Protocols Unknown: A Decision of The Stars

Proof of Life

“Seven, look at this. How did they get that much Borg technology?”

Seven adjusted the display, highlighting the sublayer Janeway had isolated. Green lattice patterns flickered across the screen—fractured pieces of Collective architecture spliced into Vaadwaur systems.

“This code…” she said quietly. “It was gifted or stolen.”

Janeway’s lips pressed into a thin line. “From who?”

Seven’s fingers moved across the console. “Unknown. But the pattern is precise. Deliberate. Not reverse-engineered. They had a source.”

Janeway leaned in closer, tracking the thread. “Then we find it.”

She didn’t notice the way her hand trembled slightly against the console. Didn’t notice how her focus blurred for just a second too long before snapping back.

But Seven did.

She glanced sideways—not intrusive, just assessing. She saw the tension in Janeway’s shoulders, the faint lines of strain around her eyes, the way she blinked just a little too slow.

“You have not eaten.”

“I’m working.”

“You have not slept. Its been 32 hours.”

“I’m functioning. And, I know how long it's been.”

Seven said nothing for a moment. Then, very softly, “For now.”

Janeway didn’t respond. Her fingers kept moving.

But when she spoke again, her voice was hoarse. Thinner than before.

“They’re using her like a data node. She’s a map, Seven. They know it and now we do too.”

Seven didn’t argue. Didn’t remind her that she already knew. She simply stepped closer, hands flying across the interface.

“Then let’s find out where they’re going.”

Janeway nodded. Didn’t move from the console.

But her balance shifted again—just enough for Seven to catch the faint stumble, the subtle moment where her body betrayed her focus.

She didn’t say anything yet.

But she noted it.

Because she knew, Janeway wouldn’t stop until she collapsed.

And that moment? It was coming.

—

The room was dim but warm. The lights above were filtered through a mesh panel, soft enough not to hurt Astrea’s eyes. The walls were smooth, slate-coloured. No windows. No visible doors, except the one that hissed open and shut at unpredictable intervals.

Naomi sat on the floor with her back to the far corner, just as Tuvok had taught her. Never sit with your back to the door. Naomi's legs curled to the side, Astrea tucked against her chest. The baby was fussing, not crying, not quite—but the restless kind of squirming that came before a full wail. She was hungry. She needed changing. She needed comfort. She needed Janeway.

Naomi had done what she could. Rocked her, hummed to her, whispered stories her mother used to tell her—but Astrea was only twelve weeks old.

And Naomi was still just a kid herself.

The door opened.

Naomi’s body snapped taut, one hand instinctively shielding Astrea, the other curled into a fist.