Resistance - J.M. Dillard [84]
Her four pursuers were twenty meters behind, walking more rapidly than she had ever seen the Borg move before. But there was only so much speed their cumbersome bodies could muster. They clomped through the walkways in unison, two abreast, their arms raised like swords, ready to strike.
Beverly spread her own arms. “Here I am. Come and get me!”
The drones neared. For all her apparent bravado, she found the sight terrifying; not all the sweat that dripped from her brow was inspired by the heat. As their steps clattered against the deck, she felt them vibrate in the soles of her feet, felt her own heart beat in rhythm. She counted each step in her head: one, two, three, four…
Ten meters away. Eight. Seven. Six…
“Now,” a low voice commanded, and she dropped to the deck.
She knew better than to stare into the phaser fire and be blinded by the glow. Instead, she kept her gaze tightly focused on the drones’ extremities—on their legs—as she readjusted her phaser and fired. She watched as they stumbled, then dropped on their arms, as they thrashed, then grew still.
She counted, too, as they fell. One. Two. Three…
But the fourth staggered, then straightened. Worf and Leary tried to stop the creature with a volley of blasts, but it remained upright and began again to walk.
Toward Crusher.
She adjusted her phaser, but the new setting was useless.
Crusher scrambled to her feet and began again to run, turning to look behind her. The Borg had passed Worf and Leary in their alcoves; it was still following her.
“Recalibrate!”
And the phaser fire was following it. An errant blast struck the bulkhead near her, dazzling her, throwing off sparks.
“Doctor, get down!”
Agonized by indecision, she glanced back. The drone was closer now, barely four meters away.
“Get down! That’s an order!”
Beverly censored the thought of what would happen if the next shot failed to stop the drone. She dove for the deck and landed facedown, hands instinctively shielding the back of her head.
She heard the phaser fire as it struck, then heard the soft, mechanical grunt of the drone and Leary’s triumphant cry.
“Got him!”
But she was unprepared for the impact as the drone’s body—propelled forward by the blast—collided with hers. She cried out as heavy limbs struck her head, her back; the skin covering her ribs stung suddenly and smartly.
“Doctor!” Worf’s and Leary’s voices formed a chorus.
She pushed herself free of the drone’s upper torso, which covered her shoulders and back, then got unsteadily to her knees. Worf and Leary hurried to either side of her; gratefully, she took their proffered hands and got to her feet.
“You’re bleeding!” Leary said.
Beverly reached a hand around to touch her back; it came away bloodied. She shook her head. “It doesn’t feel that bad.” She was far more concerned about the hypospray for the queen; she touched her belt to reassure herself it was still there.
Worf bent down to examine the wound. “It appears to be shallow.”
“It is.” Beverly let go a long, shaky breath, then forced a grim smile. “Well, then. Shall we do it all again?”
No other drones had followed Beverly, and she encountered no one on the way back to the queen’s chamber. Now only two drones stood shoulder to shoulder barring entry. Beverly drew close enough only to be seen. She could not see much beyond them, into the chamber, but she caught blurs of one or two other dark bodies.
This time, when she called out to the drones, her tone was not as light; this time, when Worf told her to drop, she did so immediately and did not let herself look up.
When it was over and two more drones lay motionless on the deck, she sat back on her haunches and gazed up at Worf, who had stepped out of the darkened alcove, his rifle gripped by both hands. Leary moved out of the alcove directly across from his.
“There are a few others in the chamber,” Beverly said. “Maybe only one or two. I couldn’t tell exactly.”