Resistance

by J. M. Dillard

  “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.

  A queen . . . We are birthing a new queen . . .

  4

  The episode lasted no more than a minute, but to Beverly, it seemed to continue for an infinite length of time because there was nothing she could do to stop it, no medical help she could render to ease the horror of what Jean-Luc was enduring. There was no point in sedating him; whatever he — or rather, the Borg — said might be helpful.

  It ended dramatically. One instant, Beverly was staring down into the blank yet driven gaze of the Borg, listening to the faint, eerie chorus of many voices joined into one. The next, she was gazing into the eyes of the man she knew as Jean-Luc Picard, who was abruptly silent.

  He fell, limp, against the bed, exhausted by the wave that had overcome him. For several seconds, he lay panting until at last he caught his breath and said, “I heard it. Every word that I spoke . . . And all of it is true.”

  Beverly no longer had any doubt; no emotional trauma, no illness, could possibly re-create the voice of the Borg so faithfully. Worf, too, was leaning over the captain with a look of both dismay and conviction.

  “The Borg have a new queen?” the Klingon asked. It was not a question so much as a request for confirmation.

  Picard sat up slowly, waving away the doctor’s attempts to support him. He pressed a hand to his temple as if it pained him. “Not yet . . . but they soon will have.” He lowered his hand and looked pointedly up at his two officers. “With the destruction of the transwarp conduits, the Borg that remain in the Alpha Quadrant have been cut off from the Collective as a whole. When a queen is killed, the Collective eventually creates a new one. Now that these Borg are essentially alone, they have taken it upon themselves to create their own queen. One with a singular purpose.”

  Beverly folded her arms, as if warding off a chill. “To conquer us once and for all.”

  Jean-Luc pressed his lips into a grim line before answering. “No. Not to conquer us . . . to destroy us. They want to wipe all traces of humanity from the universe. They’re building their vessel in order to accommodate the queen. Once she comes to consciousness, and is able to issue directives, the attack will commence.”

  Worf’s expression had grown fierce, determined, the look of a Klingon ready for battle. “When will the queen be ready?”

  “Too soon,” Picard replied. “Too soon.”

  • • •

  Seated in one of the Enterprise conference rooms, Picard rested his forearms against the cool, polished surface of the oblong table and studied the faces of the officers who looked to him for direction.

  Beverly was seated on his left. Her face was carefully composed, her posture somehow managing to telegraph her full support, yet a furrow of tension had formed between her eyebrows, and her lips were taut, showing strain at the corners. Worf had taken a position at Picard’s right. The Klingon was a solid, powerful presence, showing no sign of the discomfort from the earlier events of the day. Nave sat next to him, her youthful features emanating pure seriousness, but her eyes were wider than usual, the only hint of the trepidation they were all feeling. Although she was technically not a member of the senior crew, she had proved valuable enough to merit inclusion; she deserved a voice, given the seriousness of what the captain intended to ask of her.

  Two other bodies new to the room sat across from each other at the end of the table. Picard was familiar with the recently promoted security chief, Lionardo Battaglia. The man had been with the Enterprise during their last encounter with the Borg, though, like Nave, this was his first time in the briefing room. Picard was not surprised that Battaglia had taken the seat beside Nave. The warmth passing between the two crew members was evident, particularly in contrast to the stoic presence opposite them. Placid as the still surface of an untroubled pond, T’Lana sat on the other side of the table, her spine so immaculately straight it failed to touch the back of her chair. Nave was not particularly tall, but it was clear even across the table that she dwarfed the Vulcan.

  Geordi was leaning forward, seated between T’Lana and Beverly, his fingers tightly interlaced, his expression one of frank concern. Of all the members of the crew, he had probably heard the least about recent events, but judging from his demeanor, the scuttlebutt network had clearly given him a good idea of what was going on.

  The thunderous voice of the Borg announcing the nascent queen had silenced all vestiges of Picard’s self-doubt; he knew what had to be done. Yet he could not ask his officers to blindly risk their lives and careers without explanation. He owed them that much.

  “You all have some idea why you have been summoned here,” Picard began. “You know that I have heard, as it were, the voice of the Borg, planning to launch an attack in Alpha Quadrant. I am utterly convinced that this is a fact, yet I have no way to prove this to any of you. I can only ask you to accept my word.” He paused. “That is not all that I have sensed. Recently, I learned that the Borg are creating a new queen.”

  Beverly and Worf were already aware of the fact, of course, but Geordi let go a soft gasp, while Nave stiffened in her chair and exchanged a glance with Battaglia. T’Lana alone remained unruffled.

  “This is a most distressing discovery,” Picard continued, “as the queen can issue directives. I believe she is not yet conscious, but when she becomes so, she will oversee the attack. And everything that I have sensed indicates that they will be out for blood.”

  Geordi’s crystalline brown eyes were wide, stunned. “You killed the queen, Captain. And Admiral Janeway killed one in the Delta Quadrant. Are you saying they just . . . rebuild her that easily? Construct a new body and somehow animate it?”

  Picard directed a glance and the slightest of nods at the doctor.

  “The structure of Borg society closely parallels that of Earth’s insect world,” Beverly explained. “If the queen in a bee colony were destroyed, for example, a male drone would be taken and fed a special substance that would transform it into a female queen. We’re postulating that the same thing has been done here — that right now, one of the Borg drones is being transformed.”


  “What you do not know,” the captain said, “is that I contacted Admiral Janeway at Starfleet Command when I first sensed that the Borg were regrouping for an attack. She gave me direct orders not to take any initiative but to wait until Seven of Nine, a rehabilitated Borg, could be sent to the Enterprise. I have since received a message indicating the time of Seven of Nine’s arrival: four days.”

  “And how much time, sir, before you think the queen will be ready and launch the attack?” Nave asked.

  Picard turned to her, his gaze piercing and grim. “Less than thirty-six hours. Again, I can offer no proof. I can only say that I know this to be so.” He drew a breath, then looked at each officer in turn. “It is my intention, as captain of this vessel, to disobey Admiral Janeway’s order and put the Enterprise on course to intercept the ship the Borg are constructing. It is imperative to destroy the queen before she is completely transformed and capable of launching an attack — because once that happens, the Borg will stop at nothing until all of humanity is extinct. However . . .” His tone, which had grown impassioned, now softened. “I cannot ask any of you to assist me in this. To do so puts you at very great risk of court-martial. Each of you has the right to register a protest and to refuse any involvement.”

  He had already made his plans for just such a contingency. Beverly had offered to help him navigate to within scanning range of the Borg vessel. Once he had gotten that far, he would take a shuttle and find a way to get to the queen, while those aboard the Enterprise retreated back to safety. It was a suicide mission, but he could think of no worthier way to die.

  A tension-filled pause followed.

  Worf was the first to speak. “You have no choice, Captain. You must disobey the admiral’s orders. We have seen how swiftly the Borg can attack and assimilate an entire starship. They must be stopped before the queen can give them a new directive.” He hesitated, then after a brief glance at Beverly that mystified Picard, added, “You have my complete support.”

  “And mine,” Geordi said. “There’s no way we can risk giving them another chance.”

  “The captain already knows I’m with him,” Beverly said softly.

  Nave glanced at the others; the uncertainty that had taken hold of her features melted away as she studied those of her fellows. “I’ve never fought the Borg before, but I’ll follow any order you have to give, Captain.”

  Battaglia shared another glance with Nave. “Well, I have fought them,” he said, “and I’m ready to take them on again.”

  Picard directed a warm glance at them all. It was impossible to put into words what such loyalty meant to him, and so he did not try. He was used to that level of loyalty from his former senior staff. But with old friends now gone, it was nice to know that the ones stepping up to fill their places had as much faith in him. Thus far.

  T’Lana spoke at last, her features impassive and unreadable. “You have asked for my advice as counselor, Captain,” she said evenly. “It has not changed, nor has my position. For the benefit of the others, I will repeat it here: there is as yet no definitive proof that a threat from the Borg exists. You are asking these officers to prove their loyalty to you by risking court-martial — based on nothing more than a hunch. Even if you are correct about the existence of a Borg ship, you are still obligated to obey Admiral Janeway’s orders.”

  “I shall note your objection in my log, Counselor,” Picard said. He had expected no less of her. She was ruled by logic and had not developed the same level of trust his other officers had. “Thank you all for coming.” He rose, giving the others leave to do the same. “Mister Battaglia, I wish you to remain a moment,” he added as the rest of the crew filed out. Beverly gave him a questioning glance back as she crossed the threshold. He knew that she would not approve of what he was about to do, but he saw no other option.

  • • •

  Still standing, Lio moved up the table to take a seat beside Picard. He already suspected what the captain had in mind and was going through his mental roster of the security staff, ready to pull out the most logical choices for an away mission. He knew the Enterprise alone was no match for a Borg cube. Their attack would need to be smaller and more focused.

  “I would like you to gather your most experienced security officers,” Picard said, confirming Lio’s suspicions. He simply nodded in response, having already chosen his team. The captain didn’t need their names at the moment. “I will accept only volunteers for this mission,” Picard added.

  “I don’t think any member of my team would shy away from this mission,” Lio replied. “I know I won’t.”

  Picard allowed himself a grim smile before he locked his steely eyes onto Lio. “Actually, I want you to remain on the Enterprise in case this first mission fails. I will lead this away team.”

  Lio did his best to cover his shock. He knew Picard was a fighter and should have anticipated the captain would assume this course of action. “But —”

  Picard held up a hand to stop him. “I’ve been through this many times with any number of my officers in the past. I know all the arguments about away missions being a danger to the captain. I’m sorry, but this is too important to me to trust to anyone else.”

  Lio tried not to take offense. He knew the captain well enough that his comment wasn’t meant to doubt Lio’s abilities; it was a show of how seriously he took the Borg threat. At the same time, Lio knew that he needed to be heard, no matter what the captain believed. “I’m sorry, sir. I do understand what you’re saying, but my concern isn’t about your safety on this mission, it’s for the success of the mission with you on it.”

  Picard’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Go on.”

  “I mean no disrespect, sir,” Lio said. “You say that you’re hearing the voice of the Borg, but I have to wonder if they are hearing your voice as well.”

  “If they were aware of me, I would know it,” Picard said calmly.

  “Okay,” Lio relented. The captain certainly knew more about this than he did. “But still, there’s no guarantee that once you’re on that Borg ship they won’t be able to tap into your mind in some way. It’s just too big a risk. As much as you may know about the Collective, they know just as much about you.”

  Picard gave a slow nod. “What is it you have in mind?”

  • • •

  In the Enterprise rec room, dressed in a unitard, Nave was warming up early with the bat’leth. She’d gone the instant she was off duty. Sitting around worrying about what would happen once they encountered the Borg vessel simply wasn’t her style; physically working out was her preferred method of dealing with anxiety.

  It wasn’t that she was afraid, she told herself. It was more the fact that the Borg were an unknown, and she disliked uncertainty. She’d heard all the horror stories about them, but rumors were one thing; facts were another.

  She felt tough enough to handle almost anything. She’d been born and raised on a starship; her mother and father had both been full lieutenants aboard the U.S.S. Lowe, so she was used to the requirements of duty, used to the fact that officers were often called upon to risk their lives.

  Her parents had done so several times. Sara had grown up learning how to deal with the fear of them not returning each time the saucer had separated from the bridge of the ship to protect the children from battle. Distraction through physical exercise, games with friends . . .

  They had been so proud of her when, at age sixteen, she was accepted early into the academy. Her mother had wept and touched her cheek the day Sara had left, and her father had hugged her so hard and so long, she’d thought he would never let go. She’d looked into their eyes one last time before boarding the shuttle and seen there a glimmer of fear. They were afraid — afraid because their only child would soon be facing the same risks they had grown to accept as part of serving in Starfleet.

  It was at the very end of her first year as a cadet, when she was utterly distracted, studying for finals, that she’d been called to the commandant�
��s office. She had absolutely no idea why — until she saw the haunted look in the silver-haired man’s eyes, saw the meticulously composed expression that failed to entirely mask his utter dismay.

  My mother, Nave had thought immediately. Or is it my father?

  She had not been prepared for it to be both of them. She remembered only snatches of what the commandant had said. Caught in an interplanetary war. The Lowe crippled. Bridge destroyed.

  It was very clean, very cold, very surgical. One moment, her parents existed in her consciousness; the next moment, they had been excised. And there was nothing left of them, not a single memento of the dead, not even someone to grieve with. All their belongings, all their friends, had been aboard the incinerated Lowe.

  Nave had never bothered to find out the names of the warring factions. Even now, she did not know the details; she had not looked up the records. It was enough that her parents were lost: what point was there in learning anything more? It would only bring back the pain.

  And so she had distracted herself from her grief by studying fanatically for her finals. She did not attend the memorial services; instead, she took her tests and aced them. That, she knew, would have pleased her mother and father best.

  Now, distracting herself from the coming encounter with the Borg, she moved gracefully through the different moves Worf had taught her with the bat’leth — reversals, figure eights, spinning and thrusting — until she had worked up quite a sweat. She’d been honored that he’d been willing to teach her — even though she was still pretty lousy with the weapon and played with a formidable handicap.

  When Worf’s dark form at last appeared at the entrance, she broke into a smile, which quickly became a scowl.

  “Worf! Why are you still in uniform?”

  The Klingon’s demeanor was awkward. “I came to tell you that we must forgo our lesson this evening. I am . . . preoccupied.”

  “But the best way not to think about the Borg is to work out,” she protested good-naturedly. “Besides, honing your skills with the bat’leth will help you do more of them in.”