Resistance

by J. M. Dillard

  She counted, too, as they fell. One. Two. Three . . .

  But the fourth staggered, then straightened. Worf and Leary tried to stop the creature with a volley of blasts, but it remained upright and began again to walk.

  Toward Crusher.

  She adjusted her phaser, but the new setting was useless.

  Crusher scrambled to her feet and began again to run, turning to look behind her. The Borg had passed Worf and Leary in their alcoves; it was still following her.

  “Recalibrate!”

  And the phaser fire was following it. An errant blast struck the bulkhead near her, dazzling her, throwing off sparks.

  “Doctor, get down!”

  Agonized by indecision, she glanced back. The drone was closer now, barely four meters away.

  “Get down! That’s an order!”

  Beverly censored the thought of what would happen if the next shot failed to stop the drone. She dove for the deck and landed facedown, hands instinctively shielding the back of her head.

  She heard the phaser fire as it struck, then heard the soft, mechanical grunt of the drone and Leary’s triumphant cry.

  “Got him!”

  But she was unprepared for the impact as the drone’s body — propelled forward by the blast — collided with hers. She cried out as heavy limbs struck her head, her back; the skin covering her ribs stung suddenly and smartly.

  “Doctor!” Worf’s and Leary’s voices formed a chorus.

  She pushed herself free of the drone’s upper torso, which covered her shoulders and back, then got unsteadily to her knees. Worf and Leary hurried to either side of her; gratefully, she took their proffered hands and got to her feet.

  “You’re bleeding!” Leary said.

  Beverly reached a hand around to touch her back; it came away bloodied. She shook her head. “It doesn’t feel that bad.” She was far more concerned about the hypospray for the queen; she touched her belt to reassure herself it was still there.

  Worf bent down to examine the wound. “It appears to be shallow.”

  “It is.” Beverly let go a long, shaky breath, then forced a grim smile. “Well, then. Shall we do it all again?”

  • • •

  No other drones had followed Beverly, and she encountered no one on the way back to the queen’s chamber. Now only two drones stood shoulder to shoulder barring entry. Beverly drew close enough only to be seen. She could not see much beyond them, into the chamber, but she caught blurs of one or two other dark bodies.

  This time, when she called out to the drones, her tone was not as light; this time, when Worf told her to drop, she did so immediately and did not let herself look up.

  When it was over and two more drones lay motionless on the deck, she sat back on her haunches and gazed up at Worf, who had stepped out of the darkened alcove, his rifle gripped by both hands. Leary moved out of the alcove directly across from his.

  “There are a few others in the chamber,” Beverly said. “Maybe only one or two. I couldn’t tell exactly.”

  “There cannot be too many,” the Klingon responded, “if they cut the number guarding the chamber by half.”

  “Or if there are more, they’re all needed to tend the queen.”

  Worf considered this, nodding faintly. His intense gaze strayed beyond her, in the direction of the great chamber.

  “Are we going, sir?” Leary asked. In the gray light, her skin was sallow, her eyes shadowed. Beverly began to worry that the effects of the tri-ox were starting to wear off — Leary needed to get back to the Enterprise in less than an hour. But it was a moot point, she realized. If Leary didn’t get back to the ship by then, no transfusion in the world would save her life.

  “We are,” Worf replied. “Doctor Crusher, you will remain between Ensign Leary and me until we are in the chamber. We will clear a path for you to the queen and cover you while you administer the hypospray. But if you are unsuccessful — or if circumstances require it — I will not hesitate to destroy her with our weapons. I appreciate the importance of scientific research, but we cannot fail in our mission.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I wouldn’t expect it to be otherwise. But . . . Worf,” she began, then paused, hesitant. “If we encounter the captain —”

  “I will do whatever I can to avoid harming the captain,” Worf countered swiftly, his tone uncharacteristically soft. “But that might not be possible.”

  “I know. I just wanted to say that . . . whatever happens . . . I know that you have to do what’s necessary. I . . . I trust you to do what’s right, however hard that might be. And I know that he trusts you, too.”

  Worf glanced down — humbly, she thought — and let go a long breath. As he did, the natural sternness of his features eased to something fleetingly but remarkably gentle. This, she thought, is what his wife must have seen in him. And then just as quickly, his fierce pride returned, though his voice was very quiet and not quite so deep.

  “A Klingon would do everything possible to save the life of his commander. But he also would not permit that commander to live if living brought dishonor upon him. I will try,” he said, “to be Klingon for him.”

  14

  A single drone stood guard at the entry to the queen’s chamber, its face obscured by shadow, its body backlit by pulsating greenish light.

  Beverly’s phaser had already proved useless once. She knew that she couldn’t rely on it in the queen’s chamber. Besides, she had a more important weapon to focus on once they were inside. With Worf’s permission, she set the phaser to overload and sent it skidding along the ground toward the lone Borg. It stopped a meter in front of the drone.

  She held her breath as the drone took a step forward to examine the mystery object. That was all they needed as the phaser exploded beneath the drone. For one millisecond, its body froze, the dark mass at the center of a dazzling nova. Then the blast faded, and the drone crumpled and dropped.

  Leary and Worf stood motionless in place, weapons trained on the open entry to the chamber. Like them, Beverly did not move but held perfectly still, listening for the sound of approaching footfalls.

  She could hear only her own rapid breath. The corridor and chamber were eerily silent — as though, she thought, someone is waiting.

  Several seconds passed before Worf at last gave a nod and began to move; Leary and Beverly followed. As they stepped over the drone’s body and over the threshold of the queen’s chamber, Beverly felt an unpleasant thrill in the pit of her stomach.

  There were black-and-white forms in the near distance. Someone was indeed waiting.

  The chamber was a huge, high-ceilinged vault, so open and hushed it reminded Beverly oddly of a cathedral. She had never before set eyes on the queen, but she recognized her at once.

  The queen was standing upright — or rather, her flesh-and-metal head and shoulders were supported by an entirely prosthetic body. Her arms, legs, and torso all were constructed of the same brittle black carapace worn by the drones but vastly different at the same time. It was a young body, strong, distinctly feminine.

  As was the face, pale and still as sculpted stone beneath a shimmering, transparent layer of gel. It was a strangely beautiful face, naked of hair, including brows and lashes; the skin was so translucent that the veins showed through, giving it a mottled appearance. The queen’s expression was serene, beatific; her lips curved upward in a languid smile. Her eyes were closed, as if she were dead or sleeping.

  To her right was a bier, from which she had recently been resurrected. Mounds of the gelatinous substance — glinting opalescent mother-of-pearl in the light — still lay faintly quivering on the bed; some had spilled onto the deck, and a shining trail could be traced directly to the feet of the queen.

  High above her, draped in shadow, was a vast cybernetic structure vaguely like the core of a ship’s engine. Faintly phosphorescent, it was the source of the pulsating green light. From it dangled dozens of long, slender black tubes that drifted, oddly sentient, like t
he stinging tendrils of a jellyfish at sea.

  Indifferent to the intruders, a pair of drones fawned over her like courtiers. One knelt beside her as he slowly unhooked her from overhead tendrils; the other used a scanner to check the connections of the body’s self-sustaining tubing, which ran from the crown of her bare skull to her neck, back, and shoulders.

  And Jean-Luc stood beside them. He was watching not the queen but the away team. He had seen them kill the drone guard and followed their every move.

  Not Jean-Luc, Beverly corrected herself at once. She looked into his eyes — blank, emotionless, soulless — and knew they were the eyes of Locutus, the enemy. Jean-Luc had been eclipsed. She reined in the emotions that hit her at the sight and rested her hand on the hypospray attached to her belt — a reminder of why she had come.

  “Captain Picard,” Worf murmured but fell silent at once.

  Locutus looked away, at the courtier drones. Merely looked, but the drones immediately stopped what they were doing, as if they had heard a command, and left the queen’s side. They moved toward Locutus, who in turn stepped closer to the away team.

  Worf raised his weapon and took aim at the queen. Beverly said nothing; it was his prerogative as commander to end this swiftly, if he deemed it best.

  Yet in the instant before he fired, before Leary had managed to train her rifle on the others, Locutus reached to one side and grazed a control on the bulkhead.

  A pale, glittering force field leaped in place around the queen — and the queen alone — leaving Locutus and the other drones to do battle with the intruders. It happened so swiftly that Worf could not stop himself: the beam from his rifle flared brilliantly, blindingly against the field, which absorbed the energy with a crackle.

  Picard had known they were coming, Beverly realized. And Locutus had used that knowledge to prepare for them: the field looked to be Federation technology.

  Locutus moved again, before Worf could retrain his weapon, catching an overhead tangle of snakelike tubing and propelling it forward. Still attached to the ceiling, it glided with serpentine speed at the away team. Beverly cried out, shielding her face as dozens of whips lashed against her, knocking her to the deck.

  Somehow, Locutus’s harsh monotone penetrated the chaos.

  “You will not escape. We have commanded all the others to wake to assist us in disarming you. And the queen will wake momentarily. You will be assimilated, and the Enterprise and those aboard her will be destroyed.”

  Cut and bruised, Beverly fought back to her feet and thrashed her way free of the tangles. Worf, too, had risen and was lifting his weapon from the deck when they both glanced up at the sound of deliberate but rapid footsteps.

  A half dozen drones appeared in the entryway. Worf reeled about and fired into their midst; as Beverly oriented herself, Leary appeared from the tangles, rifle blasting.

  Locutus, in the meantime, had activated his prosthesis so that the saw blade was whirring; he and the two courtier-drones advanced on the Starfleet officers’ unprotected backs.

  “Look out!” Beverly shouted beside them. And as Worf wheeled about, firing, Beverly saw her opportunity: Locutus had deserted his post where the force field controls were located. He and the courtiers were ignoring her, since they considered her unarmed, and were converging instead on the embattled Worf and Leary.

  She drew in a long, deep breath and ran, crossing from behind her fellow officers to head past Locutus and his companions. She made a beeline for the control on the bulkhead, and when she reached it, she slapped it hard, gasping.

  The field dissolved. “Worf!” she shouted. “Worf, she’s open! The queen’s open! Leary!”

  But neither Leary nor the Klingon could spare the time to look at her, to listen; they were firing rapidly, then stopping to recalibrate every few seconds. They were in danger of being overtaken.

  Beverly dashed toward the motionless queen.

  She was barely two meters away when, from the periphery of her vision, she saw Locutus stop, turn, gaze at her. He abandoned the fight at once and moved toward Beverly.

  For a minute she thought he was pursuing her — and then he stopped at the bulkhead control and stared at her again. She stopped at once; she dropped her arms to her sides, intentionally covering the hypospray on her belt.

  He blinked, once . . . then pressed the control.

  Beverly sighed in silent relief as the force field snapped back into place — leaving her inside it, with the queen. She held still for a painfully long moment, until Locutus, satisfied she was no real threat, turned his attention back to Worf and Leary.

  She sidled cautiously up to the sleeping queen, then quickly reached for her hypo and settled it against the queen’s slender white neck.

  The queen’s hand snaked across her body and caught Beverly’s so rapidly that the doctor let go a startled sound. She tried to pull away; the queen’s fingers, steel talons, held her fast.

  The queen turned her face toward Beverly’s. Her eyes were dark, quicksilver, malevolent. She increased the pressure on Beverly’s wrist until the doctor cried out at the pain; the hypo fell from her grasp and clattered to the deck.

  “Pathetic little creature.” The queen’s voice was distinctly un–Borg-like, distinctly unmechanical. It was animated, thoroughly laced with emotion: amusement, haughtiness, gloating, scorn. “Did you really think I would let you take him away from me again?”

  Beverly looked on her with profound hate. “Did you think I would let you?”

  The queen’s delicately wrought lips twisted. Her grip grew fiercer, until Beverly felt her own feet rise slightly off the deck. There came a soft, grisly sound, as the bones of her wrist snapped.

  Agony, bright blue and electric, more dazzling than the phaser beams, flashed in front of her eyes. The queen casually released her grip; Beverly fell at once to her knees.

  • • •

  Worf watched as the captain — Locutus, he reminded himself sternly — erected the force field around the queen, leaving Doctor Crusher closed inside. He trusted the doctor to do her job; his greatest worry at the moment was how to render Locutus harmless without killing him. Fast acting, she had called the hypospray. He only hoped that it would act quickly enough.

  Of the six drones that had swarmed inside the entryway, two were already downed. Leary had moved to crouch beside Worf. She fought valiantly, but she had grown noticeably pale and haggard; she would not be able to stay on her feet much longer. She kept firing at the drones near the entryway. The Klingon faced the opposite direction, addressing himself to Locutus and the two drones who had attended the queen.

  Worf took down the latter two quickly, but Locutus gave him pause; he kept his rifle’s sights trained on the recently assimilated Picard but waited to fire. The drone kept steadily, fearlessly advancing, lifting its arm and causing the saw blade at its tip to whir ominously. Clearly it shared the captain’s knowledge that his second-in-command would do everything possible to avoid killing him.

  Behind Locutus, within the safe confines of the force field, Doctor Crusher hurried to the side of the queen.

  “Got him,” Leary murmured beside the Klingon. Worf recalibrated his weapon, and without another instant’s hesitation, fired.

  The blast struck exactly as he intended: at the far outermost edge of the force field. It was too shallow to be absorbed; instead, it banked off the edge and detonated a few meters away — dangerously close to where Locutus stood. The burst knocked the captain-drone to the deck.

  Worf turned, recalibrating as he did so, and tried to help Leary, but it was too late. In her weakened state, Leary had been overwhelmed by the drones. It had happened so quickly that she could not even let out a sound. Worf had not been aware. With a howl of rage, Worf fired and brought down her killer, then wheeled about again to look behind him.

  Locutus was back on his feet, a mere five meters away. Worf recalibrated and banked another shot. This time, his aim was off, and the field absorbed the blast. And as
the field brightened from the impact, Worf recalibrated, stealing another glance at the queen as he did so.

  Doctor Crusher had fallen, and the queen — now conscious — stood glaring down at her.

  He would, the Klingon realized, have to shoot to kill. There was no longer any time to spare; he would have to find a way to the queen himself and destroy her.

  He lifted his rifle again, prepared to take aim — and frowned. Locutus had, in the wink of an eye, disappeared.

  A millisecond later, the nutrient bed on which the queen had lain slammed against Worf’s legs and hips, knocking him to the deck. He fell hard onto his tailbone but managed, through supreme effort, to keep his grip on his weapon. He slapped one palm against the deck, thinking to push himself immediately to his feet . . .

  . . . But before he could, he looked up to see Locutus, standing over him, the saw arm lifted.

  The saw arm came down, biting into the rifle with sparks and a harsh grinding sound. Locutus lifted the arm; the weapon came with it, and with a sharp jerk, he sent it flying through the air. It struck the field and clattered to the deck, sliding to a stop on the opposite side of the chamber.

  Before the saw arm came down again, Worf rolled to his side. Locutus followed, relentless.

  It was not in the Klingon’s nature to flee. Determined, he threw himself on the drone. With one hand, he caught hold of Locutus’s forearm and forced it away; with the other, he seized hold of the drone’s neck.

  He intended to overpower the captain-drone, then get to the queen in order to kill her — but Locutus was far too strong; the whining saw drew inexorably closer to the Klingon’s chest. Worf realized he would not even be able to hold his ground, and he let go a roar of fury and frustration.

  There was only one thing left to do: die, killing Locutus. It would save the captain from further dishonor . . . and it would give Worf an honorable death.

  An honorable death, he told Jadzia silently, for both of us.

  As the saw blade neared his heart, Worf increased the pressure on Locutus’s neck until it was strong enough to kill a human.