STAR TREK: VOY - Homecoming, Book Two - The Farther Shore

by Christie Golden

  Kaz did not protest. Even the little bit of time that Seven and Icheb had been allowed to regenerate would help them, and he knew as well as Janeway did that they didn’t have the luxury of time on any front of this strange battle they were waging.

  “What do you want us to do?” asked Chakotay, quietly.

  “We’ll awaken Seven and Icheb and send them back [181] to sickbay with Kaz and Data. The rest of you will come with me. This was our ship, once. We’re going to take it back.”

  Brenna Covington lay on the bed, her skullcap removed and her brain exposed, calm and yet excited at the same time. She had the utmost trust in the EMH Mark One. He had not failed her yet, which was more than could be said for many humans. It had taken time, and she had lost patience more than once with him, Grady, and Blake. But they always had come through for her in the end.

  She had grown weary of being a partial queen. It was good, to have the superior strength and access to the hive mind. It was even better to be able to link with them, as she could when she regenerated, to feel their need and love of her. But that was as a taste of honey on the tongue, sweet but serving only to awaken further cravings. She wanted more. She wanted it all.

  Covington wanted information to flow through her body like her blood did. She wanted to penetrate all the drone minds, all the time, thoroughly and completely, with no separation. She wanted to experience the thoughts of healthy adults, not just the malleable brains of children and the sometimes dry and barren minds of the elderly. Intellectually, she knew what she would become when she was at last complete, and she thirsted for it like a man in the desert thirsted for cold, sweet water.

  Had she been the true queen, the process would have taken place within moments, if not seconds. The Royal Protocol program would have selected her, imbued her [182] with knowledge that came as quickly and effortlessly as breathing. It would have replaced weak human organs with metal, and she would have become queen almost instantaneously. The Borg needed their queen, could not function without her.

  But what she, Blake, and the EMH were doing was new, experimental. Had never been done before. They were creating a queen from scratch, as it were, with a recipe that had only recently been understood.

  Odd, that she would use a cooking metaphor. She seemed to smell food being prepared ... cookies, she thought; baking slowly in an oven.

  “I smell cookies baking,” she told the EMH. He stood behind her, busily working on her brain. She was used to it, accustomed now even to the sight of her skullcap, bony and bloody, sitting in a dish behind a sterile field.

  “I’m stimulating that part of your brain,” the EMH replied. “That’s only natural. I hope it’s a pleasant association.”

  “It is,” she said, her mind going back to the time before the owner of the Hand invaded her life, when she and her mother baked chocolate chip cookies every Saturday morning. She had not smelled cookies baking since then. Odd, how the mind worked, what it chose to remember.

  Once the transformation from human to Borg queen was completed, she would have no need for the laborious task of chewing, swallowing, and digesting nutrients. Her taste buds would all but disappear from disuse. Anything her body needed, it would acquire through the more efficient means of direct absorption.

  Faintly she heard the EMH’s voice, as if coming from far away. “... have to put you fully under, Your Majesty.”

  [183] “You may proceed,” she said, her voice thick and her words slurred. As she closed eyelids that had become suddenly heavy and drifted into darkness, her last thought was one of regret at never again smelling and tasting chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven.

  The slow-passing hours were taking a dreadful toll on Allyson. Andropov, Robinson, and many of the others who were Starfleet-trained were in excellent physical condition, even if they did have the dreaded “desk jobs” and weren’t operating on sufficient food, water, or sleep. Allyson was just a girl, barely twenty, and had obviously never had to endure anything resembling physical hardship on the measure of what was expected of her here.

  The circles under her eyes grew almost as he watched. It would take days, of course, for the flesh to melt off her bones, but she was visibly weak. Twice, she had stumbled away to vomit up what little food and water she’d been able to keep down. Once, she had paid for it by feeling the sting of the lash. Andropov had rushed to her defense, shielding her body with his own and taking the brunt of the punishment. The rider didn’t seem to care which of the organics was beaten, as long as someone was. He had laughed and spurred his horse into a canter, riding off to another point to supervise the slaves.

  “Thank you,” Allyson whispered, gazing up at him with hero worship in her eyes. “You’re already so badly hurt, and yet—”

  “A few more lashes won’t make any difference to me,” he lied, forcing himself not to wince as he moved [184] away from her and got to his feet. He extended his arms to help her up, she stumbled, and fell against him.

  For a moment, he permitted himself to hold her, to feel her heart beating against his chest, to feel how fragile her body truly was. He’d come from a large family and had always wanted kids, but somehow it had never happened. He’d imagined teaching his son how to play sports and have fun, taking his daughter out to a fancy dinner on her sixteenth birthday and treating her like a gentleman should treat a lady. Making her feel special.

  “When this is over,” he said, “I’d like to take you out to dinner.”

  She blushed. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but ...”

  “Not a date,” he pressed. “I’m far too ancient for you. But—” How to even find the words? It would be hard under the best of circumstances, but here, in the scorching sun, smelling his own stench, weak and wounded—how could he find words to explain what he was feeling toward her?

  “I never had a daughter,” he said bluntly, “and I don’t think I could be prouder of her than I am of you right now. Let me do this for you.”

  Her eyes searched his as they made their slow way back through the shifting sands to haul more stone, make more mortar. Finally, she nodded.

  “I understand,” she said. “All right. But you should be warned—I’m going to eat like a horse when we get back!”

  Warmed by the acceptance and trust in her words, Andropov laughed aloud for the first time since the hellish ordeal began.

  Chapter 16

  WATSON’S SIXTH SENSE—the one that had saved his life and those of his companions more than once in the years he had served in Starfleet—was on red alert. He hadn’t trusted Janeway and crew from the moment they beamed aboard. He’d let them prowl around alone long enough. It was time to act.

  Two of his crew—Hughes and Whitman—were with him in the mess hall now. Crais had not been asked to attend. Watson knew Kim was also on the bridge, and didn’t want to alert the former Ops officer that they were on to him. Same with Taylor, who was with Data and Kaz in sickbay. They’d take those three later, at their convenience.

  But where were Janssen, Colson, and Roske? Janssen had not contacted Watson since he had left to check out Cargo Bay Two. Roske and Colson of the [186] second team had been ordered to report for duty, and should have been here by this point.

  Watson made a decision. “Something’s happened,” he stated flatly, with the certainty of someone who knew he was right. “I’m going to contact Montgomery, regardless of what he said earlier.” He moved to the computer and suited action to word as he activated it.

  “You two go to the armory. I want the phaser rifles in our hands, not theirs. Admiral Kenneth Montgomery,” he said to the computer. He frowned. His computer stubbornly refused to show anything but the Starfleet insignia.

  To his crew, he continued, “There’s only a handful of them, scattered throughout the ship, so they shouldn’t be that difficult to take.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” came a cool female voice. Watson whirled, his hand going his phaser. “Don’t draw it, Commander, or I’ll drop you where
you stand.”

  Watson, Hughes, and Whitman stood and stared at the four figures in the doorway. Three of them had phasers. Janeway’s was trained on Watson, and the other two had Hughes and Whitman in their sights.

  “You’re good, Admiral,” said Watson, admiration creeping into his voice as he lifted his hands. Whitman and Hughes emulated him. “I should have acted sooner. I knew something was wrong. But at the risk of sounding like an old-fashioned hero from one of Lieutenant Roske’s holodeck programs, you won’t get away with this.”

  “No one is a villain here, Commander,” Janeway said. “We’re all on the same side.”

  [187] “Then why do three of us have phasers trained on the rest of us?” Watson asked.

  “No time to sit down over a nice cup of coffee and straighten things out. I regret that we’re going to have to put you and your crew in the brig for a few hours.”

  When they didn’t move, the Vulcan spoke up. “The admiral’s words were not a request, gentlemen.”

  As he passed her, Watson turned to Janeway and said with narrowed eyes, “I might be looking at the inside of a Starfleet brig for a few hours, Admiral. You’ll be looking at it for the rest of your life.”

  She didn’t rise to the bait. Her eyes were, oddly, soft and compassionate as she replied, “If we’re not all assimilated, then you can bet that I’ll be happy to stare at brig walls until the day I die, Commander. Let’s go.”

  Harry looked up in surprise when the door hissed open. “Admiral on deck!” he said, and snapped to attention. Crais leaped out of the captain’s chair as if it were white hot and stood at attention as well. His face was red.

  “Admiral Janeway,” he said, striving to retain his composure. “What an unexpected honor. Commander Watson failed to alert me that you would be visiting the bridge.”

  Smiling pleasantly, Janeway pulled the phaser from behind her back and pointed it directly at Crais.

  “I’m afraid that Commander Watson is no longer in a position to alert you to anything, Lieutenant. We’re going to have to ask you to join him in the brig while we finish up here.”

  Crais continued to gape, but moved slowly toward the turbolift. Chakotay pointed his phaser at him and silently encouraged him to move faster.

  [188] “Looks like you guys have gotten everything well in hand, Admiral,” said Kim. He supposed that knowing Janeway as well as he did, he ought not to have been quite so surprised. But Watson had struck him as a challenge.

  Janeway smiled. “We’ve taken the ship, Harry. Everyone but our people is in the brig under Tuvok’s watchful eye. Were you able to stop Watson’s message from getting out a few moments ago?”

  “Only just,” confessed Harry. “The consoles are so torn apart that I’ve really had my hands full up here.”

  “It should be a little easier now that you don’t have to worry about anyone else trying to send out a message. I want you to put up some kind of screen, so that if anyone does try to contact us they’ll get a false sense that all is normal, if troubled by a few glitches.”

  Harry’s mind began sifting through various options. “I’ll do my best, Admiral.”

  “If there are any problems, you can now contact me freely,” she said, touching his comm badge with a forefinger. “We’ll all be in sickbay, including Icheb and Seven.”

  “They’re out of the chamber so soon?”

  “I’m afraid so. Kaz, the Doctor and Data can’t make any further progress without the input of someone who’s more familiar with the Borg. Kaz tells me that even the little regeneration time they had helped. Who knows,” she said, somberly, “soon we may all be able to get all the regeneration time we need.”

  As she left, Kim crawled back under the console and tried to think if he could somehow hook up a holographic display in case someone needed to talk to Watson.

  [189] He had completely forgotten about the message he had downloaded into the buffer.

  “How are you feeling, Your Majesty?”

  Covington blinked. “Well,” she said. “I feel well.” The EMH helped her to sit up. The room spun for just a moment, then everything settled down to assume a clarity she had never seen before. Colors seemed brighter, edges sharper. The air felt rich in her lungs as she breathed, and she noticed scents even in this sterile environment.

  “Amazing,” she said softly, running a hand along the bed. Even its soft texture now felt slightly rough to her newly sensitive hands. “My senses are all heightened.”

  “We discussed what to expect, Majesty,” the EMH said, a touch patronizingly. She shot him a glance. “Now ... tell me what you hear.”

  For a moment, all she could hear were the usual sounds of sickbay—the hum of equipment, her own breathing. All more clearly than usual, of course.

  But there was a slight buzzing, a hum. She closed her eyes to concentrate. The noise was coming from inside her own head. Delight raced along her nerves as she cried, “I can hear them!”

  She had only been able to hear her drones when she was regenerating. But now, she could hear their thoughts tumbling over one another while she was fully conscious. Some deep, some happy, some despairing.

  A hand went to her temple, touched the implant there hidden cleverly beneath gray skin. “It’s ... so complicated. ...”

  “It will be, until your implants are used to processing the information. It will take a few moments for your [190] brain to adapt. How about a refreshing glass of nutrients while you wait?”

  He handed her a glass of murky-looking water. She took a sip, cringing at the taste. Soon, she reminded herself, her sense of taste, at least, would diminish. She didn’t need it. Tasting food was irrelevant.

  By the time she had finished the glass of water and nutrients, things had settled down inside her head. She picked a thought at random, one of the louder ones:

  Where’s Molly I want Molly where are Mommy and Daddy I’m so scared, so scared, I want to go home

  And another, loud and clear:

  Why have my ways forsaken me, how could I have turned on them in such a sacred space, why won’t my body do what I tell it to do, I am old, but not that old

  “Those are easy,” she said aloud. “They are already assimilating.”

  The doctor was sitting down at his desk, regarding her brain waves on a small screen.

  “Fascinating,” he said. “Try contacting someone who is infected, but in whom the virus is still dormant.”

  The word “dormant” irritated her. Soon, she’d be able to activate those, too. Nonetheless, she closed her eyes and tried to find a thoughtstream that was not quite as clear as the others.

  I don’t know why they have me under quarantine. It’s not as if I didn’t take all the proper precautions. I’m a doctor, for pity’s sake. Do they think I’d

  “Easy,” she said, a note of arrogance entering into her voice. It was becoming child’s play. She felt a smile curve her full lips.

  “Very well,” said the EMH, “Let’s try something [191] different. All these Borg-to-be are yours. Do you think you can contact a preexisting Borg?”

  “Picard would be too difficult. They’ve removed all his implants,” she said. “And Grady tells me Seven and Icheb are in stasis.”

  “Well,” said the EMH, “you can eavesdrop on their dreams.”

  Covington’s smile grew. What kind of dreams would Seven of Nine have? It sounded like fun. But how to find one particular thoughtstream out of so many?

  As if reading her mind, the EMH replied, “They will feel ... how to put it ... cleaner, to you. Less cluttered. Brighter. Once you’ve done that, we’ll see if you can’t contact the full Borg in the Delta Quadrant. That should be interesting.”

  Covington closed her eyes and swam through the ocean of thoughts. The EMH’s description was apt. She “saw” a thread that struck her as metallic blue, shiny ... clean. Covington latched onto it, licking her lips in anticipation at eavesdropping on a Borg’s dreams.

  It is well that the two doctors
are so competent. Data is of use as well. The research they have done is thorough, if preliminary. We will have to cross-reference it with

  Covington’s eyes snapped open. This was no dream. These thoughts were alert and sharp and wide-awake.

  “Get me Grady,” she ordered. “Now.”

  Montgomery’s heart sank a little further as he read the information on the screen. No further progress on a cure, and there were fourteen more new cases. Fourteen. And those were the ones they’d found. His people assured him that they were on top of it. The “Xanarian [192] flu” story was holding, and the world was so technologically advanced that there were only a very few pockets left where people couldn’t contact Starfleet immediately if someone suffered an “outbreak.”

  Montgomery didn’t like anything slipping through the cracks. People had died in the Dominion War over qualifiers like “only a very few” and “highly likely” and words like that. For the first time, he gave himself permission to think that they might not succeed.

  His door chimed. “Come,” he called. “Red” Grady stuck his head in.

  “Am I disturbing you, sir?”

  “Of course you are, but come in anyway.”

  Red knew him well enough to look past the gruffness. He stepped inside. Montgomery regarded him and didn’t like the look of concern on the man’s freckled face.

  “What now?” he asked wearily.

  Red didn’t answer at once. He spread his hands and opened and closed his mouth before finally saying, “Sir, I hardly know where to begin. My sources could be wrong, but—”

  “But what?”

  “We need to question Seven and Icheb. With the Interrogator.”

  Montgomery frowned. The Interrogator was something he regarded as a necessary evil. He hated dragging people before the man and his Vulcan companion, but Starfleet regulations authorized it and he had felt compelled to subject Seven of Nine to the man’s “ministrations.”

  “Why?”

  “I think there may be some kind of plot afoot [193] involving them. We won’t know the nature of it until we interrogate them.”