Part 6 (2/2)
Through the windows, she glimpsed a fearsome black cube moving through the indigo fog of the nebula. It battered its way through the storm of stars.h.i.+p debris, firing brilliant green beams at t.i.tan, which pitched and lurched after every shot.
A direct hit rocked the s.h.i.+p. The lights stuttered out. Outside her quarters, the clamor of battle grew more intense. On a gamble, she dashed to the door, which opened ahead of her. One of the guards who had locked her in, an Andorian shen, lay dead on the deck, her nubile form butchered and bloodied. Hernandez grabbed the shen's rifle and prowled away, through the dark, smoke-filled corridors, following the din of combat.
Everywhere she looked, biomechanoid components seemed to have sprouted from the bulkheads, as if the s.h.i.+p were diseased.
She turned a corner and stepped into a cross fire.
Emerald streaks screamed over her shoulder and seared crackling wounds into the chests of two of t.i.tan's security personnel. Hernandez hit the deck as two other security officers, of a species Hernandez had never seen before, returned fire at their opponents. s.h.i.+mmering beams of phaser energy crisscrossed in the hazy darkness.
I should get to cover, Hernandez told herself, but she didn't dare stand to run, and her curiosity demanded to see who or what had boarded t.i.tan.
She turned her head and saw the enemy. They were humanoid, clad in formfitting black bodysuits and festooned with cybernetic enhancements. Their optical grafts swept the corridor with red laser beams, and several of the boarders had one hand replaced with complex machinery, ranging from cutting implements to industrial tools.
They advanced into the phaser barrage at a quick march, moving with the kind of precision she had only ever seen from jackbooted thugs in old historical films. To her shock, the phaser beams had no effect on them-they simply deflected them with personal energy s.h.i.+elds.
Mustering her strength, she coiled to spring to her feet and sprint toward the security team. Turning back, she saw that it was too late for that. They had been ambushed from behind by more of the cyborgs, who slashed and impaled with abandon. Cries of pain were swallowed by the cruel whirring of machinery.
She rolled and tried to turn back the way she had come. There was another squad of the malevolent invaders closing in from behind her. Pivoting in a panic, she realized she had nowhere to run. Not without a fight, she vowed, and she opened fire. None of her shots did any good.
The black throng surrounded her and pressed inward.
Then came the oppressive roar of a voice inside her mind. We are the Borg. Resistance is futile. You will be exterminated. It was as intimate to her thoughts as the gestalt once had been, but it was hostile, savage, and soulless.
A spinning saw blade cut away the front half of her rifle, and the weapon spat sparks as it tumbled from her grasp.
Hands closed around her arms and pulled her backward, off-balance. She flailed and kicked, las.h.i.+ng out with wild fury.
More hands seized her ankles, her calves. The sheer weight of bodies smothered her, and a sting like a needle jabbed her throat. Twisting, she saw that one of the Borg drones had extended from between its knuckles two slender tubules that had penetrated her carotid.
An icy sensation flooded into her like a poison and engulfed her consciousness in a sinking despair.
Pushed facedown as the Borg's infusion took root, she smelled the ferric tang of blood spreading across the deck under her face. Then a hand cupped her chin and lifted her head.
She looked into the eyes of a humanoid woman whose skin was the mottled gray of a cadaver. Hairless and glistening in the spectral light, the female Borg flashed a mirthless smile at Hernandez. ”You are the one we have waited for,” she said. ”Surrender to the Collective...and become Logos of Borg.”
The human part of Hernandez unleashed a defiant scream, a torrent of pure rage. But her body lay still and silent, submerging into the merciless grip of the Collective. Trapped inside herself, Hernandez was tortured by her memory's endless refrain of mute protest: No!
She awoke screaming. She covered her mouth with one hand.
The door signal was loud in the silence of her quarters. Lieutenant sh'Aqabaa asked via the comm, ”Captain Hernandez? Are you all right?”
”Yes,” Hernandez said. ”Just a bad dream.” A dream, she repeated to herself, unable to believe it. The padd by her side still displayed the file she had been reading-a decla.s.sified report about the Borg that Captain Riker had suggested she take a look at. I must have drifted off while I was reading.
It had been nearly eight hundred years since she had slept. After bonding with the Caeliar gestalt, her body had no longer required sleep, either for physical or mental rejuvenation. The catoms that infused her cells regulated her neurochemistry and biological processes. Axion's quantum field had been the only solace or sustenance she had needed since undergoing the Change.
Until now, apparently.
She recalled a threat the Caeliar had once made to Inyx, in order to coerce him into thwarting her attempts at communication with Earth. They had warned him that if he could not control her, they would exile her to a distant galaxy, where, without Axion's quantum field, she would age normally and die alone.
I guess escaping from Axion has other consequences, she reasoned, rubbing the itch of slumber from her eyes. I wonder what other surprises I have to look forward to.
As if on cue, her belly gurgled loudly, its acid-fueled yodel resonating inside her long-dormant stomach.
Naturally, she mused with a sardonic grin.
Hernandez got up and walked to a device that her Andorian guard had called a replicator. ”You can get your meals from here, and it'll even do the dishes,” sh'Aqabaa had said. It was time, Hernandez decided, to put that claim to the test.
Standing in front of the machine, which resembled little more than a polished-polymer nook in the wall, she muttered aloud, ”How am I supposed to use this thing?”
A feminine computer voice replied, ”State your food or beverage request with as much specificity as you desire or are able to provide.”
”A quesadilla with Jack cheese and black beans, with sides of hot salsa, guacamole, and sour cream. And a mojito.”
The machine responded with a flurry of glowing particles and a thrumming swell of white noise. When both had faded, a tray sat in the nook. On it was a plate covered by a piping-hot quesadilla, some small bowls with her condiments, and a gla.s.s with her minty-sweet rum beverage. She removed the tray from the replicator and carried it to a small table.
The aroma of food awakened memories she had thought long faded-of her childhood home and family dinners; the delicate texture of a flour tortilla fresh from a skillet; the sublime flavor of stone-ground guacamole made from ripe avocados, fresh cilantro, salsa, salt, garlic, and a touch of lime juice; the cool, refres.h.i.+ng decadence of a perfect mojito.
With great expectation, she sampled her replicator repast.
The quesadilla was rubbery, the salsa was bland, the guacamole was greasy, the sour cream tasted like paste, and there was something subtly but undeniably wrong with her mojito.
She pushed the tray away. Food that's not food, booze that's not booze, she fumed. This is why I had a chef.
Sleep eluded Will Riker.
All he'd wanted was a short nap. He turned from his right side to his left, flipped and punch-fluffed his pillow in search of a cool spot, and slowed his breathing in an effort to cajole his mind and body into letting go of consciousness. Closing his eyes, he focused on the white noise he had requested on a loop from the computer, of a low wind rustling the leaves of a tree.
It was all in vain. Rolling over, he let his arm splay across the empty half of the bed. Deanna's half.
Her absence had pierced him like a needle; his every thought was st.i.tched with its doleful color. Worse still was the guilt. He kept picturing her expression when she learned that he and t.i.tan had escaped from New Erigol, leaving her and the rest of the away team behind.
I deserted them, he accused himself.
In the hours since t.i.tan's return to Federation s.p.a.ce, he had begun to second-guess himself. What difference will one more s.h.i.+p make now? Especially one as beat-up as ours?
Lying alone in the darkness, he examined his decision with an increasingly critical eye. On the face of it, it had seemed at first to be the one that served the greatest good: It had freed his s.h.i.+p and the hundreds of personnel still onboard. That was as far as his justifications could take him, however. He couldn't persuade himself that he had really done any good for Starfleet or the Federation. In the end, all he could say was that he had saved the many by sacrificing the few.
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