Resistance - J.M. Dillard [49]
“Ensign Nguyen is experienced,” Nave said, referring to the officer who was just leaving the seat vacant for her. “And there’s Lieutenant Krueger.” Both officers shared conn duty with Nave, each working different shifts.
“I suppose, if our situation grows more dire, we could let you fill the position and ask Nguyen and Krueger to pull longer shifts of duty.” He paused. “Very well. If we have need of a chief of security, I will call upon you when the time comes.”
“When the time comes…?” Nave repeated, aghast. “Sir, the time is here. I’m volunteering to lead an away team now onto the Borg vessel.”
Worf lowered his voice, though he had no doubt T’Lana, sitting nearby, would hear every word. “No away team is needed. I will be making an announcement to the crew shortly: the captain is beaming over to the Borg vessel.”
“The captain?”
“He will be safe,” Worf countered. “Doctor Crusher is transforming him into a Borg. But he will be wearing a neutralizer chip, which will protect him from being assimilated. The Borg will accept him, and he will be able to proceed unhindered to the queen and destroy her.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Nave asked outright.
Worf felt the Vulcan’s disapproving gaze on him. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I will have the opportunity to consult the captain shortly and will ask him.”
“Thank you, sir,” Nave said, clearly crushed. She turned away slowly and took her seat at the conn.
“Lieutenant,” Worf said softly. He understood and liked Nave; she had a warrior’s heart. He wished very much that he could allow her to seek justice for her friends.
Nave glanced over her shoulder at him.
“If anyone else needs to beam over to the Borg vessel,” he said, “I shall make sure you accompany him.”
Nave did not smile. “Thank you, sir,” she said.
Picard/Locutus walked through the corridors of the Enterprise with Beverly Crusher by his side. The world was gray, leaden, distorted—and cold, so very cold.
“So this is how it looked,” he murmured, in the low, hoarse voice of Locutus; the sound of it still unsettled him.
Beverly turned her face toward him. “How what looked?”
“The ship. The way it appeared to the Borg when they invaded her. The deck, the bulkheads…”
“How does it look?” Beverly asked. She was distracting him, Picard knew, distracting them both from the fear of what was about to happen.
“Very odd. Without color; everything is varying shades of black, white, gray. And it’s rather like being in a fishbowl looking out. When I close in on something, it grows alarmingly large—it’s all I can see. And when it recedes, it’s gone immediately.” Speaking was an effort, yet he forced himself and was relieved when he could hear Jean-Luc’s intonation and choice of words assert themselves. Gray and immediate, he decided, that was the Borg world. There was no right or wrong here, only directives, only stimulus and response. He understood now how they could kill so easily, without compunction: action was simply mindless action. They saw no difference among nourishing themselves, building a cube, or killing.
We are building a queen. Remain in your regeneration chambers and await the directive. He would have said more, but the single thunderous thought overrode all others, and he fell silent. The voices were tinged with emotion and an urgency that nearly overwhelmed him. It was different from the voices the last time he had been Locutus. Indeed, when Beverly spoke, he had to strain to make out the words.
“It sounds hideous,” Beverly said softly.
It is, he thought, but the words proved too difficult to form beneath the chorus of Borg voices. He turned away and focused on walking; his gait seemed stiff, clumsy, as if he wore another man’s body. Silently, he chided himself: he would have to adjust to the mental noise. If he could not speak quickly, coherently with his crew once he beamed over to the Borg vessel, all might be lost.
Beverly glanced at him. He could see in her eyes that she noticed his struggle, but she said nothing.
He forced out some words.