The Farther Shore - Christie Golden [64]
“Amazing,” she said softly, running a hand along the bed. Even its soft texture now felt slightly rough to her newly sensitive hands. “My senses are all heightened.”
“We discussed what to expect, Majesty,” the EMH said, a touch patronizingly. She shot him a glance. “Now ... tell me what you hear.”
For a moment, all she could hear were the usual sounds of sickbay—the hum of equipment, her own breathing. All more clearly than usual, of course.
But there was a slight buzzing, a hum. She closed her eyes to concentrate. The noise was coming from inside her own head. Delight raced along her nerves as she cried, “I can hear them!”
She had only been able to hear her drones when she was regenerating. But now, she could hear their thoughts tumbling over one another while she was fully conscious. Some deep, some happy, some despairing.
A hand went to her temple, touched the implant there hidden cleverly beneath gray skin. “It’s ... so complicated. ...”
“It will be, until your implants are used to processing the information. It will take a few moments for your [190] brain to adapt. How about a refreshing glass of nutrients while you wait?”
He handed her a glass of murky-looking water. She took a sip, cringing at the taste. Soon, she reminded herself, her sense of taste, at least, would diminish. She didn’t need it. Tasting food was irrelevant.
By the time she had finished the glass of water and nutrients, things had settled down inside her head. She picked a thought at random, one of the louder ones:
Where’s Molly I want Molly where are Mommy and Daddy I’m so scared, so scared, I want to go home
And another, loud and clear:
Why have my ways forsaken me, how could I have turned on them in such a sacred space, why won’t my body do what I tell it to do, I am old, but not that old
“Those are easy,” she said aloud. “They are already assimilating.”
The doctor was sitting down at his desk, regarding her brain waves on a small screen.
“Fascinating,” he said. “Try contacting someone who is infected, but in whom the virus is still dormant.”
The word “dormant” irritated her. Soon, she’d be able to activate those, too. Nonetheless, she closed her eyes and tried to find a thoughtstream that was not quite as clear as the others.
Idon’t know why they have me under quarantine. It’s not as if I didn’t take all the proper precautions. I’m a doctor, for pity’s sake. Do they think I’d
“Easy,” she said, a note of arrogance entering into her voice. It was becoming child’s play. She felt a smile curve her full lips.
“Very well,” said the EMH, “Let’s try something [191] different. All these Borg-to-be are yours. Do you think you can contact a preexisting Borg?”
“Picard would be too difficult. They’ve removed all his implants,” she said. “And Grady tells me Seven and Icheb are in stasis.”
“Well,” said the EMH, “you can eavesdrop on their dreams.”
Covington’s smile grew. What kind of dreams would Seven of Nine have? It sounded like fun. But how to find one particular thoughtstream out of so many?
As if reading her mind, the EMH replied, “They will feel ... how to put it ... cleaner, to you. Less cluttered. Brighter. Once you’ve done that, we’ll see if you can’t contact the full Borg in the Delta Quadrant. That should be interesting.”
Covington closed her eyes and swam through the ocean of thoughts. The EMH’s description was apt. She “saw” a thread that struck her as metallic blue, shiny ... clean. Covington latched onto it, licking her lips in anticipation at eavesdropping on a Borg’s dreams.
It is well that the two doctors are so competent. Data is of use as well. The research they have done is thorough, if preliminary. We will have to cross-reference it with
Covington’s eyes snapped open. This was no dream. These thoughts were alert