Part 8 (1/2)

The warrior moved briskly to one of the bridge's few operational panels and tapped in a series of commands. ”Channel open, Chancellor,” he reported.

”On-screen,” Martok said.

The gunmetal hash of electronic snow on the viewscreen gave way to a murky, unsteady signal from the High Council chamber in the Great Hall of the First City. Looking back at Martok was his political nemesis, Councillor Kopek. ”What news, Chancellor?”

”Our fleet has fallen,” Martok said. ”The enemy is en route to worlds across the Empire. I trust you know where duty lies, Councillor.”

Kopek nodded. ”Of course. We will defend Qo'noS, my lord.”

”Summon every s.h.i.+p that can reach you in time,” Martok said. ”The fate of our homeworld is now in your hands.”

”The Borg will not come to Qo'noS and live, Chancellor. When your fleet returns home, your throne will await you.”

Martok smirked. ”With you sitting on it, I presume?”

With no trace of mockery, Kopek replied, ”Today is not a day for politics, Chancellor. Today is a good day to die.”

Perhaps he longs for his place in Sto-Vo-Kor like the rest of us, after all, Martok thought. He didn't know whether Fek'lhr would permit such a vile spirit as Kopek to redeem himself with a single hour of heroism, but part of him wanted to believe that it was possible-and that every warrior deserved such a chance.

He saluted him. ”Qapla', Kopek, son of Nargor.”

”Die with honor, Martok, son of Urthog. Qo'noS out.”

The signal ended, and the screen went dark.

I have fought the good fight, Martok told himself, but he found no solace in the thought. With his leg broken and his s.h.i.+p adrift, there was nothing more for him to do but stand and wait to see if the Empire's final hour had come around at last.

”Someone bring me a drink,” he said.

12.

Erika Hernandez sat alone at a dressing table in her quarters on t.i.tan. She stared at her reflection in the large oval mirror. With her hands resting in her lap, she concentrated on her hair and felt the energy demands of her catoms as she altered her coiffure to match her fickle whims.

Her wild mane of thick, curly black hair retreated toward her head and turned an intense shade of indigo. Eyeing the more conservative spill of deep blue hair over her shoulders, Hernandez frowned. ”I don't think so,” she muttered to herself.

It took great effort to rein it back to a compact bob and s.h.i.+ft its color to an auburn hue that matched her memories of cinnamon, fresh from the jar in her mother's kitchen. A fleeting whimsy drove her to go blond for all of eleven seconds.

She halted her hairstyling experiments as the door signal softly disturbed her privacy. ”Come in,” she said.

The door opened. Captain Riker entered, followed by two other officers-a bald human man and a young Trill woman-who wore the same rank insignia that he did. The trio was barely inside the room before Hernandez had used her catoms to restore her hair to its previous state, a ma.s.s of black waves that covered her back.

”Captain,” Riker said. ”I hope we're not interrupting.”

”Not at all,” she said. She added with a teasing grin, ”And thanks for knocking this time.”

The Trill woman gleamed with fascination. ”How do you do that with your hair?”

”Catoms,” Hernandez said. ”Sophisticated nanomachines made and infused into my body by the Caeliar. The catoms can direct energy and reshape matter in remarkable ways, if they have enough power. Unfortunately, this little parlor trick's about all I have left in me-and to be honest, it's tiring me out.”

Folding his arms, Riker said to the other two captains, ”She's being modest. When she showed up on my bridge a few hours ago, she turned Ensign Rriarr's phaser to dust with a glance.”

Hernandez shook her head and gave a tired grin. ”Captain Riker's giving me a bit too much credit,” she explained. ”When I did that, we were still in orbit of New Erigol, where I had access to the Caeliar gestalt. Without that power to draw from, I can barely curl my hair.”

The Trill cracked a smile, but the older man had the stern carriage of one who had seen too many days of war. Hernandez wondered if he saw her as clearly as she saw him.

He cleared his throat and threw a look at Riker, who dipped his chin at the reproach and gestured at his colleagues.

”Captain Hernandez,” Riker said, ”permit me to introduce Captain Ezri Dax of the Federation Stars.h.i.+p Aventine and Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Enterprise.”

Unable to mask her confusion, Hernandez c.o.c.ked her head and eyed Picard with suspicion. ”But...you're the one the voice calls Locutus,” she said.

Dax's and Riker's eyes widened in horror and surprise, and Picard froze as they looked at him. His face became pale, and he looked lifeless, Gorgonized. At last, he replied in a shocked whisper, ”You heard a voice...call me...Locutus?”

”Yes,” she said, listening to the inhuman chorus of distant voices that filled every empty s.p.a.ce in her thoughts. ”Are you telling me the rest of you don't hear that?” She looked from one captain to another in an effort to gauge their reactions. Their obvious dismay and withdrawn body language told Hernandez that her revelation had left them ill at ease. ”Great,” she said. ”You think I'm crazy, right? Think I'm hearing things?”

Picard stepped toward her. His voice was cautious and gentle. ”Do you know what you've been hearing? Its name?”

Antic.i.p.ating the direction of his questions, she replied, ”Yes. Do you?”

As if he were reading her thoughts, he said under his breath, ”The Collective.” He looked at Riker and seemed to draw strength from the younger man's quiet fort.i.tude. Turning back toward Hernandez, he continued, ”When I hear the Borg, it sounds like a roar of voices, more like a noise than a chorus. Then the strongest voice overpowers the others. Is that what you hear?”

She shook her head. ”No.” She closed her eyes and let the ever-changing chaos of the Collective cascade inside her mind. ”I hear all of them,” she explained. ”Every voice adding to the others, like a conversation. But I also hear the unifying voice, both on its own and when it speaks through the Queen.”

”I hear only the many,” Picard said.

”I hear what I choose to hear,” Hernandez said. ”I can isolate lone voices, if I try hard enough.”

Riker swapped excited glances with Dax and asked Hernandez, ”Can you communicate with them? Talk to them?”

”No,” Hernandez said. ”I can eavesdrop on their party, but I'm definitely not invited, if you know what I mean.”

Picard paced slowly. ”Captain, have you ever encountered the Borg before now?”

”Never even heard of them before today,” she said.

”But you can hear the Collective in your thoughts,” Picard said, lost in his own musings as he reversed direction and kept pacing. ”Even though you've never been a.s.similated.”

Hernandez hadn't encountered the term a.s.similated in the brief and heavily redacted file that Riker had let her read, and she wasn't certain she wanted to find out what it meant.

Captain Dax interrupted Picard's pensive perambulations. ”It's probably related to the catoms the Caeliar put into her body. Somehow those nanomachines let her tap in to the Borg Collective's frequency, and-no offense, sir-with greater precision than you can.” The sharp-eyed young woman focused on Hernandez. ”You mentioned that you can tell one voice from another in the Collective. You also mentioned the Queen. Does that mean you can tell if the Queen's leading the attack on the Federation right now?”