Resistance - J.M. Dillard [41]
Murder. It wasn’t a term she associated with the Borg. Certainly they were killers, but murder implied an emotional state, one that wasn’t usually present in the drones. And to kill without provocation…
She recoiled at the notion. She had walked among the Borg herself without being harmed, although it had been an inexpressibly eerie experience. “But I thought—”
“So did I,” Jean-Luc replied heavily. “I was wrong. Obviously, my connection to the Borg is incomplete, imperfect. They are different now. Bolder. Vicious. I can’t afford to be wrong again.”
“Do you think it was a trap?” she asked.
“I don’t believe so,” he said unsurely. “I don’t think they know that I can hear them. I hope that they cannot hear what is in my mind.”
“Perhaps they’re more aggressive because they’re protecting the developing queen.” She paused, knowing her words did nothing to ease Jean-Luc’s sense of responsibility for the lives lost. “I have a theory that they’re transforming one of the drones into the queen,” she said as she brought up the files she had been studying. “What I don’t understand is how they’re doing it.”
“That will be your next priority,” Picard ordered.
“What are you going to do?” Beverly asked. Something about the way the captain’s eyes had fallen on her told her that he already had a plan. The Enterprise could never survive a battle with the cube; retreat seemed the only answer. Yet she knew from looking at Picard’s set expression that he had not even considered the option.
“The rules have changed,” Jean-Luc said. “We have fought against the Borg—and they have adapted, grown impervious to our weapons, and forced us to fall back each time. Now it’s our turn to adapt.” There was an odd defensiveness in his tone, his eyes, an unflinching sense of determination; he knew that she would disapprove strongly of what he was about to say. “The drones react aggressively to humanoids. But they would not react at all to another Borg.”
She stared blankly at him. Only her desk was between them, but she suddenly felt very far away from him. A muscle in Picard’s jaw twitched subtly; she caught the glimmer of inward-directed loathing in his expression and felt a flash of understanding, of pure horror.
“No.” She stood up, shaking her head as if to dislodge the very thought. Jean-Luc reached toward her, but she pushed his hand away. “No! I won’t permit it.”
“Doctor.” His tone was formal, gentle, utterly reasonable. “You have the knowledge and the technology—and we haven’t any option. If we are to destroy the queen, I must become Locutus again.”
Picard saw the shock and revulsion in her green eyes, her expression, even her posture as she stood behind her desk. She folded her arms tightly about herself and shook her head, red hair swinging gently.
The idea—that he would have to become Locutus again—had come to him swiftly, harshly as he had stood on the bridge listening to Lieutenant Battaglia’s anguished screams. After their retreat, Picard took a moment alone in his ready room to contemplate the situation. It was one that he could not entertain lightly, but there was no other option. During the ride on the lift, the walk down the corridor to sickbay, Picard had felt the same horror he now saw in Beverly. But he’d had the time to overcome it, to yield to the necessity of the situation. And now, standing in her office, he was resigned to the fact that it was the only possible course of action. Beverly would have to come to that conclusion, too.
“What else shall we do, Doctor?” he pressed. “Retreat, so that the queen can direct an attack against Earth? You’ve seen the vessel; it’s even more formidable than the last. Shall we allow another battle like Wolf 359, permit thousands more to die in vain?”
“But Seven of Nine—” Beverly began.
He cut her off. “Seven will arrive too late to be of help. Even if she were here now, she’s become too human.