Star Trek_ Resistance Part 3

"Where?" she demanded.

"In Sector Ten. On a moon..." He paused, frustrated with himself. He knew that he could not give her the details she wanted, which would make him sound irrational. "They're creating a new cube, a ship. It's nearly habitable and will be launched soon."

"Do you have the coordinates? We could send a ship to investigate." Her emphasis on "could" revealed a healthy degree of doubt.

Picard tried to shake off a sudden sense of awkwardness. "I don't know the precise coordinates..."

She scowled slightly at that and folded her hands atop the desk, abruptly formal. "Are your long-range scanners malfunctioning? Or are you basing this on some sort of intelligence?"

Picard did not allow himself to hesitate. He replied firmly, "We're not close enough for long-range scans, Admiral. I have detected Borg chatter. They're communicating with each other about the new Collective, about their intent to organize and make a fresh attempt to a.s.similate humanity."

Janeway grew very still, fixing her gaze on him so intently that a weaker personality might have withered beneath it. "Would you mind explaining, Captain, how you detected this 'chatter'?"

"I heard it. In my...mind. I was part of the Collective once, you know."

"Yes, I do know." Her tone and expression softened briefly, then she came down hard, with no effort to veil her skepticism. "When Voyager emerged from Delta Quadrant, I saw the queen destroyed-as well as her vessel and all the progeny contained within it. More important, their transwarp corridors have been obliterated. The Borg are crippled, Captain. There might be a few surviving drones scattered throughout the galaxy, but without a queen or contact with the Collective, they're lost. The majority of drones that remain are no doubt still in Delta Quadrant. How could they possibly be a threat to us here?"

Picard matched her vehemence. "Nevertheless, they are regrouping here. I've sensed it. My connection to the Borg is doc.u.mented. And I know that they have grown frustrated with the fact that humanity has stood in the way of their goal of total a.s.similation. This time, they are determined to conquer us. It's more than just a.s.similation. The Borg want revenge."

Her gaze remained unwavering, unmoved. "The Borg don't seek vengeance. Their actions aren't based on emotions. At least, the drones' aren't. You should know that better than anyone." Her posture and expression suddenly relaxed. "Jean-Luc, you're asking me to issue orders, to send a ship to who knows where, based on nothing more than your instincts. Put yourself in my position..."

She sighed, and in that sigh, Picard sensed victory, however slight. "But let's a.s.sume you're right-that the Borg are re-forming a Collective, in the Alpha Quadrant. I'm willing to give you the benefit of that doubt. If so, then the best person to deal with this is Seven of Nine. She's currently a.s.signed to Earth. I'll contact her immediately, then forward any specific information you can give me. But I'll need to know more than just, 'We think the Borg are on a moon somewhere in the Alpha Quadrant.'"

It was all Picard could do not to interrupt her. "Admiral, there's no time. You must trust my instinct, which is telling me that the Enterprise is the closest starship to the hive's activity. There's a chance we can stop them before the ship is finished and they launch an attack. They have to be destroyed now."

Perhaps there'd been more heat, more shrillness in his tone than he'd intended; Janeway was studying him with concern. "Let me be blunt, Captain. You still have a score to settle with the Borg; you're far too emotionally involved. Seven of Nine will be impartial. But because I have respect for your instincts-and because it would be far better to risk sending a ship to investigate nothing than to risk not investigating what might be Borg activity-I'll send Seven of Nine by shuttle as quickly as possible to the Enterprise. I can get her there in a matter of days. But you will have to follow her lead on this."

Her words summoned the memory of his own, spoken years ago, to Will Riker, explaining why a different admiral had forbidden him to fight the Borg: In Starfleet Command's opinion, a man once captured and a.s.similated by the Borg should not be allowed to face them again. It would introduce an unstable element to a critical situation.

If that were the reason, Picard wasn't sure that Seven of Nine would be the best to place in charge of this situation either. Certainly the Borg had more of an effect on her life than they did his. He had never met the person who had spent more time as a drone than a free-thinking individual, but Picard was familiar with her file. All of Starfleet knew of Seven of Nine. Though everything Picard had read maintained that she could keep her professional cool, it was still disconcerting to think that he couldn't be trusted to handle the Borg. Particularly since he had bested them in every encounter. And especially since time was most definitely of the essence.

The frustration was agonizing. How did he know, with such infinite certainty, what he was saying was true? He could not explain even to himself how he knew what he did about the Borg's plans-so how could he prove they existed to Janeway or to anyone else at Command? Yet he was no less certain, no less urgently desperate. "Admiral, Earth is too far away; the Borg are moving swiftly. We don't have a 'matter of days.' By the time Seven arrives-"

She cut him off. "You are to do nothing until Seven of Nine arrives, and she will be in charge of the investigation. You'll be contacted shortly with her ETA. Those are my orders. Janeway out."

He found himself staring at the Starfleet Command logo as he whispered the words she would not hear: "It will be too late."

For several minutes, he sat looking at the darkened screen. Even now that his mind was still, and the voice of the Borg no more than a memory, he felt the invisible tendrils of the Collective pulling at his consciousness. He knew what they were doing, and although he did not know the coordinates Janeway had asked for, he knew what heading the Enterprise should take in order to find the mysterious moon.

He propped his elbows on the desk, leaned forward, and ma.s.saged his temples. Beverly had found nothing physically wrong with him. Was it possible that there was a third, less sinister cause for him to hear the echoes of the Collective's voice, to experience this gut-level certainty?

In his memory surfaced a familiar face, one cinnamon-skinned, beautiful, framed by close-cropped dark russet hair, a face from another century-Lily, Zefram Cochrane's a.s.sistant. He smiled faintly at the thought of her. She had lived in such a desperate, cruel time in Earth's history, surviving a war that had killed millions. It had toughened her, made her strong, made her cling desperately to the hope that Cochrane was going to convert an instrument of death-a nuclear missile-into a warp ship, an instrument of hope. The harshness of her life had also made her frightened, liable to lash out violently at anyone, anything she did not know.

Yet even she had seen beyond her own hurt to the depth of the psychological scar he had borne. She had called him "Ahab"-the crazed captain from Moby-d.i.c.k-willing to sacrifice his vessel, his crew, and ultimately himself for the sake of revenge on that which had wounded him. Lily had brought him to a moment of epiphany: he realized he had to let go of his bitterness before it destroyed him and those he loved.

He had thought he had finally freed himself from his angry obsession with the Borg. He had never forgotten the words from Melville, evoking Ahab's madness: "He piled upon the whale's white hump the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart's sh.e.l.l upon it."

Had it returned to haunt him? Was it possible that he was overreacting, that he had created a scenario after picking up on some fleeting, disorganized Borg chatter? That he was the one that had created the sense of urgency, not the Borg?

His instinct said no. But before he could consider disobeying orders, before he could in good conscience approach his crew about doing so, he had a responsibility to discuss his dilemma with a certain crew member.

He rose when T'Lana entered his quarters and gestured for her to sit across from him, with the desk between them. She sat, seeming relaxed enough-for a Vulcan. Picard was far from feeling the same: for one thing, he had never confided in her before, and he was used to the comforting warmth of Deanna Troi, not the cool, rational appraisal he was no doubt about to receive. Deanna had always been acutely aware of his emotions and therefore brilliant at helping him sort through them, combining both instinct and logic into the best possible approach to a problem.

He was uncomfortable with T'Lana for a second reason: although the all-consuming wave of Borg chatter had left him ill equipped to focus on his surroundings, he had noticed the subtle coldness she had displayed toward Worf. There could have been many reasons for the behavior. Certainly nothing worth discussing at the moment, but he would need to keep an eye on the situation. For now, he placed his concerns aside because he needed to hear the advice of an experienced counselor.

In unconscious imitation of Janeway, he folded his hands atop his desk and leaned slightly forward, forcing away all discomfort, all doubts about his ability to utilize T'Lana's skills effectively. There was work to be done, a decision to be made; he launched into an unrehea.r.s.ed speech without hesitation.

"Counselor," he began, "you saw my...apparent collapse on the bridge."

"I did," she replied serenely. "You seem to be fully recovered. I trust that is so."

"It is." He paused, trying to explain much with an economy of words. "You are also familiar with my experience with the Borg?"

"Insofar as your Starfleet file records it. You have experienced two significant encounters with them: first, when they a.s.similated you; second, when you successfully stopped them from preventing the launch of Zefram Cochrane's warp-drive vessel."

"That's all correct," Picard said, marveling that such profoundly horrifying events could be condensed into such bland, emotionless phrases. "Perhaps you are not aware that I have retained the...ability to sense the Borg communicating with each other. I was, after all, once part of the Collective."

Neither her gaze nor her expression changed in the slightest, but she tilted her head to one side, causing the fringe of soft, black hair to spill across her forehead, revealing pale skin beneath. "I have not studied the personal logs concerning your ability. Has this been empirically doc.u.mented in any of them?"

The question caught him off guard. He gathered himself and answered carefully, "It has been...noted by senior crew members, including Doctor Crusher. You might want to look at Counselor Troi's log in particular; she knew that I heard them. You can also check the records of the Enterprise's encounter with the queen ship shortly before it was destroyed. Several starships had engaged the Borg, and many were destroyed, including the admiral's vessel. I took command of the fleet and directed all the surviving ships to lock in their weapons at a precise location on the Borg cube-with the result that the cube was destroyed. That is a recorded fact."

Her face returned to neutral position again. So cherubic and innocent were her features that it was too easy to forget the piercing intelligence behind them. "Was this the reason for your distraction during our initial conversation, and for your collapse on the bridge?"

"It was." He could not prevent his tone from turning dark. "The voice of the Borg became overwhelming, so loud it blotted out all else."

"What did it say?"

"It said...they said...Well, I heard fragments. They're building a ship, a cube, near a moon in the far reaches of the Alpha Quadrant. They're preparing to attack again."

"Who is their target?"

"Earth." He gave a single, rueful shake of his head. "They haven't appreciated our interference with their plans to a.s.similate and conquer all races. They apparently desire revenge." He drew a breath. "I...also have acquired an instinct about the Borg. I know-I can't explain why-where they are. At this very moment, I could give the navigator the course heading that would take us to where the Borg are constructing their ship. I know, with completely certainty, that the Enterprise is the closest starship to the site, and that we have little time before the Borg complete their vessel and launch their attack.

"I notified Admiral Janeway of this. Unfortunately, she has ordered me to wait until Seven of Nine..." He hesitated and shot T'Lana a questioning glance.

"I know who Seven of Nine is," she responded.

"...until Seven can arrive aboard the Enterprise in order to direct the mission. Admiral Janeway feels that my emotions are too involved, given my experience with the Borg. But here is the problem: I know, without doubt, that by the time Seven of Nine arrives, it will be too late. The Borg will already have attacked." He fell silent, to give her time to absorb all he had said.

It took her no time at all to react. "You are asking me, if I understand correctly, whether you should disobey the admiral's orders and pursue the Borg without waiting for Seven of Nine."

"Yes," he said. It had been so easy to read Deanna. If she disapproved, there would have been a swift flash in her black eyes, accompanied by a carefully neutral expression before she began to speak in a low, measured tone. If she approved, there would have been an obvious look of sympathy. T'Lana's expression remained placid, maddeningly inscrutable.

Perhaps, in time, Picard would learn to read her.

"I would suggest," she said evenly, "that Doctor Crusher perform a psychological evaluation on you and run a series of tests to be sure there is no physical basis for the phenomenon."

Picard slowly released a breath and, with it, as little defensiveness as he possibly could. "Such an examination was conducted earlier today. You may feel free to consult with the doctor yourself, but I can tell you the results: no mental or physical abnormalities were found. This appears to be the same phenomenon that occurred during my previous encounter with the Borg and their queen."

"Interesting," T'Lana murmured. She hesitated, then added, "You are aware, Captain, of the Vulcan mind-meld."

"I am," Picard affirmed. "I have partic.i.p.ated in one before." He had not mentioned it because the experience was intensely personal and he did not feel comfortable partic.i.p.ating in one with someone who was still a stranger to him. In addition, he did not see the need to use such a highly intimate technique to prove himself to her, when she would most likely see the evidence soon enough.

"Good," she replied. "I suspected you might think that a mind-meld would allow yourself to 'prove' your position to me and justify your not following the admiral's orders. However, I can only sense what you are thinking and feeling. And it's clear that you are quite convinced that what you feel is right. I would experience that conviction-but ultimately I would still not be able, after the meld was completed, to say whether your conviction was based in fact or not."

"But might you not be able to hear the voice of the Borg for yourself?"

"Yes. But only filtered through your consciousness, with your convictions. I would not be able to judge whether I was hearing an outside ent.i.ty or one created by the workings of your own mind."

"Understood," Picard said. "So let me be blunt. What is your opinion? Do I ignore what I know to be an imminent threat and obey Janeway's order? Or do I listen to my instincts and possibly prevent the death and a.s.similation of billions?"

"You have framed your questions in terms that show your bias, Captain. Let me ask a different question: is it worth your court-martial-and the court-martial of loyal officers who choose to support you in your insubordination-in order to substantiate a suspicion?"

He felt a surge of anger at her words but quickly suppressed it. He had asked her here, after all, in order to get another viewpoint. "This is far more than a suspicion," he said heavily. "If you look at the facts..."

"The one fact you have mentioned that could prove your a.s.sertion is the fact that the Borg cube was destroyed when you ordered several starships to concentrate their fire on one specific location. But that could be explained by the evidence that the cube had already sustained damage, and that the combined force of several weapons was enough to destroy the ship." She paused. "If there is another fact, Captain, that can be unemotionally verified, I would like to hear it."

He scanned his memory and found himself at a loss. So many things had happened...So many members of his senior staff had trusted his connection to the Borg, and not asked for such verification, that he had never before thought of other incidents that could prove it to an outsider.

Given his silence, T'Lana continued. "My opinion is that Admiral Janeway is correct in her a.s.sessment: it is important for someone other than you to investigate the possibility that the Borg have become active again. I know of your experience with the Borg; it would be impossible for a human to suppress hostile emotions and a desire for rash action in such circ.u.mstances. Therefore, you must obey the admiral's orders. It is the most logical and cautious course of action." She paused. "You must remind yourself, as well, that both you and Janeway herself killed two powerful embodiments of the Borg queen. The drones that remain are few, scattered, and directiveless. It would be against their established pattern for them to unite and make a group decision in the manner you suggest."

He had to remind himself that he was grateful for someone willing to take the opposite side; at the same time, her statement fueled his frustration even more than his conversation with Janeway. "Is it really cautious to ignore a conviction that, if I wait for Seven to arrive, the Borg will be ready to strike? Where is the logic behind that, Counselor? I would rather risk my career than countless innocent lives." He rose, signaling that the meeting was at an end, but he could not resist a final question. "T'Lana...have you ever encountered the Borg face-to-face? Have you ever seen firsthand the results of one of their attacks, or seen the transformation of an individual who has been a.s.similated?"

She had risen as well. "I have not," she answered. "You must remember, Captain, that I lack the empathic skills of Counselor Troi. I cannot be for you what she was, and I hope that you do not consider my opposing views as a lack of respect for what you have endured at the hands of the Borg. But I can be the voice of logic for you. I can help you consider your options in that light."

"I do appreciate your input, Counselor," he said, with all the sincerity he possessed, but her words had only made his decision more difficult, not less.

"Thank you. Dismissed."

In sickbay, Beverly was preparing to conduct a routine checkup on Worf. Her mind was anywhere but on her incoming patient. Jean-Luc's condition still worried her. At best, he was suffering some kind of psychosis, which her scans had all but disproved. At worst, the Borg were preparing another attack. No matter what, she couldn't stop worrying about Jean-Luc. This was nothing new to her. She had always worried about him in times of duress. But somehow this was different. More personal. She just hoped that when the time came, she could retain her professional composure. She shook off the concern, knowing that she was too much of a professional even to allow for the doubt. She finished recalibrating her scans for a Klingon and was ready for Worf by the time he arrived.

After years of working with him aboard the Enterprise, she had eventually learned to read his moods, despite his fierce-looking features-the furry, upward-slanted brows that cast a shadow over his dark eyes and converged at the bridge of his nose to form a sharp V; the bony, ridged forehead that emphasized the severity of his eyebrows and intense glare. His lips were usually fixed in a grim, rigid line. All of the foregoing made him seem to wear a perpetual scowl-to an outsider. Though he rarely smiled, and his mannerisms were gruff, Beverly now could detect his various moods: playful, joking, serious, embarra.s.sed, uncomfortable, furious, sad. The slightest quirk in the corner of his lip conveyed a wealth of emotion.

She knew that Worf had felt awkward on the bridge after T'Lana's snub, but he had covered it well. By the time he entered sickbay, his mood had again shifted; he was plainly melancholy. She did not understand why, but she was not surprised to see such emotion in him. Beverly had learned that there was a great deal of insecurity and tenderness lurking beneath the fierce Klingon exterior. She knew that Worf had been married to a Trill during his absence. Beverly had seen holograms of her-a beautiful, delicate-looking woman. No doubt, her death had devastated him, though he never spoke of her; he worked to hide his grief from his crewmates.

Just as he was hiding something now, something that deeply troubled him, something Beverly suspected had to do with T'Lana's behavior on the bridge.

As his physician and his friend, it was Beverly's job to find out what.

She'd said nothing to him at the beginning, just the usual conversation between doctor and patient during a routine physical. It was best to get him comfortable and somewhat relaxed with the procedure before starting to ask the sensitive questions.

Near the end of the exam-after minimal exchanges, with Worf answering most questions with an affirmative grunt-the Klingon rose and straightened his tunic, clearly ready to be dismissed after the usual brief affirmation that he was in perfect health.

Now or never.

Beverly drew in a deep breath and said, tentatively, "Worf...you know that as chief medical officer, I'm responsible for more than just your physical health. And I can't help sensing that something is bothering you." She paused. "You know that ethics require me to keep everything you say in strictest confidence."

Worf let go an abrupt, short sigh at that. His lips parted, as though he were about to answer-but then a look of uncertainty came over him, and he fell silent.

At least he hadn't dismissed her outright, which was a good sign. She pressed, her tone gentle, cautious. "Does this have something to do with the reason you turned down the promotion to permanent second-in-command?"

His russet eyebrows lifted swiftly. "The captain told you?"

"I'm one of the senior officers. Of course he told me. I would have learned about it soon enough, anyway."

He looked into the distance and released a sound between a groan and a growl. "I do not deserve the position."

The statement honestly shocked her, and she let go a gasp of disbelief. "Worf, I can't think of anyone more deserving, or more qualified!"

He pressed his lips firmly together, not meeting her gaze; his own was fixed on a distant spot beyond her shoulder. "I had a choice once," he said tautly, "between duty...or personal loyalty. I chose incorrectly. A starship commander does not have that luxury."

She thought a flicker of pain crossed his features. She suppressed the impulse to reach out and put a comforting hand on his great shoulder. He was uncomfortable with the notion of a gentle touch. Instead, Beverly decided that she had come this far and might as well get to the heart of the matter. Months ago, Jean-Luc had told her the story of how Worf's wife had been wounded during a mission. The Klingon had left her behind in order to fulfill his duty, knowing full well that she would die before he could come back to her.

In the end, Worf had aborted the mission and returned to save her. Beverly had found the fact touching, despite the fact that Worf had failed in his duty. She had asked herself: If Jean-Luc were dying, would I be able to turn my back on him, even if I had direct orders to do so? Would I be able to leave him to die?

Softly, she asked, "Does this have anything to do with Jadzia?"

He drew in a startled, silent breath and blinked rapidly, then his expression turned to stone. She'd hit a nerve-the nerve.

"I do not want to discuss it," he answered stiffly.

She had pushed too far; the wound was still too tender. Yet she had to do something to salvage the situation.

"The past is the past, Worf," Beverly said, hoping her words did not come across as trite. "We can't change it. But we can change. And it's clear to me that you would change what happened, if you could." She paused. "You're the best possible candidate for the position. The captain needs you."

His expression softened slightly; she was making an impression. "There are others just as qualified," he said, but all the vehemence had left his tone. "I will remain until a replacement can be found."

"Tell me," Beverly said, "if you were on a Klingon vessel, what would your job be, as second-in-command?"

The question took him by surprise. "To support the captain totally, of course. So long as he does not endanger the crew."

She gave a single, emphatic nod. "That's all you have to do, Worf. You don't have to dwell on the past, or punish yourself for it by denying the captain the first officer he deserves. Just be Klingon for him."

He lifted his bronze face and finally met her gaze directly. His eyes still bore lingering doubt, but he was considering very carefully what she had just said.

She was about to dismiss him with that thought when-at the same time that she heard the doors to sickbay slide open behind her-Worf's eyes grew round with alarm. He moved past her, toward the doors.

"Captain!"

She turned. Behind her, she saw an ashen apparition bracing itself in the doorway to keep from falling: Jean-Luc, his face pale and glittering with sweat, his mouth slack, his eyes wide and vacant, emptied of his shrewd intelligence. In its place was something else...another consciousness, cold, mindless, and mechanical, a consciousness that filled Beverly with dread, for she had seen it in his eyes many, many years before...

She cried out his name, but he was beyond recognizing it-beyond recognizing her or Worf, as they seized his arms and took him over to a diagnostic bed.

He would not lie still, thrashing like a man in the throes of a fever. Worf held him carefully in place while Beverly frantically raced to get a reading.

Nothing abnormal in the standard scans...but something was terribly, terribly wrong. She frowned at the diagnostic panel, but her attention was forced away from it by the haunting sound of a single voice that seemed to combine a thousand whispers. It was a voice she knew and had hoped never to hear again: the voice of the Borg.

And Jean-Luc's lips were forming the words.