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Parties were the bane of Hugh’s existence. It wasn’t that he resented the opportunity to mingle, to network, to raise awareness, to remind the universe that he existed - no, these kinds of social gatherings had many benefits. It was the people he had to mingle with that set Hugh’s teeth on edge. Most of them meant well, but they all looked at him with varying degrees of pity, fascination, or a disturbing mix of the two.
On a normal day, Hugh would have grinned and bore it for as long as necessary to secure the sponsorship he needed, to assure the Federation’s intellectual elite that the xBs among them were tame enough to care about, but today had not been a good one. It had started with a job offer and was going to end with Hugh making perhaps the worst decision of his life. Or I can just ignore them until they go away, he lamented, knowing the Federation government wasn’t likely to let him go that easily.
It was heading towards late evening when Hugh finally found a moment to himself, retreating from a handsy Bolian by the buffet table - he knew it was culturally appropriate, friendly touching, but couldn’t people ask before grabbing like that? He’d made some excuse about needing to use the restroom, ignoring the Bolian’s blink of surprise, his “You do that?”
He found himself in the lounge area. Here, things were a little quieter, mostly couples watching the meteor shower, the official reason for this particular social gathering. He breathed a sigh of relief, the bright streaks of falling rock above them somehow putting him at ease. He enjoyed being on planet, but having spent a large chunk of his formative years among the stars, their familiarity often gave him a point of reference when lost in the unfamiliar. Now, he felt more lost than he had in some time, thoughts spinning to the future, to the choice laid before him.
It’s not fair, he thought as a large meteorite flared and died above them, enhanced by the screens encompassing the observation lounge. Why is it always me? Can’t they pick some other enterprising xB? Except he wouldn’t wish this on anyone else, not his friends, his family at the colony, and definitely not any of the xBs he’d shepherded into individuality over the past almost twenty years. Without any arrogance, he knew he was the best, perhaps the only one for the job. If the job should be done at all.
“I thought that was you,” he heard behind him, breaking his morose thoughts. Hugh turned, expecting another stranger, someone who knew him by reputation, and instead found the gaze of one of the first people he’d ever met.
“Guinan,” he breathed, the shock stilling his steps. He hadn’t seen her since they’d faced each other from opposite sides of a cell door, her anger and her pain written plain for him to see. The first pain he’d ever truly understood. She looked exactly the same as he remembered, skin smooth and untouched by the intervening years. Hugh, who looked almost nothing like he had, wondered how she’d recognized him at all.
“You remember me,” she said, hands folded in front of her, regal, aloof, but he could tell she was tense.
“You don’t forget-” he broke off, swallowing his next words down, the reflexive confession: “You don’t forget the first person who made you realize you were a monster.” It was a remnant of the unguarded boy he’d been, a confession he couldn’t make here, surrounded by strangers. He’d fought long and hard to divorce that word from any relation to the xBs, to the victims of the Borg.
“No, you wouldn’t,” she agreed, dark eyes looking straight through him. “You look different,” she continued, walking closer to examine him with a critical eye. Hugh shifted, uneasy. She wasn’t clinical in her exam, but it made him feel uncomfortably seen all the same.
“Cosmetic surgery, it’ll do wonders.” That usually worked for others who pried, who asked why he looked so human. They’d laugh and turn the conversation to lighter subjects. Guinan did none of that, her stare somehow sharpening in intensity.
“Oh?” she said, as if expecting him to elaborate.
“Why are you here?” he asked instead, stifling a simmer of irritation. She wasn’t following the rules, and he wasn’t in the mood for a guessing game of a conversation.
“I was invited by Dmitri. I’m a good friend of the family.” Dmitri Petrov was their eminent host, an accomplished astrophysicist who was a staunch proponent of interventionism. He’d backed the xBs’ petition to become Federation citizens after one conversation with Hugh and hadn’t made them jump through a single hoop for his continued advocacy. His generosity in the past had led now to Hugh’s attendance at a party he very much did not wish to attend.
“I see,” said Hugh, wishing he’d stayed home after all. “Well, it was nice seeing you again.” He tried to move past her, back to the gathered throng around the buffet table. Perhaps the Bolian wanted to chat about stellar cartography some more, anything would be better than this stilted awkwardness.
“That’s it?” said Guinan, not moving to stop him, but her words halting his steps just the same.
“I’m sorry?” he turned, wishing he could be rude enough to brush her off entirely.
“‘Nice seeing you again’?” she quoted back to him. “We aren’t friendly acquaintances, Hugh.”
“What do you want from me?” he snapped, voice rising to unwise levels. He could sense the others’ attention beginning to shift, focusing on the striking presence of Guinan in her large hat and flowing robes, and Hugh with his scarred face and deliberately unobtrusive clothes.
“Truth,” she said, voice never wavering, even as he felt her own unease intensifying. “I’ve been watching you. You don’t want to be here. Every conversation you shuffle out of like it's an obligation. But no one else would know because you’re so good at hiding yourself.” He opened his mouth to object, shut it again. She wasn’t wrong, just uncomfortably, unnecessarily right. “The boy I knew was one of the most genuine creatures I’ve ever met. So, like I said, you’re different.”
“I adapted,” he said, forcing his teeth to ungrit, regretting the echo of Borg in the statement. The Borg had nothing to do with his continued survival, had given him nothing but a mountain of trauma he’d spent the past twenty years painstakingly excavating. If he adapted, it was due to the sheer stubbornness of an individuality that would not be silenced, not the cold strictures of an unimaginative whole.
“I see,” she said, echoing him. “Well, how about you and me find someplace quieter and have a genuine conversation.”
“I thought we weren’t friendly acquaintances,” he said, raising a defiant eyebrow. If she wanted a heart to heart, she could damn well work for it.
“We’re not. We’re survivors.” Hugh felt the word as a punch to the solar plexus, air leaving his lungs in a brief, terrifying moment. He hadn’t thought Guinan would want to share anything with him, had read her unease as that age old distrust he couldn’t even blame her for. But it was true. Both he and Guinan had survived utter destruction, had walked out the other side of an uncaring monstrosity with their souls intact.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted, though what for he didn’t know. He hadn’t been the one to destroy her civilization, and even if he had been, his hands had not been his own.
“Hugh - you do still go by Hugh?”
“Yes,” he nodded.
“Let’s talk. Preferably with alcohol.” She surprised a laugh out of him, taking his arm to guide him away from the lounge windows. The other guests were subsiding, their interest in the spectacle of a potential fight thwarted. Guinan led him from the room, skirting the buffet to exit into the corridor, down into the private wing of the residence.
“Guinan-” he started to object when she stopped at what he knew was Dmitri’s private study.
“Family friend,” she reminded him, swiping the door open. She gestured for Hugh to sit on one of the plush chairs, a cozy, very fake fire burning in the fireplace. Guinan was rooting around in a lower drawer of Dimtri’s desk and came up victorious with a bottle of very old brandy.
“Are you really?” Hugh asked, watching as she retrieved two glasses from a cabinet.
“I knew his great, great, great grandfather. It counts,” she assured at his dubious look.
“This was all your idea,” he said, accepting the glass and its generous helping of brandy from her. “That’s what I’m telling Dmitri when he comes storming in here wondering why his guests are trespassing.”
“When did you get so timid, Hugh? Live a little, as the humans would say.” She took a seat across from him, perfectly at ease on someone else’s furniture.
“People don’t take too kindly to adventurous Borg,” he reminded her. He didn’t truly think Dmitri would mind, but Hugh had made it a point not to make waves in these circles. At least, not the kind that would get him ostracized.
“You’re not Borg,” she said.
“Ex-Borg,” he agreed, but the difference was sometimes slim in other people’s eyes.
“I get it. You have to be careful. Non-threatening. Is that why you don’t want to be here? Don’t feel up to performing tonight?”
“Yes,” and no. He never felt like performing, but his tolerance had been decreased by the burden of choice hanging over his head. He knew it was a privilege to be able to decide things, but sometimes he really did just want someone to tell him what to do. He took a sip of brandy, not enjoying the burn on the way down. He knew he hadn’t made a face, but Guinan laughed anyway, setting her own untouched glass down on the table beside his.
“You don’t have to drink it, Hugh,” she reminded him.
“I’ve never really gotten the point of alcohol,” he confessed. There were some xBs who took a liking to chemical stimulants, to their senses flitting away from them in a drugged haze, but Hugh had never been one of them. The thought of surrendering himself to the control of nothing, to utter chaos, was terrifying.
“It is a confusing trend in sentient species. Pumping poison into their veins for the thrill of losing control.”
“Very confusing. I do understand, though, that some prefer to… remain separate from themselves.” It was the most tactful way he could put it, that urge to run away from reality. He’d felt it himself at the lowest points of his life, times when oblivion had seemed preferable to continuing on. He’d avoided the temptation then because he’d realize any kind of altered state was a cheap panacea, a temporary reprieve that only served to make reality even more painful when consciousness returned.
“You understand?” she prompted, eyes turning sharp again. He didn’t like how she could see through him, didn’t like that his careful walls were crumbling around him. He didn’t want to be as vulnerable and confused as their first meeting had left him.
“Why did you want to talk?” he changed gears, hoping to head her off, to deflect her onto a conversation he could stomach right now. Two acquaintances, catching up. He could just about handle that.
“You wanted to talk,” she said, inexplicable, implacable in her certainty.
“I did not,” he said, reflexively defensive of the truth. Realizing how rude that sounded he backtracked, sputtering, “I mean, I do - I -” he stopped himself before putting his foot in it deeper, scowling down at his brandy. He took another careful sip, just for something to do while she watched him.
“Hugh, I was a bartender for over a decade. I know when someone needs to talk.” She leaned forward, steepling her hands under her chin, forehead creased in studied concern.
“That must have been an interesting experience for you. Did you ever get tired of it?”
“Sometimes, I wanted to strangle people for being so obtuse. But I managed to restrain myself. Most of the time.”
“Point taken.” He grimaced, taking another sip. The more he drank, the more palatable it became. “You know, I’ve seen many, many therapists. Physical therapists, psychological therapists, psychic therapists - I even have a degree in psychology.”
“Good for you,” she said, her gaze never wavering.
“No one’s ever suggested I see a bartender before.” He tried to lighten the mood with a smile, downing another sip of very old brandy, feeling his chest start to relax from the chemical depressant.
“I’m not trying to psychoanalyze you, Hugh. I’m trying to give you an ear, a shoulder - whatever you need.”
“Why? Why would you care if I feel a little uncomfortable at a party?”
“It’s a little thing I call compassion. I know you’re familiar with it. No one had to teach you kindness.”
“That’s not true,” he objected, thinking back to his first days of awareness, of Geordi and Beverly’s smiles, their own bewildering compassion.
“Remind you, maybe,” she conceded. “Now, tell me what’s been eating you, and I promise I’ll leave you alone to stew all by yourself.”
“I’m not stewing,” he protested, but her look made him subside, or maybe it was the alcohol loosening his tongue. “I got a job offer today.”
“That’s not so bad.” She leaned back in her chair, comfortable, like they really were old friends.
“Well, it is when you don’t want the job.”
“Then say no.”
“It’s not that simple. I - I don’t think I really have a choice here.”
“There’s always a choice, Hugh. Sometimes, we just fool ourselves into thinking otherwise. Sometimes, we don’t want there to be a choice.” He grimaced, trying to hide his expression behind his glass, knowing she was veering painfully close to the truth. Perhaps he was convincing himself that an obligation existed where none did, just so he wouldn’t actually have to make a decision. “So, what is it? This exciting new unwanted opportunity.”
“I really shouldn’t tell you, it’s currently classified, top secret. But I suppose it will come out soon anyway.”
“I’m very good at keeping secrets. It comes with the territory.” She didn’t say what territory that might be, whether she meant as a former bartender, or as something else he didn’t know. She was still looking at him as if she could see straight through him, right to the boy he’d been so long ago.
“Right. Well. The Romulans have apparently discovered a Borg cube in their space.” He could feel the atmosphere in the room instantly chill, the friendliness Guinan had been projecting turning icy, her posture ramrod straight against the chair back.
“A Borg cube,” she repeated. “An active Borg cube-”
“No, no,” he quickly reassured, knowing this couldn’t be easy for her. Romulan territory was far from the idyllic inner systems of the Federation, but not nearly far enough to protect from a true Borg incursion. “The vessel suffered from submatrix collapse, although how or why the Romulans haven’t said. They’re being… cagey.”
“Surprising.”
“Yes, well, the Federation, in their infinite wisdom, has decided it’s not a good idea to let one of their rivals - enemies? To let the Romulans possess an artifact of that much power. Of course, taking it from their space means risking war.”
“It should be destroyed, now,” Guinan interjected, hands gripped tight on her chair arms. He regretted succumbing to her probes now. He should’ve anticipated how a survivor of the Borg would react to knowing they were so close. He should've “stewed by himself” rather than force her through that unnecessary pain.
“There are many lives aboard that cube, Guinan,” he said, as gently as he could manage. “Destroying the vessel would not be my recommendation.”
“And have they asked? For your recommendation?”
“They have,” he hedged. They’d asked for much more than that.
“What did you tell them?” He could sense her building anger, see the rage that billowed behind an expression suddenly shuttered. It wasn’t a reaction he could fault her for, even as his own anger rose to meet it.
“I told them that I agreed with their assessment, that the Romulans had never shown any interest in rehabilitating recovered drones and now had access to an immense amount of technology, including the potential to use Borg conduits. I told them it would be dangerous and unethical to leave the captured drones in, in their possession.” His voice caught on the last. He hated referring to the individual drones which made up the collective as objects, things to be owned, but it was phrasing the Federation senators he’d spoken with would understand.
“And then they offered you a job.” Guinan had receded from him, retreating into an unreadable stoniness he found unsettling. He usually had no problem sensing other people’s emotions, analyzing their perspective. It had startled the first Federation scientists who’d worked on his rehabilitation. They’d assumed, as a former emotionless drone, he’d need to be taught the inner workings of others. They’d forgotten he’d seen from the perspective of countless minds, seen entire lives and experiences they could only imagine. The strange thing was not being intimately connected, having to use his other senses to glean what he’d just known before.
It had been a steep learning curve, but Hugh had always been a quick study.
Now, Guinan was as opaque to him as a brick wall, her eyes looking past him.
“Yes, a job,” he agreed, letting the silence stretch on. “They told me the Romulans had agreed to sign a treaty in exchange for assistance with rehabilitating the Borg drones.”
“I thought you said they had no interest in rehabilitation.”
“They don't. They didn’t. I suspect they want to recover valuable parts from the drones, but if that were the only reason, they’d hardly need Federation assistance. They could yank out whatever they wanted and be done.” He’d seen it happen often enough, xBs butchered for valuable parts, sold to the highest bidder on the black markets of Orion. He didn’t think the Romulans would have any moral objection to taking what they needed, the death of the subject an irrelevant consideration.
“Maybe what they need,” said Guinan, deliberately loosening her grip on the chair arms, “isn’t a drone, but an individual.”
“What do you mean?”
“If they’re interested in rehabilitating these Borg, there must be something useful about them, not the technology.”
“Perhaps information an individual carried before assimilation. But if that’s the case, they’re going to be very disappointed.” It was extremely difficult to recover memories once full conversion had taken place. Hugh himself remembered nothing of his past, didn’t even know what species he’d come from or where his homeworld might be. He could’ve been grown in a vat from spare cells the Borg had lying around, for all he knew. Some xBs managed to recover hazy impressions of their past, of their personalities, even names, but specific pieces of information - that was a tall order.
“And they want you to help with this treaty?” Guinan continued.
“No, well, yes. The treaty is already in place. They want me to head the Federation’s rehabilitation project. On the Borg cube.” He looked at his drink, forgotten in his hands until now, feeling the cool condensation on the glass. He took a larger gulp, welcoming the burn, a distraction from Guinan’s suddenly piercing gaze. He’d thought she’d been intense before, now he felt skewered, known and found wanting.
“They want you to go back. To a Borg ship. And work for Romulans.”
“Yes.”
“And what happens to the rehabilitated drones? Where do they go once they’re individuals?”
“Unfortunately, that’s up to the Romulans.” He finally raised his gaze to meet hers. He saw the expected anger writ large across her face, but also a startling outrage, outrage he knew instinctively was not directed at him.
“I can see why you don’t want the job,” she said, finally breaking the tense silence which had descended. “And why you don’t think you have a choice.”
“I can’t just leave all those xBs defenseless when I could be any help to them at all. But at the same time, I’d be awakening them into an uncertain future where they’d have no home and no rights.”
“Not to mention being forced to live and work in a place that’s a constant reminder of what the Borg did to you-” He scoffed, shaking his head at her raised eyebrows.
“That’s not even a consideration. I can deal. I’ll be fine. The problem is aiding and abetting the potential exploitation of thousands.”
“You’ve already made up your mind,” she said, true surprise coloring her tone. He shook his head, then nodded, knowing she was right, but wishing he could deny it.
“If I turn down this opportunity and I hear of even one single xB abused or killed from negligence, or malice, or - I need to be there, or I’d never forgive myself.”
“It’s not your respons-”
“Yes, it is!” he said, entirely too loud, an ineffectual shout in a quiet room. “I chose to make it my responsibility twenty years ago,” he continued, struggling to modulate his tone. “Backing down now because I don’t like the moral landscape would be the most selfish thing I’ve ever done.”
“People are allowed to be selfish sometimes, Hugh,” said Guinan, her voice raising to echo his. “You can’t damage yourself to help others. Sooner or later there will be nothing left of your morals, and, more importantly, nothing left of you.”
“I’m not sure there is any me if I don’t do this. Like it or not, I’ve built an identity on helping the xBs, helping people recover. The first choice I ever made was to sacrifice myself for my friend. This is who I am, and if I have to get in bed with the devil to help people, I will.” A sudden, shocking silence descended, and for the first time since she’d singled him out at the party, Guinan looked away.
“You’re making a mistake,” she said, still turned away, stone cold in the artificial light of the fire. He felt a painful lump in his throat, the knowledge that she was right, that there was nothing else he could do but make the mistake, willingly and with eyes wide open.
“I know,” he said, grip tightening almost painfully on his glass. “I’m sorry.” The apology came unbidden from his lips, but he realized he meant it, regretted having to dredge up these painful memories for her, regretted disappointing her, for all they barely knew each other.
“Don’t be,” she said, turning back to him with the ghost of a smile. “I can’t see clearly here, no matter how hard I try to put my feelings aside. My instincts are telling me to destroy that cube, that those drones would be better off dead.” He flinched at her words, but she quickly continued, “My conscience is telling me they’re victims that need protection. My compassion is regretting that this is falling on you, and the rest of me is just screaming a big, primal no.”
“I know the feeling,” he said, shooting her a grin he almost felt. She reached forward, lifting the glass from his death grip, taking both his hands in hers.
“Hugh, you’re doing a good thing. I only regret the damage it will inflict on you.” She sounded so certain of his suffering it sent a cold chill down his spine, but he dismissed the feeling, focusing on her first words instead.
“A good thing,” he said, realizing her specificity had been deliberate. “Not the right thing.”
“I don’t know if there is one here.” She shrugged, squeezing his hands. “Hugh, take care of yourself, please. That’s really the only advice I have to give you.”
“I’ll try.” At her look he said, “Yes, yes, I will. I promise.”
“Good. Now, we’ve had our talk.” She rose, holding out a hand to him. “I think it’s time to party. The meteor shower won’t be over for another ten minutes.” She pulled him to his feet, tucking his hand into the crook of her elbow.
“Dmitri has promised us a lecture after,” Hugh reminded her, feeling an involuntary smile tug at his lips. “Although I’ve heard some of the guests have requested karaoke instead.”
“Sounds fun,” she grinned, escorting him out of Dmitri’s study, neither of them bothering to tidy up the used glasses or the very old brandy. Hugh felt a weight lift from his shoulders, released from the dread he’d been feeling all night. He’d made his decision. Perhaps not the right one, but it was one he could live with.