Star Trek_ Resistance Part 6

He'd had enough counseling-enough time spent with Deanna-to know that it was not his fault, that the Borg had committed these crimes. Rationally, he understood that well. But thoughts and emotions were two different things.

What had Beverly said?

A wound as deep as yours won't ever heal completely...

He had thought her wrong; he had believed that Lily's admonition had helped him form a scar too thick ever to be pierced. Now the wound was exposed again, raw: T'Lana was correct in that regard. But he had made a silent promise to himself, to the long-dead Lily, to his crew. He would never again let his fury against the Borg color his command decisions.

The Borg chatter had become progressively louder throughout the night, though the few phrases that were comprehensible gave him no further insight. Yet he could sense himself, his ship, moving steadily closer to them.

He was not surprised when, at last, his communicator chirped. He pressed it at once. "Picard here."

Beverly stirred, then sat forward, instantly alert.

The voice was Geordi's. His tone managed to convey an incongruent mix of excitation and grimness. "Per your orders, Captain, we're not in visual range yet. But our long-range scanners have found the moon we're looking for." He hesitated. "And, sir...you're right. There's a structure resembling a Borg cube in orbit. And it's ma.s.sive."

"Of course," Picard murmured. It was, after all, a queen vessel.

"It doesn't seem to have detected us yet."

"They have no reason to use their long-range scanners. I doubt they're expecting visitors." The captain paused, doubting himself for the first time. He couldn't be sure of that fact, or anything he suspected about the ship. Everything that he had heard so far led him to believe that the Borg cube was not yet fully functional, that all the systems would come online at once when the queen was awakened. But there was no way to be sure of that information. He had put a great deal of faith in his intuition already, but what came next was a tremendous leap. It was the one part of his plan that required his crew to support him without question, even though he already questioned himself.

On the bridge, Picard sat surrounded by his crew: Worf, Geordi, T'Lana, Nave. He could not help but think of Shakespeare's Henvy V in the moment: We few, we happy few, we band of brothers...Never before had he felt so alone against an enemy.

The Vulcan counselor had expressed polite interest in the fact that the Enterprise scanners had detected something, but she was still unwilling to yield the fact that it was a Borg vessel. He had avoided another confrontation with her over their difference of opinion on the definition of proof, but just barely. Picard could not help noticing that she had scrupulously avoided eye contact or conversation with Worf during the encounter. It was only logical that any counselor would approach the first officer for further discussion once she had exhausted all options with the captain. Not that she would want to undermine Picard, but her level of objection would naturally lend itself to further discussion. For the moment, Picard was thankful for what he perceived as a self-imposed distancing between T'Lana and Worf. Regretfully, that distance was beginning to extend to the other members of the bridge crew as it became clear that T'Lana was singular in her objections.

Beverly alone was absent from the bridge; she'd gone to sickbay. During her half-dozing state the previous night, she'd become inspired to reexamine the many years' worth of biomedical data collected on the Borg. She would not state what she was hunting for, only that she had a "hunch." Picard had learned to value those hunches a great deal over the many years he had known her.

The Borg cube was too distant for them to get an image of it on the viewscreen, but Picard knew it was there.

Picard turned to his navigator. "Lieutenant Nave, on my command, I want you to take us to the Borg ship at warp one. Plot a direct route. No diverting course."

"Aye, Captain."

"Mister Worf, I want you in control of the weapons system," Picard said. "Take it off-line but ready to bring it back up on a moment's notice."

"Sir, you wish to engage the Borg with our defenses down?" Worf asked skeptically.

"If the Borg do not determine us to be a threat, we may not have to engage them at all," Picard reasoned. "Minimal power to the shields, however, and be prepared."

"Sir..."

"The cube's systems are not fully online yet," Picard reasoned. "We should be safe." Picard knew that he was taking a huge risk, but it was the only option. There was no reasonable way a ship like the Enterprise could sneak up on the Borg cube. His only hope was that the Borg would a.s.sume they were on an exploratory mission. Surely they would know it was ludicrous for the Enterprise to take on a Borg cube on its own.

Picard looked over to T'Lana, who met his gaze. He had expected her to protest, but she merely looked resigned to the knowledge that her concerns would fall on deaf ears. When she remained silent, he turned his attention to the conn. "Lieutenant Nave, take us in."

Nave complied.

Before twenty minutes had elapsed, the neighboring star, a superhot blue giant, appeared on the viewscreen.

"Slow to impulse," Picard ordered.

The solar system came into view. A ring of rocky, atmosphereless planetoids appeared on the screen, followed by a pair of multiringed gas giants.

They were headed farther in, toward the terrestrial planets. At the first of them, Picard lifted his hand; Nave caught the silent signal and slowed the ship further.

In the planet's...o...b..t hung a solitary moon, reflecting the brilliant blue-white light of the sun.

This stunning backdrop was half eclipsed at its center by something dark and ungainly, something that p.r.i.c.ked the hairs on the back of Picard's neck.

The Borg cube was a hideous thing: an exposed latticework of thousands of metal conduits haphazardly bracketed by panels and laced with black tubing. Infinite rows of conduits and panels were visible beneath, dotted with the glowing lights of internal machinery. To Picard it looked as if someone had taken the inner workings of a ship and turned them inside out. The vessel had been constructed with no regard for aesthetics, design, grace; even in moonlight, the random accretion of dull gray metal failed to gleam.

Picard had seen his share of Borg cubes, but this one dwarfed them all. It was monstrously vast: next to it, the Enterprise was a gnat, a tiny annoyance easily slapped down.

Of course, Picard realized. This vessel had to be the greatest of them all, for it housed not only the queen but also all the Borg's determination to finally conquer-no, obliterate-every humanoid race that had fought back, that had prevented the Borg from achieving their ultimate goal of total a.s.similation. This ship was designed to crush, forever, all resistance.

He glanced at his crew. Nave's eyes were unabashedly huge, and though T'Lana's expression remained impa.s.sive, she exhibited subtle gestures that, in a Vulcan, were tantamount to a startled gasp: a slight lean forward in her chair while fingering the edge of her console, as if she were fighting the urge to clutch it tightly. The captain felt no sense of satisfaction that she at last saw the empirical proof that he had been right.

As for La Forge and Worf, their faces reflected what Picard himself felt: grim determination and hatred at the sight of an old foe.

Geordi directed his attention away from the ship and back to his console. "Only minimal systems seem to be online. Short-range scanners. Partial weapons. Propulsion is still off-line." There was relief in his voice.

Picard stared at the screen. Even partial weapons were too much of a threat. "What about shields?"

"Nonoperational at this time, sir."

"Lieutenant Nave," Picard said, quiet in the presence of such an awesome and deadly sight, "take us to just within transporter range and no farther. I want to keep as much distance as possible from that vessel."

"Understood, sir." The task calmed Nave at once; her wide-eyed astonishment vanished, replaced by focused intensity.

"Mister La Forge." Picard swiveled toward him. "How long will it take you to locate the queen's chamber?"

Geordi frowned slightly at his readouts. "I'll need a few minutes, Captain. That's a lot of ship there...but she is the only female on board."

"There are no more than a few dozen drones awake at present."

"True, sir," Geordi agreed. "But she's sleeping...and so are a few hundred drones."

"Understood." He pressed his combadge. "Picard to the Armory."

"Battaglia here, sir."

"Lieutenant. a.s.semble your team and prepare to beam over to the Borg vessel. Commander La Forge will be transmitting a schematic of their ship's interior to you shortly; we'll try to get you directly into the queen's chamber." He paused. "Most of the drones are asleep-hibernating, if you will-and you should encounter no resistance from the others. As we discussed, Lieutenant, no more than four people. It shouldn't take more than that to accomplish your goal." And no point in risking more...

"Aye, Captain." The edge in Battaglia's tone was unmistakable. It was the sound of someone who had done battle with the Borg before and knew what to expect now.

As Picard closed the channel, Nave looked up at him expectantly.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" he asked.

"It's...it's nothing, sir," she said, flushing as she turned back to the conn.

Picard knew what question had gone unspoken. It would have been unthinkable for her to ask, even more so for Picard to grant the request. But the captain had been in this position before. He knew what the away team was facing. Furthermore, he knew that Nave was friends with them all, and possibly most of all with Lieutenant Battaglia. What Picard was about to do was not exactly within protocol, but then no part of this mission fell within Starfleet standards once he had ignored Admiral Janeway's orders.

"Counselor, please take the conn," Picard instructed. This was met with a questioning look from T'Lana and one of great relief from Nave.

"I promise to make this quick," she said as she stood.

"I will hold you to that, Lieutenant," he replied. "Five minutes and no more. I need you back at the conn by the time our people are transporting over to the Borg vessel."

She flushed even more deeply. "Thank you, sir." And in an instant, she was gone.

Nave was striding down the corridor just as Lio and his team were heading into the transporter room. He caught sight of her behind him.

They were a fearsome-looking group, with the largest, most powerful, and most sophisticated of the phaser rifles strapped over their shoulders and around their torsos. There were two men, new a.s.signees, whom Nave had recently met-one of them twice her size. And there was Amrita Satchitanand, her former workout partner, a small woman with blue-black hair and full, rounded cheekbones beneath golden eyes. Amrita acknowledged her with a nod, but no one, including Lio, was smiling.

Lio gave her a quick glance and gestured for the rest of the away team to head inside the transporter room without him. He looked different from the man she met every night in the club; his easygoing manner was replaced by deadly seriousness. Even his features seemed sharp, stern: his lips were thin, compressed, his eyes full of a hardness behind which lurked grief. And his body-normally lanky and relaxed-seemed taut, strong.

Certainly he appeared different from the man who had lain in her arms only hours before. Then, his pose as the brooding intellectual had been entirely stripped away. He had looked younger, vulnerable; his manner had been sheepish, sweet, and endearingly awkward. His uncertainty had given Sara confidence; she had taken the initiative, and he had responded resoundingly.

She looked at him now and remembered how his skin had smelled: warm and clean, and masculine. She hadn't wanted to leave his quarters-as if by staying she could somehow stretch time and keep the Borg and their ship at bay.

"Shouldn't you be at the conn?" Lio's tone was urgent but not unkind. He had a mission to accomplish, and Nave realized abruptly how foolish she had been to leave her post now, of all times-especially when she had no idea what she had come to say.

"Good luck," she said awkwardly, then stopped, disgusted. "No, that's not it." She squared her shoulders and stared at him dead-on. "I forgot to say it last night: I love you." Hardly the most romantic delivery: she had issued orders with more gentleness, more feeling.

It was like watching a j.a.panese paper lantern suddenly illuminated from the inside. Lio's face and eyes brightened, and he graced her with one of his brilliant crescent-moon smiles. "Then kiss me," he said.

She did, swiftly, because there wasn't time and because this was the most unprofessional thing she'd ever done-while on duty, at least. And then she turned her back to him and headed for the nearest lift.

"Sara."

She turned.

He was half standing in the entry, his expression once again urgent, serious. "If I don't make it back, just consider me dead. It's easier that way."

His words made her furious. "Don't say that. Don't even think it!"

"I'm sorry," he said. "But...in my quarters, on the desk. I left you something. Just in case."

"I don't understand," she called. "What? What did you leave?"

He shook his head to indicate he had to go. "You'll know. Just in case."

His words made her inexplicably furious. "There won't be any 'just in case,'" she insisted, but he had already disappeared behind the door.

Lio Battaglia materialized on the Borg cube and drew in a breath. Before his eyes could focus, his body tensed at the changed environment. The air was hot, suffocatingly humid, evoking memories of those terrible patrols down the Enterprise corridors, when the Borg had seized the starship and adapted it to their comfort.

He gazed out at a vertiginous view: he and his team stood on the uppermost deck-or, rather, a catwalk with metal conduits that served as railings. The interior of the ship-which looked very much to Lio like its exterior-was a vast, open maze of decking, panels, and exposed circuitry and pipes. Below was an infinite spiral of more decks, more conduits. Beneath them in the metallic jungle, row after row of alcoves held a hundred motionless drones, their bloodless white faces marred by black cybernetic implants, unblinking inhuman eyes, tubing that encircled their hairless skulls. The sight startled Lio as much as it disgusted him: how had so many of them managed to survive?

The sight also evoked the memory of his friend Joel. He had met Joel in the Happy Bottom Riding Club the first night the young ensign had arrived aboard the Enterprise. Joel had had a wicked sense of humor, and he had brought with him a bartender's guide which, Lio believed, listed every mixed drink (c.o.c.ktails, Joel called them) ever created. Joel was working his way through the list, and he insisted that Lio join him.

The first night had featured gin and tonics. It was where Lio had first heard of juniper berries. It was the reason he had introduced Sara to the drink the day before.

Lio had lied to Sara: when Joel-or, rather, the thing he had become-had attacked, Lio had fired. The Joel-Borg had stayed on its feet, impervious, until Commander Worf shouted an order for his officers to change the frequency of their phasers. Lio had recalibrated and fired again, this time taking the Joel-Borg down with a blazing, killing blast to its midsection.

It had writhed a second, no more, on the Enterprise deck, then died. And any hope of retrieving whatever remained of Joel had died with it.

Lio had spoken of the incident to no one; all of his fellow survivors had suffered similar traumas when the Borg invaded the Enterprise. Others had certainly been forced to destroy former crewmates. Lio had dealt with it by reminding himself that his hurt was not special.

Yet when he had tried to confess the truth to Sara, he had choked on the words; he had found it easier to lie. He could not bring himself to voice the fact that he had murdered his friend. Picard himself, filled with rage, had ordered them to shoot any a.s.similated crew members.

But Lio would deal some vengeance to the Borg today; he intended to take no small amount of pleasure in destroying the queen. And then he would return to the Enterprise, and Sara, where he would begin a new and better phase of his life. He had not thought, before he met Sara, that he would ever let himself become entangled in a permanent relationship. She, of all people, should understand the dangers of family life aboard a starship: her own parents had died serving aboard the Lowe, though she never spoke of it. He had learned about their deaths not from her but one of their crewmates.

For Sara, he was willing to live dangerously. But he was not willing to live without her.

He refocused himself immediately. It took him a minute to gather his bearings; they'd materialized some thirty meters from their destination. He nodded to his team. "This way."

He'd a.s.sembled a good group. Amrita Satchitanand was the most experienced, with the steadiest nerves he'd ever seen; she was his backup in case his attempt to destroy the queen somehow failed. Jorge Costas-lumbering and extraordinarily tall, yet with brilliantly fast reflexes-and Noel DeVrie, a deadly shot, would provide cover.

"Remember," he said, hefting the phaser rifle as they began to move, "no firing unless attacked. We can move freely among them so long as they don't perceive us as a threat."

Their steps rang hollowly against the metal decking. It was eerily silent, save for the faint, distant hum of engines. There were no voices here, no movement; a dim grayish light strobed overhead, emphasizing the profound lack of color, of life. Lio focused and suppressed his fear, his memories of Joel. It would all be over quickly: one shot, and the queen would be destroyed and all the Borg rendered harmless. All so easy...

Their destination was the only enclosed chamber in the vessel. At the open entryway, Lio paused.

Inside the vast interior, the light was even dimmer, with a greenish cast.

Lio pressed his combadge and breathed, "Captain Picard...We have found the queen." He closed the channel.

On a table, encased in a gleaming gelatinous substance, lay a pale monstrosity: a bald head and shoulders, and a spinal cord that emerged, b.l.o.o.d.y and serpentine, from the incomplete ma.s.s of flesh. The features were bland, regular, utterly androgynous, but nearby, a Borg drone worked on a shiny black form set upon a pedestal, the missing two-thirds of the body, which bore decidedly feminine attributes.

Above the queen's table, dark tubes extended downward-one inserted directly into her/its flesh, the second excreting more of the gelatinous medium. Two drones oversaw the procedure. A third drone was just finishing grotesque surgery on the supine figure encased in the gel: the amputation of a cybernetic arm.

An easy thing, to quickly kill...Lio was about to lift his rifle when he heard a scream behind him.

He should have continued the motion. He should have pressed the trigger-should have, but the instinct to protect his crewmates was too strong. He turned.

Borg drones had moved in behind them. A quartet, one for each member of the away team. It was DeVrie, leading up the rear, who had screamed. He had already dropped his weapon and fallen to his knees, dead-a whirring saw at the end of a drone's prosthetic arm had gone straight through his chest. At the same instant that DeVrie dropped forward into the spreading stain of his own blood, a second Borg lunged forward, piercing through Costas's midsection with a spiraling blade that split the man in half. Lio paused for the briefest moment as he realized that the Borg weren't a.s.similating, they were butchering.

The moment was short. Both Lio and Amrita fired at the Borg who had so swiftly killed their friends. The drones dropped, but two more were advancing. Lio fired again, only to watch the beam bounce harmlessly off its target. With echoes of Worf's voice in his head, he shouted to Amrita, "Recalibrate the frequency!"

She did so but too late. The drone was upon her, and Lio's a.s.sa.s.sin was again advancing, slightly more than an arm's length away now. In his peripheral vision, he realized that the drones tending the queen were also moving in to intercept the intruders.

As he struggled to ignore the sounds of what the Borg were doing to Amrita's body, Lio had a dark thought: At least I won't become one of them.

Before he could prepare himself for death, he knew that his first and last duty was to the Enterprise, and he had critical information for those who survived him.

The drone reached for his shoulder. In the final moment, everything slowed. Lio looked into the face of his attacker-the chalky flesh surrounded by black-and thought, with an odd sense of be-mused detachment, how Terrans had so often personified Death as pale-faced, cloaked in black.