Resistance - J.M. Dillard [51]
Worf’s expression grew stoic. He gave a single, curt nod. “Aye, sir.”
“I’ll stay in constant contact. If for any reason my communicator fails, or the Borg taps into my comlink, you’ll be able to get my coordinates from the transponder. If we lose contact, notify Doctor Crusher immediately; she will be monitoring the neutralizer chip to be sure it is functioning properly. I want you to remain just within transporter range. No closer.” He let go a small gasp, drained by the effort of so much speech.
If Worf saw, he did not show it. “Yes, Captain.”
That’s it then, Picard told himself silently—a small, barely discernible thought amid the collective’s babble, phrase layered over phrase layered over phrase.
Nutrient uptake successful.
Prosthetic body now available for use by the queen…
The queen’s gestation is nearing completion. Prepare for the coming directive.
Maintain ninety-five percent humidity in gestation chamber. Construction completed on Levels Three through Twenty-one Alpha. Raising internal temperature…
Picard lumbered to the transporter pad, then turned and faced Worf and Beverly, both of whom stood at the console.
How distant they looked, how gray; how cold and grim and lifeless the Enterprise herself seemed. Weighed down by the cacophony of the collective, Picard made himself a silent, solemn promise: he would return again to a world warm and vivid and bright.
“Mister Worf,” he said, “beam me over to the Borg vessel.”
The world shimmered, sparks of light illuminating the gray. The edges of reality softened, melted into each other, then abruptly, relentlessly dissolved.
8
EVEN AS PICARD MATERIALIZED ON THE BORG vessel, he gratefully sucked in air. The atmosphere aboard the Enterprise had become so cold and dry to him that it pained his throat and lungs. Here it was obligingly hot and so moist a fine mist veiled his surroundings.
The voice of the Collective was clearer here, utterly pervasive yet somehow less intrusive, as quietly a part of him as his own breathing or the beating of his heart. The part of him that was Locutus found it welcoming. At the same time, he felt his level of anger increase. At first, he thought it was a natural reaction to being back aboard a cube. But slowly he came to realize that Jean-Luc Picard wasn’t angry. It was the Borg.
Emotion was not typical of his connection to the Collective. The Borg were systematic. Even with all the added voices, Picard remembered that the last time he was Locutus there was an overall sense of calm. Of reason. The Borg did not see themselves as evil. They were merely performing a function of their superior biology. They had never attacked with malice; they were simply fulfilling their natural prerogative to expand their race. The sense of preservation was still there, but now it was mixed with a need for vengeance. And a feeling of satisfaction.
The queen’s gestation is nearing completion. Prepare to receive a directive…
He found himself on the uppermost deck. Overhead hung exposed circuitry and conduits. Beneath his feet lay exposed metal scaffolding above a hundred other scaffoldings just the same, spiraling downward into infinity, and row after row of honeycomb alcoves filled with inanimate drones. To the human Picard, the sight was dizzying. To Locutus, it was unremarkable; the Borg’s vision focused on what was closest to him, the better to detect intruders or beings to be immediately assimilated. Distant objects receded into near invisibility: height meant nothing. Only an individual could be afraid of falling.
Only individuals would desire to see colors, to appreciate aesthetics; Borg vision detected shades of gray because those were the functional colors of the Borg cube.
Levels Twenty-two A through Thirty-nine A now at acceptable life-support levels, ready for habitation.
Picard began to move slowly, deliberately, at the Collective’s steady pace. He was keenly aware