Resistance - J.M. Dillard [18]
“He piled upon the whale’s white hump the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart’s shell upon it.”
Had it returned to haunt him? Was it possible that he was overreacting, that he had created a scenario after picking up on some fleeting, disorganized Borg chatter? That he was the one that had created the sense of urgency, not the Borg?
His instinct said no. But before he could consider disobeying orders, before he could in good conscience approach his crew about doing so, he had a responsibility to discuss his dilemma with a certain crew member.
He rose when T’Lana entered his quarters and gestured for her to sit across from him, with the desk between them. She sat, seeming relaxed enough—for a Vulcan. Picard was far from feeling the same: for one thing, he had never confided in her before, and he was used to the comforting warmth of Deanna Troi, not the cool, rational appraisal he was no doubt about to receive. Deanna had always been acutely aware of his emotions and therefore brilliant at helping him sort through them, combining both instinct and logic into the best possible approach to a problem.
He was uncomfortable with T’Lana for a second reason: although the all-consuming wave of Borg chatter had left him ill equipped to focus on his surroundings, he had noticed the subtle coldness she had displayed toward Worf. There could have been many reasons for the behavior. Certainly nothing worth discussing at the moment, but he would need to keep an eye on the situation. For now, he placed his concerns aside because he needed to hear the advice of an experienced counselor.
In unconscious imitation of Janeway, he folded his hands atop his desk and leaned slightly forward, forcing away all discomfort, all doubts about his ability to utilize T’Lana’s skills effectively. There was work to be done, a decision to be made; he launched into an unrehearsed speech without hesitation.
“Counselor,” he began, “you saw my…apparent collapse on the bridge.”
“I did,” she replied serenely. “You seem to be fully recovered. I trust that is so.”
“It is.” He paused, trying to explain much with an economy of words. “You are also familiar with my experience with the Borg?”
“Insofar as your Starfleet file records it. You have experienced two significant encounters with them: first, when they assimilated you; second, when you successfully stopped them from preventing the launch of Zefram Cochrane’s warp-drive vessel.”
“That’s all correct,” Picard said, marveling that such profoundly horrifying events could be condensed into such bland, emotionless phrases. “Perhaps you are not aware that I have retained the…ability to sense the Borg communicating with each other. I was, after all, once part of the Collective.”
Neither her gaze nor her expression changed in the slightest, but she tilted her head to one side, causing the fringe of soft, black hair to spill across her forehead, revealing pale skin beneath. “I have not studied the personal logs concerning your ability. Has this been empirically documented in any of them?”
The question caught him off guard. He gathered himself and answered carefully, “It has been…noted by senior crew members, including Doctor Crusher. You might want to look at Counselor Troi’s log in particular; she knew that I heard them. You can also check the records of the Enterprise’s encounter with the queen ship shortly before it was destroyed. Several starships had engaged the Borg, and many were destroyed, including the admiral’s vessel. I took command of the fleet and directed all the surviving ships to lock in their weapons at a precise location on the Borg cube—with the result that the cube was destroyed. That is a recorded fact.”
Her face returned to neutral position again. So cherubic and innocent were her features that it was too easy to forget the piercing intelligence behind them.