Seven of Nine - Christie Golden [20]
He took a deep, calming breath, and reached out to touch the minds of all that remained of the Skedan race. The strong, cold thoughts of Imraak. The light, gentle brush of Shemaak's mind. The fire and passion of the lovely Priana, raised to an almost unbearable heat by her attraction to this vessel's pilot. Little Thena and her dam, all of them, joined as one in this moment to nurture the single thing that meant more to the Skedans than anything else in the galaxy, including the survival of their species.
Revenge.
The incongruously beautiful weapon which would execute the ultimate goal of the surviving Skedans sat in a place of honor in the center of their circle.
Carefully cradled on a soft purple cushion, the weapon was a small sphere. Not quite small enough to fit in a single paw, but certainly much smaller than little Thena.
Gently, compassionately, Tamaak reached out with his mental powers and touched each mind individually. Like a weaver pulling the individual threads into a glorious whole, he gathered thought, knowledge, and emotion until they were of one mind, one heart, one soul.
He turned his large eyes toward the Sphere and directed their thoughts toward it. They wrapped it in an invisible blanket of love and protection. Earlier, when they had first come aboard Voyager, careless human hands had passed analyzing equipment over the Sphere. Their tricorders, as the tools were called, beeped a shrill warning at the high level of unidentifiable energy radiating from the Sphere.
But Ramirez, wrapped in his warrior's regard for the Skedans as fellow survivors, his nostrils filled with the sweet scent of mangoes from his native Earth, had noticed nothing. Nor had Dawson, distracted in a fashion tailored just for him; nor Chakotay, enthralled by the markings he "saw" on Tamaak's naked arm. Even Thena, small as she was, had kept the faith and purpose of the Skedans true by playing on Lyssa Campbell's longing for a baby sister.
Ease itself it was to fool these humans, to make them see what the Skedans wished them to see, to trick them into trusting their eyes and ears even when their equipment clearly registered something else.
Surely the arrival of these Voyagers was a direct blessing, a gift from She-Who-Makes to let them know that She approved of their purpose.
There had only been one who knew of their power, who might have stopped them, but she was being dealt with. And that, too, had been a joyful exercise.
Part of Tamaak regretted fooling these intelligent, caring people. He liked them. Their minds were full of the most interesting images. He would have liked to meet them under better, different circumstances.
He would have liked to have honest discourse, fair trade.
But the death of their world had obliterated more than the Borg could ever have anticipated. Along with the millions of dead and assimilated, the Borg left a handful of people who had suddenly learned how to hate. When there was no thought of a crop to tend, or a family to love, or even a legacy to leave, the burning desire for justice, for revenge, rushed to fill that aching void.
Before Tamaak, the Sphere seemed to shimmer. Its wards had been refreshed, renewed for the day. No mind on this vessel could detect its true nature. No weapon could damage it. It-and their one last hope was utterly safe.
Tamaak let out a deep sigh. All around him, his kin shook their heads, flexed muscles that had been held a bit too tautly. It was done. The rite had ended.
And just in time, too. The door hissed open and Tom Paris stood there, smiling. His blue eyes sought out Priana's, and the smile widened.
"Hi," he said softly. She lowered her eyes lest he know just how happy she was to see him. "Tamaak, I'm to escort you to the conference room."
The scream that tore Seven's throat brought her awake. The Doctor was there at once.
"Seven?" It was a question, uttered in a hesitant voice. She licked her lips,