Nineteen.

SHE WAITED.

Somewhere in what remained of the solar system that had once been home to Species 5618, the Borg Queen, the One Who Was All, waited.

And listened.

All around her, their rudimentary thoughts an incessant, mind-numbing murmur she never dared entirely block out, billions of drones on the remnants of nine worlds, scores of moons, and thousands of asteroids carried out their unending synchronized tasks, slowly but inexorably bringing into being the greatest single Borg armada of all time.

Like all the others of her kind left behind in the Delta Quadrant, she had no name that she could remember or wanted to remember. She had once had a name, of course. Or, more accurately, the organic sh.e.l.l that had once housed the intricately interconnected collection of nerve cells that had been her pathetically isolated pre-a.s.similation brain had once had a name. For centuries, however, there had been no reason to recall that name, or even to acknowledge that it had ever existed.

Unlike other Queens, however, this one had discovered during the early centuries of her existence that, with or without a name, she had ambitions. Those ambitions of course did not conflict with the overriding ambition of all Queens to bring the Borg Collective ever closer to perfection. That would be unthinkable. Her ambitions were supplementary to that overriding, collective-wide ambition. She in fact saw them as being solely in the interests of achieving that perfection more quickly, with less risk to the collective. That she withheld knowledge of certain of her plans from those parts of the collective outside her own matrix did not strike her as traitorous, nor did the mere fact that she was able to confine that knowledge to her own matrix strike her as strange. The time to share her plans would be when they had reached fruition, when the unprecedented size and success of her matrix would alone prove the rightness and efficiency of her methods.

Such secrecy had, after all, been virtually forced upon her. It had been the only way she could put her ideas to the test, the only way she would ever be able to use those ideas in order to better serve the collective's drive toward perfection. When those ideas had first begun to come to her, centuries before she had discovered the trick of keeping occasional thoughts within the confines of her matrix, the stultifying disapproval that spread glacially throughout the collective made it obvious that no idea of hers would ever be considered, let alone implemented. With thousands of races already successfully a.s.similated, with more being a.s.similated all the time, it was utterly obvious to the collective that no fundamental changes were needed.

But she knew better. She had known better for more than three hundred years, ever since the failure with Species 874, which had, despite all her matrix's efforts, chosen death over a.s.similation. From that supremely disappointing moment on, she had known: The old ways were not the best ways if they resulted in the loss of even one species. Changes were needed.

One particular way, she soon came to believe, was very far from being the best way. In the name of short-term efficiency, all drones were programmed to do specific tasks, sometimes many specific tasks. Included in that programming were parameters defining all objects and beings the drones needed to interact with in order to successfully carry out those tasks. In order to carry out those tasks in the most efficient manner possible, they needed to be shielded from distractions. Therefore, they were programmed not only to do their a.s.signed tasks but to ignore all distractions, "distractions" being defined as anything falling outside the parameters of the objects and beings they were programmed to interact with.

In short, if a drone didn't need a particular object for the immediate task at hand, it literally would not notice that object's presence. The images of the excluded objects would form in the inputs to a drone's optical system but would go no further, never reaching the brain of the drone, let alone that of the Queen and the hive mind that was the collective.

As a result, alien ships that fell outside those parameters could move freely within the very shadow of a Borg ship, unnoticed unless they attacked and forcibly drew attention to themselves. Alien beings could move about inside Borg ships, literally brushing shoulders with millions of drones, and not be truly seen.

To remove that programming and allow drones to notice and interact with whomever and whatever they came in contact with would of course be disastrous. It had been attempted once in the early days of the collective, and the entire matrix that had been used as a test site had slowly and literally ground to a halt as more and more of the drones, long ago robbed of their ability to think independently, first fell behind in their a.s.signed tasks and then became essentially catatonic as they found themselves unable to cope with the insoluble puzzles created by having to deal with so many objects and beings unrelated to their tasks.

At the same time, the collective dared not fully restore the drones' ability to think independently, even if it were still possible. That would give each and every drone the capability of refusing to follow their programming, if only briefly. It would be like giving each individual cell in a muscle the option of whether or not to obey the signal from the brain telling that muscle to contract. It could only result in utter chaos, each and every cell in the muscle going its own way, sending the muscle into paralyzing spasms.

The idea she had shared with the collective centuries ago addressed that problem, perhaps not entirely solving it but at least alleviating it. The Collective, however, had ignored her and her idea almost as completely as drones ignored objects they were not programmed to notice.

But then she had stumbled upon the mental trick that allowed her to limit her thoughts to within her own matrix, keeping them secret from the rest of the collective, from the other queens and their matrices. At that point she realized she could test her idea-but not in the Delta Quadrant, where her matrix operated cheek by jowl with countless other matrices. In such close quarters there was far too much danger of discovery, and discovery would mean, at the very least, the end of the test, perhaps the loss of her matrix. Conceivably she could suffer the ultimate punishment: being purged from the collective's near-infinite memory banks, guaranteeing that even her thoughts and memories would be erased. It would be as if she had never existed.

But elsewhere, beyond the Delta Quadrant...

In a small ship with only a few dozen drones from her matrix, she had used abandoned transwarp conduits to make repeated trips over the next two centuries to both the Alpha and Beta Quadrants, selecting several pre-s.p.a.ce worlds and transforming them gradually into worlds that would, all unknowing, act as eyes for the Borg-or at least for her own matrix when and if it arrived in their part of the galaxy.

But then, as if delivered up by some trickster G.o.d, had come Species 1429 and a technology that seemed to render all those carefully prepared worlds superfluous. Suddenly all the work she had invested in those worlds was transformed into a total waste of her resources.

Or so she had thought at the time, and so she had thought when she prematurely abandoned them and left them to their own primitive devices.

A hundred years later, she had learned how wrong she was. The first time she had attempted to use the technology of Species 1429 for anything other than test runs, something had gone wrong. She had no idea what had gone wrong, or why. All she knew was that the technological legacy of Species 1429 was not the panacea she had envisioned and that, except in the direst of emergencies, she dared not make use of it again.

The mishap had, however, presented her with a new and perhaps even greater opportunity than the one she had lost. And to make sure this one wasn't lost, she had cautiously reestablished contact with the worlds she had abandoned. They became once again her first line of defense against the unpredictability of this peculiar corner of the galaxy.

One had already proven its worth, bringing information that would, when the time came, save billions of drones, perhaps the entire Borg armada, perhaps even herself.

And so she continued to wait.

And to listen...

Picard was barely able to maintain his neutral expression as the grainy, D'Zidran-relayed image on the Enterprise viewscreen steadied and he recognized the face staring solemnly out at him. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Guinan was volunteering no help, only watching with a deceptively disinterested look. He a.s.sumed that the other Guinan was presenting a similarly inscrutable exterior to Tal as the two of them watched and listened on the otherwise deserted bridge of the D'Zidran.

"Do you know me as well, Picard?" Sarek asked without preamble. The Vulcan's features looked considerably younger than when Picard had last seen them not long before Sarek's death seventy-odd years in this world's future, but there was also a haggard look he had never seen on that other Sarek's face, not even when he knew he was dying.

"I do, Amba.s.sador Sarek," Picard said, inclining his head minimally in a gesture of respect.

"'Amba.s.sador...'Yes, that is what I understand Sarek is in your universe. Here I am Supreme Arbiter of the Alliance."

"I was told you had found Captain Scott."

"Indeed. He is with me now. Is he the only Terran you are searching for?"

Picard hesitated before answering cautiously. "He is the only one whose presence in this universe I am aware of."

"There is no need to continue the pretense that you are from an alternate universe, Picard. Captain Scott has admitted what I will a.s.sume for the moment to be the truth: that you and he are both from the future, though not one which I would recognize."

"I see," Picard said, though he obviously didn't. "May I speak with Captain Scott?"

"In a moment, Picard. First, tell me how you came to be here."

"But you said you knew that we- "

"That you come from the future, yes. That tells me little. Please explain how and why."

"So you can compare my story to Captain Scott's?"

"Would you not do the same?"

Picard nodded. He would indeed, though perhaps not as openly. As quickly as he could, he explained. When he finished, Sarek gave a barely discernible nod.

"Let me be certain I understand, Picard. You followed Captain Scott into his so-called slingshot maneuver and arrived here, in this timeline, approximately three days ago."

"Precisely," Picard said. "We knew something was drastically wrong the moment we saw Borg ships in the area."

"From your vantage point, then," Sarek continued, "there has been no major change in this timeline since you arrived. Is that correct?"

"It is. What- "

"And you yourself made no more such maneuvers? You traveled to no other times since your arrival?"

"We did not," Picard said. "We a.s.sumed Captain Scott himself had made a second maneuver, further into the past. Or that he had overshot, perhaps hundreds of years. We could see no other explanation for the presence of the Borg."

"Captain Scott a.s.sumed the same about you."

Picard frowned. "If both of us came directly here and stayed here, then how did this timeline come to be?"

Sarek stepped back, motioning to someone out of range of the screen. "I have my own opinion," he said, "but I will allow you to discuss the matter with Captain Scott."

A moment later Scott stepped into range of the screen, followed by a second man, this one wearing a smudged and slightly torn Starfleet dress uniform from the late twenty-third century. Picard didn't immediately recognize the man's grim features despite a look of nagging familiarity. The man's eyes widened as he looked past Picard to take in the rest of the bridge.

"And here I thought the Enterprise -A was too s.p.a.cious for its own good," the man said, a faint smile briefly softening his features as he returned his eyes to Picard. "I'm James T. Kirk, captain-one of the captains-of the original Enterprise."

Suddenly, Picard's mind was spinning.

He had been right: Scott had slingshotted into the past with the intention of saving his commander and friend.

But he had also been wrong: Scott had not failed, had not overshot hundreds of years and brought the Borg to Earth. He had apparently done precisely what he had intended to do.

And yet the Borg were here.

And the Federation was not.

"This was your purpose, then, Captain Scott," Picard said, "to save your one-time captain from the energy ribbon."

"Aye, it was," Scotty acknowledged, momentarily lowering his eyes. "I know now how daft it was, but once I had the Bounty 2 in my hands, once I knew there was even a wee chance of saving him, it would have been defying fate not to try. Or so I told myself."

And tempting fate to try, Picard thought but did not say. Recriminations would be pointless at best, even though he could not keep himself from wondering once again if Kirk himself, one of Starfleet's legendary mavericks-or loose cannons, depending on whom you talked to-was appalled or gratified at what he had inspired Scott to do.

"I know the feeling, Scotty, believe me," Kirk put in, apparently sensing Picard's disapproval. "As the old saying goes, 'It seemed like a good idea at the time.'"

He turned his eyes to Picard again, all remnants of the smile gone. "Don't worry, Picard. You won't have to throw me back into the Vortex, or whatever they call it in your era. I'll dive back in myself-if it can be determined for certain that Scotty's saving me is what caused all this."

"And who is to be the judge of that certainty?" Picard asked, trying to keep the skepticism out of his voice. He couldn't imagine Kirk willingly surrendering his life as long as even the most minuscule chance of a non-fatal solution existed. The man had virtually made a career out of beating the odds.

"I'll accept whatever you and Scotty decide," Kirk said, his tone now subdued. "And Sarek, of course," he added with a glance offscreen toward the Vulcan. "But before anyone decides anything, it would be nice to have a few facts, not just hunches and speculations, no matter how logical."

"Agreed," Picard said, "but whatever brought this timeline into existence could have happened anytime since the Borg came into existence and anywhere in the galaxy. How do we determine where or when to even start looking for facts?"

"We visit the Guardian," Kirk said. "If we can find it."

"Guardian?"

"The Guardian of Forever," Kirk said. "Scotty and I were hoping you might be one of the people entrusted with its world's coordinates."

Picard frowned. "What is it?"

Resignedly, Kirk gave him the same sketchy explanation he had given Sarek minutes before, but Picard could only shake his head.

"When I was at the Academy there were rumors of dozens of miraculous lost worlds and races, but I remember nothing of the sort you describe. If it does exist, though, I can certainly see why it would be kept a secret."

"It existed in my day, believe me," Kirk said grimly. "I only hope it exists in this timeline as well." He turned to Sarek. "Are you ready to start looking?"

Within minutes, using Kirk's and Scotty's memories of that long-ago mission, Sarek zeroed in on a remarkably anonymous star in the Wisdom's data banks. It was less than a pa.r.s.ec from the route the original Enterprise had been following when it had been diverted to investigate the "ripples in time," distortions that would most likely register on the new Enterprise's more advanced sensors as chronometric radiation. In this timeline, it was the only star in that sector that had never been surveyed at close range. It wasn't even known if any planets...o...b..ted the star.

They arranged to rendezvous, the Enterprise and the Wisdom. Picard and Guinan would beam over to the Wisdom, in the hope that they could convince a reluctant Sarek to transfer both himself and his two "guests" to the faster Enterprise for the journey to the coordinates he had found.

As the Enterprise to D'Zidran to Wisdom connection was finally broken, the images of Tal and that other Guinan flickered across the screen, vanishing almost before they were fully formed, but not before the eyes of the two Guinans met for one brief, intense moment.

A chill swept over Guinan in the split second that her eyes met those of her counterpart on the distant Enterprise. Suddenly, she realized what she must do.

As she had admitted to Picard, similar wordless "intuitions" had gripped her countless times before, but never had one come over her as suddenly or gripped her as powerfully as this one, not even in those long-ago centuries when the two had been one.

And never-never had the reason for the action she must take been so immediately obvious. Sometimes it took years or decades before the reasons came clear. Sometimes they remained obscure forever.

But this time, the reason was so obvious that, even before the exchanged glance, as she had listened to Picard and Sarek talk, listened as they determined the coordinates of the so-called Guardian's world, she had been on the verge of breaking in and suggesting the very thing that the feeling now demanded.

Putting her hand lightly on Tal's shoulder, something she had done perhaps only twice in their years together, she said: "If you have ever trusted me, my friend, trust me now."

Balitor could not believe her good fortune as her shift finally ended and she made her way toward her quarters, barely able to keep from breaking into a run. For hours that had seemed like years, she had waited, resenting every second she was forced to delay her attempt to Link with the Wise Ones.

But then had come the message from Alliance Prime and the contact with the second alien vessel, and she realized the delay had been a gift, not a hardship. This new information was even more important, more vital than what she already had. She knew it was. There was no longer even the tiniest sliver of doubt in her mind. Her Link would be accepted!

Her only regret was that her mother would never know. The knowledge could not have made up for the disappointment her mother's life had become, but it could at least have rea.s.sured her that, through her daughter, her life would be given meaning. It had not been lived entirely in vain.

Balitor was trembling, every square centimeter of her body tingling with antic.i.p.ation by the time she palmed open the personal security lock on her door and let it click shut behind her. Leaving the lights off so as to have nothing to distract her, nothing to dilute the coming experience, she removed her uniform and lay down on her sleeping pad, her fur-covered body free now of all restrictions, all distractions.

Instead of curling up, knees to chin, as she normally did to sleep, she lay on her back, bringing her left hand up to gently stroke her left temple as she concentrated on the series of thoughts and words that would, she had been taught so long ago, initiate the Link.

At first she could feel nothing happening, and she began to fear that her very eagerness was interfering with the process. The Wise Ones, the Proctors had told her again and again during her training, did not possess emotions nor did they value them in others. Even so, it had been the Narisians in whom the Wise Ones had chosen to place their trust, not the seemingly emotionless Vulcans. The Narisians, not the Vulcans, were the Chosen-despite their frailties, not because of them, the Proctors said.

Finally, faint lights began to come into being, swirling in the darkness around her, and she could feel a growing warmth in her temple.

Suddenly, the lights blossomed into a glow that enveloped her like a coc.o.o.n and then faded into darkness. An instant later, despite the warmth that still bathed her temple, an icy chill enveloped the rest of her, as if the very air around her had congealed, freezing her in place. As the darkness returned, she sensed the presence of the Wise Ones all around her, as if their minds hovered in the very air of the darkened room in which her now-chilled body lay. She could feel them brushing against her mind, bringing the outer, physical chill inside, as if to freeze her very thoughts.

And a voice, not in her ears but in her mind, said: "Welcome, Balitor. Share with us the knowledge that you bring for our enlightenment."

Shivering both with cold and with pleasure, Balitor opened her thoughts to the Wise Ones.

Captain Jean-Luc Picard tossed restlessly on his ready room couch, drifting in and out of that unsettling twilight between sleep and wakefulness where dream cannot be distinguished from reality. He had hoped to get a little much-needed rest while the Enterprise raced to rendezvous with the Wisdom, but his mind had refused to halt the constant stream of wildly varying images of what he imagined the Guardian's world to be like.

But those increasingly hallucinatory images were not now the primary source of his uneasiness.

It was the voices that had begun whispering in his mind, bringing with them wordless feelings of disorientation and dread. In fleeting moments of clarity, he wished he could fully awaken and find the whispers gone, a forgotten dream, but he could not.

The whispers, he knew in those moments of clarity, were not a dream, not an hallucination.

The Borg were once again whispering in his mind.

It had been thus ever since Locutus's brief existence.

Every physical trace of the Borg additions and modifications had been painstakingly removed from his body and brain, but whatever allowed him-forced him-to now and then Link with the Borg, to eavesdrop on some segment of the collective, was apparently not a physical object that could be located and excised. Like so many other modifications, it had most likely been created by a small cadre of the countless nanotech devices the Borg had introduced into his body, but once the work of this particular group had been completed, it was apparently self-sustaining and undetectable, at least by Federation medical science. He suspected it was nothing more than a series of neural patterns, no different from the other patterns that made up his subconscious mind.

No different, that is, except for its origin-and its purpose.

But this time, he realized as the whispers built to a crescendo, something was different. Very different.