Resistance

by J. M. Dillard

  Picard shot her a sidewise glance and nodded. Slowly, the terror that had come so swiftly upon him eased, and his breathing slowed. It took him a few more steps to say hoarsely, “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” As the three of them entered sickbay, he straightened and seemed to regain control of himself, then cleared his throat. “Thank you, Mister Worf.” He directed a fleeting glance at the Klingon. “You may return to the bridge.”

  Worf shot an uncertain look at Crusher, who nodded. The Klingon turned and disappeared through the double doors.

  Beverly led Picard to one of the diagnostic beds and gestured. He sat on the edge, his hands propping himself up. “So,” she said, with feigned casualness, “shall we talk about it first, or should I just go ahead and start the exam?”

  Jean-Luc looked grim, haggard, but there was no subterfuge in his gaze, his tone. “The exam won’t show anything.”

  “Why not?”

  He glanced down at the floor, miserable. “Because nothing . . . physical happened.”

  “Something happened, Jean-Luc. You collapsed. And you’re not leaving here until I find out why.”

  Reluctantly, he looked up at her again. “I heard them.”

  It was the softness, the certainty in his tone that pricked the flesh on her upper arms, on the nape of her neck. She did not ask who they were, perhaps because she feared she already knew the answer.

  His eyes focused on a distant point somewhere beyond her left shoulder. “I had tried to tell myself the dream was nothing more than that . . . a dream. But I heard their voices even after I woke up. It was so faint that I convinced myself I hadn’t really heard them. But it happened again, when I was with Counselor T’Lana. Unmistakable. And now . . .” He paused and shook his head as if trying to clear away the vestiges of the experience.

  “Now?” Beverly prompted, her own voice scarcely louder than a whisper.

  “I can make out bits of what they’re saying now.” He drew a deep breath and stared at her so intently that he seemed to be looking through her. “It’s different, though. They sound . . . almost frantic, if that’s possible. Rushed. Urgent. One thing I know is clear: the Borg collective is regrouping. And they’re here, in the Alpha Quadrant.”

  • • •

  On the bridge, T’Lana sat silently beside Commander Worf and watched the shifting pattern of stars on the viewscreen. The Klingon was brooding, silent, clearly unsettled by what had just happened to the captain. Indeed, the humans on the bridge emanated a great deal of tension regarding the event.

  But there was no purpose in speculating on Picard’s condition. They would know more when Doctor Crusher gave her report.

  T’Lana had been favorably impressed by Captain Picard’s presence the first few moments after meeting him. She had expected him to be much more choleric in nature, given his history of relying heavily on emotion and intuition — as well as the fact that he had, in the past, brazenly ignored direct orders from Starfleet Command. Instead, he seemed extraordinarily self-possessed for a human.

  But his strange behavior on the turbolift and on the bridge had concerned T’Lana. Admittedly, she was disturbed by the fact that Commander Worf was now in command of the ship. While Captain Picard’s reliance on emotion had proved effective, Commander Worf’s had not.

  She was displeased with herself, however, for her behavior toward the Klingon; she should have greeted him as cordially as she had the others. She knew that the shifts in her behavior would be barely perceptible to most humans. But it was clear that, at the very least, the captain and chief medical officer had noticed something amiss. At the same time, altering her behavior would have been dishonest; her disapproval of Worf was solidly based in fact. And honesty, to Vulcans, was more important than manners. Even after serving for more than twenty years on Starfleet vessels, she was still more Vulcan than Starfleet.

  T’Lana had to admit to herself that Worf’s personal presence had not been what she had anticipated. She had expected to find the most Klingon of Klingons, one who emanated ferocity, instability, ill temper. Given her exceptional telepathic abilities, she had expected to sense the proximity of a disordered, chaotic mind.

  She had found none of that. She had sensed a proud Klingon, yes, but also a disciplined officer, not a warrior, who had looked on her with respect and admiration. He possessed a trait unrevealed by the holographs in his Starfleet file, an attractive, intangible quality that had no counterpart in the Vulcan language but that humans referred to as charisma. And T’Lana had been astonished to find that her first instinct was to respond favorably to him . . . with interest.

  Then memory had returned to her and left her unable to respond courteously to him.

  Even so, she felt she had made the best possible decision, for the good of the service, by requesting a transfer to the Enterprise. If Captain Picard was in fact incapacitated, Worf would assume permanent command — a situation that could easily bring about disaster. The Enterprise had already come close enough to it before, courtesy of irrational command decisions. Her logical input as a counselor would be desperately required.

  And T’Lana knew all too well what it was like to stand on the bridge of a starship blasted apart and ultimately destroyed, all for the sake of emotion.

  • • •

  Beverly reacted as Picard had anticipated: with a bright flash of fear, which she quickly dismissed and replaced with a healthy medical skepticism. His intimate friend and lover was gone, and his chief medical officer stood in her place. He would have expected no less of her. At the same time, he felt a very personal regret for what he had had to tell her, for what she would no doubt discover to be the truth.

  “I realize you’re convinced of this,” she said carefully, “but I’m sure you understand that I can’t rule out a physical or emotional component until I’ve had a chance to examine you.”

  “Of course.” He hoped desperately that the whispers in his head were the result of illness; at the same time, he knew — with the certainty of the Collective to which he had once belonged — that they were not. Without being asked, he swung his legs onto the diagnostic bed and lay back.

  As she began to run the scans, he sighed and closed his eyes, grateful for the silence, however temporary, in his skull. On the bridge, the Borg chatter had grown so thunderous that he had buckled beneath it. Words that had previously been inaudible whispers had roared in his consciousness: Alpha . . . launch ship . . . attack.

  He had sensed anger beneath the words — or perhaps not anger, since Borg drones were incapable of feeling. But there was something. An outrage of a sort, one that had been brewing for some time now. It was the outrage of a race once consummately powerful, determined to conquer the universe. Now broken, the Borg were determined to seek justice, at last to have their revenge against the one group that had so steadfastly refused to be conquered — and had instead turned into the conqueror.

  Humanity.

  Picard knew there was no way to prove that what he intuitively sensed was fact, no way to validate it, to quantify it. He was going to have to ask his senior officers to trust him simply because he believed it was so.

  And once it became evident to them all that the threat from the Borg was real, he was going to have to ask for even more of their trust.

  Such was clearly going to be the case with Beverly. She kept up a sternly professional front during the scans, but in the end, she let go a small, barely audible sigh of frustration. Picard could have told her the results, but it was best to let her see them for herself.

  “Nothing unusual showing up,” she said finally, and in her voice he heard the same keen disappointment he felt. He had desperately wanted the sound in his head to be something treatable, something that would disappear, anything but the Borg. “No physical cause presenting itself. No tumors, no fever, no detectable infections. The auditory hallucinations aren’t the result of psychosis . . . your neurotransmitters are well within normal range, same as your last physical.”

  She tu
rned off the diagnostic panel and he sat up to study her. Her features were still carefully composed in the most professional of expressions, without so much as a glimmer of fright. “That’s because the auditory hallucinations aren’t hallucinations,” he said.

  She hesitated, clearly unwilling to admit that such a horrific thing might be true. “You know, this could be connected to your experience in the nexus. In a sense, you’re still there . . . at least, a part of you will always remain there. So your past, present, future — all of it’s jumbled together. Perhaps what you’re hearing is an echo from an earlier time —”

  “No,” Picard insisted. It was his turn to be frustrated. If he couldn’t convince his chief medical officer and closest friend, how was he going to be able to convince anyone else?

  And it was imperative that others be convinced, and quickly.

  He slipped off the table and stood. “I’m going to need your help, Doctor,” he began formally, then his tone softened. “Beverly . . . I wish, more than anything else, that I was wrong about this. But as dreadful as this is, I can’t ignore it, I can’t run from it. I can’t explain how I know — but I do know — that we must act swiftly, now, to stop the Borg.”

  “And if we don’t?” Her voice was very quiet. She was listening at last, considering for the first time that he might be right.

  “Then humankind will be assimilated,” he answered flatly.

  She regarded him in silence. For the first time, he saw a real fear in her eyes and imagined the reflection of Locutus there. She gathered herself quickly, then pressed. “But how can we stop them? Do we just wait for them to come looking for us?”

  “No.” He gave a grim, not-quite smile. “We don’t wait. Because I know precisely where they are.”

  3

  In his quarters, Picard sat at his communications screen and watched as the insignia of Starfleet Command faded, to be replaced by the image of Kathryn Janeway.

  The admiralty suited her. She had aged little, despite the trauma of years trying to get Voyager and her crew safely home; her reddish chestnut hair, pulled back from her face and carefully gathered into a coil, was only beginning to show the first few streaks of silver at the temples. Picard had always liked dealing with her. Janeway was direct, plain-spoken, with handsome Gaelic features arranged in an open expression. Although she was capable of guile if duty demanded it, she disdained it; you always knew where you stood with Janeway.

  She smiled at the sight of him. “Captain! To what do I owe the pleasure of this subspace visit?”

  Picard could not quite bring himself to return the enthusiasm. “It’s good to see you again, Admiral. But I’m afraid the circumstances are less than pleasant.”

  Her demeanor became at once utterly serious, her tone flat; the smile was now no more than a memory. She put her elbows on her desk and leaned forward. “What’s going on?”

  “The Borg are in Alpha Quadrant,” he said. “They’re regrouping. Forming a new Collective.”

  She tilted her chin upward at that, the only sign of surprise she allowed herself; in the space of a second, however, she had lowered it again, and narrowed her eyes, digging in for a fight. This was not, Picard knew, going to be easy.

  “Where?” she demanded.

  “In Sector Ten. On a moon . . .” He paused, frustrated with himself. He knew that he could not give her the details she wanted, which would make him sound irrational. “They’re creating a new cube, a ship. It’s nearly habitable and will be launched soon.”

  “Do you have the coordinates? We could send a ship to investigate.” Her emphasis on “could” revealed a healthy degree of doubt.

  Picard tried to shake off a sudden sense of awkwardness. “I don’t know the precise coordinates . . .”

  She scowled slightly at that and folded her hands atop the desk, abruptly formal. “Are your long-range scanners malfunctioning? Or are you basing this on some sort of intelligence?”

  Picard did not allow himself to hesitate. He replied firmly, “We’re not close enough for long-range scans, Admiral. I have detected Borg chatter. They’re communicating with each other about the new Collective, about their intent to organize and make a fresh attempt to assimilate humanity.”

  Janeway grew very still, fixing her gaze on him so intently that a weaker personality might have withered beneath it. “Would you mind explaining, Captain, how you detected this ‘chatter’?”

  “I heard it. In my . . . mind. I was part of the Collective once, you know.”

  “Yes, I do know.” Her tone and expression softened briefly, then she came down hard, with no effort to veil her skepticism. “When Voyager emerged from Delta Quadrant, I saw the queen destroyed — as well as her vessel and all the progeny contained within it. More important, their transwarp corridors have been obliterated. The Borg are crippled, Captain. There might be a few surviving drones scattered throughout the galaxy, but without a queen or contact with the Collective, they’re lost. The majority of drones that remain are no doubt still in Delta Quadrant. How could they possibly be a threat to us here?”

  Picard matched her vehemence. “Nevertheless, they are regrouping here. I’ve sensed it. My connection to the Borg is documented. And I know that they have grown frustrated with the fact that humanity has stood in the way of their goal of total assimilation. This time, they are determined to conquer us. It’s more than just assimilation. The Borg want revenge.”

  Her gaze remained unwavering, unmoved. “The Borg don’t seek vengeance. Their actions aren’t based on emotions. At least, the drones’ aren’t. You should know that better than anyone.” Her posture and expression suddenly relaxed. “Jean-Luc, you’re asking me to issue orders, to send a ship to who knows where, based on nothing more than your instincts. Put yourself in my position . . .”

  She sighed, and in that sigh, Picard sensed victory, however slight. “But let’s assume you’re right — that the Borg are re-forming a Collective, in the Alpha Quadrant. I’m willing to give you the benefit of that doubt. If so, then the best person to deal with this is Seven of Nine. She’s currently assigned to Earth. I’ll contact her immediately, then forward any specific information you can give me. But I’ll need to know more than just, ‘We think the Borg are on a moon somewhere in the Alpha Quadrant.’ ”

  It was all Picard could do not to interrupt her. “Admiral, there’s no time. You must trust my instinct, which is telling me that the Enterprise is the closest starship to the hive’s activity. There’s a chance we can stop them before the ship is finished and they launch an attack. They have to be destroyed now.”

  Perhaps there’d been more heat, more shrillness in his tone than he’d intended; Janeway was studying him with concern. “Let me be blunt, Captain. You still have a score to settle with the Borg; you’re far too emotionally involved. Seven of Nine will be impartial. But because I have respect for your instincts — and because it would be far better to risk sending a ship to investigate nothing than to risk not investigating what might be Borg activity — I’ll send Seven of Nine by shuttle as quickly as possible to the Enterprise. I can get her there in a matter of days. But you will have to follow her lead on this.”

  Her words summoned the memory of his own, spoken years ago, to Will Riker, explaining why a different admiral had forbidden him to fight the Borg: In Starfleet Command’s opinion, a man once captured and assimilated by the Borg should not be allowed to face them again. It would introduce an unstable element to a critical situation.

  If that were the reason, Picard wasn’t sure that Seven of Nine would be the best to place in charge of this situation either. Certainly the Borg had more of an effect on her life than they did his. He had never met the person who had spent more time as a drone than a free-thinking individual, but Picard was familiar with her file. All of Starfleet knew of Seven of Nine. Though everything Picard had read maintained that she could keep her professional cool, it was still disconcerting to think that he couldn’t be trusted to handle the Borg. Partic
ularly since he had bested them in every encounter. And especially since time was most definitely of the essence.

  The frustration was agonizing. How did he know, with such infinite certainty, what he was saying was true? He could not explain even to himself how he knew what he did about the Borg’s plans — so how could he prove they existed to Janeway or to anyone else at Command? Yet he was no less certain, no less urgently desperate. “Admiral, Earth is too far away; the Borg are moving swiftly. We don’t have a ‘matter of days.’ By the time Seven arrives —”

  She cut him off. “You are to do nothing until Seven of Nine arrives, and she will be in charge of the investigation. You’ll be contacted shortly with her ETA. Those are my orders. Janeway out.”

  He found himself staring at the Starfleet Command logo as he whispered the words she would not hear: “It will be too late.”

  • • •

  For several minutes, he sat looking at the darkened screen. Even now that his mind was still, and the voice of the Borg no more than a memory, he felt the invisible tendrils of the Collective pulling at his consciousness. He knew what they were doing, and although he did not know the coordinates Janeway had asked for, he knew what heading the Enterprise should take in order to find the mysterious moon.

  He propped his elbows on the desk, leaned forward, and massaged his temples. Beverly had found nothing physically wrong with him. Was it possible that there was a third, less sinister cause for him to hear the echoes of the Collective’s voice, to experience this gut-level certainty?

  In his memory surfaced a familiar face, one cinnamon-skinned, beautiful, framed by close-cropped dark russet hair, a face from another century — Lily, Zefram Cochrane’s assistant. He smiled faintly at the thought of her. She had lived in such a desperate, cruel time in Earth’s history, surviving a war that had killed millions. It had toughened her, made her strong, made her cling desperately to the hope that Cochrane was going to convert an instrument of death — a nuclear missile — into a warp ship, an instrument of hope. The harshness of her life had also made her frightened, liable to lash out violently at anyone, anything she did not know.