Star Trek_ Resistance Part 8

"You are working off a supposition that has no basis in fact," she reminded him.

"As is my prerogative as captain," he countered.

"Intuition." T'Lana almost whispered the word.

Picard wanted to see her relenting as a breakthrough, but he feared that this would merely be the first of many conversations where they b.u.t.ted heads. "Counselor...we obviously have read each other's files. You requested a.s.signment to the Enterprise; you wanted to come here. May I ask why?"

Something subtle flickered in her dark eyes, not outright emotion but perchance an uncomfortable memory. At last she answered, "I deemed it logical to go where I was needed most."

"I see." Coming from anyone other than a Vulcan, the remark would be the most pointed of insults; Picard struggled not to take it as such. "Dismissed."

He turned his back to her and once again faced the window. Against the backdrop of s.p.a.ce and stars, he saw her faint reflection before the doors closed behind her.

Sara Nave could not eat. She could not think. She could not even consider performing her regular duties. If Lio had simply been killed like the others, it would almost have been better. But knowing he was out there, knowing what he was going through at that very moment-it was all too much for her.

She stood at the entrance to Lio's quarters, unwilling to enter. Stepping over the threshold seemed to be an admission of the finality of Lio's loss. And she was not willing to let him go so easily. He was still on the Borg vessel, most likely still one of them. And if he was alive-in any fashion-there was still hope. Stubbornly, she had refused to cry. She would not allow herself to grieve. Not yet.

She had lost her parents cleanly; she'd been far removed from them, from the final explosions, the death cries, the torn, bleeding bodies. One moment they were alive in her consciousness; the next, irrevocably gone. She'd spent her life avoiding attachments, afraid of another moment this terrible.

But she had made an exception for Lio, had let herself care...She had done so for two reasons. One, she had yielded to hope; she had found someone worthy who had broken her resistance, who had made her love him. She'd known that together, they would have been good. Two, she had been afraid, afraid that if she did not take advantage of her opportunity to be with Lio that very moment, another chance would never come.

Nave shuddered, grasped her elbows tightly. She'd heard Amrita's garbled keening, the soft, subtle sound of human flesh being ripped asunder...then Lio's panicked report.

And his scream-quickly extinguished by the whip of metal through air.

She squeezed her eyes shut and heard her own exasperated retort. There won't be any "just in case."

But here it was.

Nave drew a breath and stepped inside. The doors slid shut behind her.

She opened her eyes. What had once been standard-issue quarters was now a pure reflection of Lio. The simple, streamlined cot was covered in linens in a variety of earth tones. The walls had been draped with faux leather covering, evoking the feel of a Tuscan villa. One wall had been turned into a larger-than-life-sized holographic picture window that looked out on an ancient village that Lio had told her still stood near the place he had been born. On a nearby wire rack sat a dozen bottles of real Italian wine, not synthehol. Lio had once threatened to share one of those bottles of real alcohol with her. She'd politely declined, stating that the c.o.c.ktails he ordered up in the club were challenging enough.

The desk, she remembered; he had mentioned leaving something for her on the desk.

He had added a hutch with shelves to the desk; they were lined with a dozen or so real paper books-ancient, leather-bound, with Latin and Italian writing on the spines. Awed, Nave reached out and put a hand on one. Lio had spoken of collecting nineteenth-century Italian literature, but she had never imagined that he actually owned such priceless volumes. She leaned forward to draw in their smell of musty paper and aging leather. She would a.s.sociate that earthy scent with Lio for the rest of her life.

As her mind filled with images of her lost love, she remembered why she had come to his room in the first place. He had left something for her.

Sara looked down to find a delicate-looking model airplane resting on the desktop. As she carefully picked it up, she recognized the design from her academy history lessons. It was a replica of a flying machine designed by his namesake, the artist and scientist Leonardo da Vinci. Sara was impressed by the simple detail on the handmade model. Nothing on it appeared replicated. It had a genuine feel to it. She immediately loved it for its imperfections as well as for the fact that it was the perfect gift for a flight controller.

She gently placed the model back on the desk and picked up the note it had been resting on. It was parchment paper, with lettering written in calligraphic script.

For Sara- My mother made this for me as a gift that she gave me on the day I was accepted to the academy. It was a fitting enough gift, but now I wonder if maybe there was a bit of premonition about it, that she knew I'd fall in love with someone who dreamed of flying, like yourself.

I never thought you'd give me a chance, Sara. Since the first day I saw you, this model inspired me to take a chance. Leonardo da Vinci never successfully got off the ground, but with you, I could soar.

You gave me hope; you gave me yourself. Borg or no Borg, I leave this room a happy man. Remember that. It's the only thing that really matters.

Lio She read it over several times, numb at first, but with each successive reading, her defenses slowly melted, until they could no longer contain the torrent of grief. She put down the paper, put her hands to her face, and wept.

She thought of the terrible moment when Lio had faced the Borg, when he had first realized he was going to die. The physical pain must have been horrible enough, but the mental must have been unbearable for him. She thought of the anguish he had felt on seeing his friend Joel as one of the Borg. How much more anguished had Lio felt realizing that the same fate now awaited him?

Just consider me dead. It's easier...

When she was finished, she said, as if Lio himself were standing in front of her, "As much as I love the conn, I'm going to transfer back to Security. They'll need a new chief, and I'm the most experienced." She paused, then added, bitter and vehement: "The Borg will never win. I'll board that ship, Lio. And I'll find you."

7.

IN SICKBAY, BEVERLY WAS PERFORMING MICRO -surgery, staring down at computerized enlargements of Borg nanoprobes.

Unaltered, they would infiltrate Jean-Luc's neurons, twisting and intertwining themselves around the double helix of his DNA, corrupting its chemistry, supplanting it, until it became something new and inhuman.

Beverly was subtly changing them so that they would mask, not replace, Jean-Luc's humanity. The process made her recall their last encounter with the Borg-but her memory ran not to the harrowing battles aboard the Enterprise but rather to the moment she had first gazed upon Zefram Cochrane's ship, the Phoenix.

She'd seen old pictures of nuclear missiles, and there was no mistaking the Phoenix's genesis. If ever there had been a plowshare hammered out of a sword...

Which was precisely what she was attempting to do now. If the nanites were successfully implanted, and the captain's neutralizer chip functioned correctly, the technology the Borg had used to enslave billions would finally bring about their downfall.

She glanced up, then turned at the sound of the door opening behind her. She expected to see Jean-Luc and was prepared to tell him to be patient a little longer.

Instead, standing just inside the door was Counselor T'Lana. Beverly rose and faced the Vulcan, who stood primly, hands clasped behind her back. Beverly had to direct her gaze downward. She was not a tall woman, but T'Lana was exceptionally short for a Vulcan.

"Doctor Crusher," T'Lana said by way of greeting.

Beverly was surprised to find herself repressing an instinctive dislike. It was hard to feel gracious toward anyone who challenged the captain at a time when he most desperately needed the support of his entire crew, but her reaction did not really suit the situation. Beverly realized that her emotional response was more that of a lover than a chief medical officer. T'Lana was only being logical in her doubt. Secretly, the doctor wished she had a better handle on her own reservations.

"Unless you're experiencing a medical emergency, I'm afraid I'll have to speak with you another time," she said, hoping that she didn't come across as overly dismissive. "I'm working on an extremely urgent project for the captain."

T'Lana took a step closer. "He is precisely the reason I have come to speak with you. I would be grateful if you would hear me out before you continue your efforts to transform him into Locutus."

Beverly lifted an eyebrow in surprise. "You've spoken to the captain recently."

"I have just come from his quarters. I realize that you have an intimate relationship with the captain. At the same time, you hold the most crucial position aboard the ship: that of chief medical officer."

"I'm aware of my responsibilities," Beverly replied coolly. In one statement, T'Lana had put into words the same internal conflict the doctor had been trying to avoid for the past hour. "If there's a point to this conversation, please make it. I have a job to do."

"I submit that transforming the captain into a Borg and sending him over to their vessel is a reckless and dangerous act. The risk is high that he will again be a.s.similated, and I need not remind you of the countless Starfleet personnel who died when he was last Locutus." She paused, tilting her head to study Beverly more closely. "You Earth physicians have a saying: First do no harm. At the very least, you are harming the captain...and the potential harm to others is extremely great."

Beverly felt herself start to color. She was not about to explain herself to the new counselor. It would be impossible for a Vulcan to fully understand why she was going along with Jean-Luc's questionable plan. In order to keep from showing anger, she began to turn back to her monitor. "I have my orders."

"That is the point," T'Lana persisted. "You are chief medical officer. If the captain makes an irrational decision, you can relieve him of duty."

Beverly whirled to face her. "So that's why you've come."

"You have the power, Doctor. Someone else could take command and follow Admiral Janeway's orders."

"That is not an option," Beverly replied coldly. Too coldly, she realized. T'Lana's suggestion was only logical, from the counselor's point of view. But still, Beverly couldn't help what next came out of her own mouth. "I've always heard that Vulcans were extremely loyal to their commanding officers. What makes you the exception?"

Only the most observant eye would have seen T'Lana start, seen her posture stiffen, seen the single flash as she blinked, the infinitesimal lift of her chin. "That is an inaccurate a.s.sessment. My loyalty to Captain Wozniak of the Indefatigable was noted by Starfleet Command."

"We're talking about Jean-Luc Picard," Beverly said. "You asked to come here, Counselor. You asked to serve him. And right now, you've shown him nothing but distrust; in fact, you're doing everything in your power to undermine his authority. Why? Does it have something to do with the Indefatigable being destroyed? Are you so afraid that the same thing is going to happen to you again? Is that why you refuse to put your confidence in Captain Picard?"

She'd struck a nerve. T'Lana moved not a muscle; her face was set as stone, but the intensity in her eyes was breathtaking. "Vulcans do not experience fear," she said woodenly. "My actions are based in logic. I question whether yours are as well."

They studied each other in silence for a time.

T'Lana was the first to speak. "I suspect that you are wondering the same thing about yourself."

Beverly would have smiled if the nerve that T'Lana had just hit weren't already so raw. "I don't have time for a counseling session," she said. "I have work to do. I will thank you to leave me to it."

She directed her attention back to the monitor and did not look up at the sound of the doors closing.

After waiting an unendurable hour for the summons from Beverly, Picard at last made his way toward sickbay and transformation. These were the same Enterprise corridors he knew so well, yet today they were filled with ghosts: black-and-white killing machines, both the slayer and the slain, who had roamed here. Efficient, fatal, and silent. The screams that echoed in Picard's memory were human, those of his perished crew.

His stride was brisk, yet the walk seemed uncommonly long. When he finally arrived at sickbay, Beverly, wearing her blue surgeon's coat, was waiting, not busy at her monitors and scans as usual, but standing facing the door, arms folded, posture conveying determination. Yet Picard saw the tension in the muscles of her jaw, her neck, saw the narrowing of her eyes.

The doors closed behind him with a whisper of finality.

They nodded at each other in grave silence. There were no words appropriate to the situation, capable of expressing the horror of the duty each was now going to perform. There was no point in discussing the harrowing memories the imminent act was about to evoke.

With barely a glance to the two security guards pointedly stationed inside the doorway, she turned and led him to surgery. Next to the waiting bed stood a table bearing ominous apparatus: black tubing, a black carapace designed to fit above and beneath his eye, then curve around his skull; nearby sat a Borg optoscope and several neatly placed hyposprays, holding the nanites that would change the essence of what he was.

One object on the table made him recoil: a black prosthetic arm composed of thick serpentine coils rather than muscle, terminating in pincers and a many-petaled rotating blade. He recognized it with gut and instinct more than mind; it was the exact arm worn by Locutus more than a decade ago.

Beverly saw his reaction and said, with taut professionalism, "I saved as much as possible for research purposes." She paused, then spoke again, her tone abruptly softened. "It was a part of you, once."

And so it would be again. Picard did not respond to her statement. Instead he drew a deep breath, settled onto the bed, and said, "Let's get on with it."

Complete sedation had been unnecessary; Beverly could easily have used a local while injecting the neutralizer chip, then fitting the arm, the carapace, the optoscope, the tubing that ran from his cheek and jaw to the crown of his skull. It was, Picard later decided, an act of mercy on her part.

Beverly woke him when it was time for the injection of the nanites; this required him to be conscious so that she could better monitor the results.

He sat up on the bed, half blind from the facial carapace and optoscope, feeling heavy and awkward from the weight of the tubing on his head and the long, protruding mechanical arm. He could see the two guards stiffen, standing at the ready should anything go wrong.

The doctor was blessedly swift in her work, devoid of any emotion. She injected the hypos into Picard's shoulder one after the other, then stood back to observe her patient.

Picard fought to still the rapid beating of his fleetingly human heart. The first sign was strength: the sense of heaviness vanished, as if someone had gently lifted the weight of all the prostheses from him. He found himself sitting stiffly, perfectly erect. The second was sight. He blinked as his own eyes ceased their functioning, as the optoscope took over and the colors surrounding him faded to dull monochrome. The blue of Beverly's coat, the copper of her hair, were rendered now in shades of gray. Her image was distorted, abruptly looming one instant, receding the next.

He drew a breath; the air seemed suddenly chill, drier than any desert. In the midst of his discomfort, he realized that Beverly was leaning forward, speaking to him, the horror in her eyes not entirely masked.

"Jean-Luc. What effects are you experiencing?"

He swiveled his head slowly to regard her, struggling to make sense of the distant, muted sounds she was making. They were almost eclipsed by something much louder: the thunder of the Collective. He could hear it now-indeed, every word that had once been an unintelligible whisper now permeated his being.

He strained and managed to reply. "All of them. We are now the Borg."

His voice was no longer his own; all inflection and naturalness were gone, leaving his words clipped and toneless. It was Locutus who spoke.

Yet it was Picard who remained transcendent, Picard who had composed the answer, who had observed the changes with trepidation, who did not permit himself for an instant to consider the consequences should his mission go awry.

"How is the neutralizer chip working, Jean-Luc?"

"Well," he said, and to his own relief, was able to add, "I'm here, too. Picard is here." He climbed stiffly, deliberately from the bed. "And it's time for me to go."

On the bridge, Worf sat in the command chair and studiously ignored Counselor T'Lana when she returned. He could not permit thoughts of self-blame or inadequacy to mar his focus. He had been contemplating what Doctor Crusher had said about his being Klingon for the captain. Now was the most critical of times, when the captain needed his loyalty the most-especially when Picard's own counselor was outspokenly critical of his decision.

Instead, Worf waited for Doctor Crusher's summons and stared at the viewscreen image of the Borg cube. The Borg were completely without honor. They did not kill cleanly, granting their victims n.o.ble deaths. Instead, they stole the souls of the living and subjected them to mental slavery. Worf mourned the fact that Lieutenant Battaglia had just been so thoroughly dishonored, while he silently celebrated the valiant deaths of the rest of the team. It was something the rest of the crew would never understand. For as horrific as the murders had been, Satchitanand, Costas, and DeVrie had all died with honor.

Behind him, the lift doors opened. Nave emerged and paused to face him before she replaced the officer at the helm.

"Commander," she said softly. Her normally pale face was flushed, and her eyes red rimmed; she had been weeping.

Worf noted the fact with profound discomfort. The tears of women-especially Jadzia's-had always produced a sense of helplessness in him. He never knew what to do to stop them. In the case of Nave, however, he at least knew their cause. Nave was formerly chief of security-a position with which Worf himself was familiar-and she knew the four crew members who had died or been lost. Worf suspected that one of them, Battaglia, had been a heart friend; he had seen Nave with him many times in the crew lounge. Worf refused to call the bar by the odd name that Captain Riker had christened it.

"Yes, Lieutenant?" Worf replied, uncomfortable. He was glad that Nave had at least stopped her crying and seemed to have gained control of herself. She reminded him, in a way, of Jadzia. She was impatient with herself when she failed to repress her emotions.

"Will the captain be reporting for duty again soon, sir?" Nave's tone was distinctly formal, quite the opposite of the friendly way she spoke to him during workouts with the bat'leth. "I...have a request to make of him. I went by his quarters just now, but he wasn't there."

Worf lowered his voice. "The captain won't be...available for some period of time."

"Ah," Nave said. She lowered her face, crestfallen, then summoned her determination and looked squarely at Worf. "Then...perhaps I could make the request of you, sir."

Worf answered with a stern look.

"I'd like to volunteer for the position of security chief, sir. We just lost our chief and three of the highest-ranking officers in security. Of anyone on this ship, I have the most experience for the job."

Worf considered this. "A security chief is critically necessary, especially in the emergency situation we are in. But we also require an experienced conn. Evasive maneuvers can often protect us better than armed officers."

"Ensign Nguyen is experienced," Nave said, referring to the officer who was just leaving the seat vacant for her. "And there's Lieutenant Krueger." Both officers shared conn duty with Nave, each working different shifts.

"I suppose, if our situation grows more dire, we could let you fill the position and ask Nguyen and Krueger to pull longer shifts of duty." He paused. "Very well. If we have need of a chief of security, I will call upon you when the time comes."

"When the time comes...?" Nave repeated, aghast. "Sir, the time is here. I'm volunteering to lead an away team now onto the Borg vessel."

Worf lowered his voice, though he had no doubt T'Lana, sitting nearby, would hear every word. "No away team is needed. I will be making an announcement to the crew shortly: the captain is beaming over to the Borg vessel."

"The captain?"

"He will be safe," Worf countered. "Doctor Crusher is transforming him into a Borg. But he will be wearing a neutralizer chip, which will protect him from being a.s.similated. The Borg will accept him, and he will be able to proceed unhindered to the queen and destroy her."

"And if he doesn't?" Nave asked outright.