Resistance - J.M. Dillard [50]
They arrived at last at the transporter room. Commander Worf and Counselor T’Lana stood side by side at the transporter console. It was growing increasingly harder for Picard to judge expressions. He could not read T’Lana’s reaction to the appearance of Locutus at all, but he caught a flicker in the Klingon’s eyes.
Picard turned his attention first to the Vulcan. He could only imagine that she had come in order to make a final argument against his course of action. “Counselor T’Lana?” He forced himself not to react to the sound of his own voice rendered hauntingly alien, and he forced himself, too, to ignore the mental chatter and speak fluidly, without halting. “I presume you’re here because you wished to have a word with me.”
“Yes, sir,” T’Lana said. She stepped from behind the console in order to face the captain directly. While such body language was generally ignored by Vulcans, T’Lana had come to realize that humans valued it. Her action hinted at respect and directness.
She wanted to show him such things. While she did not approve of his choices, he was still her captain. And she could not look on him thus, as Locutus, and not consider his loyalty to his crew—a value equally prized by Vulcans and humans. It was difficult even for her to see him so changed: she had never stood in the presence of a Borg drone, though she had seen many images, and the experience was unsettling. One of his eyes was completely obscured by an optical device; the other was dulled, devoid of emotion, of the spark that had made it human. His skin was as alarmingly pale as that of a bloodless corpse, and the black prosthesis fitted to his arm was equipped with an ominous and deadly looking metal blade.
T’Lana of course did not react outwardly to the change in his appearance, but Doctor Crusher and Commander Worf could not entirely hide the keen distress they felt. It must have been extremely difficult for them, given their experiences with Locutus. T’Lana was impressed that Picard was willing to endure what to him must be a horrific experience—again to become part of the Borg. Most important, he was willing to sacrifice himself in order to spare his crew and—he believed—the rest of humanoid civilization.
Captain Wozniak would have done such a thing. She drew a breath and pushed the image of the dying Wozniak from her mind.
“I have come for two reasons, Captain,” T’Lana said. “First, I wish to tell you that I regret I was unable to be of use to you in my role as counselor—”
Picard interrupted immediately, in the grating, unsettlingly inhuman voice of the Borg, though the mere act of forming the words seemed to require enormous effort. “But you were of service. You gave your opinion. I value that.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And the second reason you have come?” Picard asked.
T’Lana drew a breath. Whether the captain was right or wrong was, at this moment, immaterial. “To wish you success in your mission, sir.”
The Borg face could not quite smile, but she saw the very humanlike glint in the single exposed eye. “I appreciate that, Counselor. It is definitely something to be wished for.”
As T’Lana exited, Picard turned to his second-in-command. “Commander Worf.” His words came out harsh, stilted, uninflected, Borg. “You are now in command of this vessel.”
He paused, meaning to say more, but the Klingon spoke first. “Aye, Captain. I will do my best, sir. As an emergency backup, I am assembling another away team—”
Picard cut him off, gesturing with the prosthetic arm, an action that made Worf and Beverly wince. “There will be no more away teams, even if I fail.” It was nearly impossible to speak quietly while someone else was shouting in his brain, but he forced himself to maintain his focus, to make the words come. “Now that I am fully part of the Collective, I understand that the Borg’s entire arsenal is almost online. And their engines will be ready in just under seven hours. Do you understand?” He paused.