wild. She hadn't felt this aroused since that
time on Sikari IV. There was a sticky wetness trickling down her thighs,
soaking into her panties. 'Oh Tom, when I get back I'm going to fuck you
'til your blood screams!'

B'Elanna realised that she couldn't make Seven completely naked. There was
no way of getting the biosuit down past her boots. But she was fine the way
she was. 'What will that stuck-up Borg think when she wakes up and finds
herself half-naked? She'll think she's been sleepwalking again!'

"You look like a complete idiot," B'Elanna said, sneering up at the
quiescence blonde. Maybe she could con Harry into going to the cargo bay at
the same time as Seven's regeneration cycle finished. That would be
hilarious!

'All hail the perfect Borg-enhanced pussy!' On her knees, B'Elanna's face
was level with Seven's vagina, as if worshipping it. She was surprised to
see the Borg's sex glistening in the half-light. 'Do you have wet dreams,
Seven?'

B'Elanna extended her tongue, touching it to a bead of clear fluid that had
formed on the apex of Seven's slit.

"Lieutenant Torres. State your intentions."

"Regeneration cycle complete."

B'Elanna leapt backwards, a lance of pain shooting up through her spine as
she landed hard on her buttocks. She looked up in horror to find Seven's
eyes wide open and looking right at her.

OH SHIT SHIT SHIT SHE'S AWAKE!

B'Elanna scrambled off the alcove base and pulled herself to her feet. There
was a slight click as Seven stepped out from the regenerative mechanism,
only to be stopped by the material bunched tightly around her legs. She
raised an eyebrow. "My uniform is damaged. Explain."

"Uh, that-that was . . . that was just a joke." Oh fuck how could she have
been this stupid?

The Borg stared back at her. How she'd seriously thought she could embarrass
this ice-goddess B'Elanna didn't know. "And the cunnilingus?"

"The . . . what?"

"Cunnilingus - oral stimulation of the vulva or clitoris. I believe that was
what you were about to do with your tongue. Do you wish to copulate with me,
lieutenant?"

"No! I was just . . . I . . . well . . . look just forget it, OK?" B'Elanna
turned and fled the cargo bay as if the kos'karii of Gre'thor were snapping
at her heels.

In the turbolift the half-Klingon stared at the moving light panels and
forced herself to think. It was worse than when Tuvok busted her and Tom
making out on that console. What if Seven reported this to the captain?

"Halt turbolift!"

B'Elanna tried to calm her breathing. This wouldn't do at all. She had to
get a grip on herself.

'I can't let that Borg get the upper hand. She'll be smirking about this all
the way to the Alpha Quadrant.'

"Take me back. I mean . . . Deck Six."

* * *

The dream always goes this way.

She lies naked on the metal slab, as someone has removed the padding from
the biobed. A Klingon warrior does not require comfort. Her back is numb,
her nipples and body hair rise in the chill temperature. Legs lie apart for
examination, exposing herself to the Borg Queen. Seven of Nine stands at the
foot of the bed, hands clasped behind her back, eyebrow raised in cold
contempt. B'Elanna doesn't like the cold.

"You are passionate, insecure, emotion-driven, ruled by your Klingon
biology. It is a weakness."

Tom is sorting through some test tubes; busywork set by the Doctor. He winks
at her, like there is nothing to worry about. But it should be Seven on this
bed; B'Elanna knows that. She has to run a diagnostic on the Borg's cortical
node. Janeway's fancy woman is disobeying orders as usual.

"Take off your clothes and lie down on the table, Borg!" B'Elanna snarls. A
sudden fear if Seven complies she will be lying on top of her, their naked
bodies against each other; what then? It is almost a relief when the Borg
makes no move to obey.

"I will demonstrate," she says in that familiar, arrogant tone. A hand comes
out from behind her back, interlaced by sterile metallic implants. She
places it on B'Elanna's crotch, barely touching. There is a humming sound;
the implants begin to vibrate. The warrior feels the pressure building up in
the nerves between her thighs. The pelvis lifts of its own accord, trying to
rub against that detested Borg technology, demanding assimilation.

"I have calculated the optimal amount of stimulation you can tolerate,
Lieutenant Torres. I can keep you like this for many hours. It would amuse
me."

B'Elanna's spine arches and a deep groan erupts from her mouth. Her legs and
arms are restrained, she pulls against them until the flesh tears - she
smells the blood and it is arousing.

"Touch me!" B'Elanna realises she is begging. A warrior should not beg but
she cannot help it. "Put your fingers inside me! QamuSHa', bangwI'!" The
Klingon words come easily, like they always do in dreams.

Seven's lips twist up in a sneer. They are full and sensuous, demanding
one's kiss. To see them is to lust, to fantasise about them clasped to your
flesh. The nipples strain against her tight biosuit - it conceals nothing.

"Irrelevant. This is for my own research. You are incapable of love. You
wish to be human, but you are only an animal. A slave to your anger and
lust."

And to prove it, she places those lips against B'Elanna's sex, and turns her
into an animal.

* * *

Back in the cargo bay B'Elanna found Seven of Nine sitting on the edge of a
cargo container, removing her boots. The former drone looked up as she
entered. For a second the Klingon faltered before the intensity of those
eyes, the light from the alcove reflected in the pupils, two flickering
green fires.

B'Elanna took a deep breath. "Actually Seven, I do wish to . . . copulate
with you." There was an odd formality to her words, as if proposing
marriage.

"Here?" the Borg asked, as if talking about a routine shield recalibration.

"Sure, why not?" B'Elanna said, a hint of cockiness returning to her voice.

Seven pulled off her tattered uniform as if she was stripping the insulation
from a power conduit. She stood up, indifferent to her own nakedness, and
tossed the biosuit into a waste recycler. B'Elanna felt her eyes drawn to
Seven's breasts. The nipples were still erect, like fresh rosebuds. She had
the sudden urge to taste them again.

The Borg's expression didn't change. "And why should I copulate with you?"

B'Elanna stared at her in surprise that quickly changed to smouldering fury.
It was not the type of question the attractive half-Klingon was used to.
"Well you might actually enjoy it!"

The ex-drone's mouth curled up in a subtle yet definite sneer. "Pleasure is
irrelevant."

She moved towards a clothing locker but B'Elanna quickly stepped into her
path. "What's wrong Seven? Aren't I 'perfect' enough for you? Not up to your
lofty Borg standards?"

"This conversation wastes time. I have duties to perform." An arctic voice
against her Klingon heat.

B'Elanna's lips pulled back over her teeth. "You were willing to 'copulate'
with Harry." Her hand reached up and stroked Seven's cheek, imitating
Janeway in the dream. To her surprise the Borg actually flinched. B'Elanna
continued the movement, sliding her fingers over the star-shaped implant,
tracing the line of the jaw, the hollow of her throat. "The captain said we
should help you . . . explore your humanity." Her hand moved out onto the
slope of the left breast, down the extended length of the nipple, rubbing it
between thumb and forefinger. Seven's lips quivered, just for a millisecond,
but B'Elanna caught it. She stepped close so that the front of her nightie
brushed against the young woman's breasts.

"But I can understand how you might be reluctant . . . nervous."

Seven's pupils were wide; she seemed unable to break B'Elanna's gaze.

"Even a little . . . frightened."

The last part had the desired effect on the egotistical blonde. Her chin
snapped up, eyes flashing with anger. "I am not afraid, Lieutenant Torres!"
B'Elanna felt steely fingers clasp the back of her head and their lips were
abruptly pushed together. There was an intense spasm of fear as B'Elanna
felt that cold exoskeleton touching her neck, remembered black lines
advancing across the Captain's face...

Seven's tongue was pressing against her lips and she opened them to allow
entry. They entwined around each other like lovers; Seven's tongue parting
first to brush against the sharp ridges of B'Elanna's incisors, retreating
then as if panic-stricken.

B'Elanna pursued her relentlessly, forcing her way into Seven's mouth,
chasing the Borg's tongue with her own. She felt Seven pull back and they
released each other, springing apart, their breath coming in short, rapid
pants. With shaking hands B'Elanna yanked the blood-red gown over her head,
while Seven quickly got down on her knees, peeling away underwear soaked
with sweat and vaginal juices. Blonde strands brushed against raven pubic
hair as Seven pulled the damp cloth down to B'Elanna ankles. She stood up,
the panties clasped in her hand like a trophy.

The two naked women stared at each other. For the first time ever B'Elanna
saw uncertainty on the Borg's face, as if she didn't know what the next
stage in the process was supposed to be.

Or maybe not. "I suggest that we engage in mutual oral copulation,
Lieutenant. It would be the most efficient means of achieving orgasm. I will
adopt the superior position."

B'Elanna snorted in derision. "So what else is new?"

B'Elanna refused to have sex on the cold floor, so they opened one of the
cargo containers. Three months ago Neelix had stored some alien seeds in a
biogel tube that hadn't been properly sterilised. The result was an entire
container-load full of thick purple tanglegrass that the Talaxian cook was
dishing out as a highly unappetising stew. B'Elanna had been looking for an
excuse to spoil it for ages.

Seven of Nine watched with bemused impatience as B'Elanna struggled to
unravel the mass of alien plant matter so she could spread it out on the
deck. After five minutes of cursing in Klingon, Spanish and Bajoran she gave
up and dumped the whole lot in one great heap. It sat there like a
multi-tentacled monster from Tom's Captain Proton holonovel.

B'Elanna glared at the Borg, pointing at the distinctly unromantic boudoir.
"I'LL take the superior position, thank you very much. Lie down!"

With an urbane serenity that only served to piss off B'Elanna further, Seven
stretched out on the purple grass, her legs parted unashamedly. Swallowing
to quench a sudden dryness in her throat, B'Elanna lay on her side next to
her, balancing awkwardly on the undulating surface. Placing her cheek on
Seven's thigh, she rolled on top of the young Borg, supporting herself on
her knees and elbows.

There was a pause then, as if this was a moment of truth, a line to be
crossed.

Maybe it was. "Lieutenant Torres, according to my research into human mating
behaviour, infidelity to one's partner is regarded as morally improper."

B'Elanna stared at the mons before her. She was shaved, for efficiency in
hygiene no doubt; B'Elanna could see the blonde stubs where Seven had
thermo-sealed the hair follicles. The lips of her sex were red, swelled out
to conceal her clitoris.

"Your research is done with your hand between your legs," B'Elanna muttered,
and lightly bit into Seven's thigh, feeling the blood filter up through the
epidermis until she could taste it. There was a startled yelp from her
opponent, then B'Elanna felt a sharp pain in her own mid-thigh. She growled
in approval, licking the skin, tasting blood and salt. With slow nips and
tongue strokes B'Elanna worked her way towards the crotch, never taking her
teeth or lips away from the flesh. She could feel Seven reciprocating her
movements, placing gentle kisses where she did, caressing her fingers
lightly across the outer petals, blowing hot breaths onto the mons. At first
B'Elanna though she was simply copying her through inexperience, but then
Seven changed tactics, moving straight to the clit, lengthy and thick due to
B'Elanna's Klingon physiology. Placing her thick lips on the engorged bud,
she began to lick and suck in precisely measured strokes. B'Elanna gave an
evil grin into the pussy before her. The Borg thought that orgasm was the
sole objective, so she selected the most efficient means of achieving it.
She had a lot to learn.

Sliding her thumbs down the wet length of the Borg's slit, B'Elanna parted
it to her hungry gaze. She began to tease the sensitive folds with the very
tip of her tongue. Ternary lungs enabled B'Elanna to pace herself without
stopping for air. She danced her tongue along the valleys and ridges of
Seven's cunt, tracing patterns, infinite spirals, tiny painted waves brought
to life with the artist's brush.

"Just imagine you're polishing a Sacred Orb of the Prophets," Seska had
whispered, and they'd both giggled like children as they clutched each other
in the hold of the ship, B'Elanna stifled by a breast pushed aggressively
into her mouth . . .

Memory of the traitor brought a sudden flare of rage and she intensified her
movements, fingers slipping roughly inside Seven, only to be stopped by the
barrier of an intact hymen. B'Elanna paused for a second, her anger and lust
replaced by a stab of guilt. It disappeared abruptly as she felt Seven of
Nine push what seemed to be an endlessly long tongue inside her. The Borg's
fingers were moving in exactly spaced increments, expert yet awkward,
unpracticed, as if she'd learnt her technique from a manual. Ignoring the
building pressure between her legs, B'Elanna resisted the urge to go faster,
to engage in a race. Moving carefully, like a panther about to strike, she
curled her other hand around the curves of Seven's behind. As B'Elanna
fastened her lips onto Seven's clit, she simultaneously touched an index
finger to the Borg's ass, making her jump in response. B'Elanna pushed her
finger firmly but gently between the tight buttocks, feeling the sphincter
muscles clench instinctively against the invader, then surrender to its
relentless advance. She inserted her digit to the second knuckle, using her
finger and mouth in conjunction. B'Elanna felt Seven trying to copy her
movements. A definite mistake - 'This takes a lot of practice, Borg'. She'd
learnt a bunch of tricks from that bitch Seska, that's for sure. B'Elanna
recited the words of the Bajoran lovemaking poem in her head: 'Tur-besa-cami
so, Tur-besa-se! Tur-mina-cula ta, To rea di!' her body moving in time to
the rhythm.

Deep growls of pleasure erupted from the back of B'Elanna's throat,
deliberately loud so her lover could not avoid hearing them, a sexual
bombardment on both physical and aural levels. Seven was making her own
sounds but they were more like tiny, sharp cries that the Borg could no
longer contain; B'Elanna thought she'd come just listening to her excitement
and helplessness.

'Tur-besa-cami so, Tur-besa-se!'

Seven's caresses were becoming increasingly uncoordinated. B'Elanna pressed
down hard on her face, grinding the pelvis against Seven's nose and lips,
the pain of the ocular implant digging into her thigh only a spur to her
demands. Beneath her mouth the Borg's cunt was steaming, the heady scent
like ambrosia, slaking her thirst greedily on the outpouring of love juices.
There was a lushness to that young virgin body that she wanted to devour,
the blood roared in her ears like the thunder of a distant army. Past and
present, Voyager and Janeway, short-tempered engineer and arrogant
astrometrics officer - they no longer existed, the universe consisted only
of pain and pleasure. She sensed the orgasm swelling up inside the Borg, an
irresistible force and she roared her victory as she brought herself to
climax: "QACHARGH!" - I conquer you! "QA-CHARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH!"

It took a while for other noises to intrude past the sound of her thumping
heart. The hum of Borg alcoves, the click of a biostasis chamber adjusting
its environment. Footsteps passing in the corridor outside. B'Elanna sat up
slowly, enjoying the low temperature for once, letting it cool her body. She
looked over her shoulder at Seven, a wicked smile on her face.

The Borg lay unmoving on the grass mattress, her expression belying her
debauched state. The tightly bound pleat had fallen apart and hair framed
her face, concealing most of the facial implants. She looked like a
frightened child. Tears carved their own course through the sticky wetness
of her cheeks.

B'Elanna was suddenly overcome by an all-too-familiar sense of
self-loathing. It was that detested Klingon side of her, stopping her from
being the gentle lover she wished. She reached out and pulled Seven to her,
rocking her gently as the young woman sobbed onto her shoulder. Unlike the
time in the Jeffries tube, Seven didn't protest.

"It's alright," B'Elanna whispered. "You're not alone any more."

* * *

"She was Cardassian," said B'Elanna. "A spy for the Obsidian Order. She
killed that man just to keep her cover. Others as well."

There was another biosuit in one of the lockers, brown coloured. She helped
Seven put it on, their movements stiff and awkward. After that brief moment
of frightening vulnerability the defenses were once again in place.

"I am unused to the idea of deception. In the Borg there was no possibility
of it, we were all linked to each other's minds. 'Politeness', 'good
manners', - they are supposed to assist me in interacting with others yet
only increase the potential for misunderstanding. You have asked that I tell
no-one about this. Why copulate with me if the knowledge that you had done
so would cause problems?"

"I guess that skin-tight biosuit is a metaphor then," mused B'Elanna,
avoiding the question.

Seven frowned in annoyance. "Explain."

"Nothing concealed."

"This is who I am, Lieutenant Torres. Either learn to trust me or have the
Captain remove me from this vessel."

B'Elanna hesitated at the doors. You don't just make love to someone and
walk away, especially if it's her first time. But the words didn't come
easily, like in dreams. They never did in real life. So, as always, she
chose the cowardly option. No risk that way.

"Well in that case, see you tomorrow then. 0900 hours. We can try bringing
the ODN relays back on line."

No honour.

Seven's reply was curt, as if she was already regretting her lapse into
human weakness. "I will comply, Lieutenant."

* * *

"Where were you?" asked Tom sleepily, as B'Elanna slipped in beside him. He
had returned to the bed sometime during the night.

"I was off screwing Seven of Nine, what else?"

"You're too hard on that Borg," Tom muttered. "It hasn't been easy for her
either, you know."

"She'll adapt," said B'Elanna, adding quietly; "So will I, I guess."

B'Elanna rested her head on his shoulder, and went to sleep.

* * *

It had finally happened, the dark savage thing that lurked within her had
taken over and everything that was human and civilised in B'Elanna Torres:
friend, lover, engineer, Maquis, Starfleet, was gone. She stalked her mate
through the endless winding tunnels of Sikari IV, the taste of his blood on
her teeth, sharp fangs that forced themselves out of her mouth repelling
those soft kisses and this was her true self, the monster that drove away
all possible affection. Abandoned and rejected by all, to lurk in these
lower regions like the dishonoured dead. They howled to her; an insane
chorus of voices in a language she barely knew from her childhood, calling
on her to satiate her rage and anguish in the slaughter of her enemies. And
thus she rejoiced in death, the smell of blood was exhilarating, an
aphrodisiac. She would wake in the middle of the night with her heart
pounding and vagina soaked, using her mouth and fingers on her mate until he
could take her again and again, not caring who heard their animal passion.

Tears came afterwards. "I'm a monster, a freak."

"You're beautiful," Tom would say. He didn't know the truth.

A wall of ice blocked her path, sealing both the tunnel and the woman in a
frozen cage. Nipples erect in the cold, hair like woven sunfire, metal
merged with cold flesh, isolated and alone from all her kind. There was a
kindred spirit in that alien visage, she snarled and scratched her claws
against the ice to free her, talons skittering harmlessly against the slick
surface. Blue eyes stared out through the frozen water, lips curved in a
smile that mocked her efforts, making what was once B'Elanna Torres howl in
lust and fury.

It was a challenge.

THE END

    

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