Resistance

by J. M. Dillard

  Yet even she had seen beyond her own hurt to the depth of the psychological scar he had borne. She had called him “Ahab” — the crazed captain from Moby-Dick — willing to sacrifice his vessel, his crew, and ultimately himself for the sake of revenge on that which had wounded him. Lily had brought him to a moment of epiphany: he realized he had to let go of his bitterness before it destroyed him and those he loved.

  He had thought he had finally freed himself from his angry obsession with the Borg. He had never forgotten the words from Melville, evoking Ahab’s madness:

  “He piled upon the whale’s white hump the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart’s shell upon it.”

  Had it returned to haunt him? Was it possible that he was overreacting, that he had created a scenario after picking up on some fleeting, disorganized Borg chatter? That he was the one that had created the sense of urgency, not the Borg?

  His instinct said no. But before he could consider disobeying orders, before he could in good conscience approach his crew about doing so, he had a responsibility to discuss his dilemma with a certain crew member.

  • • •

  He rose when T’Lana entered his quarters and gestured for her to sit across from him, with the desk between them. She sat, seeming relaxed enough — for a Vulcan. Picard was far from feeling the same: for one thing, he had never confided in her before, and he was used to the comforting warmth of Deanna Troi, not the cool, rational appraisal he was no doubt about to receive. Deanna had always been acutely aware of his emotions and therefore brilliant at helping him sort through them, combining both instinct and logic into the best possible approach to a problem.

  He was uncomfortable with T’Lana for a second reason: although the all-consuming wave of Borg chatter had left him ill equipped to focus on his surroundings, he had noticed the subtle coldness she had displayed toward Worf. There could have been many reasons for the behavior. Certainly nothing worth discussing at the moment, but he would need to keep an eye on the situation. For now, he placed his concerns aside because he needed to hear the advice of an experienced counselor.

  In unconscious imitation of Janeway, he folded his hands atop his desk and leaned slightly forward, forcing away all discomfort, all doubts about his ability to utilize T’Lana’s skills effectively. There was work to be done, a decision to be made; he launched into an unrehearsed speech without hesitation.

  “Counselor,” he began, “you saw my . . . apparent collapse on the bridge.”

  “I did,” she replied serenely. “You seem to be fully recovered. I trust that is so.”

  “It is.” He paused, trying to explain much with an economy of words. “You are also familiar with my experience with the Borg?”

  “Insofar as your Starfleet file records it. You have experienced two significant encounters with them: first, when they assimilated you; second, when you successfully stopped them from preventing the launch of Zefram Cochrane’s warp-drive vessel.”

  “That’s all correct,” Picard said, marveling that such profoundly horrifying events could be condensed into such bland, emotionless phrases. “Perhaps you are not aware that I have retained the . . . ability to sense the Borg communicating with each other. I was, after all, once part of the Collective.”

  Neither her gaze nor her expression changed in the slightest, but she tilted her head to one side, causing the fringe of soft, black hair to spill across her forehead, revealing pale skin beneath. “I have not studied the personal logs concerning your ability. Has this been empirically documented in any of them?”

  The question caught him off guard. He gathered himself and answered carefully, “It has been . . . noted by senior crew members, including Doctor Crusher. You might want to look at Counselor Troi’s log in particular; she knew that I heard them. You can also check the records of the Enterprise’s encounter with the queen ship shortly before it was destroyed. Several starships had engaged the Borg, and many were destroyed, including the admiral’s vessel. I took command of the fleet and directed all the surviving ships to lock in their weapons at a precise location on the Borg cube — with the result that the cube was destroyed. That is a recorded fact.”

  Her face returned to neutral position again. So cherubic and innocent were her features that it was too easy to forget the piercing intelligence behind them. “Was this the reason for your distraction during our initial conversation, and for your collapse on the bridge?”

  “It was.” He could not prevent his tone from turning dark. “The voice of the Borg became overwhelming, so loud it blotted out all else.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It said . . . they said . . . Well, I heard fragments. They’re building a ship, a cube, near a moon in the far reaches of the Alpha Quadrant. They’re preparing to attack again.”

  “Who is their target?”

  “Earth.” He gave a single, rueful shake of his head. “They haven’t appreciated our interference with their plans to assimilate and conquer all races. They apparently desire revenge.” He drew a breath. “I . . . also have acquired an instinct about the Borg. I know — I can’t explain why — where they are. At this very moment, I could give the navigator the course heading that would take us to where the Borg are constructing their ship. I know, with completely certainty, that the Enterprise is the closest starship to the site, and that we have little time before the Borg complete their vessel and launch their attack.

  “I notified Admiral Janeway of this. Unfortunately, she has ordered me to wait until Seven of Nine . . .” He hesitated and shot T’Lana a questioning glance.

  “I know who Seven of Nine is,” she responded.

  “. . . until Seven can arrive aboard the Enterprise in order to direct the mission. Admiral Janeway feels that my emotions are too involved, given my experience with the Borg. But here is the problem: I know, without doubt, that by the time Seven of Nine arrives, it will be too late. The Borg will already have attacked.” He fell silent, to give her time to absorb all he had said.

  It took her no time at all to react. “You are asking me, if I understand correctly, whether you should disobey the admiral’s orders and pursue the Borg without waiting for Seven of Nine.”

  “Yes,” he said. It had been so easy to read Deanna. If she disapproved, there would have been a swift flash in her black eyes, accompanied by a carefully neutral expression before she began to speak in a low, measured tone. If she approved, there would have been an obvious look of sympathy. T’Lana’s expression remained placid, maddeningly inscrutable.

  Perhaps, in time, Picard would learn to read her.

  “I would suggest,” she said evenly, “that Doctor Crusher perform a psychological evaluation on you and run a series of tests to be sure there is no physical basis for the phenomenon.”

  Picard slowly released a breath and, with it, as little defensiveness as he possibly could. “Such an examination was conducted earlier today. You may feel free to consult with the doctor yourself, but I can tell you the results: no mental or physical abnormalities were found. This appears to be the same phenomenon that occurred during my previous encounter with the Borg and their queen.”

  “Interesting,” T’Lana murmured. She hesitated, then added, “You are aware, Captain, of the Vulcan mind-meld.”

  “I am,” Picard affirmed. “I have participated in one before.” He had not mentioned it because the experience was intensely personal and he did not feel comfortable participating in one with someone who was still a stranger to him. In addition, he did not see the need to use such a highly intimate technique to prove himself to her, when she would most likely see the evidence soon enough.

  “Good,” she replied. “I suspected you might think that a mind-meld would allow yourself to ‘prove’ your position to me and justify your not following the admiral’s orders. However, I can only sense what you are thinking and feeling. And it’s clear that you are quite convince
d that what you feel is right. I would experience that conviction — but ultimately I would still not be able, after the meld was completed, to say whether your conviction was based in fact or not.”

  “But might you not be able to hear the voice of the Borg for yourself?”

  “Yes. But only filtered through your consciousness, with your convictions. I would not be able to judge whether I was hearing an outside entity or one created by the workings of your own mind.”

  “Understood,” Picard said. “So let me be blunt. What is your opinion? Do I ignore what I know to be an imminent threat and obey Janeway’s order? Or do I listen to my instincts and possibly prevent the death and assimilation of billions?”

  “You have framed your questions in terms that show your bias, Captain. Let me ask a different question: is it worth your court-martial — and the court-martial of loyal officers who choose to support you in your insubordination — in order to substantiate a suspicion?”

  He felt a surge of anger at her words but quickly suppressed it. He had asked her here, after all, in order to get another viewpoint. “This is far more than a suspicion,” he said heavily. “If you look at the facts . . .”

  “The one fact you have mentioned that could prove your assertion is the fact that the Borg cube was destroyed when you ordered several starships to concentrate their fire on one specific location. But that could be explained by the evidence that the cube had already sustained damage, and that the combined force of several weapons was enough to destroy the ship.” She paused. “If there is another fact, Captain, that can be unemotionally verified, I would like to hear it.”

  He scanned his memory and found himself at a loss. So many things had happened . . . So many members of his senior staff had trusted his connection to the Borg, and not asked for such verification, that he had never before thought of other incidents that could prove it to an outsider.

  Given his silence, T’Lana continued. “My opinion is that Admiral Janeway is correct in her assessment: it is important for someone other than you to investigate the possibility that the Borg have become active again. I know of your experience with the Borg; it would be impossible for a human to suppress hostile emotions and a desire for rash action in such circumstances. Therefore, you must obey the admiral’s orders. It is the most logical and cautious course of action.” She paused. “You must remind yourself, as well, that both you and Janeway herself killed two powerful embodiments of the Borg queen. The drones that remain are few, scattered, and directiveless. It would be against their established pattern for them to unite and make a group decision in the manner you suggest.”

  He had to remind himself that he was grateful for someone willing to take the opposite side; at the same time, her statement fueled his frustration even more than his conversation with Janeway. “Is it really cautious to ignore a conviction that, if I wait for Seven to arrive, the Borg will be ready to strike? Where is the logic behind that, Counselor? I would rather risk my career than countless innocent lives.” He rose, signaling that the meeting was at an end, but he could not resist a final question. “T’Lana . . . have you ever encountered the Borg face-to-face? Have you ever seen firsthand the results of one of their attacks, or seen the transformation of an individual who has been assimilated?”

  She had risen as well. “I have not,” she answered. “You must remember, Captain, that I lack the empathic skills of Counselor Troi. I cannot be for you what she was, and I hope that you do not consider my opposing views as a lack of respect for what you have endured at the hands of the Borg. But I can be the voice of logic for you. I can help you consider your options in that light.”

  “I do appreciate your input, Counselor,” he said, with all the sincerity he possessed, but her words had only made his decision more difficult, not less.

  “Thank you. Dismissed.”

  • • •

  In sickbay, Beverly was preparing to conduct a routine checkup on Worf. Her mind was anywhere but on her incoming patient. Jean-Luc’s condition still worried her. At best, he was suffering some kind of psychosis, which her scans had all but disproved. At worst, the Borg were preparing another attack. No matter what, she couldn’t stop worrying about Jean-Luc. This was nothing new to her. She had always worried about him in times of duress. But somehow this was different. More personal. She just hoped that when the time came, she could retain her professional composure. She shook off the concern, knowing that she was too much of a professional even to allow for the doubt. She finished recalibrating her scans for a Klingon and was ready for Worf by the time he arrived.

  After years of working with him aboard the Enterprise, she had eventually learned to read his moods, despite his fierce-looking features — the furry, upward-slanted brows that cast a shadow over his dark eyes and converged at the bridge of his nose to form a sharp V; the bony, ridged forehead that emphasized the severity of his eyebrows and intense glare. His lips were usually fixed in a grim, rigid line. All of the foregoing made him seem to wear a perpetual scowl — to an outsider. Though he rarely smiled, and his mannerisms were gruff, Beverly now could detect his various moods: playful, joking, serious, embarrassed, uncomfortable, furious, sad. The slightest quirk in the corner of his lip conveyed a wealth of emotion.

  She knew that Worf had felt awkward on the bridge after T’Lana’s snub, but he had covered it well. By the time he entered sickbay, his mood had again shifted; he was plainly melancholy. She did not understand why, but she was not surprised to see such emotion in him. Beverly had learned that there was a great deal of insecurity and tenderness lurking beneath the fierce Klingon exterior. She knew that Worf had been married to a Trill during his absence. Beverly had seen holograms of her — a beautiful, delicate-looking woman. No doubt, her death had devastated him, though he never spoke of her; he worked to hide his grief from his crew-mates.

  Just as he was hiding something now, something that deeply troubled him, something Beverly suspected had to do with T’Lana’s behavior on the bridge.

  As his physician and his friend, it was Beverly’s job to find out what.

  She’d said nothing to him at the beginning, just the usual conversation between doctor and patient during a routine physical. It was best to get him comfortable and somewhat relaxed with the procedure before starting to ask the sensitive questions.

  Near the end of the exam — after minimal exchanges, with Worf answering most questions with an affirmative grunt — the Klingon rose and straightened his tunic, clearly ready to be dismissed after the usual brief affirmation that he was in perfect health.

  Now or never.

  Beverly drew in a deep breath and said, tentatively, “Worf . . . you know that as chief medical officer, I’m responsible for more than just your physical health. And I can’t help sensing that something is bothering you.” She paused. “You know that ethics require me to keep everything you say in strictest confidence.”

  Worf let go an abrupt, short sigh at that. His lips parted, as though he were about to answer — but then a look of uncertainty came over him, and he fell silent.

  At least he hadn’t dismissed her outright, which was a good sign. She pressed, her tone gentle, cautious. “Does this have something to do with the reason you turned down the promotion to permanent second-in-command?”

  His russet eyebrows lifted swiftly. “The captain told you?”

  “I’m one of the senior officers. Of course he told me. I would have learned about it soon enough, anyway.”

  He looked into the distance and released a sound between a groan and a growl. “I do not deserve the position.”

  The statement honestly shocked her, and she let go a gasp of disbelief. “Worf, I can’t think of anyone more deserving, or more qualified!”

  He pressed his lips firmly together, not meeting her gaze; his own was fixed on a distant spot beyond her shoulder. “I had a choice once,” he said tautly, “between duty . . . or personal loyalty. I chose incorrectly. A starship commander does not have that
luxury.”

  She thought a flicker of pain crossed his features. She suppressed the impulse to reach out and put a comforting hand on his great shoulder. He was uncomfortable with the notion of a gentle touch. Instead, Beverly decided that she had come this far and might as well get to the heart of the matter. Months ago, Jean-Luc had told her the story of how Worf’s wife had been wounded during a mission. The Klingon had left her behind in order to fulfill his duty, knowing full well that she would die before he could come back to her.

  In the end, Worf had aborted the mission and returned to save her. Beverly had found the fact touching, despite the fact that Worf had failed in his duty. She had asked herself: If Jean-Luc were dying, would I be able to turn my back on him, even if I had direct orders to do so? Would I be able to leave him to die?

  Softly, she asked, “Does this have anything to do with Jadzia?”

  He drew in a startled, silent breath and blinked rapidly, then his expression turned to stone. She’d hit a nerve — the nerve.

  “I do not want to discuss it,” he answered stiffly.

  She had pushed too far; the wound was still too tender. Yet she had to do something to salvage the situation.

  “The past is the past, Worf,” Beverly said, hoping her words did not come across as trite. “We can’t change it. But we can change. And it’s clear to me that you would change what happened, if you could.” She paused. “You’re the best possible candidate for the position. The captain needs you.”

  His expression softened slightly; she was making an impression. “There are others just as qualified,” he said, but all the vehemence had left his tone. “I will remain until a replacement can be found.”