Resistance - J.M. Dillard [48]
“Jean-Luc. What effects are you experiencing?”
He swiveled his head slowly to regard her, struggling to make sense of the distant, muted sounds she was making. They were almost eclipsed by something much louder: the thunder of the Collective. He could hear it now—indeed, every word that had once been an unintelligible whisper now permeated his being.
He strained and managed to reply. “All of them. We are now the Borg.”
His voice was no longer his own; all inflection and naturalness were gone, leaving his words clipped and toneless. It was Locutus who spoke.
Yet it was Picard who remained transcendent, Picard who had composed the answer, who had observed the changes with trepidation, who did not permit himself for an instant to consider the consequences should his mission go awry.
“How is the neutralizer chip working, Jean-Luc?”
“Well,” he said, and to his own relief, was able to add, “I’m here, too. Picard is here.” He climbed stiffly, deliberately from the bed. “And it’s time for me to go.”
On the bridge, Worf sat in the command chair and studiously ignored Counselor T’Lana when she returned. He could not permit thoughts of self-blame or inadequacy to mar his focus. He had been contemplating what Doctor Crusher had said about his being Klingon for the captain. Now was the most critical of times, when the captain needed his loyalty the most—especially when Picard’s own counselor was outspokenly critical of his decision.
Instead, Worf waited for Doctor Crusher’s summons and stared at the viewscreen image of the Borg cube. The Borg were completely without honor. They did not kill cleanly, granting their victims noble deaths. Instead, they stole the souls of the living and subjected them to mental slavery. Worf mourned the fact that Lieutenant Battaglia had just been so thoroughly dishonored, while he silently celebrated the valiant deaths of the rest of the team. It was something the rest of the crew would never understand. For as horrific as the murders had been, Satchitanand, Costas, and DeVrie had all died with honor.
Behind him, the lift doors opened. Nave emerged and paused to face him before she replaced the officer at the helm.
“Commander,” she said softly. Her normally pale face was flushed, and her eyes red rimmed; she had been weeping.
Worf noted the fact with profound discomfort. The tears of women—especially Jadzia’s—had always produced a sense of helplessness in him. He never knew what to do to stop them. In the case of Nave, however, he at least knew their cause. Nave was formerly chief of security—a position with which Worf himself was familiar—and she knew the four crew members who had died or been lost. Worf suspected that one of them, Battaglia, had been a heart friend; he had seen Nave with him many times in the crew lounge. Worf refused to call the bar by the odd name that Captain Riker had christened it.
“Yes, Lieutenant?” Worf replied, uncomfortable. He was glad that Nave had at least stopped her crying and seemed to have gained control of herself. She reminded him, in a way, of Jadzia. She was impatient with herself when she failed to repress her emotions.
“Will the captain be reporting for duty again soon, sir?” Nave’s tone was distinctly formal, quite the opposite of the friendly way she spoke to him during workouts with the bat’leth. “I…have a request to make of him. I went by his quarters just now, but he wasn’t there.”
Worf lowered his voice. “The captain won’t be…available for some period of time.”
“Ah,” Nave said. She lowered her face, crestfallen, then summoned her determination and looked squarely at Worf. “Then…perhaps I could make the request of you, sir.”
Worf answered with a stern look.
“I’d like to volunteer for the position of security chief, sir. We just lost our chief and three of the highest-ranking officers in security. Of anyone on this ship, I have the most experience for the job.”
Worf considered this. “A security chief is critically necessary, especially in the emergency situation we are in. But we also require an experienced conn. Evasive