The Farther Shore - Christie Golden [53]
“Good morning, Commander Vance,” said Crais in a formal voice. Kim didn’t recognize the name.
“Good morning, Lieutenant.” This Vance fellow sounded bored. “Status report?”
“All continues to go well, Commander. Do you need to speak to anyone else aboard?”
Harry closed his eyes. No, no, please no ...
“Not necessary. My best to Watson.”
[158] “Yes, sir. Crais out.”
The screen went dark. “That Vance is a nice—hey, what are you doing hiding down there?”
Blushing, Harry stood up. “Just working on a particularly difficult coupling. Leo, can you do me a favor?”
“Sure, what?”
Harry gestured toward the screen. “It’s been kind of hard readjusting since I got back. I don’t want to sound stuck-up or anything, but we’ve all been kinda—well—noticed a lot. I’d just as soon not have to talk to anyone that I don’t need to. Would you mind giving me time to get out of viewing range if you have to talk to anyone else?”
Crais’s pleasant, open face showed sympathy. “You know, I hadn’t thought of it that way. Sure. There’s no need for anyone to know you’re here.”
Harry returned the smile, and for the first time since he stepped onto the bridge, it was genuine.
Icheb dreamed.
He was back on the grounds of the Academy again, walking from class on a warm afternoon in the company of his friends. Sam and Tim were having a lively discussion about the French Revolution, with Andre, the actual Frenchman, chiming in occasionally. Icheb’s arm was around Eshe, and they walked comfortably together. Her own arm snaked around his back.
It felt so good, to be with her. It was unlike any sensation he had hitherto experienced. When their lips touched, his whole body felt tense and tingly. He had read much of human literature and found that an inordinate amount of it had to do with something called [159] “falling in love.” He wondered if that was what he and Eshe were experiencing now.
Her grip around his waist tightened. He smiled a little. She wanted them to be close, as did he. Then her arm tightened even more.
Icheb found it difficult to breathe. Surprised, he looked down at Eshe. Her face, normally the rich color of coffee, was now an ashy shade of gray. One brown eye regarded him with no emotion. The other had been removed, replaced with a red light. The grip around his waist was like iron. He struggled, crying out to his friends to help, but there was no reply. Icheb looked about wildly and saw that they, too, had become Borg.
The fight unraveled in slow motion. As he had before, Andre shoved Icheb, then Sam struck him. Icheb tumbled to the ground, but kept trying to fight. Except this time, his enemies—his friends—also had the physical advantage. They bore down on him, and then Icheb felt searing pain as something sliced his arm off.
Tuvok heard Icheb moan softly, and saw the youth’s eyes darting back and forth under his tightly closed lids. Seven, too, was in a deep REM state. From Icheb’s sound and the expression on both faces, he imagined their dreams were far from pleasant. But he did not interrupt the regeneration cycle. Dreams were harmless, and they desperately needed the healing this intensive rest would provide.
Tuvok fully expected that, successful or not, the military career of everyone involved in this desperate mission would be over by the time all was said and done. He did not know that he regretted it. He was content to [160] continue to teach at the Academy. He enjoyed passing knowledge on to young minds, and Tuvok prized service. But if he were stripped of his rank and sent back to Vulcan, he would not be displeased.
His concern was more for his friends. Their careers had been practically guaranteed, until the advent of the Borg virus had turned heroes into villains in the eyes of Starfleet. And yet, logic dictated that the crew of Voyager, particularly the Doctor, Seven of Nine, and Icheb, should have been the first brought into the circle of those trying to end the Borg threat.
Starfleet