Seven of Nine - Christie Golden [65]
"A Warm," it said, its voice translated as harsh and mechanical. "A Borg warm. Better even. We will dismember and devour you, Warm, when our commander gives us the word."
"You are incorrect," said Seven calmly. She stepped forward, lifting the phaser. She knew exactly where to place it, between the compound eyes, and fired before the Tuktak even knew what had hit it. It dropped, its hard-shelled body clattering on the ancient paving stones of this street.
Gasps rose, but Seven ignored them. She began to run, a steady, non-tiring trot, shouldering her way roughly through anyone who dared attempt to stop her. She was going to lose the Skedans if she didn't hurry. And if she lost the Skedans, the Emperor was dead. Not that Seven particularly cared about the Emperor or the Skedan cause, but her captain did.
Seven of Nine preferred to obey orders when possible, and this one she planned to carry out to the letter.
Her head suddenly ached. She felt the brush of an alien mind to hers and knew at once that the harsh thought came from the Skedan who had tried to induce her to suicide. Imraak. I hope you learn of my death, somehow.
Inside her, Rhly mourned the death of yet one more of her people.
Seven did not dare form a thought in reply, lest it reveal her presence to the others. She felt a peculiar sense of loss and knew that, although she felt it, the loss was not really hers. She moved on.
High overhead, almost invisible even to her eyes, flew twenty-two black birds. And inside her mind, speaking as if with one voice although they were many, Seven of Nine was kept company by every single being whom she had assimilated.
"The Emperor is finished with the present session.
He'll be able to meet with you now," Xanarit told Janeway, nodding toward the huge stage on which the Emperor was seated and on which hundreds of petitioners had trod over the last few hours.
"Finally," muttered Janeway under her breath as she watched Emperor Beytek rise, wave to the crowd, and slip behind a fluttering black curtain. The sun on this planet was hot, and her hair and face were damp.
She was probably also getting sunburned, but the Doctor would take care of that as soon as she returned to the ship. Neelix and Tuvok seemed to be experiencing no discomfort. Their captain silently envied them.
"Follow me, please." Xanarit marched forward, striding past the throngs of people who made no attempt to move past the small posts that designated the public area. Janeway, Neelix, and Tuvok followed.
Xanarit's guards brought up the rear. As they walked, Janeway glanced about at the staggering array of monitors, cameras, and recording devices.
Publicity. Whatever its drawbacks, nothing small and vicious could survive long in the harsh glare of it, and Janeway intended to reveal the so-called Most Excellent Worthiness as little more than a spider in a web. Or a rat in a hole. Or a-her mind filled with metaphors and she smiled, slightly, to herself.
Xanarit led them past the steps that led up to the stage and through a doorway. Janeway blinked. Here beneath the stage, it was dark, and her eyes took a moment to grow accustomed to the dimness after the brightness of the sun. Once they were all inside, Xanarit closed the door. Abruptly, the noise of the crowd was utterly silenced.
"How secure is this room?" she asked, glancing about. There were no decorations, no colors here. The only furniture was a single chair.
The walls were made of a gray substance unknown to her, and her voice sounded flat and hollow to her ears.
"Completely," Xanarit assured her. "Tribute has been held in the Central Octagon for centuries, and the Emperors have needed a place such as this where they may converse in privacy. Few places in the Empire are as secure as this antechamber, Captain.
No sound, no weapon, nothing penetrates-and nothing leaves.