Death in Winter - Michael Jan Friedman [83]
He was a monster, an unfeeling thing with only a vestige of humanity left to him. But the doctor wasn’t so daunted she would give up on him. She started toward him, unmindful of her peril.
Fortunately, Data restrained her. Otherwise she would have received the same shock from Picard’s energy shield that sent Worf flying backward. The tactical officer survived the experience, but Beverly might not have.
Then Geordi beamed the team off, before the Borg could overwhelm them. But the portion of Picard that was still human studied Beverly’s face as long as he could, until the last of her molecules had departed.
In the end, she hadn’t been able to rescue him. But she had made the attempt. She had tried.
It was that comfort he drew about himself afterward, trying hard not to relinquish it even when the collective stole all else from him. It was, above all else, what kept him from losing his sanity in the dark, screaming complexity of the Borg’s biomechanical hell.
Eventually his people came back for him, and this time managed to spirit him off the cube. When they deposited him in sickbay, Beverly and Riker were waiting for him.
Even in his sedated state, Picard could hear the doctor talking, though she seemed very far away. But it wasn’t what she said that caught his attention, for she was simply analyzing his altered condition. It was the sound of her voice, soothing him, providing an alternative to the madness of the collective.
Then Beverly injected him with a stimulant and he heard her voice again, stronger now and a good deal closer. In fact, it was right beside his ear….
“Jean-Luc,” she breathed, “it’s Beverly. Can you hear me?”
There was more than compassion in her question. There was something so pure and bright it could pierce the relentlessly multiplying layers of machine-self and find his humanity huddling in a dim, cold corner of his consciousness.
In reply, Picard’s mouth made the words “Beverly… Crusher… Doctor.”
But through them he was crying out in gratitude, for she had bestowed upon him something precious without realizing it. She had retrieved him, in a way only she could.
“Yes,” Beverly said, smiling because she recognized that a bridge had been built, however fragile it might be. “Don’t try to move.”
Picard didn’t have to. He had been moved. And because of that, he could go on.
Now it was Beverly who was the prisoner of an implacable enemy, facing torture or death and terribly alone. Could he do less for her than she had done for him?
He would remain underground until Greyhorse gave the Kevrata their vaccine. He would do whatever it took to facilitate that outcome, for as long as it took.
But not a second longer.
Eborion ascended the broad stone steps that led to the praetor’s palace, a boyish lift in his step. But then, he had ample reason to feel good about himself.
The spy had done his job, Sela had been diminished in Tal’aura’s eyes, and Eborion had become the praetor’s favorite. Had a plan ever been so perfectly executed as this one?
He could hear Tal’aura now: “I am disappointed in Commander Sela, Eborion. She has not performed up to my expectations. You will be interested to know that she captured a human-a doctorsent to find a cure for the plague there. Unfortunately, she lost this human just as quickly.”
And so on.
Savor it, he told himself. You don’t know if you’ll ever again taste a moment so delicious.
A dozen fully-armed centurions stood at the top of the steps, eyeing Eborion as he approached. As a familiar figure at court, he knew they wouldn’t bar his way. However, they also didn’t move to notify the praetor of his arrival.
Obviously, she had left word with them to let him enter the palace unannounced. A most agreeable privilege, he mused.
The columned hall beyond the steps