Resistance - J.M. Dillard [60]
The brain, of course, felt nothing at all. The pincers followed, cold and swift; he knew the instant that they found and locked onto the neutralizer chip and slowly began to draw it out.
His mind was like a blaze. It raged at first, angry and wild, determinedly ascendant. And then his will was slowly bled from him, escaping like oxygen from a breached hull. He struggled to hold on to it, to fight, but he was a single flame struggling in a relentless vacuum. In the end, he could not hold out; his resistance was extinguished. Only a feeble blue glow remained, flickering, bitter. Watching. Waiting.
In sickbay, Beverly was finally lost in thought.
It had not been easy. With each passing minute that Jean-Luc was gone, her anxiety increased, but she was determined to find a solution to the mystery of a Borg drone’s metamorphosis into a queen. Her doubts and concerns were in the past. There was nothing she could do now but prepare for the future.
Her research indicated a fairly simple solution to the introduction of the feminizing hormone: a complex form was no doubt present in the gelatinous nutrient, which could easily be absorbed through the skin or administered intravenously, then broken down in the future queen’s equivalent of a humanoid bloodstream.
The question was whether the Borg produced the feminizing hormone artificially, or whether, like human bees, the drones naturally created the nutrient gel and somehow collected it for the queen.
If it was the latter—
Beverly frowned slightly as she directed the lab’s computer to produce a tissue sample taken from the Borg Locutus. The frown deepened to a scowl as a shrill beep interrupted her train of thought. She glanced up, distracted, and stared for a half second at the blinking red light on the monitor screen before she realized what it was. Perhaps her mind had not let her understand what she saw because it was the one thing she had never wanted to see.
“No!” she said, at the exact instant she instinctively struck her combadge. “Crusher to bridge! Worf! The neutralizer chip has malfunctioned!”
Doctor Crusher’s anguished cry galvanized Worf; he did not waste an instant in reflection or remorse. He rose and leaned over Sara Nave at the helm. “Evasive maneuvers,” he ordered. “Set a random course, as far distant as possible while keeping us within transporter range.” Her fingers moved swiftly over the controls—but not quite swiftly enough.
Worf glanced up just in time to see the bright ball of light emerge from the Borg cube’s under-belly and streak toward the Enterprise. It was followed by another…and another…
The deck beneath his feet heaved; thunder roared in his ears. Nave was slammed back against her chair, then forward against the helm. Worf was forced to his knees; the side of his cheek struck the edge of Nave’s chair.
He pulled himself up as the ship shuddered. Pressing his combadge, he shouted over the background chatter of incoming damage reports. “Transporter room. Keep your lock on the captain’s signal and prepare to beam him to the holding cell.”
“Aye, sir.”
Worf closed the channel. Sara Nave, still working at the helm, kept her focus on the viewscreen, doing her best to dodge the volley of fire aimed in their direction.
He tapped his combadge again. “Doctor Crusher,” he said, “report to the holding cell. We’re beaming the captain there.”
“Already on my way,” she replied.
Worf turned to La Forge. “Shields?”
“Still holding,” he reported.
For now, Worf thought as Nave took them out of the Borg’s weapons range. It was a fine line she was dancing, keeping them out of the line of fire but within transporter range. It wasn’t clear how long until the Borg’s long-range weaponry would be active, but Worf sensed it wouldn’t be long. Once the immediate threat seemed over, Nave allowed for a half turn in his direction. Her eyes were lit with an emotion—hope Worf might have called it had it not had such a dark edge to it.