The Devil's Heart - Carmen Carter [114]
“Srjula? An Andorian tea?” The hostess turned to a tidy row of canisters on a shelf behind her. Common teas could be requested from the food replicators, but the molecular patterns of the more exotic brands were rarely available, and the drink had to be made from real leaves. Guinan pried open the lid of one of the jars and peered at the contents. “We don’t get much call for this on the Enterprise.”
“I’m in the mood for something different.”
“Srjula is certainly different,” she said, setting a clear teacup and saucer on the bar. The crumpled leaves that she sprinkled into the cup were orange, but when hot water was poured over them, they turned bright yellow, then dissolved.
She sniffed experimentally at the pungent aroma, then grimaced. “I’ve never actually tasted it, myself.”
Picard picked up the saucer and took a tentative sip from the cup. His mouth pursed involuntarily. He took another sip.
“Yes, that’s perfect.”
“It is?” said Guinan.
He nodded emphatically. Srjula. The memory of its tart, bitter taste was borrowed from a dream, yet he knew that it was just as it should be.
Guinan shrugged and moved on to her next customer, yet Picard felt her gaze following him as he walked across the deck. He wound his way to a table where Beverly Crusher was finishing off a slice of pie. She hastily licked a smear of whipped cream off her upper lip.
“You came alone tonight, Captain.”
“Alone?” he said as he sat down across from her. A backdrop of deep space framed her body.
Crusher pointed to his hands, which were wrapped tightly around his teacup. “No rock.”
“Oh, that.” Picard loosen ed his grip; the warm, round shape between the palms of his hands had been familiar and reassuring. “I left it in my cabin. It’s not as if I can’t do without it.”
“No, of course not.” She made a token effort to hide her amusement by eating the last bite of her dessert, but he detected the ends of her smile curling up around the spoon.
“Let’s not talk about the Heart,” he said.
“That’s an excellent idea.” She shoved aside the empty plate and leaned forward. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Instead, why don’t we—” She stopped. Her nose wrinkled ever so slightly. “What on earth is that smell?”
“Tea,” said Picard, lifting the cup up to his lips.
“You’re drinking that?”
“Yes, of course.” He took a sip, but had to fight an impulse to spit out the liquid.
His craving for the astringent brew had faded. He swallowed anyway. “It’s delicious.”
As he set down the cup, he caught a flash of movement outside the Ten-Forward window.
“If you say so.” Crusher pulled back slightly and began again. “As I was saying, why don’t we—” She stopped again, obviously alarmed by the sudden change in his expression and the silence that had fallen over the entire room. “Captain? What’s wrong, Jean-Luc?”
He tried to answer, but his throat had closed too tightly to let the words escape.
They’re back.
The doctor checked back over her shoulder; she was the last to see it. A simple cubic shape hung in space, its baroque metallic structures gleaming softly in reflected starlight.
“Oh my god,” she cried. “It’s the Borg.”
As her words echoed through the room, flashing red lights began their staccato pulse and alert sirens sprang to life. Picard scrambled to his feet, overturning the table and chair in his haste, knowing only that he must get away quickly.
“Captain to the bridge! Captain to—” Riker’s intercom voice was drowned out by the high whine of a Borg transporter beam.
Picard froze in his tracks; the sound brought forth a memory of pain, a pain so fierce that he would do anything to escape it again.
Five Borg materialized in the center of the room, back-to-back in a tight formation like a satanic pentagram. Each took a step forward and began to fire straight ahead.
No! Not again. Please not again.
Another step, another round of fire.
Screams. People were screaming; people were falling to the deck; people were dying.
I should do something. I must do something. I’m the captain. But the terror that gripped him was so strong that