Resistance

by J. M. Dillard

  “Worf here, Doctor.”

  “Worf.” Her tone turned faintly playful. “There’s someone here who’d like to speak to you.”

  Picard slid off the edge of the diagnostic bed and stood next to Beverly. “Commander,” he said. “Report.”

  The Klingon kept his tone formal but could not entirely hide the warmth and pleasure he felt. “Aye, Captain. We are currently still in the vicinity of the Borg ship. We have disabled her engines. During an earlier attack, the Enterprise’s hull sustained major damage in the area of the bridge. Now that we have reintegrated the saucer section, Commander La Forge is overseeing temporary repairs. He says that a structural overhaul should be done in dry-dock.” Picard shot a questioning look at the doctor upon hearing Worf mention reintegrating the saucer section, but she just nodded in a way that he inferred meant that she would explain later.

  “Understood,” Picard said. A sense of heaviness crept over him; he had no doubt that the Borg had once again used his knowledge to inflict the damage.

  “We have also received a signal from an approaching Federation shuttle,” Worf continued. “Seven of Nine will be arriving shortly.”

  The news gave him pause. “Very good. Let me know when she arrives. I’ll be in my quarters. Picard out.” He looked up at Beverly and sighed. “Time to pay the piper. Let’s hope this goes more easily than it did with the queen.”

  • • •

  Kathryn Janeway was not smiling.

  In the captain’s quarters, Picard stared down at her image on the monitor. Janeway sat leaning forward, elbows on her desk, hands tightly folded. She did not scowl, but her eyes were bright and cold. She knew what was coming.

  “Admiral,” he said. “Seven of Nine is due to arrive aboard the Enterprise momentarily. I understand that you are already aware that her presence is no longer needed. At this time, I would like to take full responsibility for my actions. I decided to have the Enterprise intercept the Borg cube. My crew was only functioning under my orders.”

  Janeway’s lips thinned. For the space of several seconds, she remained silent, staring hard at the captain. Picard held her gaze without faltering.

  At last she spoke, her tone one of carefully contained fury. “You violated a direct order, Captain.”

  “I did, Admiral. I offer no defense; I expect no leniency.”

  “And you’ll get none from me.” Her chin tilted upward; her eyes flashed once, twice. “You’re very lucky things worked out to Starfleet’s advantage — and yours. But I’ve never believed that luck should excuse insubordination.” She leaned farther forward. “Let’s imagine that things had gone differently. That the Enterprise was destroyed and your kidnapping had been a success. We’d have another Wolf 359 on our hands then — or worse — wouldn’t we? I was very clear and emphatic about my reasoning, Picard. And you chose to ignore it completely. I suppose you expect me to say, ‘All’s well that ends well,’ and leave it at that? Perhaps slap your wrist with a reprimand in your file?”

  “I expect nothing,” Picard answered honestly.

  “Nor should you. I’ll be informing others at Command about this. In fact, I may very well initiate court-martial proceedings. Am I understood?”

  “You are, Admiral.”

  “Good. Have Seven of Nine contact me when she arrives. Janeway out.”

  The screen darkened; Picard bowed his head and released a low sigh. At a different time, the prospect of court-martial — of losing Starfleet, the only life he had ever known — would have seemed devastating. As it was, a career seemed a small price to pay to prevent the loss of billions of lives. Janeway had been wrong: it hadn’t all been luck. They had beaten back the Borg out of sheer determination, sheer will.

  Beverly’s dark little smile, her voice, glimmered in his imagination. Let’s just say I had a score to settle.

  “And I still had one, too,” Picard whispered. “I had one, too.”

  • • •

  “To Commander Worf,” Picard intoned, “now the official first officer of the Enterprise.” He paused as Doctor Crusher whispered something in his ear, then corrected himself. “Make that the official permanent first officer.”

  “Here, here,” La Forge called with the others and joined in the enthusiastic applause.

  The tables in the Happy Bottom Riding Club had been cleared away. Picard and Crusher stood in the center, with a clearly uncomfortable Worf nearby. The gathering wasn’t remotely as small as the Klingon had requested. Actually, one might say that it was quite large, in fact. But Picard had realized that it was the first public gathering since the memorial service for their fallen comrades and the crew needed something to celebrate.

  A few days had passed since the Enterprise had left the directiveless Borg behind, in the care of Seven of Nine; the crew was headed now for dry-dock and shore leave.

  Picard made his way past the well-wishers as they encircled Worf. There was a playful gleam in the captain’s eye as he knew how uncomfortable his new first officer was under the spotlight.

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Beverly quietly asked with a straight face.

  “It’s not a dip in the ocean,” he remarked, remembering Worf’s last promotion under his command, “but it will do.” Picard regarded her for a moment. “But you don’t seem to be having much fun.”

  Beverly let out a sigh. “For a while,” she said, holding her champagne flute at chin level, “I thought we’d never be able to transform you back into yourself. The nanites had evolved radically . . .” She shook her head. “I figured it out because I had to. But it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

  “The hardest thing?” Picard asked softly. His tone was mildly teasing. She had been terribly serious and preoccupied the past few days. The experience with the Borg had been hard enough on her, but then she ferreted out the fact that Janeway had seriously threatened him with court-martial. He had hoped that the little celebration for Worf would help raise everyone’s spirits — including hers.

  Beverly caught his little half smile, but her tone did not lighten. “Actually, the second hardest thing. The hardest was seeing you as Locutus again.” She looked down and shook her head, her hair swinging against her shoulders. “I took a great deal of pleasure in destroying the queen. I only wish I could have hurt her as badly as she hurt you.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Picard said gently. “The queen doesn’t exist anymore. All that’s left is a pathetic creature that has to be taught to think for itself. Besides . . .” He fought the impulse to reach out and smooth her hair, an act he would never permit himself to do in front of the crew. “Hurting her wouldn’t make me feel any better. But being here with you again does.”

  His words had the desired effect; she smiled, and took another sip of champagne.

  Picard let his gaze sweep over the crowd. It lit on the bar, where Worf had managed to escape to and was having a discussion with the Vulcan counselor. “I was very glad Mister Worf came to his senses about his assignment,” he said. “I just don’t understand what made him change his mind.”

  Beverly looked down slyly into her glass as her lips quirked upward.

  “Wait a minute,” Picard said. “Out with it.”

  She gazed up at him with mock innocence. “Out with what?”

  “You know something. That cat-that-caught-the-canary smirk. Why did Worf change his mind?”

  “I really don’t know,” she replied. “All I did was tell him to be Klingon.”

  He frowned, puzzled. “Be Klingon?” He turned toward Worf, who seemed to be hard at work trying to make another convert.

  • • •

  “It is prune juice,” Worf explained. “A suitable drink for a warrior.”

  He poured the thick purplish-brown liquid from a flagon into the short, narrow glass in front of the Vulcan counselor and studied her as she stared noncommittally at it. He had not spoken to her privately since he had returned from the Borg vessel; he did not know whether she still
resented him. He wanted to foster cordial relations between them, especially now that he was the official second-in-command.

  “Vulcans do not believe in war,” she said.

  “One does not need to shed blood in order to be a warrior,” Worf countered. “Victory comes in many guises.”

  T’Lana seemed to consider this a moment, then lifted the glass and downed it in one swallow. She looked over at him, her expression utterly serious. “It is more agreeable than its appearance indicates.”

  Worf immediately poured her a second glass. “So you must now admit that the captain was correct in pursuing the Borg.” As he spoke, Captain Picard wandered up and stood beside the Vulcan.

  “Counselor,” he said, by way of greeting.

  She nodded graciously. “Captain.”

  Picard favored the Klingon with a smile. “So, Number One, are you enjoying the festivities?”

  Worf winced inwardly at the term of address. It seemed wrong for the captain to use it to refer to anyone other than Will Riker. “Not really, sir.”

  The captain seemed to find the honest answer amusing. “Don’t worry. They’ll end soon enough.” He paused and glanced at T’Lana. “I’m sorry. I interrupted your conversation. Please continue.”

  Worf shot the Vulcan a warning glance, which she ignored. “No, Commander,” she said in reply to Worf’s previous question. “I do not believe that the captain was justified in disobeying orders. The captain was indeed correct about his mental connection to the Borg collective. And I am pleased that you were successful in neutralizing the queen. However, it does not logically follow that the captain’s good fortune means that he was correct.”

  “I’m afraid Admiral Janeway agrees with you,” Picard said dryly. He took a sip from his glass. “And I suppose that if you always agreed with me, you wouldn’t be much of a counselor.”

  T’Lana gave another courteous nod. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen. I have matters to attend to.” Worf noted that when she left the lounge, she took her drink with her.

  “Mister Worf,” Picard said, his voice low, his tone suddenly serious. “Doctor Crusher says that you were prepared to kill me — to kill Locutus — if necessary. Is that true?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He gave a grim smile. “Good. You’re already thinking like a captain.” He drew in a deep breath, then said, very softly, “The hardest thing about having a command is realizing that one is . . . fallible. That one isn’t always right. I failed, Worf. I was no hero this time; I endangered my own people. Had you not rescued me, I would have been responsible for the deaths of billions of people.” He paused to scrutinize the Klingon’s expression. “Do you understand?”

  Worf’s look did not waver. “Yes, Captain.”

  Picard’s gaze was searching; at last, he seemed to find the answer he sought. He nodded slowly. “I believe you do, Mister Worf. I believe you do.” His expression softened. “Congratulations. You’ve more than earned this.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Worf said as the captain moved on. The Klingon turned back to the bar and his glass of fragrant juice. He imagined his dead wife smiling before him and remembered her words.

  None of us knows for certain how our actions will affect others. We can only do what we judge to be right at the time. You acted from your heart. You couldn’t have done anything else and remained true to yourself.

  He had followed his heart and inadvertently caused the death of innocents; he had followed his heart and saved the lives of many more.

  Worf lifted his glass. “To Jadzia,” he said softly. “tlhIngah jIH.”

  I am Klingon.

  About This Title

  This New Alexandria eBook was lovingly crafted by hand from 100% recycled post-consumer non-ozone-depleting hypoallergenic ones and zeroes.

  XML editing by XML Pro

  Vector graphics by InkScape

  Raster graphics by GIMP

  ePub composition by Python

  ePub validation by epubcheck

  Release History Version Date Comments

  — — source from commercial LIT release

  v1.0 28 Mar 2009 reformat and conversion to ePub by Cygfrydd, proofed against hardcopy