Strange New Worlds VIII

by Dean Wesley Smith

  Walking over to Janeway, Picard knew it was a fair question. He had asked himself the same thing after witnessing the devastation and enduring countless sleepless nights.

  “The cube is inactive, Admiral. The away teams don’t understand why the Borg are here, and what we’re planning is the murder of a half-billion lives.”

  Janeway watched the vapor from her coffee lift away from the anchor of its porcelain world and dissipate into memory. Soon, with luck, the same would be said of the Borg. Picard was a respected friend, but this wasn’t an issue she needed to defend.

  “The Federation has decided to . . . look the other way this time, Jean-Luc, and I can’t say I disagree. At least there will be a Federation when we’re done.”

  Picard had heard the reasoning before. This time, it was agreeable for the Federation to ignore its history and principles, to turn a blind eye to the directives that governed hundreds of planets; but that didn’t make it right. “Have we come so far that we can now decide who is and isn’t worthy of our morals? Have we become the very thing we fear?”

  Janeway listened to the words, but she couldn’t accept that they were coming from Picard. “So you’ve become the devil’s advocate, Jean-Luc? I have to say, I didn’t see this coming.”

  Since he’d known her, Picard couldn’t recall her backing down from a position, but he appealed, nonetheless, to her sense of decency.

  “Someone must be a voice for the voiceless, Admiral. The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis.”

  It wasn’t every day that someone used a quote from her favorite author against her. Picard’s powers of persuasion were well known, especially when he was standing behind what he thought was right.

  “If the Federation’s going to survive this, Captain, we’re going to have to get our hands dirty. Dante knew that sometimes the path to salvation lies through hell. Don’t forget, I’ve had to stare that devil over there in the eye on more than one occasion. Those half-billion souls aren’t voiceless—they’re a collective. They think and act as one unified mind, and we better hope we get rid of them before they wake up and start talking.”

  As he sat down across from the admiral, Picard realized that morality wouldn’t be enough. “I haven’t forgotten, Admiral. You helped a human orphaned by the Borg regain her humanity. You helped a drone become an individual. You put your crew and yourself at risk to help the Borg when the Queen was destroying Unimatrix Zero. I thought you would understand why we must do this.”

  Picard took a sip of the tea that had always calmed him, but it no longer provided the same solace, tasting bitter under the pressure bearing down upon him. “When the Borg . . . took me as I watched, helpless, I was aware of faint cries behind the voice of the collective, pleas from the souls of the assimilated. But that’s all we were—faint, helpless whispers in the darkness. Admiral, there may be a half-billion Borg aboard that cube, but inside each one is an individual screaming for help. If we can reach even some of them, we may gain knowledge into their purpose here and quite possibly liberate them from the evil in which they are entombed.”

  Janeway gazed silently at Picard, a man who had been broken and humiliated by the Borg. He had been turned into an instrument of death and destruction, unleashed upon the very people and ideals he had spent a lifetime protecting. Yet here he was, on a fool’s errand, trying to save the souls of the soulless; and she’d be a fool to listen to him. After all of her struggles to protect her crew and now Earth against this evil, this was not the time to have pity for the devil. But as she sat with the captain in silence, she couldn’t help thinking about the implications. If the Federation crossed the line this time, it would be much easier the next. Perhaps the souls of the Borg weren’t the only ones Picard was pleading for.

  “Be careful what you wish for, Captain. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

  * * *

  The azure glow of the transporter pierced the darkness as energy became matter and matter contorted into form.

  “Janeway to Enterprise. We’re in.”

  The trio surrounding Jean-Luc Picard made him uneasy. An omen, perhaps, of what was to come. But the captain knew that it was an unavoidable necessity. Without a weapon or communicator, he felt vulnerable returning to the dark confines of his past. If his plan was to work, he would have to embrace that past.

  The surgery was relatively simple. It was what came afterward that was difficult. He had avoided mirrors and reflective surfaces, escaping the reality of the image that had plagued his nightmares for so long. But now, aboard this vessel, there could be no denials.

  His skin was devoid of pigmentation; tubes fed into his head and neck. His right arm was now a mechanical appendage. The same dreaded metal plate had been grafted back onto his face. Its thin red laser light reached forth like a tendril of malevolence. He was once again Locutus of Borg, in body if not in soul.

  Picard watched as the admiral and Seven of Nine swept the area in unison, their footfalls reverberating off the steel deck plates like thunder in the unsettling silence.

  The phaser rifle Janeway held could unleash the power of a phaser bank. Seven gripped two less-menacing devices; she had a Starfleet medical case in one hand and a tricorder in the other. The tricorder was the focus of her attention.

  “I’m reading no activity whatsoever. All nodes are at minimal power; everything is in standby. All primary and secondary alcoves are in use, but I’m reading a reserve alcove at the end of this section that will be adequate.”

  Janeway pointed her wrist beacon in the direction Seven gestured, its light splitting the darkness. “All right, let’s move.”

  Picard noticed that Worf had remained behind him since they had stepped onto the transporter pad. He could feel the tempered gaze of the Klingon scanning, watching, and waiting.

  Worf knew that his place was between the away team and danger. Honor demanded no less. However, Janeway had insisted that he remain behind them—behind Picard at all times. In the past, he had rescued Captain Picard from the Borg. It had been a mission of honor—one worthy of song—but this duty bore no such honor. As Janeway led them into the darkness, the Klingon found himself thinking not about the dangers that were to come but of the admiral whose orders he was bound to follow.

  * * *

  “Commander Worf reporting as ordered, Admiral.” Worf noticed the scrutiny of Janeway’s gaze as she sized him up against what was in his records and her opinion. “Have a seat, Commander. I’ll get right to the point. Captain Picard has requested to go over to the supercube, and I’ve approved the mission.”

  When the Enterprise was assigned to the task force securing the supercube, Worf had noted Picard’s preoccupation. When Picard had told his senior crew about his plan. Worf had thought it unwise and had voiced his opinion. It wasn’t the first time that Picard’s personal feelings about the Borg had influenced him. Worf considered getting Doctor Crusher to declare Picard unfit, but there would be little honor in such a move. He had also been sure that the captain’s request would never be permitted. “May I ask why it was approved, Admiral?”

  Worf noticed Janeway’s hesitation before she answered. “It’s a mission of mercy . . . .” Janeway paused, waiting for recognition of those words in the hardened gaze of the Klingon before continuing. “I’ll be joining him, as will Seven; I’m assigning you to the away team as security. I want you to understand that your first priority is to ensure the integrity and success of the catapult initiative. All other matters are secondary. Do I make myself clear?”

  Until that moment, Worf had been undecided about the admiral. Word of her deeds and battles in the Delta Quadrant preceded her. She had called him here to ascertain if he could be counted on to slay his captain, his jadich, his friend. The woman may be a great warrior, but she knows little of Klingon honor. “If trouble arises, you want me to kill Captain Picard.”

  Janeway leaned back in her chair, calmly crossing her
legs. “Should it come to that, yes.”

  Worf could feel his blood racing. If this had been a Klingon vessel, he would have reached across the table and ripped out her heart for questioning his honor and duty. But this was Starfleet, and the uniform required a different method. “And what of the Borg drone?”

  The shock on the admiral’s face quickly turned to anger at his audacity. “Excuse me?”

  Despite having spent his entire life around humans, it never ceased to amaze Worf how easily they could accept one obvious conclusion yet deny another. “She was a drone for a good portion of her life. With the project almost completed, is the cube the best place for her, Admiral?”

  It was clear that his words had penetrated deeper than a bat’leth ever could.

  “I know where Seven’s loyalties lie, Commander.”

  Loyalties. Worf knew the meaning of the word all too well. On more occasions than he cared to count, his loyalty to Starfleet had tested him. It had cost him his brother, the respect of his people, and his family name. As the Klingon rose from the chair, he did not conceal his anger. “As security for the mission, Admiral, I will do my duty . . . ” He let the weight of his words stand between them. “And should it come to it, I will kill anyone who jeopardizes the catapult initiative.”

  As the admiral stood, Worf was sure she would respond to his insinuation—or, worse, remove him from the away team.

  “Dismissed” was her only reply.

  * * *

  At the reserve alcove, it was these thoughts that brought Worf back into the moment. He rechecked the targeting display of the Breen dampening rifle. The targets were preset: the drone, Captain Picard, and the admiral.

  Janeway scrutinized the empty alcove. A pale green hue flowed over its metallic surface, an ominous reminder of the forces they were dealing with. “All right, Seven. Put the Doctor on the left, just outside the alcove.”

  Seven set the silver suitcase with the Starfleet Medical logo and letters M.M.H.E. stamped on it in the prescribed area. She gently tapped twice, and the Mobile Medical Holo-Emitter suitcase opened like a clam, revealing an emitter on one side and a medical tricorder and two hyposprays on the other. Automation took over, and the twenty-fourth century’s answer to a twenty-ninth-century device activated.

  “So this is a Borg cube. Not much to look at, is it? You know, Admiral, this would have been much easier if you had just allowed me to carry my mobile emitter.”

  Eyeing the walkway for signs of trouble, Janeway didn’t bother masking her impatience with the sentient program. “We’ve been over this, Doctor. We couldn’t risk twenty-ninth-century technology waking the Borg.”

  As the Doctor picked up his medical equipment and turned toward Seven of Nine, something in his demeanor reminded Worf of Alexander when he was a child.

  “Not like this plan will do that,” the Doctor said. “This hypospray will reactivate your dormant Borg assimilation nanites. You’ll feel a slight tingle and should have access to them almost immediately.”

  Seven thought about those words. In a moment she was going to have the instrument the Borg had used to take her parents, her life, and her individuality from her. It would soon be thriving, multiplying, and living inside her again. She understood the necessity and the humanity of Picard’s plan; and yet, somehow, it felt like a step in the wrong direction.

  “Understood.”

  In an instant, Seven was aware of the nanites, but not as the Doctor described. It was as if someone had reached into the darkest parts of her soul and simply unlocked the door. Seven wondered if the woman she had become was strong enough to face the drone she had been.

  The Doctor flipped open the medical tricorder, passing it over the young woman, the sounds of the scan intruding upon the silence of the cube. “Efficient little fellows, the nanites are active and operating within specified parameters.”

  Janeway turned to Picard, the first and last piece in this plan. “Are you sure about this, Jean-Luc? Say the word, and we leave now.”

  Picard turned and looked at the drone in the alcove next to him. A Bajoran woman, she was someone’s daughter, perhaps even a mother herself lost to those who had loved her, one more casualty in an insane war. “Let’s get on with it.”

  As Seven approached, Picard could feel her discomfort. He’d met her only two days ago, but he realized that having been Tertiary Adjunct of Unimatrix Zero One, she’d known him for far longer. She had never made eye contact. But now, as she was about to resurrect with him, she stared at him directly, intently. As the assimilation tubes forced their way through tissue and bone, he could feel the nanites changing him, restructuring his priorities, releasing him from his morals and inhibitions.

  “I am Locutus of Borg, resistance is . . . possible.”

  Janeway felt her grip around the phaser rifle tighten. She didn’t know what she had expected, but it certainly wasn’t this.

  “Doctor?”

  Cautiously, as if intruding upon some unseen boundary, the Doctor moved toward Picard, scanning him slowly.

  “Heart rate and blood pressure are steady. Slight increase in neural activity.”

  Janeway moved in close, toward the part of Picard’s face that was unobstructed by Borg technology, searching for his humanity.

  “Jean-Luc. Captain, are you with us?”

  The entity that was neither Borg nor human stared off into the distance, seemingly contemplating the question; then, abruptly, a reminder drew his attention, and he faced Janeway.

  “For the moment, Admiral.”

  Janeway gripped Picard’s shoulder, hoping her voice and contact would anchor him in his mission.

  “Captain, are you in contact with the collective? Can you hear them?”

  A sadness and confusion played across Picard’s face. Something was wrong. Why were they not here to welcome him once again into their embrace, to reestablish his designation and give him new commands? He could no longer hear the voices or feel the security of the collective. He was without the thoughts that had liberated him from his doubts and insecurities, from the burden of his humanity, and had given him, in return, purpose and strength he never knew as the human Picard.

  “No, I am . . . alone.”

  Janeway had always taken solace in the Borg’s predictability. It was their Achilles heel, but with their appearance over Earth she couldn’t shake the feeling that the rules had somehow changed.

  “Jean-Luc, that’s not possible. There are a half-billion drones here. The collective has to be here—you must go deeper.”

  Picard began the search, hunting for the reassurance of the collective. The female was right. He must find the collective. Had he angered them? Had they abandoned him for failing as their representative, for being locked away so long within a pathetic human shell?

  The Doctor’s tricorder began to beep furiously. “The captain and Seven’s neural activity has just spiked. Twenty percent, forty and rising.”

  The admiral noticed Worf slowly take a step behind Seven. Their earlier conversation painfully in her thoughts, she knew the Klingon would fulfill his duty. Of all the projected scenarios from the Borg experts, this was not what anyone had expected. The effect on Seven was to have been minimal. “Seven?”

  Seven had expected to hear the collective again, but to her astonishment, her thoughts were her own.

  “I am unaffected, Admiral.”

  Picard wasn’t.

  “The Borg are here. We . . . are here.”

  They had not abandoned him. He could feel their presence now in the darkness. They were somewhere near, beckoning him to add his distinctiveness to their own.

  The Doctor didn’t have emotions, at least not real ones. The series of algorithms and code within him made it possible for him to mimic human emotions based upon his experiences. Now they all told him the same thing—they were in trouble. “Seventy percent and climbing. Admiral, we should leave, now.”

  Janeway ignored the warning. It was true that this was something
unexpected, but she could feel that they were on the cusp of an answer, an understanding that was worth the risk. “Stay with us, Captain. That’s an order.”

  Order. Yes, the woman was right. There was order all around him. “There is nothing here, no . . . thing but perfection.” In the past, the voices and thoughts, the very will of the collective, brought order to chaos. In truth, though, that order was not without its own anarchy. Species on millions of worlds were assimilated while other life-forms were investigated for relevancy. Billions of drones died, were being born, repaired, or reprogrammed. Random, unpredictable, and imperfect—the very nature of chaos. But no more. The Borg now had a greater goal, a challenge such as they had never faced before, an objective that made the assimilation of new species and new technology simply irrelevant. The collective had changed; it was no longer a chorus that spoke as one. It was now a new single thought that had become the unified obsession, the only purpose of the collective.

  As he double-tapped the tricorder for confirmation, the Doctor’s face reflected the strain in his voice. “Their neural activity has increased by over three hundred—”

  The holoemitter case slammed shut, deactivating the Doctor. Seven of Nine’s foot was poised arrogantly atop the Starfleet Medical insignia. Her face was covered with reasserted Borg technology.

  Transfixed, Janeway watched as the new drone turned to face the Klingon, her assimilation tubes reaching for where Seven expected him to be, only to touch into air. Crouching off to the side behind her, Worf unleashed a barrage from his disruptor. For an instant, Seven’s eyes and mouth exuded raw, unrestrained energy, and then, like a marionette with its strings cut, she fell to the ground, deactivated.

  Janeway knew that this was her only chance. “Janeway to—” The hand that grabbed her throat and lifted her off the catwalk was devoid of life, devoid of humanity. Its grip was so complete that she dropped the phaser rifle in a hopeless attempt to free herself and consume the precious air being denied her lungs. Behind her, she could hear the barrage of energy blasts from Worf’s weapon exploding harmlessly off shields. Locutus had adapted.