Resistance - J.M. Dillard [15]
Humanity.
Picard knew there was no way to prove that what he intuitively sensed was fact, no way to validate it, to quantify it. He was going to have to ask his senior officers to trust him simply because he believed it was so.
And once it became evident to them all that the threat from the Borg was real, he was going to have to ask for even more of their trust.
Such was clearly going to be the case with Beverly. She kept up a sternly professional front during the scans, but in the end, she let go a small, barely audible sigh of frustration. Picard could have told her the results, but it was best to let her see them for herself.
“Nothing unusual showing up,” she said finally, and in her voice he heard the same keen disappointment he felt. He had desperately wanted the sound in his head to be something treatable, something that would disappear, anything but the Borg. “No physical cause presenting itself. No tumors, no fever, no detectable infections. The auditory hallucinations aren’t the result of psychosis…your neurotransmitters are well within normal range, same as your last physical.”
She turned off the diagnostic panel and he sat up to study her. Her features were still carefully composed in the most professional of expressions, without so much as a glimmer of fright. “That’s because the auditory hallucinations aren’t hallucinations,” he said.
She hesitated, clearly unwilling to admit that such a horrific thing might be true. “You know, this could be connected to your experience in the nexus. In a sense, you’re still there…at least, a part of you will always remain there. So your past, present, future—all of it’s jumbled together. Perhaps what you’re hearing is an echo from an earlier time—”
“No,” Picard insisted. It was his turn to be frustrated. If he couldn’t convince his chief medical officer and closest friend, how was he going to be able to convince anyone else?
And it was imperative that others be convinced, and quickly.
He slipped off the table and stood. “I’m going to need your help, Doctor,” he began formally, then his tone softened. “Beverly…I wish, more than anything else, that I was wrong about this. But as dreadful as this is, I can’t ignore it, I can’t run from it. I can’t explain how I know—but I do know—that we must act swiftly, now, to stop the Borg.”
“And if we don’t?” Her voice was very quiet. She was listening at last, considering for the first time that he might be right.
“Then humankind will be assimilated,” he answered flatly.
She regarded him in silence. For the first time, he saw a real fear in her eyes and imagined the reflection of Locutus there. She gathered herself quickly, then pressed. “But how can we stop them? Do we just wait for them to come looking for us?”
“No.” He gave a grim, not-quite smile. “We don’t wait. Because I know precisely where they are.”
3
IN HIS QUARTERS, PICARD SAT AT HIS COMMUNICATIONS screen and watched as the insignia of Starfleet Command faded, to be replaced by the image of Kathryn Janeway.
The admiralty suited her. She had aged little, despite the trauma of years trying to get Voyager and her crew safely home; her reddish chestnut hair, pulled back from her face and carefully gathered into a coil, was only beginning to show the first few streaks of silver at the temples. Picard had always liked dealing with her. Janeway was direct, plain-spoken, with handsome Gaelic features arranged in an open expression. Although she was capable of guile if duty demanded it, she disdained it; you always knew where you stood with Janeway.
She smiled at the sight of him. “Captain! To what do I owe the pleasure of this subspace visit?”
Picard could not quite bring himself