Resistance - J.M. Dillard [92]
Beverly confirmed that she had collected enough DNA samples and joined Worf as he took a position beside the captain.
Jean-Luc stood passive and unresponsive. His eyes were distant, blank, but Beverly knew from experience that somewhere, deep within, Jean-Luc was there, watching, listening. She took his limp hand and whispered, “We’re going home now.” And as the beam caught hold of them, causing the queen’s chamber to dissolve like an ill-remembered nightmare, she smiled.
Picard drew in a breath. The air against his skin, in his lungs, was no longer forbiddingly cold and dry; it was comfortable, fresh, invigorating. He opened his eyes. Beverly stood over him, smiling. “Welcome home.”
She was no longer painted in the blacks and whites and grays of monochrome; her hair was pale copper, glinting and glorious against the vivid blue of her lab coat. The world was once again alive with color.
“Beverly.” His voice seemed hoarse, unused. “You have no idea how good it feels to be back.” He stretched his arms out in front of him and flexed his hands and fingers—warm, living flesh and blood—with pleasure. “The queen…?”
“No longer a threat,” she said. “Remember I mentioned I had a hunch? The queen’s nutrient gel, which the drones were feeding her, contained an estrogenic-type compound. It can be neutralized by its male analogue, an androgenic compound.”
“And the cube?”
“Dormant,” she reported. “The drones are little more than empty shells. All consciousness left them when we destroyed the queen. With no connection to the hive and no way to activate a new queen, they effectively shut themselves down. Possibly waiting for a new directive that, we hope, will never come. Admiral Janeway is sending a contingent of science vessels to examine the craft.”
“Worf has been in touch with the admiral?” he asked.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “He left you to give her the full report.”
“I will have to remember to thank him later,” Picard said with a smile.
“Now, as for you,” Beverly said, “it wasn’t so easy transforming you back again. The Borg had developed a new generation of nanoprobes. It took a few hours, but I figured it out…and now the Starfleet research files on the Borg are updated. Oh, and we have fresh samples of Borg DNA, too. We’re working on a way to chemically short-circuit the mechanisms that propel the drones to create a new queen so that it can never happen again.”
Picard had to say the words himself to make sure he understood them. “Never again?”
“Never again,” Beverly repeated. “I’m confident we’ll be able to find a way.”
Her words provided infinite relief, but it was short-lived. A question troubled him deeply, and he dreaded the answer. “Were there casualties in my rescue?”
“Three lost,” she said with sadness. “Sara Nave was among them.”
Picard took in her words with regret.
“And we were unable to save Lieutenant Battaglia,” she added.
He looked away and down. He should have been grateful, he told himself, that this time it had been only a few and not thousands. And yet the guilt, the sorrow, was no less acute. “Did I…?”
“You didn’t harm anyone,” she said. “Not permanently. But you did give Worf a run for his money.”
“I’m surprised I survived an encounter with a Klingon. Is he all right?”
“He mended pretty quickly. I released him a couple of hours ago.”
Picard looked up at her more keenly and saw the fading greenish bruises, like dark pearls, encircling her neck. “Those are fingerprints…What happened?” He reached a hand toward them.
She touched them absently; her smile was dark but self-satisfied. “A memento.”
“A drone attacked you?”
“The queen.”
“The queen…?” He blinked at her, impressed. “You did it, didn’t you? You saved me.”
“We all saved you,” she said modestly. “Worf, Leary, Nave—all of us. None of us could have done it alone.” The dark little smile returned. “Let’s just say I had a score to settle.”
“With such a formidable opponent, then, the queen never had a chance.” He returned her smile. “Am I fit for duty, Doctor?”
“As fit as you’ll ever