The Farther Shore - Christie Golden [20]
Poor Harry, she thought.
Two: As anyone would logically expect, ever since the disaster at Wolf 359, Starfleet Intelligence had been furiously studying everything they could about the Borg. To know one’s enemy was to be able to prepare to fight it. It made sense that they would collect every bit of debris from the destroyed Borg ships—past and present—and study it thoroughly.
“Past” referred to the Borg vessel which had almost caused Zefram Cochrane to miss his date with destiny in 2063. The Enterprise’s role in what amounted to saving humanity and probably the universe into the bargain had been well documented. Debris from the Borg sphere destroyed by the Enterprise had been scattered into space. Some of it had been caught in Earth’s orbit, and, as was virtually inevitable, much had eventually found its way planetside. Where it was found, it was gathered up for investigation.
So far, so good, Libby thought. No indication of anything other than expected procedure to safeguard the Federation from one of its most deadly threats.
Here things began to get spotty and Libby was forced into conjecture. She got a few words here and there that gave her some idea as to what SI was looking for as it analyzed this debris: “syntax,” “structure,” “computer.” Borg were part machine, part person. What [59] made them so was the computer protocol, which somehow produced the nanoprobes, controlled the collective, and linked the queen so expertly to her hive.
What wasn’t immediately clear was where the virus had come from. Something in what SI had been studying contained the virus—she’d been able to get the word “dormant.” She could make a good guess that the Borg vessels had been booby-trapped in some way, that even in destruction, they could somehow plant this virus and make more Borg. But why hadn’t that happened? What flipped the switch, to use an old metaphor, from dormant to active?
Libby realized that she had done all her limited decryption skills would permit her to do. She’d have to bring someone else in, someone who could decrypt the whole damned document. This was the Rosetta stone to the entire present Borg threat, she knew it in her bones. There were answers in here, but for the moment, they were tantalizingly out of reach.
She gnawed her lip. Who to trust? There was one person she could think of, but she cringed from the task. Then she thought of what the world would be like if the virus went unchecked, and began sending a message.
After everyone else had left, Chakotay lingered behind. Janeway set a fresh pot of coffee to brewing—“Decaf,” she said, “none of us has been getting enough sleep”—and almost collapsed on the couch beside her former first officer. With the ease of old friends, he draped his arm over her shoulder, and she leaned against his chest.
“You look exhausted,” he said.
[60] “Flattery will get you nowhere,” she replied. He chuckled and his warm breath stirred her hair. “Do you know,” she continued, “for the first time since this whole thing began, I really think we might succeed.”
“That depends on what we want to succeed at,” Chakotay responded. “I think we’ll succeed admirably in getting everyone thrown in the brig for the rest of their lives, which would be something of a record.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Only a little bit.”
She punched him playfully and rose, getting out two mugs. “You may be right at that,” she said, “but I’d be willing to trade that for Seven and Icheb’s lives, the Doctor’s mind, and the continuation of the human race.”
“Everyone who was here tonight is,” said Chakotay, taking the mug of steaming brown liquid she handed him. “Even Data.”
“That’s part of why I feel we’ll be able to pull this off,” Janeway said. She took a sip. Even decaffeinated, the elixir was