DESCENT

by Diane Carey

  Chapter Sixteen

  “HELP ME!”

  The alarmed voice pierced the corridors of the compound and drove a shock through even the most controlled mind. Along with it came the sound of the forcefield chittering as its energy was disrupted.

  The Borg guard turned abruptly, hesitated an instant or two, then stepped toward the cell where his master’s prisoners were being held.

  Inside the cell, one of the prisoners was sprawled on the ground, senseless. Picard.

  “He tried to escape,” the female Troi said as she knelt by the unconscious body. “The forcefield put him into neural shock! If he dies, Lore will blame you!”

  The guard hesitated again, but this woman’s voice had affected him before and he trusted it, or at least the effect it had upon him.

  He deactivated the forcefield and entered the cell. He bent to take a closer look.

  Senselessness attacked him almost immediately.

  He didn’t fully realize what happened.

  Silvery fluid dripped from his ripped-out tubing as he slumped to the floor.

  Picard rolled over and got up, threw down the detached tube he’d finally managed to get a hand on, and immediately examined the disabled guard’s prosthetic arm. He fumbled a moment, then managed to disengage the weapon from the arm and hand it to Troi.

  The oldest trick in the book, so old that Picard had almost been embarrassed to try it, but it had worked.

  It also proved Counselor Troi’s hypothesis—that the Borg had had so little time as independent beings that they were still naive about many things. That could explain how Lore was able to control them.

  He added this tidbit to his bag of collected details and continued to formulate a mode of behavior. Eventually he would knit all this into a plan with which to deal directly with Lore.

  “See if the corridor’s empty,” he said.

  Troi silently slipped beyond the opening of their cell—and stopped short.

  “Drop it, or I will break his neck.”

  As the familiar voice cut through him, Picard stood up quickly. Troi was already coming back into the cell, pressed back by Data, who was holding Geordi’s arm with one hand and gripping Geordi’s throat with the other hand.

  Picard almost shouted when Troi did as she was told. She shouldn’t have surrendered her weapon—that was the first rule of action in a situation like this.

  But of course, Deanna Troi wasn’t trained for situations like this. She’d had a chance to destroy Data, virtually halving the danger to the Federation, with the loss of only one crewman. An astonishing opportunity.

  Yet even so, the counselor, trained to cure, couldn’t bring herself to kill. She didn’t comprehend that they were all expendable. Geordi could have. Even Data could have—Data as he had been before all this. That was part of command training.

  From the look of him, Geordi wasn’t going to survive much more of what he was going through. Affected by the sight, Troi had acted instinctively, despite Picard’s earlier admonitions of the importance of stopping Data.

  Nothing to be done about it now. The weapon was forfeited.

  Picard gritted his teeth hard and didn’t say anything as Troi rejoined him. Together they stood there, helpless, as Data dragged their groggy engineer into the cell and pushed him toward them.

  They caught Geordi and took him to one of the benches. He was limp, his skin sallow and clammy. His eyes were open, their gauzy white unseeing irises threaded with redness.

  “What have you done to him?” Picard asked.

  Data ignored him. “I will be back for him later.”

  Coldly he turned, and gestured for two Borg who’d appeared in the corridor to remove their comrade. The pair grasped the fallen Borg guard between them and dragged him out of the cell.

  Data kicked away the weapon that was lying on the floor. It skittered down the empty corridor.

  A moment later the forcefield came back on.

  So much for the escape attempt. They hadn’t even put ten feet behind them.

  Troi bent over the brutalized engineer. “Geordi, are you in pain?”

  “No,” Geordi murmured. “I’m a little dizzy . . . but that’s all.”

  Picard took him at his word and pushed them back toward business. He opened his palm and showed Troi a small black and silver mechanism. Speaking quietly, he said, “I was able to take part of a transceiver from the guard’s interlink system. It uses a form of phased pulse technology.”

  Geordi struggled to raise his head. “Maybe we can modify it to . . . generate a kedion pulse . . . and reboot Data’s ethical program.”

  “You’ll have to talk me through it.”

  “We might not have time. Data said he’d be back for me soon.” Geordi’s voice was ragged, but he fought to think clearly. “Let me lay it out for you. First, you’ll have to reroute the modulation circuitry to bypass the initializers. . . .”

  Picard listened intently and tried to do as he was told as fast as he could. Geordi might not possess the energy to repeat himself. If they had any real chance of altering the future as laid out by Lore, they certainly wouldn’t manage that with faked injuries and blundered escape attempts.

  Working intently on so small a device, the captain let time slip by on its own. How long this took wouldn’t matter if he didn’t pay attention to what he was doing. Fiber after fiber, he changed the little receiver’s reason to exist. Crude work, but the mechanism only had to work; it did not have to be elegant. Some things were so fundamental that delicacy wasn’t a consideration. All this device had to do was send the right signal in the right general direction.

  All he had to do was get the signal correct and not let anyone notice that he had a hobby.

  “Dr. Crusher, I’d like to log a protest.”

  Barnaby’s harsh voice said he wasn’t being funny. He was red-faced and troubled, and suddenly everyone on the bridge was looking at him as Beverly Crusher faced him.

  She couldn’t help acting surprised. “You would?” “Yes, I would.”

  “Well . . . go ahead.”

  He shifted on his feet, back and forth, and finally coughed up what he had to say. “You have your orders,” he said. “This isn’t what the captain wanted. I think there are some details you’re not thinking about.”

  “I think,” Beverly bristled, “I’m thinking about forty-seven details you’re forgetting, Lieutenant.”

  The eyes of the other bridge crew were like needles jabbing from all around, but Crusher and Barnaby continued to face each other on the aft deck.

  “If Captain Picard hadn’t put you in command,” Barnaby said, “then I’d be in command.”

  “Is that what this is all about?” Beverly roared.

  He waved his hands. “No! I’m not asking for command! That’s not what I mean! What I mean is, if he hadn’t put you in command personally, then I or any other line officer would be in command, or somebody else who can actually drive the ship. Choosing you was his prerogative, but it was also his whim. He did that on purpose. It wasn’t random. It was like a message. He gave you retreat orders, Doctor, and you are not retreating.”

  She shook her head. “I wish you’d make your point. He gave me the ship and said, ‘You make the decisions.’ And that’s what I’m doing.”

  She started to turn away, but Barnaby caught her elbow. “Please, listen. Think about this. It’s not as if we jump in and out of these conduits every day. What if the emergency beacon doesn’t make it? Or what if it just plain malfunctions? We don’t depend on those things for life-and-death messages. They’re just not reliable enough. What if there are Borg on the other side of the conduit to pick up the message and destroy it? Or what if Starfleet thinks it’s some kind of trick and takes a week to decide what to do about it? We’re supposed to go through there and add our faces and our words to the message to Starfleet.”

  The anger had left his face. Obviously, he had only needed it for a minute, to drum up the nerve to challenge her. Now
he was just desperate to make her understand.

  “The captain gave us orders to retreat for good reason,” Barnaby said, “with more than the lives of forty-seven people in mind. He put you in charge because you weren’t likely to engage the Borg in combat. You’re supposed to bring in line officers with heavy-duty ships to give us all a real chance. If the Enterprise is captured or destroyed, you will have given the Borg a hell of a Christmas present.”

  Beverly stared at him, her face numb, her hands cold. She hadn’t thought of any of those things. The captain, she saw now, had clearly thought of all of it.

  “Face it, Doctor,” Barnaby finished. “The captain didn’t put you in charge of the situation. He put you in charge of the retreat.”

  Most doctors grow a pretty thick skin. It takes a lot to get one to pass out or even get sick at a concept.

  Beverly felt as if she might do both. He was right. She was commanding like a doctor, not like a line officer.

  It was her job to save lives. That was what she always did. Always work to save the life. It was never her thought that the best thing to do would be to let people die. She had never had to make a choice like that.

  How could a person endure having to say, “These live, those die”?

  Jean-Luc had put her in command, and now she was turning that decision into a mistake. Barnaby was right. She’d been entrusted to escape with the ship and report to Starfleet. The captain had expected her to be strong enough to do that.

  Other than token Academy classes in emergency command, she didn’t have the training for this.

  Sudden empathy with Jean-Luc—with any captain—almost made her throw up. She wanted jump up and put Barnaby in charge, then run back down to medical and do what she was comfortable with.

  They were all looking at her. They were waiting for her to do that.

  But Jean-Luc hadn’t put her here to be comfortable either. And being captain didn’t mean accepting group decisions. Command wasn’t done by committee. Even being a temporary captain might mean redefining her own orders as the situation required.

  Her hands were sweating. She clenched them.

  “I’ve made my decisions,” she said. “I have to take my lumps. Besides, if this is a mistake, I’ll be far too dead to answer to a review board.” She nodded at Barnaby. “Your objections are noted. I’ll keep them in consideration. Return to your post.”

  High warp was exhilarating. Especially for a doctor who didn’t often get a chance to watch it happening.

  Beverly found herself drifting away from the task at hand and just staring at the great forward viewscreen as space peeled away before the starship.

  Why did there have to be such a poisonous urgency throwing pall over the beauty before her?

  Still unable to get the palms of her hands to stop sweating, she turned toward the aft station. Barnaby was beside her now, and they were both leaning over Taitt, who was pulling up a graphic onto a monitor.

  “Sensors still can’t determine the Borg ship’s location. I’m trying to filter out the interference.”

  “We’ll be within transporter range in nineteen seconds,” Barnaby said.

  Taitt’s voice got high with nerves as she said, “I’m starting to get sensor resolution. . . . There’s the ship!”

  She gestured at the monitor, which now showed the Borg ship’s plane of orbit.

  Beverly pointed at the opposite side of the planet. “We’ll enter orbit here.”

  Barnaby nodded. “Helm, new course. Heading zero five two mark seven.”

  The Conn officer sounded skeptical, but said, “Aye, sir.”

  “Stand by to drop out of warp in . . . eight seconds,” Barnaby directed.

  “I hope that gives us time,” Beverly said.

  Barnaby didn’t respond to her. “Emergency deceleration in five seconds . . . three . . . two . . .”

  “Hang on!” Beverly couldn’t help but say.

  “One!”

  The ship lurched and shrieked around them as thrusters engaged and the impossible speed fell off like a book falling off a table. Half the bridge officers were thrown to the deck. Taitt slid out of her chair and knocked Beverly in the ankles, but Beverly managed to hang on to the console and stay on her feet.

  Barnaby grasped the girl’s arm to keep her from rolling forward into the supports of the tactical station, but he had to go down on one knee to do it.

  Nausea set in at the last second, then dizziness, then a sense of weight as the gravitational systems battled to get control over the sudden change.

  Taitt crawled back into her chair.

  “We did it!” she gasped. “Standard orbit, sir! The Borg ship is on the planet’s far side. They’re moving to intercept us!”

  Beverly pushed herself up. “Bridge to transporter room. Begin evacuation!”

  Barnaby dived for the sensor panels. “The Borg will be in weapons range in . . . thirty-two seconds.”

  “Get ready to raise shields,” Beverly said, and realized she should’ve said it ten minutes ago.

  “We still can’t locate Captain Picard’s team,” Barnaby reported, “and now there’s no sign of Commander Riker or Lieutenant Worf.”

  Holding back a desire to slap something, Beverly snapped, “Crusher to Salazar. Report!”

  “We’re pulling the last teams off right now,” Salazar said, “but six people are still unaccounted for.”

  “Keep trying!”

  She knew she was telling him something he was already doing, and she wished she could be down there helping. Was this what it meant to be captain? This feeling of helplessness? Of wanting to run all over the ship and do everything personally, yet be able only to deligate responsibilities even in an emergency?

  On the big screen the Borg ship appeared at the crest of the planet.

  “Borg ship powering up its weapons array,” Barnaby warned, his voice low.

  “Come on, chief, it’s now or never,” Beverly muttered, glaring at the forward screen, determined to choke every last second out of the transporter process.

  Barnaby straightened suddenly and pulled his hands back from his console as if to protect them from being burned. “They’re firing!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “PORT NACELLE’S BEEN HIT!”

  The ship rattled and howled in pain, and slid several points to the left before the helm managed to regain control.

  Such a sensation—to feel a multi - thousand ton vessel shake underfoot—the floor that had a moment ago been so secure—

  Beverly grabbed for balance and wished she could be anywhere else. “Helm, get us out of here!”

  “We’ve lost warp engines,” Barnaby countered.

  “Evasive maneuvers!” she shouted back. “Full impulse.”

  On the forward screen, the planet dropped away suddenly and was left behind. Even impulse speed was a fast way to enact a sudden turn.

  “Shields are down to eighty percent,” Taitt reported. All the color was gone from her face except for two scared blue eyes.

  “Fire phasers,” Beverly said, trying to sound in control. If she could keep her voice steady, the ship and the crew would do what needed to be done. All they needed was her permission to do it.

  The ship responded with such swiftness that she almost repeated herself, as though she’d missed something, but a second later Barnaby said, “Direct hit. No damage to the Borg ship.”

  No damage. No damage? How was that possible?

  A bolt struck the Enterprise, and the ship buckled around them.

  “Shields at thirty percent,” Taitt said.

  Beverly twisted around, not sure who was monitoring this or that. “Status of the warp engines?”

  “Still down,” Barnaby said. He glared at the Borg ship. “We can’t outrun them.”

  The acting captain stared too. Aggravation gnawed at her. Her noble plan to rescue the few and sacrifice the many—a thousand people aboard the ship, millions in the Federation, and she’d acted on the most
basic of all reflexes—to make herself feel good. Be a heroine. Go back after the forty-seven, most of whom were busy doing their duty better than she was doing hers. They were banding together, pulling out their Starfleet bags of survival tricks, battening down until a dozen starships came to pound through the Borg front and rescue them.

  But the starships might not be coming, thanks to her. The only starship within a hundred thousand light-years was streaking off in the wrong direction, with a Borg ship on its heels.

  Frustration held her down as if she wore handcuffs. She had neglected the risk involved with her own nobility. She was too much doctor for this job.

  Can’t outrun them, can’t slap them down . . . There must be something they can’t take. There has to be something I’m not thinking of, something with more power than the Borg, something . . .

  “Helm,” she said, not entirely, sure of what she was doing, “set a new course.” She stopped to think of the piloting details—hoped her pause wasn’t long enough to lose the confidence of the people who were watching her, what little they had left. “Heading three four four mark six. Full impulse.”

  The anxious eyes of her bridge crew all struck her at once.

  Well, there went the confidence.

  “Sir,” Taitt struggled, “that heading will take us directly into the sun.”

  The Cell

  Geordi was gone, taken by two Borg sent by Data.

  Interesting, and bothersome, that Data hadn’t come back personally to take him away.

  That detail nagged at Picard as he worked on the device he had taken from the Borg guard.

  He had turned his back on the cell opening, and Troi was standing there to block what he was doing from anyone who might appear there.

  Picard felt consummately alone in his purpose. And he was only partially certain of what he was doing. The technology looked familiar, but the arrangements were alien.

  “I’ve done everything Geordi said,” he told Troi. “Now we just have to activate the device.”