Resistance - J.M. Dillard [32]
Jean-Luc had chosen to forgo even the synthehol. Without a glass in his hands, he seemed not to know what to do with them tonight. He let go a small sigh. “I’m not at all sure what to make of T’Lana. At first, she had seemed almost genial. And it wasn’t like she had outright snubbed Worf on the bridge, but her reaction was definitely…”
“Cold.” Beverly shook her head and set down the unfinished wine. “She seemed so relaxed, so gracious with everyone else—”
“A perfect diplomat,” Picard interjected.
“Exactly.” She paused, then stated carefully, “She hasn’t exactly been supportive of you or your decision.”
He quirked his lip at that. “Far from it. She’s told me straight out—once she was convinced that you had examined me and that I wasn’t floridly psychotic—that she believes my conviction about the Borg is nothing more than an emotional delusion.”
Beverly frowned. “Frankly, that’s hardly helpful advice from a ship’s counselor. Do you think she’s going to fit in with the crew?”
“Give her time,” Jean-Luc said. He began to speak again, then fell silent. She saw the shift in his expression, as if he were listening to something far away. Though his face was half obscured by shadow, she caught his eye, and he managed a faint and unhappy sheepish smile.
Determined to show no alarm, she kept her tone even, neutral. At the same time, she needed to reach out to him. She placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “You’re hearing them now, aren’t you?”
Jean-Luc shrugged. “Nothing new. Just more faint chatter. Boring stuff, actually. And certainly not as bad as it could be. The majority of them are sleeping, waiting for a directive to wake. A skeleton crew is tending the queen and readying the ship.”
And when they finally wake…Beverly did not permit herself to finish the thought.
He sighed. “I just don’t like them…being in my head again.”
“I understand,” she answered softly. She had been worried not just about the physical threat from the Borg, but about the psychic damage to Jean-Luc as well. “It’s a violation…another violation…”
Before she could think of something comforting, therapeutic, to say, Picard spoke first, his tone and expression consummately resolute. He pointed to his brow. “But I’m glad they’re here. Glad to be able to sense them. The alternative…”
He left the alternative unspoken, but Beverly shuddered mentally. The memories she had of the Borg still entered her dreams from time to time: the Borg breaking down the walls of sickbay, forcing her to flee, panicked, with her patients and the utterly terrified Lily; witnessing the carnage left in their wake, seeing crew members she knew assimilated or killed.
Worst of all was the memory of the day she had stood on the Borg cube. She had been the first to see Jean-Luc as Locutus. She had worked for years to rid herself of the image, of all the other memories, but now they were all resurfacing.
He laughed abruptly, bitterly. “You know, I keep hoping I’m mad, that this is all some sort of psychotic delusion. It’d be easier to deal with.”
“I know,” she answered gently. “But all your scans checked out, Jean-Luc. I’m afraid you’re sane…unless this is some new, rare disease, or some strange form of metaspace we’ve entered…in which case, we’d all be affected.”
“I keep wishing it was something else, anything other than what it appears to be,” he confessed. “I’d hoped never to have to do this again. It’s like cutting the head off the Hydra; another two take its place.” He rubbed his face, and she caught the glimmer of frustration in his eyes. “It seems like it will never end.”
“But this time is different.”
He looked up at her, his faint surprise mixed with even fainter hope. “How so?”
“This time,” Beverly said firmly, “we’re stopping the Borg before they can start. This time, thanks to your connection to them, no one will have to die. No one—except the Borg.”
His expression grew grim. “I pray you’re right, Beverly. Too many have died under my watch, far too many.