The Farther Shore - Christie Golden [31]
The virus was active and had been for several days now. Which led inevitably to the conclusion that somewhere not too far from Earth, the queen lurked.
But how could this be? Starfleet knew how to find a Borg ship. There was none anywhere in the quadrant that they knew of.
[90] Libby swallowed and read on. Her stomach churned and suddenly she wished she hadn’t eaten quite so much of her lasagna at lunch.
Trevor Blake went on at great and monotonous length about theory and execution thereof. She had to rub her eyes and reread a sentence here and there to make sure she understood it. Exciting and fast-paced, Blake’s writing wasn’t. At one point, she saw something and did her usual rub and reread, certain that she’d misinterpreted it. After the third reading, she desperately wished she had misinterpreted it, but was sickly afraid she grasped the meaning all too well.
Trevor Blake had demonstrated a bit of a sense of humor in selecting the Royal Protocol document as the cover for his treatise on creating a Borg queen. Not only did it serve as a powerful deterrent in case anyone downloaded it—no one in his right mind would voluntarily slog through that mind-numbing document—but there was a second, terrifyingly ironic twist as well.
It sank in slowly, sickeningly, like the news of the death of a loved one.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh no.
Bile rose in her throat. She stumbled toward the kitchen and barely made it to the sink before she threw up, sobbing as she did so. Tears poured down her face in a flood as she sank to the floor, holding herself and shaking. Indigo and Rowena hastened to her, rubbing their furry faces against her bare shins.
Royal Protocol—this Royal Protocol—had nothing to do with etiquette. It had nothing to do with anything sane.
[91] “Royal Protocol” was the name of the computer protocol used by the Borg to create a queen. And it was already happening.
Brenna Covington rose and went to the small sonic shower she’d requested two years ago. She worked so late, she had explained; sometimes a shower revived her. Of course they installed one for her.
First, she removed her clothes. She took out her special contact lenses, carefully placing them in solution. She didn’t need them to see. Then the blond wig went, draped on its stand. She stepped into the shower and closed her eyes as the sweat, dirt, and makeup almost magically dissolved from her body, leaving her feeling reborn.
She stepped out of the shower and regarded her perfect body in the mirror. Long, strong legs. A flat abdomen. She touched it briefly, acknowledging what lay within, unseen.
The scars were all inside. The scars were always, ever, all inside.
Her gaze traveled up past small but firm breasts, to her eyes. She smiled at her reflection.
Get a hold of yourself, Elizabeth, Libby thought fiercely. You’re no good to anyone shivering here on the floor. Her limbs felt as if they were made of rubber, but she managed to clamber to her feet. She rinsed her mouth out and splashed her face with cold water, then stumbled like a drunken woman back to the computer.
Starfleet Intelligence, with Trevor Blake as head [92] researcher, had spent the last several years deciphering this protocol. They had enough information to create a Borg queen, but had, at least at the time this document was written, not yet deciphered the entire protocol. Pieces were missing. There was a queen somewhere with enough power to activate the virus, but she couldn’t yet turn it into the sweeping epidemic that would nearly instantaneously destroy the Earth.
Not yet. But soon. Trevor Blake felt it would be soon.
The Borg had many advantages, but one thing they could not escape and that was almost a disadvantage was the nearly flawless logic by which they operated. Organic beings could bluff, go off on tangents, have inspired insights. But the Borg were as