Title: A Fistful of Mammary Gland
Fandom: Star Trek Voyager
Summary: Seven of Nine channels Sergio Leone.
Disclaimer: No profit is intended in the writing of this story. Star Trek: Voyager and its characters are the property of Paramount and Viacom.
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A FISTFUL OF MAMMARY GLAND
Silence fell over Voyager's messhall like the relentless fall of dust on some desert plain. In the doorway stood a stranger, surveying them with cold blue eyes. Danger clung to her like a silver biosuit did to the voluptuous curves of her body.
A heedless snigger arose from three ensigns who sat drinking in a corner. "Saludes, amiga. It's not smart to go wandering so far from the Collective." For all could see the Borg implants on the stranger's face and hand. She ignored them, making directly for the counter where a rare Talaxian Spotted Bar Rodent was serving.
"Greetings Stranger," said the Talaxian. "As they say on my world: omara s'alas. 'Good news has no clothes'."
The Stranger raised an implant-surmounted eyebrow. "I am wearing clothes."
"Really? I couldn't tell. HA-HA-HA-HA...Ha...ha..."
His laughter faded before the stranger's arctic stare.
"Er...um...what's your name, Stranger?"
"Names are irrelevant," the stranger replied. "My designation is Seven of Nine, Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One."
"Well my name's Neelix and I run this establishment, such as it is." Neelix leaned over the counter and nudged a dour, dark-skinned alien with pointed ears. "The Woman With No Name, huh? Better than our doctor. He's the Man with No Mane. Get it, Mr Vulcan? Get it? The Man with No Mane! HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
The Vulcan sipped his plomeek soup and did his best to ignore the annoying creature.
"I require liquid supplement," said Seven of Nine. "And some information. Who was that attractive senorita I saw in Engineering?"
"Her name is B'Elanna, our Chief Engineer," grunted an anonymous ensign, the universal translator causing his lips to be slightly out of sync with his words. "You just forget about her. She is the woman of Chako!"
"That'll change when Seska gets back," said another nameless crewman, his face awash with sweat from the ill-maintained environmental systems. "That cute little Klingon's going to get the chop." He drew his finger across his neck, his lips pulled back in an evil grin.
Seven raised her ocular implant once more. "Chako?"
"Commander Chakotay," explained Neelix, pouring her a drink. "He's the leader of the Maquis. Voyager's crew is split into two factions - Maquis and Starfleet. Starfleet control the bridge, the Maquis control Engineering, and they fight constantly over everything in between. Until this crew settles on who runs the ship, we're not going anywhere."
"That is inefficient," said Seven. "What happened to co-operation in the face of adversity, seeking out new life and new civilisations, boldly going where no sub-unit has gone before?"
"They went that-a-way," said Neelix, pointing at the waste disposal chute. "It was a choice between co-operation or continuity. You can't have both, you know."
"That's right," said the nameless crewman, puffing on a foul-smelling cheroot. "Think it's plausible that us rebels against the Federation would accept the authority of a control-freak coffee addict whose ass is tighter than her bun of hair?" He blew a contemptuous cloud of smoke in the Vulcan's face.
"I think you had better step out into the corridor," said the Vulcan quietly.
"Eh?" grunted the crewman. "You want to fight me, Starfleet scum?"
"No, I have an adverse reaction to passive smoking."
Seven took a hefty swig of her drink and immediately began to see stars, which her cortical processor made a vain effort to catalogue. "The situation is intriguing. An intelligent individual could make some money here."
"An intelligent individual should refuel her spacecraft and get out while she has the chance," said Neelix. "Mr Vulcan here is the undertaker, as you might have guessed from his cheerful disposition. Not a shift goes by that he doesn't load yet another dead ensign into a photon torpedo casing and eject it into space."
Seven had the strange feeling that this scenario had been played out before, like a story that had been ripped off by one film director after another. Like parallel universes in which the same events were repeated in endless variation. Like she'd drunk too much Talaxian hootch and her multivariate sensors were no longer coordinating their feedback.
"Which one of the two factions is more efficient?" asked Seven, her voice beginning to slur (the Borg had difficulty assimilating their liquor).
"That would be Starfleet, under Captain Janeway."
Seven leaned over the anonymous ensign and stabbed his combadge with a single finger. He opened his mouth to protest but the look in the Borg's eyes silenced him.
"Seven to Captain Janeway," slurred the Borg. "I wanna talk to you."
"What?" rasped a gravelly female voice.
"Captain Janeway, I hear you're hiring on men."
"Well I might be of assistance."
"Excuse me? What did you say?"
"I must inform you however, I don't work cheap."
"Enunciate your words, dammit! Are you pissed or something?"
"Ah go hump yer espresso machine." Seven turned to the Vulcan undertaker. "Get three photon torpedo casings ready."
The three ensigns in the corner looked up in surprise as Seven approached them. Their antique leather clothing and air of disrespect marked them as part of the Maquis faction.
"Listen Stranger," growled one of them. "Didn't you get the idea? We don't like to see Borg on this ship. Go back to your spacecraft. That is, if it hasn't already been stripped to make more shuttles. Heh heh." He leered as his gaze ran up and down Seven's body. "You won't get work looking like that anyhow...except as a massage girl!"
The other two roared with laughter, pounding the table with their fists.
The Borg stared back with her icy gaze. "I don't think it's nice you laughing at my catsuit."
The ensign's laughter cut off abruptly.
"I get the crazy idea you're laughing at me."
The three men began to twitch as if Borg nanoprobes were working their way under the skin. Slowly they rose to their feet, hands edging towards their phasers. A hush fell across the messhall. Neelix placed a 'Closed' sign on his counter and quickly ducked out of sight.
"Now if you apologise like I know you're going to, I might convince myself you didn't really mean it."
The facial twitching grew to a crescendo of rapid eye movement. As if by an unspoken signal, all three ensigns drew their phasers at once. There was a high-pitched whine like a Colt .45 in a spaghetti western. With a speed and accuracy that only comes from cybernetic hand-eye co-ordination and a computer-controlled aiming system, Seven fired three times from the hip, cutting them down in an instant.
Neelix stuck his head out from beneath the counter, giving a low whistle of appreciation.
"You killed all three of them! Hell, Ensign Mendez should have known better, taking on a Borg. I guess that makes him the Man with No Brain. Get it, Mr Vulcan? Get it? The Man with No Brain? HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!"
The Vulcan looked at Seven and raised an eyebrow (clearly they spoke the same body language).
Seven's phaser whined yet again, blasting Neelix backwards into a cauldron of particularly awful leola root stew.
"My error. Make that four torpedo casings."