Resistance - J.M. Dillard [9]
The Repoki, on the other hand, were a gangly, orange-skinned people with opaque white eyes, blunted features, and little racial variation. Picard knew nothing more about them, except that their level of technology was behind that of the Trexatians and perhaps two centuries behind that of the Federation.
“They value social cooperation as well as financial independence so that the individual will not burden society; nonfunctional art is considered frivolous. They are isolationist but not xenophobic. They wish to exist undisturbed, with little interest in how their culture or technology could be enhanced by interaction with other worlds.” She paused. “That was our greatest challenge seven years ago, when we met with their representatives. The only reason they have contacted us now is that they now desperately require our help. But there is a greater challenge to surmount now.”
“Which is?”
Conversation ceased for a moment as they arrived at the lift and entered. “Bridge,” Picard ordered, then turned his face toward T’Lana, who stood beside him.
As the lift began to move, she answered his question. “Bigotry. Since the Repoki place a high value on social cooperation, they frown on thievery and self-aggrandizement. They find Trexatian culture morally repugnant, the people vain and corrupt. This, added to their outrage over the murders of their citizens and the invasion of their mines—the very basis of their monetary system—will prove a most difficult obstacle in bringing them to peace and acceptance of Trexatian culture.”
“I suspect,” Picard said, “that the Trexatians find the Repoki backward and naive.”
T’Lana gave an affirming nod. “As well as physically repugnant. And they do not comprehend their lack of aesthetic appreciation. Each side, therefore, feels it is morally superior to the other. This is the greatest challenge to a lasting peace. Apparently, our efforts seven years ago were unsuccessful in terms of assisting the Trexatians in becoming more open to other cultures’ perspectives…”
As Picard listened, a comment formed in his mind about the need for a swift resolution, since without vadinite, the Trexatian population would soon be decimated by disease. But as T’Lana continued, her voice slowly faded and became unintelligible, like the far-off buzz of an insect.
Pressure mounted in his skull; soon even the buzzing was silenced by the pulse of his own heart.
Picard blinked and scowled, trying to shake off the sensation, to concentrate on the words T’Lana’s cherubic lips were forming, but he could hear only the sound in his own head.
A virus, he decided. Or perhaps some abnormal residual effect left from his early experience with Shalaft’s syndrome. After hours, he would make a point of consulting Beverly.
T’Lana’s lips had stopped moving and she was studying him with intent curiosity.
A muscle in his cheek spasmed.
Fierce, abrupt, and inescapable, the dread of the previous night’s dream descended on him. The thrumming heartbeat that filled his ears transformed—or had it always been thus?—into a chorus of distant whispers.
This is not happening, Picard told himself with infinite force, infinite fury. He would not permit a nightmare spawned by events long past to become reality. Whatever this was, it had nothing to do with the Borg. Could not have anything to do with the Borg. Any remnants of them were scattered, helpless, without a queen to direct their activity. He had had the pleasure of snapping her writhing, inhuman spine himself, with an impossible strength born of adrenaline and desperation. Admiral Janeway dealt them an even more crushing blow from the Delta Quadrant. Picard had read the reports following the triumphant return of the Starship Voyager. The Borg were scattered. Lost without access to a considerable portion of their network of transwarp conduits. They could not possibly have regrouped so quickly.
This was merely a symptom, the onset of