Resistance

by J. M. Dillard

  It was too late. The galvanized drones were on him now. One stood behind him and gripped the prosthetic arm as Picard tried to raise it. Picard cried out as the upper part of the arm was wrenched up, then back at an unnatural angle, snapping the human base of bone.

  The second drone approached from the side, his limb terminating in a double-edged rotating blade. He aimed it menacingly at the center of Picard’s chest.

  Instinctively, the captain flinched at first. And then he set his jaw and straightened.

  “Yes,” he croaked. “Kill me. Go ahead.” Better to die than to give them access to his mind, and the location of the Enterprise, and critical data about Starfleet. Better to die than to become one of them again; he would not be the cause of another Wolf 359, would not be used against the Enterprise. Worf would see the ship safely home; humankind would rally and defeat the enemy yet a third time.

  He bared his chest and moved forward, embracing the blade, wondering whether it was capable of penetrating Locutus’s molded black carapace.

  It was. Its bite was stunningly painful, even to his transformed Borg body. His muscles, his internal organs spasmed intensely; his eyes widened at the accompanying fleeting flash of light. He fought to draw in air and found it tainted with his blood. Even so, he found the will and strength to press forward, to force the blade in deeper, to his heart.

  Before his vision dimmed entirely, he sensed the drones moving around him, catching him as he fell. He lifted his face and saw that of the Borg queen, frowning.

  He surrendered to darkness, praying the blow had been fatal.

  9

  Picard woke lying on a bed. The Borg carapace covering his chest had been removed, and the chalky skin beneath it was pristine, unscarred, as if it had never been pierced and torn. There was no pain at all, not even from the broken arm.

  The worst possible thing had happened. He had failed, this just as Janeway and T’Lana had predicted. Had he let his desire for revenge blind him to the inevitability of this outcome?

  The fact that he had not died filled him with unspeakable frustration, unspeakable fury. He tried to rise and found himself bound by heavy restraints. Vainly, he thrashed against them, near weeping with rage and self-loathing. The one promise he had made to himself — that he would never allow himself to be used again to hurt his own kind — was about to be broken.

  He took only a small degree of comfort to find that the neutralizer chip was still functioning — for the moment.

  He was no longer in the birthing chamber but in an open area, next to a single white, solitary wall. Macabre surgical instruments — drills, saws, scalpels, useful for fashioning flesh as well as metal — hung ready for use. Their chilling significance was not lost on him.

  And he had exchanged positions with the queen. He was now supine while she stood looking down at him. He was all too aware that the bed was in fact a diagnostic table; he glanced up and saw the monitors tracking his life functions.

  The queen had assumed her body and wore it gracefully, naturally, with a dancer’s bearing. Her face and eyes — so unlike those of others of her race — were utterly alive, shining with humor, confidence, pride, rippling with subtler nuances of emotion. High-spirited, he might have called her, in another century, under different circumstances.

  Her features wore a thick layer of shimmering gel, remnants of the chrysalis.

  He yearned to reach out, as he had only a few years before, and with his own hands snap her lovely neck, watch as her shining eyes flickered and dimmed. He had the strength of a Borg now. He could do it so easily, if only he could lift his arms . . .

  “So,” she said, the corners of her lips curving upward with dark amusement. Her tone was playful, her voice feminine, alluring, the whisper of thousands speaking as one. “There’s a human expression, isn’t there? The third time is the charm . . . ?”

  She reached down and laid a glistening hand upon his shoulder. Her touch was cold and moist, a toad’s; he recoiled from it. She gave a small, easy laugh.

  “You’ve come back, as you were always meant to. I sensed you, you know. Even before I was born. I came to life before I was quite ready, just for you.

  “Have you come willingly to me, now? It’s how I’ve always wanted you: willing, eager.”

  His expression hardened, and he turned his gaze away.

  “It doesn’t matter. Come to me as the individual Jean-Luc Picard . . . or as a drone.” Her amusement returned. “You’ve already done most of the work for us this time, very thoughtful. Is this the work of your talented Doctor Crusher?” She stroked his arm. “You see, I learned many things from you when you were last Locutus. I knew you loved her, even then, though you would not admit it even to yourself. But in the end, you will come to me.”

  “Never willingly,” he snarled. “As you saw, I would rather die.”

  Her tone cooled abruptly; she lifted her chin, regal, haughty. “It doesn’t matter. Either way, the destruction of your ship and your world is assured.”

  “It is your ship,” he said with venom, “your world, that will be destroyed.”

  She gave a short, harsh laugh at his bravado, but the liquid metal eyes flashed with anger. “Did you not learn from Wolf 359? Do you want to see it repeated to understand?”

  “We are wiser,” he countered. “My people know you are here. Even if you were to kill me, they know what to do. They won’t stop until you are destroyed.”

  “Ah, yes.” She tilted her head, her tone mocking. “The brave crew of the Enterprise. We expect them to follow you, of course. And you will help us to be ready for them. I have created a special directive just for you. You will be my guardian, my protector.”

  Her voice softened, grew soothing. “Come willingly, Jean-Luc. Make your people lay down their weapons. All this thrashing, all this fighting, all this resistance is so . . . futile.” She leaned down and ran her finger along the line of his jaw; he shuddered at the act. “We could make this pleasant, you know.” She paused and brought her lips close to his ear; her breath was cool and soft. “It is pleasant for you, isn’t it, Locutus? To be home, with no cares, no decisions. To truly belong . . .”

  His lips twisted with disgust. “Locutus is not here.”

  Unruffled, she tilted her face and studied him with gleaming eyes. “Oh, but he will be.” She straightened. “Make your decision, Jean-Luc Picard. You could be with me willingly and retain a degree of autonomy. Once I am sure of your loyalty, you could even rule beside me. You humans speak of pleasure, of ecstasy, but you cannot imagine the thrill of such power, the utter joy that would be yours . . .” Her tone flattened. “Or you can be another drone. You can have your will stripped from you and suffer, as you did before, with your poor little mind ‘violated’ by mine.”

  “Go to hell,” Picard said.

  Her chin lifted sharply at his words, her eyes narrowing as she took a step back from the table.

  “You thought to kill me, fool. Do you think I am so stupid as to let it happen again? That was your first, greatest mistake, and your decision now will be your second. I must finish my genesis, but when I and my ship are ready, I will rise. And when I do, you will be waiting for me — as Locutus. Together, we will tear apart your beloved Enterprise, killing your crew — except your precious Beverly. She, I will have you turn into a drone. Then, together, we will tear through the Alpha Quadrant. We will not bother pausing to assimilate a single being. We will head straight for Earth and annihilate your planet. And when your Federation manages to regroup and comes to render aid — too late to do any good — that is when the fun will really begin.”

  She did not need to gesture or call to the drones. She drew them to her side with a thought. Even Picard felt the pull — and with it, a spasm of pure horror in the pit of his stomach. He looked up to see a pair of drones, one on either side, above him; he could not have said whether they were the same ones that had attacked him in the birthing chamber. One reached for the wall and retrieved a metal instru
ment: a long, needle-fine drill. The other held a pair of delicate pincers.

  Picard closed his eyes as the tip of the drill found his right temple and for a fleeting instant rested there, cold, unrelentingly sharp.

  Not again, not again.

  He did not let himself scream. The sensation was that of a pinch, then a sting as the drill found its way through the skin; when pierced, the bone reacted with an intense, dazzling burst of pain that faded quickly.

  The brain, of course, felt nothing at all. The pincers followed, cold and swift; he knew the instant that they found and locked onto the neutralizer chip and slowly began to draw it out.

  His mind was like a blaze. It raged at first, angry and wild, determinedly ascendant. And then his will was slowly bled from him, escaping like oxygen from a breached hull. He struggled to hold on to it, to fight, but he was a single flame struggling in a relentless vacuum. In the end, he could not hold out; his resistance was extinguished. Only a feeble blue glow remained, flickering, bitter. Watching. Waiting.

  • • •

  In sickbay, Beverly was finally lost in thought.

  It had not been easy. With each passing minute that Jean-Luc was gone, her anxiety increased, but she was determined to find a solution to the mystery of a Borg drone’s metamorphosis into a queen. Her doubts and concerns were in the past. There was nothing she could do now but prepare for the future.

  Her research indicated a fairly simple solution to the introduction of the feminizing hormone: a complex form was no doubt present in the gelatinous nutrient, which could easily be absorbed through the skin or administered intravenously, then broken down in the future queen’s equivalent of a humanoid bloodstream.

  The question was whether the Borg produced the feminizing hormone artificially, or whether, like human bees, the drones naturally created the nutrient gel and somehow collected it for the queen.

  If it was the latter —

  Beverly frowned slightly as she directed the lab’s computer to produce a tissue sample taken from the Borg Locutus. The frown deepened to a scowl as a shrill beep interrupted her train of thought. She glanced up, distracted, and stared for a half second at the blinking red light on the monitor screen before she realized what it was. Perhaps her mind had not let her understand what she saw because it was the one thing she had never wanted to see.

  “No!” she said, at the exact instant she instinctively struck her combadge. “Crusher to bridge! Worf! The neutralizer chip has malfunctioned!”

  • • •

  Doctor Crusher’s anguished cry galvanized Worf; he did not waste an instant in reflection or remorse. He rose and leaned over Sara Nave at the helm. “Evasive maneuvers,” he ordered. “Set a random course, as far distant as possible while keeping us within transporter range.” Her fingers moved swiftly over the controls — but not quite swiftly enough.

  Worf glanced up just in time to see the bright ball of light emerge from the Borg cube’s under-belly and streak toward the Enterprise. It was followed by another . . . and another . . .

  The deck beneath his feet heaved; thunder roared in his ears. Nave was slammed back against her chair, then forward against the helm. Worf was forced to his knees; the side of his cheek struck the edge of Nave’s chair.

  He pulled himself up as the ship shuddered. Pressing his combadge, he shouted over the background chatter of incoming damage reports. “Transporter room. Keep your lock on the captain’s signal and prepare to beam him to the holding cell.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Worf closed the channel. Sara Nave, still working at the helm, kept her focus on the viewscreen, doing her best to dodge the volley of fire aimed in their direction.

  He tapped his combadge again. “Doctor Crusher,” he said, “report to the holding cell. We’re beaming the captain there.”

  “Already on my way,” she replied.

  Worf turned to La Forge. “Shields?”

  “Still holding,” he reported.

  For now, Worf thought as Nave took them out of the Borg’s weapons range. It was a fine line she was dancing, keeping them out of the line of fire but within transporter range. It wasn’t clear how long until the Borg’s long-range weaponry would be active, but Worf sensed it wouldn’t be long. Once the immediate threat seemed over, Nave allowed for a half turn in his direction. Her eyes were lit with an emotion — hope Worf might have called it had it not had such a dark edge to it.

  “Lieutenant,” he said, “you are acting chief of security.” He paused. “For the moment, however, you are critically needed at the helm. Keep the ship’s course completely random. We can’t allow the captain to anticipate the Enterprise’s next move before we retrieve him.”

  He watched as the light went out of her, so that only the dark remained. “Yes, sir,” she answered quietly and returned to her work.

  As he turned to move toward the door, he caught T’Lana’s defiant glare in his direction. If she had been of any other race, Worf would have sworn he saw a look of smugness as a reminder that she had anticipated the worst. She said nothing as Worf swept past her to the turbolift, but the condemnation was still there. As if she was blaming him for what was happening.

  • • •

  By the time she arrived in the holding area, Beverly was numb. She had forced herself to be so, allowing herself to think only of what needed to be immediately done. She had prepared a hypo of nanites that would reverse Jean-Luc’s transformation into a drone, and while she would inject him with it immediately — along with a strong sedative to prevent him from attacking — she intended to repair or replace the neutralizer chip as quickly as possible. It would immediately free Jean-Luc from the influence of the Collective so that she would not have to restrain him while the nanites did their work.

  Worf and three armed security guards stood waiting for her beside the bed that had been placed in the cell. The Klingon’s expression was one of fierce determination. Crusher didn’t ask whether he intended to put any distance between the Enterprise and the Borg ship — especially after the attack — but she certainly didn’t see any signs of retreat in his eyes.

  He directed a single sharp glance at Beverly by way of acknowledgment. “Do you have a sedative ready, Doctor?”

  Beverly silently produced the hypospray from the pocket of her lab coat and displayed it.

  “Phasers on stun,” Worf told the security team and raised his own; the four took aim at the empty bed. The Klingon tapped his combadge. “Ensign Luptowski . . . ?”

  “Ready, sir,” the young voice replied. “The captain’s communicator is disabled, but the signal from the transponder is clear.”

  “Beam him aboard.”

  As the transporter beam began to shimmer, Beverly braced herself. She would be prepared, she told herself, for the dull, inhuman look in Locutus’s eyes.

  But she was not prepared for what she saw.

  The glimmering miasma of the beam cleared . . . but no one lay on the bed. Worf spoke into the air again. “Ensign? Was there a malfunction?”

  “No, sir,” Luptowski answered.

  Beverly and Worf approached the bed. Beverly leaned in and reached a hand toward the three items that lay there, arranged in a neat row: the transponder she had placed in Jean-Luc’s right temple; his communicator, mangled and scarred, as if someone had tried to saw it in half; and the neutralizer chip, marred by a single dark drop of blood.

  She failed to touch them. A sudden roar, so loud she could not hear her own cry of pain and surprise, reverberated in her skull; a millisecond later, the deck pitched sideways. Her ribs struck the edge of the bed, her outstretched hand flattening against the now-empty bed. She was aware, in the chaos, of Worf beside her, struggling for purchase, his legs tangling briefly with hers.

  The ship righted itself with a lurch. Beverly pushed herself up and scrambled across the platform to retrieve the items so freshly removed from Jean-Luc’s person. As she did, Worf got to his feet and pressed his combadge.

  “W
orf to bridge!” Silence. Clutching the precious chips, Beverly turned toward the Klingon. Worf scowled and thumped his combadge again. “Worf to bridge! Commander La Forge, report!”

  Silence again, and then static.

  • • •

  The blast blinded Nave and hurled her sideways from her chair onto the deck. She tried to draw in air and couldn’t; her ribs responded with a sickening jolt of pain.

  Don’t panic, don’t panic, just got the wind knocked out of you . . .

  Her first instinct was to get back to her station, back to the conn. She blinked hard, but the strong afterimage left by the nova-bright blast faded only slightly; she had to feel for her chair and use it to pull herself up.

  She let go a hitching cough, so painful it brought tears, then sucked in air in a rush.

  It smelled of smoke and scorched circuits, and left her dizzied. “Counselor!” she shouted. “Commander La Forge!” The blast had affected her hearing as well; her voice sounded muffled, distant. She stood an instant and listened carefully for a reply — and realized that the life-support alarm had been buzzing, low and harsh, all the while.

  “Commander La Forge! Counselor!” The acrid air made her cough again. As her vision began slowly to clear, she saw the bridge through a film of smoke. It was dark except for the blinking consoles and the low-level emergency lights on the deck, which served as her guide. Eyes streaming, she staggered the few steps back to the conn and leaned heavily against it.

  Weapons were off-line. The conn had gone off-line as well, but she doggedly kept punching controls until she managed to bring it up on manual. The ship had just started to drift; she set it back on its random course. At the instant she finished, the klaxon fell blessedly silent.

  She heard a sudden spasm of coughing to her right. “Allen?” she called. Ensign John Allen was stationed at security communications. She glanced in his direction and saw his shadowy form bent over in his chair.