First Contact, page 18
The Klingon nodded, gave his captain’s hand one last, firm shake, then moved quickly to the hatch and disappeared.
Picard followed, grabbing the hatch railings with his hands, stepping down onto the ladder rungs—then abruptly pulled his foot out and set it down again on the bridge deck. The lure of the Enterprise was too strong. He turned back and began to move toward his chair, wanting to touch it one more time, to register the palpability of this reality—this ship, this other century to which he was born—before surrendering it to a limited, planet-bound life.
Abruptly, the whisper of the collective filled his skull.
Not now, not now—he tried mentally to push it from him, to break off all contact. They did not know of their imminent fate, and though he felt secure that the link was not mutual, he could afford no chances. Besides, now was the time for his own escape. He turned and moved quickly toward the open hatch.
But the cacophony would not ease; it filled his head with a thousand murmuring voices, all the same, all converging on one goal alone—the good of the collective. It rose, until it roared silently in his mind like thunder…
And from within that stormy chorus, a small, distinctive voice emerged—a voice individual, singular, pleading—and uttered a different message: Captain.
Picard gasped. “Data.” And he knew. Knew, with the same mysterious instinct that had first warned him of the Borg’s approach, that Data was himself, unassimilated. And about to be destroyed by his own captain’s order…
* * *
As he tightened the old-fashioned restraints that held him fast to one of the copilot’s couches, Will Riker glanced over at Geordi La Forge, who had finally figured out how the straps worked and had just settled back in the other copilot’s seat across from him.
La Forge sensed the look and returned it with a small grin. Boring everyday business, hopping through space, the grin said, but today it feels a little different.
Riker acknowledged with a wink and a nod, then busied himself with the old-fashioned control panel in front of him. History had always been one of his favorite subjects, especially the history of space travel—a good thing, since otherwise the dials and gauges and old-fashioned switches might have proven too difficult to master in so short a time.
But as Geordi had said, the Phoenix might look a little different, but all the basic concepts were the same.
Another rumble, this one of the metal blast door sliding shut, protecting Troi and the others inside the control room. Once Riker’d decided to violate the Prime Directive with Cochrane, it only made sense to do so in a big way—with himself and Geordi along to help out in case of emergency and Deanna in the control room to guide the trip. After all, the Borg’s appearance had already altered the timeline somewhat—and Riker was not about to take any chances that some small deviation might trigger an unexpected glitch in the Phoenix’s maiden voyage.
As for Cochrane, the instant the blast door began to close, he immediately became a pilot—intent and efficient—and began flipping steel switches and calling out items on the checklist, swiveling his head to glance over his shoulder at the two assistants behind him.
“ATR setting?” he called to La Forge.
“Active.”
“Main bus?”
“Ready,” Riker replied.
“Initiate preignition sequence.”
The cockpit shuddered slightly as the engines at the ship’s base—sadly out of Riker’s sight, making him wish this grandmother of all Earth-design warp ships were equipped with modern viewscreens—began spewing nitrogen gas.
Riker forced himself to calm and kept his gaze fastened on what to him were three-hundred-year-old displays.
Troi’s voice filtered tinnily over the cockpit intercom. “Control to Phoenix—your internal readings look good. Final launch sequence checks are complete. You’re at the thirty-second mark. Good luck.”
Riker grinned wickedly, unable to resist, in his state of building exhilaration. “Thanks, Deena.”
He could hear her grimace in the silence that followed.
Finally, all last-minute checkdowns were completed; the tension in the cockpit suddenly intensified, prompting Riker to try to ease it. “Everyone ready to make a little history?”
“Always am,” La Forge replied easily. But Cochrane half turned, displaying a nervously furrowed profile.
“I think I’m forgetting something.…”
Riker tried to lean forward in his couch, then remembered that he couldn’t. “What?”
“I’m not sure,” Cochrane replied uneasily, beginning to turn back to his own control panel. “It’s probably nothing.…”
“Fifteen seconds,” Troi intoned over the intercom, her voice deceptively calm and professional as Riker’s own. “Begin ignition sequence.”
A low rumble began at the ship’s very base and traveled upwards, growing in volume and intensity until the cockpit began to tremble.
“Oh, God!” Cochrane spun his head back over one shoulder. “Now I remember! Where is it?” Frantically, he began to pat down his pockets, searching.
The panic was contagious. “What? What?” La Forge demanded, over the engine’s mounting thunder.
Meantime, Troi began the countdown: “Ten… nine… eight…”
“We can’t lift off without it,” Cochrane insisted.
Riker kept his own voice steady, even. “Okay, Geordi, let’s abort—”
“Seven… six… five…”
“No! No—wait! I found it!” Exultant, Cochrane whipped an optical disc from a pocket, slipped it into a slot on the control panel, and hit a switch.
“Four… three… two… one.”
The deafening roar of the engines blended with the equally skull-shattering blare of music—the same rock-and-roll tune, Riker realized, that Cochrane had played in the Crash & Burn for Troi. He glanced over to share a pained look with La Forge.
But Zefram Cochrane was grinning from ear to ear.
“Let’s rock.”
Launch: the silo abruptly disappeared, replaced by an onrush of pale blue sky.
Riker settled back into his chair—or rather, was pushed back by the sudden intensification of gravity—and intentionally savored the rawness of primitive space flight: the unbelievable noise of the engines, the wild roar of the flaming ignition, the teeth-chattering vibration of the cockpit as the Phoenix hurtled heavenward on a column of fire and smoke. A sidewise glance at Geordi (for the increased g’s made it impossible for Will to turn his head) showed that the engineer was also enjoying the novelty of it all. Impossible to experience such sensory overload and not feel adrenaline-charged, not be overwhelmed by the awesome transition from Earth to stars.
Zefram Cochrane, however, was overwhelmed by something far different than awe. From Riker’s angle, he could see part of the scientist’s profile and one side of his body. Cochrane’s eyes were wide, bulging with pure terror; the hand Riker could see gripped the edge of the pilot’s chair so tightly that each tendon and knuckle seemed on the verge of popping through the skin.
Of course, Riker realized, amazed at his own obtuseness. This was Zefram Cochrane’s first spaceflight. To distract him, Riker called out, “Can you turn it down a little?”
Cochrane strained to lift his torso and arm, just managing to hit a control before the g-forces pushed him back against his seat. The small distraction seemed to ease some of his terror.
“There’s a red light on the second intake valve,” La Forge reported tersely.
Oddly, the comment seemed to relax Cochrane even more—or perhaps it was the fact that once again, he had work to do. “Ignore it,” he said, almost casually. “We’ll be fine.” And after a beat: “Prepare for first-stage shutdown and separation on my mark.… Three… two… one… mark!”
Riker performed his assigned task, remembering the simulations of the Phoenix’s launch sequence he’d seen many times in museums and history classes. Once again, he wished he could see the actual event itself: the first-stage booster dropping away, leaving three quarters of the craft spaceborne… and then the separation of the metal shields, allowing the primitive warp nacelles to extend themselves on either side of the fuselage.
The noise and vibration abruptly stopped, leaving glorious calm and silence as the Phoenix settled into Earth orbit.
Riker peered at his controls, grateful for the sudden ease of movement. “All right, let’s bring the warp core on line.”
Both La Forge and Cochrane set busily to work, but the latter glanced out the window and abruptly stopped, gazing open-mouthed at the sapphire-and-emerald Earth with an awe so deep it could not be hidden. Riker saw and gave Geordi a nudge; the two smiled and permitted Cochrane an undisturbed moment.
“Wow,” Cochrane whispered, and looked back at his two copilots with a smile of unashamed delight.
Will grinned. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
* * *
Padd in hand, Picard moved down the empty evacuation corridor, passing the endless row of escape pods, either occupied with the hatches just beginning to lower or already sealed. Only two remained vacant.
He did not run—there was still time enough to move deliberately, and he had already spotted Lily jogging slowly toward him. She should, of course, have already been sealed safely in her own pod; she had been among the first evacuees, and he began to suspect that she had been waiting for him.
He met her in front of one of the remaining pods and handed her the padd before she could utter a word. She frowned down at it, then looked up at him, puzzled.
“If you see Commander Riker or any of my crew, give them this,” Picard said.
“What is it?” She studied it curiously.
“Orders to find a quiet corner of North America—and stay out of history’s way.”
A brief but awkward silence ensued, during which Lily kept her gaze fastened overlong on the padd and Picard attempted to gather his thoughts, to decide whether anything more ought to be said.
It should not, of course; it would have been immature and foolish to give vent to feelings that could never, should never be acted upon. But for a brief instant, Picard permitted himself to envy the men of twenty-first-century Montana. Lily Sloane was a remarkable woman… as remarkable as all twenty-fourth-century history books proclaimed. After Cochrane’s success, she would go on to receive her engineering doctorate, come up with amazing innovations on Cochrane’s basic warp-drive design, and found one of the galaxy’s finest educational establishments for those studying warp drive and space travel: the Sloane Institute.
But, Picard thought wryly, it had not been particularly easy trying to keep an eye on her—or to keep from calling her Dr. Sloane.
And the future Dr. Sloane packed a wicked punch.
“Well…” At last, Lily gazed up shyly. “Good luck.”
“To both of us,” Picard seconded, smiling. As she climbed into her pod, he turned and headed back down the corridor.
“Hey!” she called, fumbling with the control panel until the hatch stopped lowering.
He turned.
“Your escape pod is that way.” She pointed in the direction opposite the one he was heading.
“Oh. Yes. I was just going to check on some of the—”
“You’re not leaving, are you?” Her voice grew husky, but there was still enough of the cynic in her to try to keep the sadness from showing in her expression. She did not quite succeed.
“No,” Picard said honestly. “I’m not. When I was held captive aboard the Borg ship, my crew risked everything to save me. I have a friend who’s still on this ship. I owe him the same.”
Lily considered this and gave a slow, sad nod. “Go find your friend.” She lingered an instant, no more, then pulled away decisively, entered the pod, and met his gaze steadily as he pushed the hatch control.
The pod sealed, and she was irretrievably, utterly gone.
He drew a steadying breath and made his way quickly to the master control panel on the wall, then launched the few remaining occupied pods. That done, Picard felt a sense of relief; he and Data were the only two crew members left on board.
But the relief was temporary, blotted out by the renewed sensation of knowing that compelled him to move calmly, deliberately, through his empty ship. No point in burrowing through the Jefferies tubes; no point in trying to keep his location secret. No point in arming himself with anything more than his own mind and body.
He halted in front of a large hatch that led to the engineering section, and there paused only briefly to gather himself before hitting a control on the bulkhead panel.
The hatch slid open; Picard stepped through, into a section of corridor defaced by the imposition of black Borgian machinery and glistening organic matter, very much the same thing he had seen inside the dead drone’s gut.
Determined, he walked—and shook his head to try to clear it of the sudden distant whispers in his head; this time, they would not leave him, but gradually increased in volume as he continued his uneasy journey.
At the intersection of two corridors, a pair of drones suddenly appeared and blocked his path. Picard halted, stared hard into their blank, unfeeling faces, waited a tense moment for them to make the first move.
Had they known his intent, they would surely have killed him. Instead, they parted, stepping aside so that he might pass.
An invitation; he was expected. He walked, listening to the steadily growing babble of voices in his mind—yet try as he might, he could not find Data’s among them.
At last he arrived at the closed double doors of Main Engineering, and there stopped. The sight evoked memories of the battle here: of the infected security guard pleading for help and Picard’s horror at having to provide the only help possible—death; of the plaintive look on Data’s face the instant before the Borg dragged him into their lair.
But there was more here than mere memory: there was knowledge, too. Knowledge that beyond those doors lay Data… and the Borg’s heart, which he, Picard, was determined to pierce.
He drew a breath, steeling himself against the now overwhelming mental cacophony of the collective, and prepared to step through the doors. But before he stirred a muscle, the doors opened, and the incoherent chorus in his head abruptly stopped.
They were waiting for him.
He hesitated and glanced over his shoulder, reconsidering. This knowledge that had convinced him that Data was here and well, that had convinced him that, though he was alone and unarmed, he might still defeat the Borg—could he be sure that it had not been planted by them for some sinister reason, even though it had aided him in outwitting them in the past?
It mattered not, he decided at last. Data was here, and Picard felt no overriding compulsion anymore to seek revenge—only a desire to save his friend and his ship if at all possible.
He crossed the threshold, into the image from his dream.
Apathy: row after row of dull flesh-and-metal faces lined the vast chamber’s walls, sleeping drones in their honeycomb cells. None stirred as he entered and gazed at his surroundings. It was even warmer here, the atmosphere so humid that beads of moisture collected on the drones, the machinery, even in the air itself to form thin wisps of mist. A droplet-bejeweled thicket of black cables and feeding tubes descended from the ceiling like thick jungle vines.
Apathy, yes, from the slumbering drones—but there was something more here, something passionate, emotional, driven… something with a heart that could be pierced: the one who had violated him so, the one whom, for all these years, he had yearned subconsciously to hurt.
Movement behind him. He froze, tried to ignore the sudden chill that seized him. An overwhelming second passed before he recovered enough to force himself slowly to turn; when he did, and saw her standing before him, he recoiled in shock.
“What’s wrong, Locutus?” asked she—not in the passionless voice of the collective, but in a voice feminine, seductive, slightly mocking. “Don’t you recognize me?”
He did. Memories bound for six years washed over him, forced the breath from his lungs in a purely physical shock. On the Borg ship. Her face, sharply beautiful and pale above his, as she gazed down approvingly at Locutus’s terrible birth…
“Organic minds are such fragile things. How could you forget me so quickly?”
Face to face with her then as Locutus, Picard’s mind trapped beneath the weight of the collective, beneath the Borg queen’s will—yet straining to resist, all the same. Gazing into her insatiable vermeil eyes…
“We were very close, you and I. You can still hear our song.”
Her hand and breath warm against Locutus’s cheek. It was not Locutus she had wanted; he had known it even then, but the memory had been kept from him all these years.
She had wanted Picard—but Picard, though mentally crushed and bound, unable even to lift a finger of what had become a Borg-human hybrid body, would not submit. Would not return her desire.
It was not the physical pleasure she had wanted; it was the control—the utter domination of flesh, mind, spirit. And she had grown bored with seizing it forcefully; she wished for him to offer it willingly.
He had resisted.
Picard staggered backward beneath the mental assault. “Yes,” he said at last, the chill of fear transforming into bitterly cold anger. “I remember you. You were there… you were there the entire time. But—that ship and all the Borg on it were destroyed.”
Her coy expression grew scornful. “You think in such three-dimensional terms.” She turned her angular chin toward one shoulder. “How small you’ve become. Data understands me, don’t you, Data?”
From one of the alcoves, Data stepped forth, his expression composed, entirely emotionless…
… And almost totally human, golden eyes now blue, brown hair tousled, face almost entirely covered by pink human flesh.
Picard’s dismay at the resurfaced memories vanished, replaced by immediate concern for his friend. “What have you done to him?”
